Now, Akbar was not in the palace. And that meant Bairam Khan was the ruler, and by that measure, the harem—and everyone living in the harem—belonged to him. If he were to stake claim on all the women in this compound today, if he were to order them to his chambers after sunset with a jug of wine, who would stand up to him? Not the women, certainly, and not even the guards.
What good were the guards anyway?
Bairam Khan could not be stopped by mere guards if he truly wished to take over the harem and use them as pawns in his game with Akbar. But regardless, she would feel safer if she met Bairam Khan with the guards by her side. At the very least, she would show him that she did not trust him.
* * *
To her surprise, he came unarmed, in his prayer clothes, shorn of ornaments and rings. He looked less like a powerful warrior and king and more like a kind uncle who knelt on the porch in the evenings and read verses from the Quran. Ruqaiya noticed the spots of white hair on the man’s chin and cheeks, the wrinkles that formed a network around his wrists and forearms.
He is getting old, she thought.
He bowed to her, only with his head. There had been a time when he used to drop to his knee in her presence. ‘Salam-alaikum, my lady. I thank you for granting my request for an audience.’
She waved him to a divan padded with bolsters. He left his sandals at the base of the verandah and climbed the steps to take his seat. He adopted the formal posture, with his knees facing her, his fingers wrapped around them. In his eyes she saw…what? Tenderness? Fear?
‘You have not told us the purpose of your visit, my lord,’ said Ruqaiya. ‘A visit to the harem when the emperor is not present... I acceded only because it was you making the request.’
‘I thank you. It is a matter of utmost importance, one that may turn around the fortunes of the Mughal throne.’
Ruqaiya raised a delicate brow. ‘Indeed? And we lowly harem-folk have a part to play in it?’
He did not rise to the bait. Instead, he said, ‘The queen may have known that I received a missive from His Highness yesterday, calling me to battle with him.’
‘I believe he gave you another choice too, my lord.’
‘Yes, he did; a choice that I cannot take.’
‘And why?’
‘Because that would mean that I would have to abandon the Mughal throne.’
‘To its rightful owner.’
A flash of anger passed through his eyes. ‘I believe,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I believe that there is an enemy to the throne making the emperor turn against me.’
Only one name came to Ruqaiya’s mind: Maham Anga. Out loud, she said, ‘I know not who you mean.’
‘Your eyes tell me otherwise, Your Highness.’
‘Have you come here to talk to me, my lord, or to read tales in my eyes?’
He smiled at her, and just like that he slipped back into the garb of the kind uncle. ‘You and I both know who I refer to, my queen. In this fight between me and my king, it is she who stands to gain the most.’
‘But the king has given you your orders,’ said Ruqaiya.
‘The king is young! He knows not who drives daggers into his back until they get twisted. And by then, it shall be too late to do anything, my lady.’
‘But what shall you have us do, Baba?’ It was the first time that morning she addressed him as Akbar would.
Bairam Khan tightened his lips, dark through years of smoking the hookah. ‘If you give me the order,’ he said slowly, ‘I shall keep an eye on Maham Anga.’
Ruqaiya knew what ‘keeping an eye’ meant. If that was what he literally wanted to do, what need had he of her consent? In fact, he was asking her to allow him to take Maham Anga prisoner, if not in the dark dungeons under the fort, at least to hold her against her will in her own chambers.
The thought did not displease her. Throughout their years of marriage, she had seen how Akbar would not tolerate even the slightest hint of a complaint about Maham Anga. Everyone could see that the old woman had designs of her own, but in Akbar’s eyes, she was the very angel of Mohammed. This would be a good opportunity to get even with her and protect the throne at the same time. But it would also be thwarting Akbar’s word.
Besides, who was to say who was right?
Akbar thought it was Bairam Khan who needed to be subdued. If that was his will, then as his queen, she had to follow it. Thinking on her own and following her mind would only bring trouble.
So she said, ‘I am the queen, Baba, but before that, I am the servant to my king. I shall not disobey his orders.’
