Ruler of the World

Chapter 5

On a humid May afternoon, Akbar slept, head cushioned by Mayala’s soft, voluptuously rounded stomach, as a peacock-feather punkah pulled on a long rope by an attendant in an adjacent room stirred the hot air above them. They had just enjoyed a particularly exhausting and innovative bout of love-making and Akbar should have been dreaming of pleasurable things. Instead strange images filled his mind, causing him to stir and even cry out. Feeling a hand on his forehead he sat up with a start, but it was only Mayala trying to soothe him. It had been like this ever since the two young women’s bodies had been found, though that was eight weeks ago now. Every day, despite himself, he was growing more preoccupied, more watchful, every instinct sensing a threat that seemed all the more dangerous because he didn’t know when or from where it would come.

Akbar sat up and pushed back his black hair from his hot forehead. He felt Mayala kneel up behind him, pressing her naked breasts against his back and putting her arms round his neck. She was murmuring in his ear, something about a new position — the Coupling of the Lion — that might please him, but tempting as it was he gently disengaged himself and stood up. He had summoned his counsellors and courtiers to meet later that afternoon and before then he needed to think.

Since Bairam Khan’s exile and death he had had no khan-i-khanan, no commander-in-chief. Even though he felt confident in his own judgement, it was time to select one and also to consider some other court appointments so that he could shed some of his more mundane responsibilities. At some point he must also appoint a vizier — a post it had not been necessary to fill while Bairam Khan was alive — but there was no particular hurry for that. Better to observe his counsellors carefully before making such an important decision. A corrupt or self-seeking vizier would be worse than no vizier at all. But he needed a new chief quartermaster urgently. The present one had, as a very young man, served Akbar’s grandfather Babur. He was now so old he could scarcely stand and continually addressed Akbar as ‘Babur’, while mumbling wonderingly about how much he seemed to have changed. Akbar had also decided to revive the old Moghul post of master-of-horse to oversee the purchase of large numbers of horses for the campaigns of conquest he was planning.

He knew he must choose with care. Each of those posts conferred privileges and prestige on the holder, and all would be coveted. He had no doubt whom he wished to make khan-i-khanan. Ahmed Khan had demonstrated unflinching loyalty to the dynasty from the early days of Humayun’s reign. He was also a shrewd military tactician. He had served Akbar’s father through all his dangerous years of flight and exile and ridden at his shoulder from Kabul on the reconquest of Hindustan, as well as fighting with Akbar against Hemu. The choice of Ahmed Khan as khan-i-khanan might disappoint some of Akbar’s generals but none could call Ahmed Khan unworthy.

But the post of chief quartermaster was problematic. The man he chose would be responsible for all the supplying of the Moghul army — from the corn to feed the horses to the gunpowder and cannon balls to feed the artillery. No other post except that of comptroller of the household, held by Humayun’s one time qorchi and companion Jauhar in return for his years of selfless service, offered so many opportunities for corruption. When he had consulted his mother Hamida, she had suggested Atga Khan, an officer from Kabul who had escorted her to Delhi when Humayun had summoned her to join him in Hindustan. ‘He is a wise and honourable man whose two daughters are in my service. He protected me on the long journey and will I am sure protect your interests as your quartermaster,’ she had said, smooth brow knitted in thought. Following further enquiries — as discreet as he could make them — Akbar had decided to follow his mother’s advice. It would please her, he knew.

As for his master-of-horse, Akbar had consulted no one but decided after much reflection to appoint his milk-brother. Adham Khan was an expert judge of horseflesh and it would be a way of demonstrating to all the court his confidence in his milk-brother despite the rumours that had inevitably bubbled up. Akbar knew from his qorchi that his questioning of Adham Khan about the deaths of the two young women was no secret.

Two hours later, to the customary blast of trumpets, Akbar entered his durbar hall through the arched door to the left of his throne — his gleaming golden throne forged from the molten gold of Hemu’s treasuries that he had now set up in its permanent place. He had already vowed to himself to ornament it further with gems captured in future wars as a visible symbol of his greatness and success. Seating himself on the green velvet cushion, he signalled to his assembled councillors and courtiers to sit.

