Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  At a signal from Akbar, golden and green stars exploded into the night sky, as noisy as musket fire. Flashes of silver and red followed, then bursts of saffron yellow accompanied by a high screeching like that of a giant eagle. Next a fine mist, purple and pink, stole into the air. From all around him, and from the crowds gathered along the banks of the Jumna below, Akbar heard excited gasps. The magicians from Kashgar who had come to his court were highly skilled at such things. He had ordered them to produce their finest display and they had not disappointed him. But with the finale drawing close, Akbar was curious to see how these strange men in their long, padded coats of embroidered silk and tasselled hats would fulfil the special command he had given them. For some moments all was quiet and dark and Akbar could sense the anticipation as the crowds waited to see what fresh wonders would unfurl above them. Suddenly came a hissing and a whooshing and the heavens filled with the striped face of a great tiger, jaws yawning so wide it looked ready to swallow the universe. For a few moments it hung there, ferocious and magnificent, and then the bands of black and orange dissolved into tiny shimmering stars.

  ‘The tiger overshadows us all now,’ said Raja Bhagwan Das of Amber, a short, wiry man in his thirties with a fine-boned face and the same eagle nose and sharp black eyes as his son, Man Singh. The vermilion Hindu tilak mark was on his forehead.

  ‘The tiger is the symbol of my dynasty, it’s true,’ Akbar replied, ‘but don’t we all admire the beast’s courage and strength? Which of us hasn’t pitted himself against the tiger’s power and cunning in the hunt and felt the glory of the enterprise? My hope is that one day all Hindustan will embrace the tiger as an emblem of our collective power.’

  ‘Perhaps it will be so, Majesty,’ Bhagwan Das responded enigmatically as he again looked up into the sky, where now only stars lit the soft darkness.

  ‘I pray that it will, and that you and I will ride to battle and to glory together many times as true brothers in arms,’ Akbar persisted, and saw Bhagwan Das cast him a swift, sideways glance. Of all the Rajput leaders he had summoned to Agra – including the rulers of Bikaner, Jaisalmer and Gwalior – Bhagwan Das was the most powerful. He was also by all accounts shrewd and ambitious and no friend to the Rana of Mewar. If Udai Singh came out of the mountains and tried to retake his lost lands, Akbar wanted to have Bhagwan Das’s forces on the Moghuls’ side. And if tonight went as he planned, Bhagwan Das would indeed be his friend and for ever . . . Akbar put his arm around the Rajput’s shoulders. ‘Let us now feast together, Bhagwan Das, as true allies should.’

  Akbar led Bhagwan Das and his other Rajput guests down to a large rectangular courtyard. It was lit by three eight foot high candelabras placed in the centre, in each of which burned a dozen white jasmine-scented wax candles twelve feet tall creating a star-like blaze of light. All around the courtyard, smaller candles flickered in jewelled golden candlesticks and wicks burned in diyas of scented oil. Silk carpets held down by weights of camel bone and silver carved into the shape of lotus leaves covered the flagstones, and low tables with plump brocade-covered bolsters for seats had been set around three sides. On the fourth stood a wide dais beneath a canopy of green velvet shot through with golden thread. A gilded throne stood upon it with divans, also gilded but slightly lower, arranged on either side.

  As soon as Akbar and his Rajput guests were seated on the dais and their courtiers had arranged themselves around the tables, attendants brought dishes piled with the best food Akbar’s kitchens could provide – roasted meat and game, stews simmered in spices and butter, rice scattered with dried fruits and gold and silverleaf-covered nuts, fresh-baked breads – including the Rajput delicacies of corn and millet rotis cooked with buttermilk – grapes, melons and sweetmeats of rosewater and marzipan. Looking around, Akbar felt confident. There was a sense of restraint, but that was only natural – after all, just a few months ago he had been at war with several of the rulers assembled here and some of them had also been at odds with each other. The purpose of this feast was to show these Rajput princes, the proudest of the proud, who claimed the sun and the moon among their ancestors, that this new-found harmony was in their interests as well as his and that as long as they remained loyal to the Moghul throne they would share in its glory.

