‘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 naïve 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.’
Part II
Children of Sun,
Moon and Fire
Chapter 6
The Emperor Rides Out
The sky glowed with a soft pink radiance as the sun dropped, as if nature herself wished to provide a fitting backdrop for the ceremony about to be enacted, Akbar thought. So many richly coloured Persian carpets covered the parade ground beneath the Agra fort that it resembled a flower garden. On two sides of the ground his commanders and nobles were standing behind gilded wooden balustrades, while on the third were grouped some of the rulers who had sworn allegiance to him. In the centre beneath a green silk canopy stood a pair of giant golden scales on a marble platform. Two saucers five feet across, their edges set with lozenges of smooth-polished rose quartz rimmed with pearls, swayed on thick chains from an oak frame eight feet high.
Dressed in stiff green brocade robes,
with a long necklace of carved emeralds round his neck and diamonds flashing in his headdress, Akbar advanced in step to a deep, rolling drumbeat towards the scales. He looked with satisfaction at the many chests of gems, sparkling in the light of the circle of torches that, with dusk falling, attendants had lit at intervals round the platform. Gold and silver chains lay coiled like snakes, while coins spilled from wide-necked brocade sacks deliberately over-stuffed to demonstrate his largesse. Bags of spices were piled on brass trays next to jewelled flasks, some of white jade, containing costly perfumes – ambergris, frankincense and aloewood. Bales of embroidered silks subtle and delicate as butterflies’ wings shimmered beside jewel-bright lengths of fine-woven pashmina goat’s wool.
There was also something else – twenty large iron bars. Akbar saw the many curious glances directed towards them. As he mounted the platform and approached the scales, the drummers ceased their rhythmic thumping and a trumpeter sounded a single sharp blast. At this signal, attendants picked up the bars, carried them over to the scales and stacked them on one of the giant saucers, which quickly dipped to the ground beneath the weight.
Since Adham Khan’s death nearly two years ago, he had spent much time reflecting on how and why he had failed to foresee Adham Khan’s treachery and how he could avoid new conspiracies among his nobles. He knew that one reason for his reluctance to suspect Adham Khan and Maham Anga had been their closeness to him since childhood. With Bairam Khan dead there was no one left in a similar position, and he would not let anyone get so close in future, or trust anyone so completely. He must rely on his own inner resources. But even if Adham Khan’s and Maham Anga’s intimate ties to him partly excused his blindness towards their machinations, he had also been complacent, so confident in his power and position that he thought nobody would challenge them.
A solution as to how he might minimise the chances of future unrest had come to him almost by accident as one of his qorchis read to him from his grandfather’s memoirs. Among all Babur’s wise words, two passages in particular had caught his attention: ‘War and booty keep men true’ and ‘Be generous to your supporters. If they know they have more to gain from you than from anyone else they will stay loyal.’ After all, if anyone had understood how to survive it had been Babur, and he could learn from him. That was why he had summoned his nobles here today – to tell them that very soon he would be launching wars of conquest that would fill the imperial treasuries to overflowing with gold and jewels, and also to give them a taste of the rewards that were to come. And, thanks to Gulbadan who had witnessed it during the early days of his father’s reign and suggested it, he had found exactly the right occasion for his show of magnificence and ambition – a weighing ceremony. To his great satisfaction, a search of the Agra treasure vaults had produced the very scales Humayun, as a young emperor himself, had had made. Akbar allowed himself a brief smile, then raised his hands for silence.
Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World Page 8