The Crows of Agra

by Sharath Komarraju

‘Sire,’ said a low, fearful voice, ‘the emperor wants you down at the courtyard.’

  Adham Khan sat up, frowning, racking his brains for whether he had done anything to rouse the ire of the emperor. Nothing came to his mind. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Sire, the regent Bairam Khan has been killed.’

  Adham Khan did not say anything for a moment. He just stared at the open window. Then he picked up his snuff box for another deep breath. Then he shook his head and broke into a chuckle. As he dressed and wore his slippers, he burst out laughing.

  When the gong sounded and wrenched her out of a light and troubled spell of sleep, Ruqaiya Begum bounded to her feet and hurried over to the window, to see what was going on. A lone figure draped in an orange shawl sat on the courtyard floor. Maham Anga, Adham Khan and Gulbadan Begum were already present. Along the stoned path, she saw Akbar approach in his typical hurried gait, accompanied by two attendants trying to keep up to his pace.

  Without her knowledge, Ruqaiya Begum’s heart skipped a beat. Her fingertips still carried the dried yellow and pink dye that she had been using that evening. She strained her eyes to see if Bairam was there too, but she could not spot him. A line of perspiration gathered on her brow.

  When she heard the step of her servant at the door, and when the girl stepped up to her and told her that Bairam Khan was dead, Ruqaiya closed her eyes for a long second. Stifling a smile that threatened to burst out onto her face, she said: ‘I shall be down in a minute, Korah.’

  * * *

  Shamsuddin Khan – called Atgah by the people of the court – worried more than usual on clear nights such as these.

  The hourly gong had just gone off, which meant it was just about three after midnight. He paced the length of the dourly lit bedroom in his full armour, hands clasped behind his back. His face was set in a grim frown, which would not have surprised people who knew him, for it would be a rare day indeed when Atgah Khan would be seen smiling to his heart’s content. One of the jokes going around the ranks in the army these days – and Atgah Khan knew them all – was that even when his begum had given birth to their son, the general had merely pursed his lips and given her a tight nod of approval.

  When he reached the table, he stopped and picked up a brass miniature model of a cannon that a European had gifted him on his last trip to the Gujarat port. It was just a model, but Atgah Khan could see that it was better than any cannon he had ever seen in his career as a soldier. These would be lighter to move, lighter to load, but tougher to destroy. Flanked by riflemen on both sides, and with cavalry forming a meat shield at the front, infantrymen would be picked off one by one, like worms in the dust by a hungry mother hen.

  He caressed his beard. The white men seemed nice. They always paid the emperor the most elaborate respects. Their queen wrote the most pleasing letters. Never did a trader of note land in the port of Gujarat and left it without leaving something or the other – a necklace of rare pearls, a ring studded with diamonds – for the emperor. Sometimes they brought curious artefacts from lands beyond the mountains for the ladies of the harem.

  They were courteous and chivalrous. There was no reason to distrust them.

  But for some reason, Atgah Khan did.

  When they brought miniature cannon models like this, he distrusted them even more. From his childhood he had known two things about the nature of man: one, that he was selfish, and two, that he was greedy. The more you gave him, the more he wanted. And no matter how much he would put up an act of great deference in front of you, if it came to a choice between his and yours, he would always, always choose his.

  He stroked the smooth outer rim of the cannon with his fingertip, and for a moment he relaxed. Holding a weapon always calmed his nerves, made him feel secure.

  Look at Bairam Khan, he thought. He was just a regent, the king’s servant after all, and yet when the time came, he had to be kicked off the throne. These Europeans too would one day stab us in the back, with their jewelled daggers and their pale, smiling faces. He held his palm against his chest, closed his eyes, and murmured a quiet prayer. May Allah guide us through this path.

  Bairam had once been a friend. But now he stood between the king and his throne. That meant that he had turned into the king’s enemy. And that meant that he was Atgah Khan’s enemy too.

  He set aside the cannon and walked back to his bed, loosening the buckle of his armour. A great tidal wave of fatigue washed over him at that moment, and he wanted nothing more than just sink into his bed and sleep until midday. A soldier should be on the alert at all times, and on no occasion should he allow himself more rest than he needed, but this time, this one time, he thought, he would let himself go.