  He waited until attendants were passing round dishes of besan – finely ground flour in which his guests could dip their fingertips to cleanse them of grease – and brass bowls of scented water in which they could rinse their hands, and all were lying or sitting back in comfortable content. Then he rose and holding up his hands for silence began the speech that he had rehearsed so carefully, choosing words to convey both his determination to rule and his deep respect for his guests.

  ‘My people did not come to Hindustan as ravishers to despoil it and carry its riches back to our own lands. We came to claim what is ours – like a bridegroom coming to his long promised bride. Why do I say that Hindustan belongs to the Moghuls? Because over one hundred and sixty years ago my ancestor Timur conquered it. Though he did not stay, he appointed a vassal to rule as his viceroy, but over the years usurpers took the land and, preoccupied with their own conflicts in the far north, the Moghuls could do nothing. Then, forty years ago, my grandfather Babur returned and reclaimed the empire.

  ‘But I do not regard Hindustan as a subject land or its people as inferior to the Moghul clans. All races are equal in my eyes. Though traitors will find no mercy, those who give me their loyalty will prosper. The highest offices at court, the most powerful positions in my armies will be theirs – and yours especially, my friends from the Rajput kingdoms, the lands of warriors. To show my esteem I hereby declare that from this day forward you will number among my inner circle – my ichkis. I also declare that you may continue to hold your kingdoms not from me as an overlord but as watan – your own hereditary lands to bequeath to whichever heirs you will.’

  As he sat down, Akbar glanced at Bhagwan Das, seated to his right. ‘You do us honour, Majesty,’ the Rajput said.

  ‘And you honour me by your presence here. Bhagwan Das, I have something further I want to say. I wish to marry. I have heard of the beauty and accomplishment of your youngest sister, Hirabai. Will you give her to me as a wife?’

  For a moment Bhagwan Das, shocked, did not answer. Eventually he said, ‘Why Hirabai, Majesty? Out of all the women in your empire, why have you chosen my sister?’

  ‘To show the esteem in which I hold the Rajputs. Of all the peoples of Hindustan you are most like the Moghuls – forged in the white heat of battle, proud and strong. And of all the Rajputs, you, Bhagwan Das of Amber, are the foremost. I have already seen the courage of your son during the camel race. Your sister will, I am sure, make a worthy empress. And – let us be frank – I wish to bind my allies to me. What better way than through marriage?’

  ‘So that is your intention – to ally yourself with my people through ties of blood . . .?’ Bhagwan Das said slowly, as if assimilating the thought and weighing its merit.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you will take other wives also?’

  ‘Indeed, as a means of strengthening my empire. But I swear to you, Bhagwan Das, that I will always treat your sister with the respect due to a Rajput princess and the first of my wives.’

  Bhagwan Das, though, was frowning. ‘It is almost unknown for a Rajput woman to marry outside her people . . . And your own family has never broken its ancestral blood ties.’

  ‘No. But I am the first Moghul emperor to be born in Hindustan, which is both my land and my home. Why shouldn’t I seek a Hindustani wife?’

  ‘But we Rajputs are Hindus. Even less than marry outside her people can my sister marry outside her religion. She cannot embrace your Muslim faith.’

  ‘I would not ask it of her. I respect her religion which is indeed the religion of many of my subjects. I have never interfered with their worship, so why should I deny Hirabai that freedom?’

  Bhagwan Das’s aquiline face remained grave and Akbar leaned
closer. ‘I give you my word – the word of an emperor – that I will never force her to abandon her faith, and she may build a shrine to pray to her gods within the imperial haram.’

  ‘But perhaps your own family – your nobles and your mullahs – will object?’

  Akbar looked across to where some of his white-turbaned, dark-robed mullahs were seated. ‘They will come to understand that it is for the good of the empire,’ he said, then added with steel in his voice: ‘They will also understand that it is my will.’

  ‘Perhaps, or perhaps not . . . And my sister, though young – she is many years my junior – can be headstrong and stubborn too . . . she may not feel . . .’

