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.