‘That is the folly of this court, my lady,’ said Bairam Khan, his face hardening, the wrinkles gathering. ‘Nobody is willing to think for themselves. They are all slaves to the will of the boy, and the boy is a slave to that woman up there. And if I give in.’ He sighed, ‘If I leave everything and go to Mecca right now, mark my words, everyone will pounce on the king. Your Akbar will not survive.’
‘Do not try to threaten me, my lord,’ said Ruqaiya. ‘The emperor is strong enough to protect himself, should the need arise.’
‘Only if the attack comes from the outside, my lady. What does he know of foes that lie in wait for him here, poor boy?’
‘You still speak of him as if he was a mere child. I wish you do not forget that he is your master.’
Bairam Khan bowed. ‘That he is—my master and commander. But we both serve a higher purpose, Your Highness, and that is the safekeeping of the Mughal throne.’
Ruqaiya sighed, at once feeling exhausted. ‘All this is mere talk, Baba. I don’t know why you tell me all this. I am a mere lady of the harem. I have no powers over the emperor’s will. Whatever you wish to say must be said to him, surely?’
‘The ladies of the harem,’ said Bairam Khan, looking up at the balconies, ‘have more power than you think, my queen. I insist that you allow me to hold down Maham Anga. It is for the good of the Mughal throne.’
‘I think it is the emperor who knows what is best for the throne.’
‘It is good for you too, for with Maham Anga gone, it is you who shall rule the emperor’s heart.’
For the slightest of moments, Ruqaiya paused, pondering over this. Would there ever come a time when Akbar would allow his heart to dwell on just one woman? The thought was pleasant to entertain, but she could not shake off the feeling that Bairam Khan was trying to manipulate her.
Too hard, she thought. He was trying too hard.
She finally said, ‘I cannot give you powers of that nature, my lord. But you know that you do not need my consent to take over the harem. You are the regent. You command the royal army. They listen to you.’
Bairam Khan smiled. ‘They will only listen to the emperor’s word, my lady.’
‘You could tell them that it is what the king wishes. They will not question you. You can order them to march in and keep the ladies captive, hold them in ransom against the king. You know that, do you not?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘And yet you do not do it. You come to me for my consent.’
‘That is the way of Allah. The right way. I do not play games like that woman up there.’ His gaze swept up to the balcony and back. ‘I do not wish to go against my king, though it looks like I have no choice.’
‘I agree,’ she said. ‘You do not.’
‘Then so be it.’ He got to his feet. He no longer had the iron posture as he did a few years ago. Now he slouched a little, his knees looked like they were going to buckle any moment.
The man was getting old. Ruqaiya felt a pluck of pity in her heart. His was not the age to ride horses and command armies. And yet there was that edge of cruelty in his eyes that had not aged. Perhaps something about battles—the cries of the fallen, the laboured breathing of the horses, the glory of it all—fed him with life. Perhaps all these men were the same. Perhaps even Akbar.
As he turned and left, Ruqaiya looked up at the balcony, and as if on cue, Maham Anga’s laboured cough floated
down to her, sending a shiver down her spine.
Nine
A RUBY-STUDDED BRASS vase crashed against the candle stand and clattered to the floor.
‘Khan Baba is truly angering us!’ Akbar said, as he paced up and down the room. ‘What does he mean that he has only one choice left—to fight? We asked him kindly to step down and go on his pilgrimage and he has the temerity to fight us?’
Mahesh Das picked up the vase and placed it back on the silver table. The messenger who had just read the parchment cowered in the corner. The other noblemen stood where they were, stone-faced, staring at their feet.
‘Send out the missive that we shall fight him,’ said Akbar, half withdrawing his sword from its sheath. ‘Let him taste the sharpness of our blade. What say you, noblemen of Agra? Shall we fight?’
For a moment no one spoke.
Then one of the noblemen said, ‘We shall be fighting our own armies, sire. We shall be killing our own men.’
‘You are fighting on the side of the emperor against a usurper. The enemy’s army does not belong to you. Mahesh Das, what do you think? Shall we fight?’ Akbar turned to the Brahmin.