  It had been a long day, and a rather tiring night.

  But just as he was removing his rings – like most men of the battlefield, he despised things sticking to his fingers – his page knocked softly, and without waiting for his order, pushed his way in and stood by the door.

  ‘Yes, Mustafa?’ He was one of Atgah Khan’s upright servants, always stoic and iron-like.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, in a voice heavy as lead. ‘The regent, Bairam Khan, has been killed.’

  Atgah Khan stood for a long moment at the edge of the bed, his fist clenched around the garnet ring he had just removed. He felt relief within him, but he knew that he could not show it in front of Mustafa. Summoning all his powers of self-control, he said, ‘I shall be down by the corridor in a moment, Mustafa. You may go now.’

  And as soon as he was alone again, Atgah Khan dropped to his knees and prayed for the soul of his friend.

  * * *

  Darkness.

  It fascinated Gulbadan Begum. Not just the darkness that came with night, but the darkness one slipped into every time one shut their eyes to sleep. She plucked at the strings of the sitar with one idle finger, taking care not to let the sound explode and wake up the others in the compound. She had requested the emperor for a chamber on this side of the corridor so that it would be set far away from where the rest of the ladies lived. But even so, it was better to be careful.

  She was sitting on the floor, in the middle of her room, a few feet away from the foot of her bed. As her finger explored different areas of the string, now picking, now caressing, now feeling, the tune changed, and she felt like she was floating on a blue bed of water, face down, swimming past sparkling gemstones half-buried in the white sand below. Now and then she would see a school of black fish flurry by, but before she could follow their path the string would cut against the tender spots on her index finger, making her frown, pulling her out of that cold, welcoming embrace back into the real world.

  She opened her eyes, reluctantly, and surveyed the dry, hot room. It was in darkness that a man’s mind leaped to the heights of its fancy. It was in darkness that deep shadows of his soul emerged and looked him in the eye. It was in darkness that mirrors glowed with a white, ethereal fire. Had the wise men not said that in order for a man to see, he must first shut his eyes?

  Such was the power of darkness, and yet men insisted on staying away from it, being frightened by it, preferring to live their lives in the harsh light of day, which illuminates the frivolous and yet conceals all that is vital. Such was their fear of darkness that when they saw her walking about the palace courtyard in the dead of night, some of them had begun to whisper that Gulbadan Begum was perhaps an apparition of a long-dead ghost.

  Let them think what they will! Her brother, Hindal Mirza, when he had been alive, liked to say that every man had their own path to walk on, and only for short snatches of time indeed do we find companions, some that love that, others that hate us, some who will hold our hands and kiss us, others who will smile and wish that we would trip and fall.

  In some of her fanciful visions she saw Hindal in the water too, floating below her, but with his eyes full of life. He would make to say something, and then he would clam up, as though his lungs were filling with water. And then a burly arm would appear from be
hind him and wrap his neck in a vice-like grip, squeezing the blue out of his eyes, turning them into sick masses of yellowish white. She would thrust out her arm and call to him, but the arm pulled him away, deep into the white sand.

  Even in her deepest dreams she did not forget whom that arm belonged to: Bairam Khan.

  Her maid had just come and given her the news. Her first reaction had been a wide smile. At first she had thought she would not go to the courtyard where everyone would gather. But then she thought: why not? It would be nice to look upon the fiend’s eyes one last time, and wish him a long, torturous path through hell.

  Yes, she thought, running her fingernail along the length of the instrument.

  She would go.

  Fourteen

  THE ROYAL HOUSEHOLD was already gathered around the body by the time Mahesh Das got to the courtyard. Under the central gazebo, a carpet had been laid out, and on it Salima Begum lay prostrate. She was wrapped in an orange shawl, the ends of which she clutched with trembling hands. She looked nothing like the lady he had met just a few hours ago.

  With an arm around her, kneeling on one knee and whispering into her ear was Akbar himself.

  Mahesh Das looked around him.