Before speaking, Akbar glanced up at the small grille high in the wall behind which he was sure Hamida would be sitting in the little gallery where women could watch and listen unseen. He thought he caught a glimpse of her. ‘I summoned you here today because I have decided to make certain appointments. Ahmed Khan, Atga Khan and you, my milk-brother Adham Khan, approach.’ As soon as all three men were before him, Akbar continued, ‘Ahmed Khan, in recognition of your many years of service first to my father and now to me, I hereby appoint you my commander-in-chief, my khani-khanan.’

Ahmed Khan’s smile above his long, wispy beard showed his pleasure. ‘Majesty, I will serve you to the utmost of my ability.’

‘I know you will. You will also retain responsibility for intelligence gathering and remain the emperor’s eyes and ears.’ At a signal from Akbar, attendants stepped forward to present Ahmed Khan with a green brocade robe of honour, the yak’s-tail standard — an emblem of authority since the days of Genghis Khan — and a jewelled sword.

Next, Akbar turned to his milk-brother. ‘Adham Khan. You have been my friend and companion since our boyhood. Now I wish to confer on you a position you richly merit and will discharge with honour.’ Adham Khan’s hazel eyes were shining. If he’d ever wondered about his milk-brother’s ambition, Akbar thought to himself, he had his answer now. Not that ambition itself was a crime. Indeed, it was the very foundation stone of the Moghul empire.

‘Step forward, my milk-brother, and let me embrace you as my new master-of-horse.’ Akbar rose, and stepping down from the carved marble dais on which his throne stood he put his arms round Adham Khan’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. But if he’d expected gratitude he was disappointed.

‘Your master-of-horse?’ As he spoke Adham Khan glanced for a second up at the grille in the wall. Was Maham Anga also there?

‘Yes, my master-of-horse,’ repeated Akbar, his smile hardening as he took in Adham Khan’s angry and bewildered expression. What had his milk-brother been expecting?

As if suddenly aware of Akbar’s scrutiny, Adham Khan seemed to pull himself together. ‘Thank you, Majesty,’ he said quietly. He acknowledged the traditional gift of jewelled bridle and saddle held out to him on velvet cushions by two attendants and stepped back, eyes on the floor.

Akbar returned to his throne. ‘And you, Atga Khan. In recognition of your many services I hereby appoint you my chief quartermaster.’

Atga Khan, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thin white scar running from his right eyebrow to his left cheekbone — a legacy of an ambush by Pashai tribesmen in the Khyber Pass many years ago — put his hand on his breast and bowed low. ‘Thank you, Majesty. It is a very great honour.’ When he too had been presented with a ceremonial robe and the insignia of his office — a jade seal on a thick gold chain — Akbar rose and left the durbar hall.

With his bodyguards preceding him two abreast he had nearly reached the doors to his apartments when Adham Khan darted out from a side corridor. He was breathing heavily — no doubt the result of having run from the durbar hall to intercept Akbar. Even though they could see who it was, Akbar’s bodyguards at once crossed spears to stop Adham Khan coming any nearer. Their orders were to prevent anybody from getting close to the emperor without permission, and the penalty for negligence was death.

‘It’s all right.’ Akbar nodded to the guards, who lowered their spears. ‘What is it, Adham Khan?’

‘You have humiliated me in front of all the court.’ His milk-brother was so angry that Akbar could see a vein beating in his right temple.

‘Humiliated you? Be careful what you say,’ Akbar replied in a low voice, but Adham Khan seemed in no mood for restraint.

‘You’ve made a fool of me!’ His voice was even louder this time.

Akbar felt a strong desire to launch himself at him and wrestle him to the ground just as he’d done a thousand times when they were boys. Adham Khan had always had a temper, but Akbar was the better fighter and had found fists to be the best way of winning any dispute. But that was when, beneath the childish rivalry, they’d been friends. Perhaps they were so no longer. . Looking at his milk-brother’s insolent face, Akbar wondered how well he really knew him. He had thought it was very well indeed, but suddenly he was no longer sure.

