Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (16 page)

As Akbar dug his left heel hard into its coarse-haired flank, the camel shot forward, grunting even more querulously than while it had been waiting in the hot sun for the race down the wide mud bank along the Jumna to begin. The crowds held back by the spear shafts of his soldiers roared encouragement, and glancing up briefly to his right Akbar caught the brightly coloured rows of his royal guests – the red- and orange-turbaned Rajput kings who had sworn allegiance to him – assembled in the place of honour on the walls of the Agra fort. But this was no time to think of anything except winning. Right leg crooked on the base of the animal’s bony neck and braced
against the left, and with the rope reins looped through a brass ring in the camel’s nostrils in one hand and a length of bamboo in the other, Akbar urged his mount on. The rolling, lopsided gait, so different from the smoother rhythms of a horse, was exhilarating.

He’d chosen his camel well – a young male with a coat the colour of ripe corn, strong thighs and flanks, and a tendency to snap and spit that suggested pent-up energy. Looking quickly round, he saw he was at least half a length in front of the nearest of his five rivals, but the course was two miles long and much could still happen. The ground was a blur beneath him but suddenly another camel came bumping against his and he felt its rider’s thigh strike his own. It was Man Singh, the fourteen-year-old son of the Raja of Amber, his dark hair streaming out behind him. The Rajputs were legendary riders but so were the Moghuls . . . ‘Hai! Hai!’ Akbar yelled, raising his stick. But he had no need to use it. His own camel turned its head and as its long-lashed eyes saw its rival it surged forward with a bellow.

For a few moments the two animals were nearly level but then Akbar was ahead again, earth flying up around him and the sour smell of sweat – human and animal – in his nostrils. ‘Hai! Hai!’ he shouted again, as much to release his excitement as to urge his camel on. His throat was full of dust and sweat was running down his face, but all he cared about were the two spears marking the end of the course that he could see some two hundred yards in front. Twisting round he saw he was a good five yards clear of Man Singh. He felt he was flying, charging towards certain victory.

But suddenly his camel stumbled, front feet entangled in a straggle of dry brambles that Akbar, eyes fixed on the finish, hadn’t seen. As the beast’s front legs buckled, Akbar leaned back as hard as he could against the hump, trying to keep his balance and clamping his left leg tight against the animal’s ribs. At the same time, though his every instinct screamed at him to pull tightly on them, he slackened the reins to give his mount the freedom it needed to try to right itself. With its head almost touching the ground, the camel seemed about to come crashing down. Dropping the reins entirely, Akbar flung himself forward, clinging to the nape of the beast’s muscular neck and trying to guess on which side it would fall, knowing he must roll clear or be crushed.

Then, somehow, the camel struggled upright again and kicking clear of the brambles galloped on. Akbar grabbed the reins and managed to haul himself up and regain his own balance. The whole incident could only have lasted two or three moments but it had been enough for Man Singh nearly to catch up with him. They were almost thigh to thigh again. ‘Hai,’ Akbar yelled, ‘hai!’ and again his camel responded, neck almost horizontal, snorting gustily. Five strides more and Akbar shot between the two spears just a foot ahead of Man Singh. As he reined in, drummers were already beating the cylindrical drums suspended from hide thongs round their necks to acclaim his triumph. Akbar jumped down from his steaming camel, full of the sheer joy of being alive and victorious.

Two hours later, as dusk was falling and the dark silhouettes of the first bats dipped and swerved through the gathering shadows, Akbar stood on a balcony of the Agra fort, freshly bathed, dressed in a green brocade tunic and pantaloons and wearing a gold chain set with thirty carved emeralds round his neck. His muscles still ached from the camel race but no matter. His Rajput guests, assembled around him, were about to witness the next stage in the festivities he had arranged in their honour. Mindful of their pride, he had determined to make the celebrations so spectacular that by the time his new allies returned to their kingdoms reports would already have reached their subjects of the great esteem in which the Moghul emperor held their rulers.

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.’