  The three women—Ruqaiya Begum, Gulbadan Begum and Maham Anga—stood on one side of the carpet. None of them seemed concerned for the lady on the carpet. One of the two men, the younger one with the long hair—his name was Adham Singh, was it not?—stood by the railing looking out at the moonlit water tank. Only the general, Shamsuddin Khan, stood with his arms folded, alert to what the emperor was about to say.

  ‘A grave misfortune has befallen us,’ Akbar began, standing up and beginning a slow pace around the gazebo. ‘Salima Begum tells us that Khan Baba is no more.’

  None of them said anything. Only Adham Khan looked back over his shoulder, and seemed to sneer at the gathering.

  ‘It is indeed a travesty that our valiant regent has been murdered within our own palace walls,’ said Akbar, meeting Adham Khan’s gaze with a level stare. ‘This does not bode well for our safety, does it, Atgah?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty,’ said Shamsuddin Khan, bowing. ‘But you are better protected, I dare say, than Bairam Khan was.’

  In the light of the flickering torches, something caught Mahesh Das’s eye. He noticed that the end of Akbar’s brown kurta had been torn, as if it had been caught against something sharp. The golden border was hanging loose and flapping in the air as he walked. It looked much like a tail.

  ‘My lady,’ Akbar turned to the weeping Salima Begum, ‘I know you are not in well enough a condition to speak, but will you please relate to these good people what you have told us a few moments ago? We shall listen to it once more, in silence.’

  Salima Begum wrapped her arms around her tiny elf-like frame. Her pale bony hands and twig-like fingers, which would snap in two with no great pressure, gleamed in the weak light. Mahesh Das felt that he could pick her up in the air with just his left hand.

  She began reluctantly, her speech punctuated by sobs. ‘I…I left the king's chamber at a quarter past eleven,’ she said. ‘I reached our chambers just as the half-gong went off. I passed two servants, whose names I do not know.’ She looked up at Akbar.

  Just then a young woman and man stepped forward and bowed to the emperor. ‘Your Highness,' said the boy, 'my name is Ahmed, and I am Khan sahib's gardener.’

  ‘And they call me Nazneen, Your Majesty,’ the girl said, her eyes downcast, ‘I belong to Gulbadan Begum. We found Lady Salima unconscious near Khan sahib’s body, and carried her here and sounded the alarm.’

  Salima Begum composed herself for a minute. Her eyes were smudged now, and against her smooth, pale face, they looked like they belonged to a ghost. ‘I found him in the middle of the room…’ Her voice thinned and threatened to crack, but she pulled it together. ‘He was lying on his stomach with his face turned to me, and there was a…was a dagger sticking out of his back.’

  ‘Were his eyes closed or open?’ asked Akbar.

  ‘Open. Wide! And staring straight at me. I don’t know what happened after that. It was already too late. He was...de–’ She burst into sobs again.

  Akbar looked at the servants.

  ‘Your Highness,’ said Ahmed, ‘we brought Lady Salima here. Nazneen tried to bring her back to consciousness, and I sounded the gong to alert the royal household.’

  Mahesh Das’s gaze shifted to Ruqaiya Begum. Her eyes blazed in the darkness, with a slow, orange flame. But perhaps it was just the reflection of the torch that she was staring at. He could not tell.

  Atgah Khan summoned a couple of waiting women, who came with a bowl of warm water each, and sat next to Salima Begum on the carpet and proceeded to daub her forehead with a piece of soaked white linen. She resisted at first, but on Akbar’s gentle prodding, relented.

  ‘How shall I live without him, Jahanpanah?’ she asked. ‘He was everything to me. My lord, my saviour, my friend, my guide.’

  ‘Not just you, Salima. The entire court, the royal family, and I dare say the whole kingdom…’ said Akbar gently. ‘We shall all be lost without him too.’

  Mahesh Das followed the sweep of Akbar’s arm and tested the countenances of those present. Not one of them showed any signs of grief. Not even Atgah Khan, who was known to be the regent’s close friend, displayed any emotion. They stood here more out of duty, it seemed, because the emperor had summoned them. In the yellow light of the crackling torches, Maham Anga’s face appeared sinister, like that of a witch, her lips set in a crooked smile.