Conscious of the curious glances of his bodyguards and the other attendants hovering about the entrance to his apartments, he grabbed Adham Khan’s arm. ‘Whatever it is you wish to say, this isn’t the place. Come in here.’ When the doors closed behind them, he released his arm and turned to face him. ‘You forget yourself,’ he said coldly.

‘No, you forget who I am.’

‘I have just made you my master-of-horse. I thought you’d be glad. .’

‘Glad to be your stable boy? I deserve something better. Since the defeat of Hemu you’ve changed towards me. . we used to be companions who did everything together but you have shut me out. You never ask what I think. I have royal Moghul blood in my veins as well — my father was a cousin of your father. .’

‘What appointment were you hoping for? To be my chief quartermaster perhaps, or my khan-i-khanan? I chose experienced men of proven ability and loyalty. . men I could trust. .’

‘Whom should you trust more than your milk-brother?’

‘That depends on the milk-brother.’ The words came out before Akbar could restrain himself.

‘What do you mean?’ When Akbar didn’t reply Adham Khan continued, ‘It’s because of those kidnapped concubines, isn’t it? I told you I know nothing about that. It was a plot. Whoever took them was trying to implicate and ruin me.’

‘Why should they do that? You’re not important enough for anyone to want to destroy. . Bairam Khan warned me you thought too well of yourself.’

‘Yes, the great Bairam Khan. If his advice was so invaluable, why did you send him away?’

The sneer on Adham Khan’s lean face was too much for Akbar. Before he’d quite realised it, he’d taken a swing at him and his milk-brother was sprawling on the ground. Akbar stepped back, balancing himself on the balls of his feet in case Adham Khan, who was scrambling to his feet and wiping blood from his face, should try to come at him. But instead his milk-brother just stood very still, breathing heavily through his bleeding nose and glaring at him.

Akbar fought to master his anger. He must make Adham Khan see sense. ‘My brother, we have been through much together and I can’t forget what I owe your mother, who risked her life to save mine. I thought you would like to be master-of-horse and would discharge the duties with honour. I want to expand my empire, but before I can do that I must make sure my army is ready. Speed has always been one of the Moghuls’ greatest strengths. Our cavalry, our mounted archers and musketmen, require the strongest and swiftest mounts, but after the campaign against Hemu our stables need replenishing. Travel through the empire — beyond, if necessary, to Turkey, Persia, Arabia — but bring me back the best.’

Akbar moved towards his milk-brother, stepping over an incense burner that Adham Khan had sent crashing to the ground as he fell. ‘Let’s forget what happened just now.’ He took Adham Khan by the shoulders and embraced him, ignoring the blood dripping on to his pale green tunic. But Adham Khan’s body was stiff and unresponsive against his own. Akbar released him and stepped back. ‘I won’t say anything to Maham Anga about this,’ he said dispassionately. ‘It would only distress her.’

‘What shall I say, that I bruised myself in a fall from my horse?’ Adham Khan’s tone was still sneering.

‘Say what you like. There’s a bowl of water over there. Clean yourself up.’ Akbar turned away. He should not have lost his temper like that — it was unworthy of him. He was Adham Khan’s emperor now, not his equal. Both of them should remember that.

The rains had come early, falling from skies so grey and heavy with clouds they looked as if they meant to engulf the sodden world beneath them. The swollen waters of the Jumna had burst their banks two weeks ago and since then an unwholesome collection of detritus had come bobbing past the fort — drowned sheep and dogs, even a camel, thin legs ludicrously splayed as the current whirled it round. It was the time of year that Akbar disliked most in Hindustan, when everything seemed rotten with moisture. Despite the summer heat, fires of camphor wood were lit for a few hours each day in the important apartments and in the haram to protect the sumptuous silks, brocades and velvets from damp and from the legions of insects that infested anywhere they could gain entry.

Akbar could smell the slightly acrid camphor now as he lay naked on a low red-sheeted bed in Mayala’s chamber. She was massaging his back and shoulders with almond oil to relax him and rid him of the sharp headache behind his eyes that often came upon him during the monsoon, and had been troubling him all day. His father had also suffered from it. In his youth, Humayun’s favourite remedy had been pellets of opium dissolved in wine, but his addiction had nearly cost him his throne and he had warned Akbar against it.