‘Since Bairam Khan has risen to our challenge, Your Highness, we are left with no other choice but to fight. Taking a backward step now would only embolden him, one thinks.’
‘That is so, yes,’ said Akbar, drawing his sword and holding it up. ‘Summon your armies, all of you! And we shall meet Khan Baba’s army outside the city of Agra.’
‘Just a small request, my lord, if you permit,’ said Mahesh Das.
‘Speak.’
‘I trust that Bairam Khan will come with an army of elephants to combat your artillery and horses. Is that so?’
‘We are certainly expecting that, yes.’
‘Then perhaps he would prefer to meet you on the rocky grounds of Agra, Your Highness.’
Akbar turned to face Mahesh Das. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘The hard, uneven ground will help his elephants, my lord, while your artillery and horses will have a tough time moving. I think fighting him on the outskirts of Agra is akin to suicide. There is little chance of us winning, I dare say.’
Akbar considered the Brahmin curiously. How did this priest know so much about the battle tactics of the Mughals? The spies that had been sent to his village had come back that morning, confirming everything. He was what he had said he was: he had no father or mother; he had once been married but had been a widower for five years; and he was a priest who loved to travel foot whenever the fancy took him.
Khan Baba had all the wiles of an old fox, and now Akbar could see why the regent had invited him to Agra’s borders to fight. None of these noblemen—did they even want to fight for him?—had picked up on the problem; would he be left commandeering a bunch of impotent imbeciles?
‘Is it true, what Mahesh Das says?’
The noblemen nodded.
Akbar sighed. When all this was over, he would have to brush up on all aspects of warcraft. It was becoming increasingly clear that battle between armies was not as simple and straightforward as facing a raging lion in the royal arena with a dagger and shield in hand. Here you had to consider many things. Akbar had once heard Khan Baba speak of a skirmish in Kabul which the enemy lost because their cook was killed and the new one undercooked the meat. The fate of a battle hinged on such little things. What was he thinking, then, that he could just charge out and vanquish Khan Baba without shedding a bead of sweat?
‘Mahesh Das, tell us how we shall stand a chance of combating Baba’s elephants.’
‘Jahanpanah, it is indeed a most fortunate occurrence that we have seen some rain in the last three days. Further north of here, there is a range of hills called the Shiwalik. Do you know of them?’
Akbar had heard of them before, and on casting a quick glance at the gathered men, he saw a few nods. ‘It looks like some of us do,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
‘There are acres of paddy fields at the foot of these hills, my lord,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘And now with all the rain, the earth is apt to be soft and sodden. I propose that we move camp from here to the hills, and lure Bairam Khan’s into these paddy fields. That way we can win without killing a single man.’
Some of the noblemen began to murmur in protest. ‘But it will take us a long time to get to the hills, Your Highness. We do not have provisions. We do not have women.’
‘Silence!’ said Akbar. He was right. These men were incapable nincompoops. ‘Summon your armies to your side right this minute. Command them to arrive by sundown tomorrow. We shall arrange for the cooks and provisions.’ He turned to Mahesh Das. ‘Sir, can you ride to your village and send word out to all the villages that fall in our path to ready tribute in the form of corn and meat as soon as they can? We will make stops whenever we are hungry.’
Mahesh Das bowed. ‘I can, Your Highness, if you send a rider to carry me.’
Akbar smiled. ‘Yes, of course.’
Ten
AKBAR MOVED HIS elephant perilously close to Mahesh Das’s castled king.
They had been playing in silence. Mahesh Das had suggested they do so to calm the Akbar’s nerves. But the longer the game drew on, the more unbearable the silence became. Akbar’s fingertips trembled when he reached out for his pieces.
The tent in which they sat had been pitched no more than a hundred meters from the paddy fields, and yet Akbar heard no human sound. A few minutes ago they had felt the ground under them tremble with the thuds of horses’ hooves. Then the trumpeting of elephants. Had they been in pain or were they charged with anger?
Mahesh Das moved one of his soldiers forward.
Exasperated, Akbar retreated with his elephant. ‘I do not know why I must stay cooped in this tent when I could be out there fighting!’
