Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (17 page)

‘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 renowned 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.

‘I
’m sorry, Majesty, her monthly blood is flowing.’ The
khawajasara
looked nervously at Akbar as if Hirabai’s failure to conceive could somehow be blamed on her. ‘Her Highness remains melancholy, as she has been ever since your marriage. She will hardly eat. She seldom leaves her apartments to walk in the
haram
gardens. She talks only with the maids she brought with her from Amber and keeps herself apart from the other women, never joining in with their games or entertainments. Perhaps she has a sickness . . . Should I summon a
hakim
to examine her again?’

‘No.’ It was only six weeks ago that an elderly doctor, a piece of cloth placed over his head to conceal the other inhabitants of the
haram
from his aged eyes, had been led by two eunuchs to Hirabai’s apartments. Akbar had watched as, emerging from under the cloth like a tortoise poking its head from its shell, the
hakim
had examined Hirabai, running his hands over her body beneath her loose cotton shift. ‘I can find nothing wrong, Majesty,’ he had said at last. ‘The entrance to her womb is strong and well formed.’

Akbar looked broodingly at the
khawajasara
, tall, big-boned, well fleshed and handsome despite her forty or so years, who had become superintendent of the
haram
on the retirement of the woman who had brought him Mayala all those years ago. But it was Hirabai he saw before his eyes. Every time he made love to her he hoped for
some change, but always she lay limp and unresponsive. Her passivity disturbed him more than if she had tried to fight him off. Did she still dream of stabbing him? He had ordered the
khawajasara
to ensure there was nothing sharp in the empress’s apartments. The superintendent had looked at him a little curiously but had of course obeyed. It was as much for Hirabai’s protection as for his own – sometimes he feared she might try to harm herself. He had had her apartments moved to a double-tiered pavilion that, though overlooking the Jumna, had windows inset with fretted marble screens from which it was impossible to jump.

‘Majesty?’

He had forgotten the
khawajasara
was still there. ‘You are dismissed. Come to me again next month when – God willing – you may bring better news.’

Akbar sat alone for a while. Outside the sky was fresh and clear. The rains were over and he should have been out hunting or hawking. Why did thoughts of Hirabai preoccupy him? It wasn’t love, but perhaps it was pride . . . All the court must know things were amiss between the emperor and his bride. They never ate or spent time together except for his nocturnal visits to her bed. Even then, as soon as he was finished he returned to his own apartments. He had never woken in her arms as the pale dawn light came slanting in.

Perhaps his mother would have some words of wisdom – or at least of comfort. Till now he had hesitated to confide in her, hoping each month to hear that Hirabai was pregnant. But time was passing. He was being distracted from the matters that should be occupying his mind, and – if the stories the elderly Jauhar had told him were true – something yet more pernicious was gathering momentum. Bhagwan Das had been right to predict that Akbar’s marriage to a non-Muslim would be criticised. The mullahs were whispering that Akbar’s childless state was a punishment for marrying an infidel Hindu.