Perhaps if Humayun had had Mayala to massage him he wouldn’t have needed opium. Akbar grunted with satisfaction as he felt the palms of her hands working methodically and expertly over his muscles, releasing the tension. She could also make him laugh. A sharp observer, she could mercilessly mimic every member of his court, from his comptroller of the household, Jauhar — as pursed-lipped when he was scribbling in his leather-bound ledgers as when he was playing his flute — to Ahmed Khan, unconsciously tugging at his thin little beard.

Akbar stretched out his strong body — hardened and battle-ready as any of his soldiers’- the better to enjoy Mayala’s touch. The pain behind his eyes had almost gone, and, resting his forehead on his forearms and closing his eyes, he began to allow himself to drift off into sleep. But almost at once he became aware of raised voices not too far away from him. They sounded angry — very angry. Then above the shouting came a familiar sound — the clash of steel on steel. Someone was fighting. He heard female screams and, above it all, a deep voice he knew well calling, ‘Akbar! Come out and fight me, you coward. .’

Drowsiness gone, Akbar leapt up. Pausing only to grab his dagger, and heedless of his nakedness, he rushed from Mayala’s chamber out into the courtyard. The rain had ceased and normally there would have been women singing, dancing or sitting by the fountain talking, but only one person was there now — Adham Khan, standing just inside the entrance to the haram, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Beyond him, in the watery sunshine, Akbar could see the spread-eagled and bloody bodies of two haram guards, the legs of one still twitching. He turned his gaze back to Adham Khan.

‘What are you doing?’ He was so shocked he could hardly force out the words.

His milk-brother was swaying. ‘I’ve killed that jumped-up dog Atga Khan. .’ A slur in his voice confirmed what Akbar already guessed. He had been drinking strong spirits.

‘Why? Atga Khan was no enemy to you.’

‘He thought himself so fine, sitting there in the gaudy robe of honour that should have been mine and dictating to his scribe a list of all the things he was planning to do. The fool even smiled at me when I entered his chamber. But he wasn’t smiling when I stabbed him right through the heart. . in fact he looked astonished, just as you do now. .’

Akbar heard Mayala cry out behind him but he didn’t take his eyes off Adham Khan. ‘Get back inside your room, Mayala,’ he yelled without turning his head. ‘Stay there until I tell you it’s safe. It seems there is a mad dog loose.’

‘But Majesty. .’

‘Now!’ He heard her door slam shut. At almost the same moment came the sounds of shouting and running feet approaching the haram. The other guards, who must have fled when Adham Khan burst in, had returned with reinforcements and now came spilling into the courtyard. Among them was an elderly servant, Rafiq, who had once served Humayun and was now Hamida’s steward. The old man was brandishing a scimitar that he must have grabbed from somewhere. At one signal from Akbar they would have fallen on Adham Khan and cut him down, but Akbar had no intention of allowing anyone else to inflict death on the milk-brother who had broken the sacred bond between them. It was his duty and he would not shirk it. He waved the guards back.

‘Just now, you were calling on me to fight you. Very well. Rafiq, give me that scimitar.’

Keeping a wary eye on the slightly swaying figure of Adham Khan, Rafiq tottered towards Akbar, who took the weapon and made a few swishing passes through the air. The cumbersome hilt was old-fashioned and uncomfortable, but the curved blade was sharp and bright. He knotted the length of cloth Rafiq was offering him tight round his naked waist.

‘All right then, Adham Khan. We each have a sword and a dagger, so we are equal. Let’s see what happens, shall we?’