  Akbar clapped his hands for two more servant girls to attend to Salima. ‘We shall go and see Khan Baba, all of us. Let Salima stay here, for she has already seen enough for the night. But the rest of you, come with us.’

  * * *

  At first, Mahesh Das did not see the body because the room in which Bairam Khan lay was straight out of paradise. Ignoring the gasps and shocked murmurs in the room, his eyes flit about the room, drinking in the luscious sight. Never before had he seen such ornate drapes, such intricately designed gilded candle stands, such clean, polished mirrors studded with all the nine precious stones, such life-like massive figurines—in fact, at first glance, Mahesh Das had thought the row of four armoured tin soldiers were real guards, ready to spring. The regent lay splayed in his nightclothes, the only unadorned object in the room. Even the knife sticking out of his back had rubies and emeralds encrusted into its handle. The only thing off about the room, Mahesh Das noticed, were the broken candle stands on the wall

  He drew in a sharp breath as he observed the body.

  Bairam Khan’s hands, which were spread out over his head—as though he had been praying to the lord and fell on his face in the same position—were blood-stained. Blood had pooled around the body like a still dark pond.

  A wave of nausea hit him. It wasn’t the blood that made him feel sick, but the regent’s eyes, stark with fear and confusion.

  It was Akbar who broke the spell that seemed to freeze everyone. He walked to the weapons cabinet opposite the window by which the body lay, and placed his candle on top of it, illuminating the four tin soldiers and their unseeing eyes. The women, led by Ruqaiya Begum, walked up to the cabinet and stood in front of the tin soldiers.

  Akbar knelt beside the body. He placed his hand on the side of the neck, unnecessarily, thought Mahesh Das, for it was more than clear that the man had long been dead.

  ‘Dead,’ he said. His voice echoed in the empty room. ‘Dead. Dead. Dead.’

  Akbar patted Bairam Khan’s sides, as though looking for something. He thrust his hands into the pockets and fumbled, muttering under his breath. Then with a little cry of triumph, he brought out a sheet of pink paper, folded neatly to the size of a finger’s breadth.

  Curiosity made them edge closer to the body. The ladies, almost by instinct, moved away from the body, in the direction of the darkened wall, where the weapons cabinet stood.

  ‘What is it, Jalal?�
� asked Gulbadan Begum.

  Until then Mahesh Das had not noticed her at all. Her voice was like the tinkle of a temple bell in the morning silence—pure, divine.

  ‘It appears to be a letter,’ said Akbar, unfolding the piece of paper. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the contents. ‘It seems had a visitor,’ he said finally.

  ‘A visitor in the dead of the night?’ said Maham Anga. ‘Who?’

  Akbar handed the letter to Mahesh Das, who took it and read it out loud. ‘I shall meet you in your chambers at the half gong before the eleventh,’ he read, and paused, shocked.

  The person who had signed the letter stood amongst them in the room. Mahesh Das turned to look at the young prince as he read out the final two words of the note.

  ‘Adham Khan.’

  Fifteen

  ‘JALAL!’MAHAM ANGA cried over the shocked murmurs. ‘This is a conspiracy!’

  ‘By whom, Ammi?’

  ‘I do not know, but I do know my son did not kill the regent!’

  ‘I did not say that he killed Khan Baba, Ammi,’ Akbar replied steadily. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I demand that my son be sent away to Delhi, for in this palace his very life is in danger.’

  ‘We shall do nothing of that sort, Ammi,’ said Akbar firmly. ‘We shall not imprison Adham Khan based on this letter alone. After all, who is to say who is lying?’ He looked for the briefest moment, Mahesh Das thought, at Gulbadan Begum, who turned her face away to look at the closed window. ‘But we shall not allow anyone to go anywhere until the truth is out. We must know who killed Khan Baba.’

  He clapped his hands. Two soldiers came running through the door and stood before him, their heads bent. ‘You! Stay guard here and do not let anyone enter this room without my orders.’

  ‘Yes, Jahanpanah.’

  ‘Atgah…’

  ‘Yes, Jahanpanah?’

  ‘It shall be your duty to make sure that Khan Baba’s stays untouched till sunrise.’

  ‘Yes, Jahanpanah.’