  ‘Your sister will be an empress and perhaps mother to the next Moghul emperor – as you will be his uncle. Bhagwan Das, give me your answer. Do not disappoint me, please.’

  For a moment, Bhagwan Das sat back, his fingers playing with the triple-stranded necklace of pearls that fell almost to his lean waist. Then, finally, he smiled. ‘Majesty, you honour my family. Hirabai is yours. May all our gods smile on the union.’

  She was sitting very still beneath her ruby-coloured veils, which were shot through with orange and gold thread. The only movement was the trembling of the flowers and leaves, worked in gold wire and studded with pearls, set in her headdress – a wedding gift from Akbar. The white-clad Hindu priest had finished his part in the ceremony and now it was time for Akbar’s mullah to recite verses from the Koran. As the man slowly and sonorously intoned the words, Akbar could see one slender foot protruding from beneath her robes. It was decorated with henna in intricate spirals.

  He glanced down at his hands, also painted with henna for good luck by his mother and aunt, who were watching the ceremony through a screen of interwoven willow wands designed to allow them to see without being seen.

  Finished at last, the mullah closed the ivory covers of his book and handed it to an attendant who placed it in a carved wooden box. Then the mullah picked up a ewer of rosewater and, as Akbar held out his hands, poured the cool water over them to symbolise cleansing, then tipped what was left into a translucent agate cup. ‘Drink, Majesty, to confirm the union.’

  Akbar swallowed a few drops then held out his hand to Hirabai to lead her to the marriage feast, to be given by her family in accordance with Hindu custom. Akbar had given Bhagwan Das fine and richly furnished apartments in the Agra fort to house the members of his family and the retinue that had accompanied Hirabai as she travelled in her covered litter slung between two camels all the way from Amber. The celebrations tonight would signal the start of a month of gift-giving, processions, hunts, elephant fights and displays of martial skills. Yet as the wedding feast progressed, all Akbar’s thoughts were on the coming night and he felt a little uncertain. The joyous giving and receiving of pleasure with his concubines was familiar and fun. In their soft, scented arms he found release from the burden of kingship. But the bedding of a virgin Rajput princess was different.

  He glanced at Hirabai sitting close beside him, still hidden beneath her shimmering veils. For the hundredth time, he wondered what she would be like. Rajput women were renowned for their striking beauty, but even if she didn’t please him it wasn’t important, he told himself. What mattered was that by this marriage he had secured an enduring alliance with the kingdom of Amber. Other such political unions would follow, ensuring the empire’s peace and stability. At least as a royal princess Hirabai would understand the cares and preoccupations that came with being a king.

  Akbar tried to attend to the rituals of the feast. Dancing girls from Amber clad in peacock blue whirled before him to the wild rhythms of lean, bare-chested, orange-turbaned drummers and the wailing of brass pipes. Rajput musicians sang in high-pitched nasal voices of valour on the battlefield, acrobats tumbled through circles of flaming rope and an old man in a long coat inset with pieces of mirror glass that reflected the candle light coaxed a python from a woven basket. He let it coil itself around him and even kissed its thick, scaly body.

  Then came the climax Akbar himself had planned. As the magician, uttering commands in some harsh-sounding language Akbar had never heard, returned the hissing serpent to its basket, Akbar’s chief huntsman entered the chamber. He was leading a sinewy, half-grown leopard with a collar of rubies and diamonds round its tawny neck. The teardrop markings beneath its eyes had been gilded, making it look like a creature from some fable. Its tail lashed about, knocking a goblet to the ground, and the muscles in the huntsman’s arms, left bare by his leather jerkin, bunched as he tightened his grip on the leash.

  Akbar rose and addressed Bhagwan Das. ‘This is Jala, a cub sired by my favourite hunting leopard. It is my gift to you on this auspicious occasion.’ The raja’s eyes gleamed. Akbar knew he loved the hunt as much as he did, but, more than that, leopards were rare and very valuable, truly imperial animals. The gift of one was a great distinction. The raja seemed speechless. ‘My huntsmen will continue to train him, and when he is ready I will send him to Amber.’ Akbar went over to Jala and cupped the animal’s graceful head between his hands. ‘Be as swift and fearless in the hunt for your new master as your father has been for me.’