Akbar moved a few paces towards Adham Khan and paused, hoping to tempt him to rush him. But though his milk-brother’s wits had been slowed by drink he was still sufficiently master of himself, it seemed, not to be lured into an early blunder. As they began slowly to circle one another Akbar was reminded of the hunt, when he tried to predict what his prey would do next. Suddenly seeing an opportunity, he flung himself forward, flicking his scimitar to catch the pommel of Adham Khan’s sword and then giving a quick twist that sent the sword spinning from the other’s grip to fall with a clatter on the stone ground. It was a Persian trick Bairam Khan had taught him long ago. Adham Khan dodged hastily back before Akbar could slice at him with the scimitar. Then he raised his dagger and flung it at Akbar, who swerved, but not quickly enough, and felt the tip of the blade slice across his cheekbone. With warm blood dripping down his neck, Akbar threw his own sword and dagger aside and taking three giant steps hurled himself on his milk-brother. As they went crashing to the ground, he could feel Adham Khan struggling to wriggle from underneath him and grasping a handful of his milk-brother’s long hair he banged his head hard once, then again, against the paving stones. Then, leaning back, he smashed his right fist so hard into his face he felt the snapping of a cheekbone. ‘You batcha-i-lada, you son of a bitch. .’ he yelled.

A bubbling, gasping noise was coming from Adham Khan as Akbar hauled him to his feet, and he could taste his own blood, metallic and salty, in his mouth. As he looked at the mangled, drooping figure of his milk-brother — only upright because he was holding him — he felt an almost overwhelming urge to pound him to a lifeless pulp, so deep was his sense of hurt and betrayal. But losing control was not how an emperor should behave. Stepping back, he reluctantly let go of Adham Khan, who crumpled to the ground.

‘Before I have you executed do you have anything you wish to say?’

Adham Khan slowly raised his shattered face. ‘You may have triumphed now, but I have been making a fool of you for months. Those stupid little bitches, of course it was me who took them — why should you always get the best? I killed them so they wouldn’t tell.’

‘And Bairam Khan?’

‘What do you think?’ Adham Khan’s bloodied features could still approximate a triumphant sneer.

That would be his last laugh, Akbar thought as rage and anger at his own gullibility and foolishness overcame him. ‘Guards. Take him and fling him from the walls.’

He watched as two guards dragged Adham Khan by his ankles across the courtyard, leaving a long smear of blood on the flagstones. Grunting with effort, they hauled him up a shallow flight of steps in one corner that led on to a narrow walkway with a low balustrade overlooking a sandstone terrace. The drop was about twenty feet. Akbar watched unmoved as, letting go of Adham Khan’s ankles, they gripped him under the armpits and heaved him over head first. Akbar heard a thud. The guards peered over. ‘Majesty, he’s still moving.’

‘Then haul him up again by his hair and throw him down a second time.’

The soldiers ran off down a sloping passageway leading to the terrace. It was some minutes before they reappeared, dragging Adham Khan’s still feebly jerking body by his long dark hair. This time Akbar followed them up to the ledge and watched as once again his milk-brother was shoved over the balustrade. This time, as Adham Khan’s skull hit the hard stone it cracked like a ripe nut, sending pink-grey brains spewing out. Within seconds, a kite dropped from the blue sky to peck at the corpse. Soon a dozen were feeding on what remained of the companion of Akbar’s boyhood.

He didn’t stay to watch. The full impact of what had happened had struck him. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let others see his stupidity? Despite the heat, he felt cold and was beginning to shake. His mind was full of the one question he had wanted to ask Adham Khan but hadn’t — perhaps because he feared the answer. How much had Maham Anga, the woman who had given him her milk and protected him when he was alone and vulnerable, known of her son’s doings? The courtyard was crowded with people now — the women had come out of the chambers where they’d taken refuge and were discussing with the haram guards and attendants the extraordinary incident that had just taken place. Glancing round, Akbar saw Mayala watching him from the doorway of her apartment, her usually smiling face strained and anxious. He’d have liked to go and reassure her that all was well, but it wasn’t, and there were things he must do. ‘Fetch my robe,’ he shouted to an attendant, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

A quarter of an hour later, his mind still in turmoil, Akbar made his way to Maham Anga’s apartments. He had already detailed members of his personal bodyguard to search them and then to stand guard outside until he arrived. Given his semi-drunken state, Adham Khan had probably been acting alone and on impulse, even if his grievances and jealousies had been festering for a long time. Nevertheless, it was as well to be certain no further traitors lurked there. Outside, he received the brief salutation of the captain of his bodyguard. ‘We have searched the chambers. It is safe for you to enter, Majesty.’