‘Because your life is too valuable to be lost, my lord,’ said Mahesh Das.
‘Ha! Khan Baba would never kill me.’
‘Until yesterday, Your Highness, Bairam Khan probably believed the same thing.’
‘What do you think is going on out there, Mahesh Das? Do you think our ploy will work?’ The day had been drier than the ones preceding it, so on the instructions of Mahesh Das, the soldiers had spent all morning and afternoon carrying water from the nearby irrigation wells and emptying it into the paddy fields.
‘As long as our army holds their lines, sire, I have no doubt that it will work.’ He pointed to the board.
Akbar sighed and reached out to make his move.
* * *
Bairam Khan watched his first line of elephants sink into the mud and he knew instantly that they had walked into a trap.
No, the paddy fields would not have been so wet; the last few days had been dry as a parchment. The only explanation was that the field had been made wet by the soldiers. Had the boy really thought up the idea all by himself? If he had, then he had clearly been underestimating him. Akbar had more battle acumen than he had given him credit for. Only the first few lines of horses had made it to the middle of the field. Behind him, elephants trampled this way and that, shaking their legs and trumpeting over the shouts of the mahouts.
In front of them stood a single file of Akbar’s infantrymen, ready with pikes pointing in their direction. Bairam Khan had no choice but to charge at them, knowing well that they were outnumbered ten to one, without counting the artillery that was now probably setting up cannons behind the wall of armour. Their own artillery was stuck on lower ground, behind the elephants.
He saw a familiar face behind the line of infantrymen. Old Shamsuddin Khan, who Akbar fondly called Atgah, was now regarding him with a cold eye from behind his helmet. He and Bairam Khan had been on many battles together, shared many plates of meat with each other.
‘Looks like you have me, Atgah,’ he called out. ‘You are not going to kill an old friend, are you?’
Shamsuddin trotted up to the front, his sword drawn. ‘I could kill you right now, Bairam,’ he said, ‘but it’s the emperor’s wis
h that no blood be spilled in this field.’
‘How fortunate for us then,’ said Bairam. ‘We did not come here to kill either. We just wish the emperor could tell his friends from his enemies.’ He threw his sword at the foot of the first spearman in the ranks, making him jump up.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Take me to the king while my elephants try to get out of the mud.’
* * *
A humid gust of wind burst in through the open tent flap, making the suspended yellow lamps dance in confusion. Akbar sat with his chin rested on his hand. His eyes were glued to the black king on the board, surrounded by Mahesh Das’s army. How could a Brahmin defeat a king at a game of war? he thought.
But his mind had been occupied. The trumpeting of elephants had dissolved into pitiful whimpers. There had been no sounds of weapons clashing or of men crying out in the throes of death. Now there was the trot of horses outside the tent, accompanied by Atgah Khan’s soft voice. And then an old, familiar voice laughed in response. That voice—flimsy as the layer of ice that collected on the Yamuna’s surface on winter mornings—made him sit up, and his heart bounded in joy.
Involuntarily, he felt around his right calf muscle, where a spear had once been driven in during one of the many skirmishes they had fought following Hemu’s death. That night, Khan Baba had nursed him, eyes filled with tears, chiding him for not heeding his warning and advancing into the battlefield unguarded. Now the wound was but a scar. But that night, as Khan Baba extracted shards of metal from his flesh, Akbar had swooned once or twice, unable to take the searing pain.
They entered the tent. Atgah Khan stood to the side while two guards held Bairam Khan by the arms and led him in. Mahesh Das stood up, arms clasped in front of him. Akbar turned away from the chessboard and looked up at his prisoner.
Baba looks well, he thought, if a little old. There had once been a time when Bairam Khan looked like he belonged in the battlefield. He wore armour like his second skin, and rode his horse as if it was an extension of his body. Lance, spear or sword, Bairam Khan could wield it better than everyone else. But now the scabbard wore a haggard look. The armour seemed to cling to his body, and his shoulders slumped, as though it was weighing him down.
The Crows of Agra Page 5