  By the time the wedding feast was ended the moon had risen, its pale, cold light silvering the Jumna river where it flowed some thirty feet beneath the apartments in the haram that Akbar had chosen for Hirabai and to which, preceded by musicians, he escorted her. As his attendants began to undress him, he glanced towards the brocaded screens embroidered with flowers and stars – the product of the looms of Gujarat where the weavers excelled at such things – behind which his bride was being undressed and anointed with perfumed oils ready for the marriage bed. When the last attendant had left, Akbar drew his loose green robe around him and approached the curtains. Pulling one aside, he ducked through. Hirabai was standing with her back to him, the slim outline of her body visible through the diaphanous peach-coloured muslin of her shift. Her hair, tinted with dark red henna, hung in shining waves to the small of her back. Something about the set of her shoulders told him how tense she was.

  ‘Hirabai . . . Don’t be afraid. You have nothing to fear from me.’ Akbar placed both hands on her shoulders and turned her gently to face him. Perhaps it was the expression in her eyes – wild as the leopard’s had been – that gave him warning. As Hirabai twisted from his grasp and raised her right hand he was ready for her. Reacting as instinctively as on the battlefield, he wrenched her wrist back so sharply she cried out and a small, broad-bladed dagger fell to the ground.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded, still gripping her tightly by the wrist. ‘Why?’ he shouted again, even louder, his face inches from hers, when she didn’t reply at once.

  Hirabai’s eyes, black as her brother’s, were full of hatred. ‘Because you are the enemy of my people – the slayer of countless brave Rajputs at Chittorgarh, and their women to whom you left no option but to save their honour by making jauhar. I wish I could have been with them. I would have gone joyfully into the flames to avoid submitting to you.’

  Akbar released her and she stumbled back several paces before regaining her balance and rubbing her right wrist. His eyes flickered over her, looking for any other weapons, but near naked as she was he could see there were none. ‘Your brother gave you to me willingly. Does he know your feelings?’ A new thought struck him. ‘Perhaps he knew you meant to kill me. Was he the instigator?’

  For the first time, Hirabai looked afraid. ‘No. He knew nothing. He has little time for the women of his family. Even the news that I was to become your wife came to me in a letter.’

  ‘I should call the guards. Before the sun rises you should meet your end.’

  ‘Do it, then.’

  ‘Is that really what you want? If the world found out what you tried to do, your brother would live the rest of his life in shame and disgrace. Who among the other Rajput rulers would wish for contact with a man whose sister had abandoned every concept of duty and honour? The Rajputs are renown
ed for their courage on the battlefield, not for assassination and deceit.’

  Hirabai flushed. For the first time he saw how beautiful she was, oval face delicately boned as a cat’s and soft skin the colour of new honey. But she held no charms for him. Striding over to her, he gripped her shoulders.

  ‘Listen to me. I will not have my alliances with Rajput kingdoms disrupted by one woman’s foolish delusions. The officers I executed after the fall of Chittorgarh met the end they wanted. Under your Rajput code it would have been shameful to them to live. Surely you understand that?’ Hirabai said nothing, but he felt her body slacken as if the fight was draining from her and he relaxed his hold. ‘I will tell no one what happened just now and, if you value your family’s honour, neither will you. You are my wife and you will do your duty. Do you understand me?’

  Hirabai nodded.

  ‘In that case, it is time to perform your first task as my bride.’ Akbar looked towards the bed. Hirabai turned away, and untying the pearled cord round her waist let her robe fall to the floor. Her delicately curved body was alluring, but anger not desire was what he felt as he lowered himself on top of her and began to thrust, eyes never leaving her face. Not by a single change in her expression did she show any pain or discomfort as he moved faster and faster inside her, anxious not for pleasure but just to get the task done. This was not how he had expected his wedding night with his virgin bride to be. His new wife had violated his trust just as Adham Khan had done. Hirabai was as hostile an enemy as any he had faced on the battlefield. But they, like Adham Khan, had learned not to defy him, and so would she.