‘And you’ve said nothing of what has occurred?’

‘No, Majesty.’

‘Did she mention her son?’

‘Again, no, Majesty.’

As the guards swung the double doors open to admit him, Akbar knew the task ahead of him was far more distasteful than any battle. Given what the captain of his guard had said, it seemed that Maham Anga didn’t yet know of his fight with Adham Khan or of her son’s summary execution or the reasons for it, though it would have taken a fleet-footed attendant only five minutes to carry the news to her. Maham Anga was standing in the middle of the chamber in which in happier times she had held parties and celebrations, and where by the soft light of oil lamps she had fondly told him the stories of his youth that never bored him. Her expression now was anxious.

‘Akbar, what is going on? Why am I suddenly a prisoner?’ Her clear brown eyes fixed on his face were genuinely puzzled. To give himself strength, he let his mind dwell for a moment on the bloody corpse of the murdered Atga Khan, which he had inspected just a few minutes earlier and was even now being washed in camphor water and readied for burial.

‘Maham Anga, all my life you have been as a mother to me. What I have to say isn’t easy, so let me be direct. An hour ago your son murdered my chief quartermaster, Atga Khan, then burst armed into the haram intending to kill me also.’

‘No.’ She spoke so softly that the one word was almost inaudible. Blindly she reached out to catch at something to support her, but her flailing hand caught against a dish of marzipan sweetmeats and sent it crashing to the floor.

‘There is more. Adham Khan challenged me to combat. I defeated him in a fair fight and then I ordered his immediate death — the death of a traitor.’

Maham Anga was shaking her head slowly from side to side and making a pitiful sound between a whimper and a wail. ‘Tell me he isn’t dead,’ she sobbed at last.

Akbar came closer. ‘I had no choice. I had him flung headlong from the walls. Not only did I have the evidence of my own eyes but he boasted to me of his other crimes — the girls destined for my haram whom he seized from spite and jealousy and then had killed. Even worse, he taunted me that he was the author of Bairam Khan’s death. Such arrogance and ambition could not go unpunished. . what else could I do but have him executed?’

‘No!’ This time the word was a shriek. ‘I gave you my milk when you were a baby. I risked my life to protect you when your uncle ordered you to be exposed to cannon and musket fire on the walls of Kabul. And you betray me by slaughtering my only son — your own milk-brother! I have nourished a viper at my bosom, a devil.’ Maham Anga fell to the floor, clawing hysterically first at the rich red rug, then at Akbar, ripping at his calves with her nails and drawing blood as red as the carpet.

‘Guards!’ Akbar could not bear to lay hands on her himself. ‘Be gentle with her. She is hysterical with shock and grief.’ Two of his men pulled Maham Anga away from him. In a moment she broke free but made no further attempt to attack him. Instead, she just knelt there, rocking back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

‘Maham Anga, I must ask you this. Did you know anything of what your son had done — of his plans to kill me?’

She looked up at him through her tangled hair. ‘No.’

‘And when you advised me to send Bairam Khan on pilgrimage, was that because you and Adham Khan were jealous of his influence on me and at court?’ This time Maham Anga was silent. ‘I insist you answer, and honestly. This is probably the last time you and I will ever meet.’

‘I thought that with Bairam Khan gone, you would look to others for advice.’

‘Like you and your son?’

‘Yes. My son felt neglected by you and I agreed with him.’

‘And did you agree to Bairam Khan’s murder so you could be sure your rival was never coming back?’ Despite his feelings for Maham Anga, Akbar felt his anger welling up again. It would be best for them all to bring this interview to a swift close.

At the bitter edge to Akbar’s voice, his milk-mother flinched. ‘I never intended Bairam Khan’s death. . and I’m sure my son was not responsible, whatever he may have boasted to you.’

Nothing so blind as a mother’s love, Akbar thought.

