The call for prayer interrupted him, coming from a speaker in the corner of the room. He stopped immediately. ‘Come, let us offer Isha together,’ he said, and stood aside to let his men make their way to the wet room.

They lined up before the twelve taps, the water sweet and clear, washing away their differences as it poured over them from their face to their feet, taking with it their sins. Ritually cleansed, they entered the room where the imam was waiting.

Ibrahim Khattak knew prayer to be a seminal part of these men’s lives. His father had spent his life in service to the mosque that Akbar Khan had built forty years ago. Since his death it had fallen to Ibrahim to tend to the Khan’s needs, helping him navigate the knottier laws of Allah, laws that could otherwise have kept the Khan up at night. Ibrahim was steeped in the old ways and well versed in the new, as were all the men who gathered there that day. They knew what was expected of them and Akbar Khan was well acquainted with their needs. Linked by blood, marriage and business, their families had been bound together for centuries. These powerful men pledged unwavering allegiance to the Khan; they were his Jirga; they were his right arm and his left.

As the imam began to speak the Arabic words of salah, silence fell. Shoulder to shoulder they stood before the God of Muhammad, who was also the God of Moses and Jesus and Krishna and Confucius. They knelt before him as men have done for fourteen centuries, their foreheads pressed deep into the prayer mat, whispering the words of repentance and supplication and praise, hoping for wisdom and wealth. The fardh offered, some stood for the sunnah, the optional prayers. Others remained seated, turning their attentions to their private tasbeeh.

Afterwards, as their wives offered envelopes of banknotes to the bride’s mother outside, the men returned to the study and promised their property, lives and honour to their God and then to Akbar Khan. Each man brought gifts, some brought requests; all brought respect.

One of these men was Sher Khan, Akbar Khan’s brother-in-law. He had waited twelve months for this day, and considered it auspicious to find himself seated next to his Khan. So when his protector asked him to pray for his daughter’s happiness he found the knot in his tongue loosened.

‘Inshallah and ameen, Khan sahib,’ he said. ‘I will surely pray for Maria. And I ask the same of you for my sons. They are good boys. They made only one mistake and trouble has followed them since.’