As Akbar stood motionless, lost for words, she stepped back. Running her hands through the magnificent veil of hair that fell almost to her buttocks, she revolved slowly before him. ‘I think you like me, Majesty,’ she whispered. Akbar nodded. She stepped towards him and he felt her begin slowly, teasingly, to loosen his own garments until he too was naked. After gazing at his taut and muscular body for a moment, she smiled. ‘Come, Majesty. Be my stallion.’ Placing her fingers on his arm she led him to the bed, and when he lay down beside her she took his hand and guided it between her thighs. ‘See, Majesty, the mandir mandal, the moist temple of love, which soon you will enter. This is what you must do. .’
Six hours later, Akbar was lying on his back, the girl beside him, both their bodies beaded with sweat. She was sleeping now, arms and legs spread, her breasts rising and falling and her lips half parted. As he turned his head to watch her, he thought how strange it was that in such a brief time his life had changed for ever. She had introduced him into a whole new world of sensual experience in which to lose himself. They had already made love three times, from his first, tentative, then eager thrustings and almost instant climax when, under her instruction, he had pulled himself on top of her, to the other more subtle, imaginative and slightly longer-lasting ways she had begun to teach him, which seemed to give her as much sublime pleasure as him. At the thought, desire rose within him again. Reaching out, he stroked the soft velvet curve of her hip. Sleepily Mayala opened her dark eyes, then smiled languorously. No one would ever doubt his manhood, thought Akbar, young hips thrusting joyously and vigorously as he mounted her once more.
The Jumna river curling away beneath the walls of the Agra fort was a faint gleam in the light of the new moon but as Akbar walked the battlements he barely noticed the beauty of the night. Over two years had passed since his triumphant progress through Hindustan after defeating Hemu. Ten days ago, on 15 October, he had celebrated his seventeenth birthday in this great brick and sandstone fortress with its courtyards, fountains and lofty durbar hall. His decision to make Agra — not Delhi, 120 miles upstream to the north — his capital had been deliberate. Agra had been his grandfather Babur’s capital and it would have been his father Humayun’s had death not robbed him of it. His mother, aunt and milk-mother had all approved his decision, as had his commanders and councillors. Only Bairam Khan had been against it, insisting that Delhi was better placed strategically to deal with any revolts or invasions. Not wanting to be seen to argue with the emperor in public, he had come to Akbar’s private apartments, but Akbar had refused to be swayed, adamant that he was the emperor and of an age to take his own decisions. Bairam Khan had stalked out pale-faced from the first real dispute they had ever had.
At the recollection, Akbar frowned. Matters hadn’t improved over the intervening months. He was finding Bairam Khan increasingly irksome and interfering. It seemed that as he himself was gaining in confidence and seeking a greater role in governing, Bairam Khan was actively trying to frustrate him. With every rebuff his conviction that he must be free to take the government into his own hands was growing.
So far he had kept his thoughts to himself, conscious of all Bairam Khan had done to secure the fragile boundaries of his empire, but the need to confide in someone — someone he could trust completely — was growing overwhelming. Perhaps his mother with her astute mind would know how to advise him? Descending the winding stone staircase from the battlements he made his way through a flower-filled courtyard to the main haram where Hamida, as befitted the mother of the emperor, had the best apartments, with a balcony projecting out over the Jumna where she could catch the refreshing breezes. Tonight, though, the air was cool and he found her in her sleeping chamber, which was lit by oil lamps and wicks burning in diyas, saucers of scented oil placed in carved niches in the walls. She was reading her favourite book of Persian poems but put it aside when he entered.
‘How is it with my son?’ The warm sandalwood scent of her enveloped him as she embraced him. When he didn’t answer, she stepped back and looked hard into his face. ‘What is it? You look troubled.’
‘I am, Mother.’
‘Sit down and tell me.’
Hamida listened intently as he poured out his pent-up grievances and his frustrations. When he had finished she sat for a moment in silence, a frown puckering her still beautiful forehead beneath a thin gold circlet set with emeralds and pearls — one of his father’s last gifts to her. When at last she looked at him, her expression was sombre.
‘Even if some of your complaints are justified, how can you forget what Bairam Khan has done for our family? Perhaps I need to remind you. After your father saved his life in battle, Bairam Khan pledged himself to fighting for the Moghuls. Even when our fortunes were bleakest he kept faith with us, though he could easily have returned to Persia, to the shah’s service. After your father’s death, as you very well know, his determination and courage saved you and our dynasty.’
‘I know, but. .’
Hamida held up her hand to silence him. ‘It is natural, now that you are becoming a man, that his guidance irks you, and it is true that he can sometimes seem overbearing. But it’s far better to have an adviser who does not scruple to speak the truth than one who drips honeyed agreement with your every whim. You must learn patience. When you are eighteen will be the time to think of taking power fully into your own hands and ruling without a regent. Until then, wait, watch and learn. It is only since the victory over Hemu that you have shown any interest in government. Before that, however hard I and Bairam Khan tried, you weren’t interested. When there were council meetings you knew you should attend, you played truant, going off to race camels or hawking with Adham Khan. Even now you spend more time with your women than studying the real needs of your empire. I don’t blame you. The pleasures of the haram are sweet. A young man needs to satisfy his desires and it must be flattering to have so many women competing to fulfil your every wish. But ask yourself whether you are truly ready to take full control or whether it is just the arrogance and impetuosity of youth speaking.’
‘I am ready. .’
‘No, don’t interrupt. Listen. That is exactly what I meant about too much haste. And perhaps your impatience — your lack of concentration — is why you still cannot read. Every tutor we appointed to teach you gave up in despair. Bairam Khan himself tried to instruct you but you wouldn’t attend. Your father and his father before him were scholars as well as warriors. A good ruler should be in command of everything, including himself.’
‘That’s unfair.’ Why had she changed the subject? How many times had he tried to explain to her that, whenever he looked at a page, the words seemed to move about, becoming such a jumble he couldn’t make sense of them? But this was something his mother, a great reader herself, couldn’t seem to grasp. He rose to his feet. His conversation with Hamida had not gone as he had intended. The sooner it was ended the better. He had expected her unquestioning support and instead she had first attacked, then side-tracked him. ‘Thank you for your advice,’ he said stiffly.
‘Akbar, don’t be offended. I spoke only for your own good. You will be a great emperor and I am so proud of you. You excel with every weapon. There is no better archer, rider, wrestler or swordsman than you. You are fearless, open-hearted and generous in spirit. You have the ability to make your people love you. But you must learn to be patient and tread carefully with those closer to you who do not immediately bow to your will. And above all, remember whom you have to thank for so much of the good that has come to you.’