‘I always loved you, Akbar,’ Maham Anga said dully, as if reading his mind.

‘Yes, but you loved your own son far more. Maham Anga, this is what will happen. Tomorrow, you will be taken from here to the fort in Delhi where you will live the rest of your days in seclusion. I will give you money to build a mausoleum for your son. But you will have no further contact with me or any of my family.’

As he turned and walked slowly from her apartments, he heard Maham Anga break into fresh wails. From what he could make out from her disjointed words they were not simply of grief — she was calling down God’s curse on him and God’s blessing on her dead son. With those anguished, vengeful cries echoing around him, Akbar made for his own mother’s chambers as if he were sleep-walking. Gulbadan was with Hamida and he could tell from their faces that they already knew what had happened.

Hamida took him in her arms and clung to him. ‘I thank God you are safe. I heard what that alachi, that devil, tried to do. .’

‘You know that he is dead? I had him thrown off the battlements. And I am exiling Maham Anga from the court.’

‘She too deserves death. As your milk-mother she has betrayed a sacred trust.’ Hamida’s tone was harsh.

‘No. Her son’s execution is punishment enough. And how can I forget that when I was a child she risked her life to save mine?’

‘I think you are right to spare Maham Anga,’ Gulbadan said quietly. ‘You have dealt decisively with the real threat and do not need to revenge yourself upon a woman. When the mother of a defeated Hindustani ruler tried to poison your grandfather, he spared her life and won much respect for it.’ She turned to Hamida. ‘I understand what you must be feeling, but when the anger, the shock, begin to pass you will see that I am right.’

‘Perhaps,’ Hamida answered in a low voice. ‘But, Gulbadan, you know as well as I do the consequences of being too merciful. Again and again, my husband, your brother, forgave those he should have executed and we all suffered as a result.’

‘Humayun did what he believed was right and was surely a greater man for it.’

Akbar was barely listening to the two women. The knowledge of Adham Khan’s treachery couldn’t at a stroke obliterate the affection — love even — he had felt for his milk-brother, whose mangled, bloodied body was now being washed for burial. Perhaps if he had understood him better he might have been able to prevent this terrible sequence of events. Was there a way he could have satisfied Adham Khan’s ambitions? Or would his milk-brother’s jealousy always have been a danger? In which case he had been naive not to be aware of it. .

Suddenly he realised his mother and aunt had stopped talking and that both were looking at him. ‘I should have seen what was coming,’ he said. ‘I should not have taken Maham Anga’s advice about Bairam Khan on trust but asked myself what her motive was. When Shayzada named Adham Khan as her sisters’ abductor I should have questioned him more rigorously. I was even warned that he was responsible for the death of Bairam Khan — someone who knew left a scribbled message in my apartments.’

‘I know. It was my steward. He just told me. Though elderly, Rafiq hears and sees much that goes on though people do not realise it. He overheard Adham Khan gloating about Bairam Khan’s death and guessed he was responsible. Though he had no proof, he wanted to put you on your guard. He saw his chance to enter your apartments and leave a message scrawled on a piece of fabric he ripped from his sleeve because he could find no paper. . He said he dared not sign it. Akbar, he is afraid you will punish him for not having the courage to tell you his suspicions to your face.’

‘No. I am doubly in his debt. Just now when I was unarmed in the haram he gave me a sword. Tell him I am grateful and will reward his loyalty. The fault for what happened is all mine. Despite Rafiq’s warning I didn’t press Adham Khan. I have been a fool. .’ Akbar brushed tears from his eyes with the back of his hand as he continued, ‘I loved Adham Khan and Maham Anga and I believed they returned my affection. Now I must learn to question and doubt the motives of all around me — even those closest to me. I must accept that the role of an emperor is a lonely one, and a ruler must never give his entire trust. .’

‘If you have learned that sad truth, then perhaps the events of this day have had a purpose,’ said Hamida, face grave. ‘When you look back many years from now, you will realise that this was when you left your youth behind and truly became a man and an emperor. Whatever our position in the world, life holds many bitter things. You tasted some today. I pray you emerge the stronger.’