But no. After all those prayers and ridiculous rituals she had undertaken, she had borne Adham.
But now was not the time to wallow in the unfairness of Allah’s gifts.
Adham had not killed Bairam Khan. She was sure of that. Adham was a good rider and his sword-play had often been described as ‘deft’ by Jalal, he always won this or that prize in competitions held for noblemen, but he had never donned his armour and led an army in the battlefield. He was still young, of course, just seventeen. But while Akbar at this age had been prepared for the duties of an emperor, her son preened like a peacock and chased the harem girls.
But what did she know? Men grew up too fast for their mothers. Who knew what lay behind those jet black eyes, that feminine nose, that wax-like skin, and those pink lips?
If her son hadn’t killed Bairam Khan, then who did? Who else would gain from Bairam Khan’s death? Was it someone on Jalal’s side? Was he protecting him against her, against them?
Shamsuddin Khan? And who was that Brahmin man that she had seen last night in the courtyard? The women were not to be discounted either—Ruqaiya, Gulbadan and Salima. The harem belonged to them. It was she, Maham Anga, who had always been the outsider.
This chariot still needed careful steering.
‘I thought you did not. But you are wrong, mother,’ he said, looking away at the closed window. ‘I am not the shy little boy you think I am. These hands are capable of a lot of love—oh, yes, they are—but they are also capable of killing.’
He stood up from his chair and came to her, holding his hands out to him, with such a sinister look in his eyes that for just a moment, Maham Anga wished she had a soldier by her side. Just in case. .
Her grip on the stick wavered.
‘Do not fear me, mother,’ he said. ‘What pleasure will I get from killing you? My wish is to become the emperor, and make you queen mother for all the world to see.’
‘Queen mother! I am already a queen mother. Jalal is like my son.’
‘Ha! Jalal is not your son, foolish woman! He is just an orphan who suckled on your breast. Now if you are fool enough to think that every man who fondles your breasts is your son, then you are more naive than I thought.’
‘Your mouth is filthy,’ she said, her voice stern. ‘Of what use are all your big words when you cannot do anything about it? If you wish to be emperor, then your place is not here in the harem, but out there in the battlefield. How many wars have you fought? How many people have you killed?’
Adham Khan crooked his head to one side and grinned. ‘You do not how many people I have killed, and how many I intend to kill. As for battles, how many has Akbar fought? Perhaps two or three, and even that from within his tent, pitched a mile or so away from the action. Bairam Khan had won all of Akbar’s battles for him!’
‘And now he is dead.’ Even though she said the words, Maham Anga did not quite believe them. She had often thought of Bairam Khan as ever present by Akbar’s side, fighting his battles, breathing advice into his ear, cajoling, mentoring, guiding him. But now he was no more. Jalal would be weak without him. Suddenly she understood what her son was saying. With Bairam Khan gone, Jalal indeed was at a loss.
‘The death has come at an opportune time for us,’ she said.
‘It has, yes.’
‘It does not matter which one of us killed him.’
‘No. It does not.’
‘The most important thing is that he is dead. Out of the way.’
‘Indeed. The path to the throne has just become clearer.’
‘Do not again mention the throne again. Not here, not anywhere,’ she snapped. ‘You let your mouth talk more than it needs to.’ She tapped at the side of her temple with a finger. ‘Use this instead for a change.’
Adham Khan smiled. ‘I know that you will on my behalf even if I do not, mother.’
She did not smile back. Something did not seem right. It was too easy. Starting from the very first move that she had made—driving a wedge between Bairam Khan and Akbar—it had gone more smoothly than she had imagined. Removing Bairam Khan had been her wish for a while now. And now that it had happened, without a snag, she grew suspicious. The many years of scheming had taught her one thing: to be wary of ideas that come into fruition without a hitch.
‘Mother?’
‘Yes?’
‘What shall we do now?’
‘We need to proceed with caution, boy,’ she said. ‘Do not go around shooting off your mouth to anyone who will listen. Keep your wits about you, if you wish to still be the emperor.’
He was close enough for her to catch the whiff of jasmine he had worn under his armpits. He looked hurt by her admonishments, and for a moment she felt her motherly instincts awaken.
She took a few unsteady steps toward him, and raised a hand to his cheek. Her fingernails—which had been clear when she was younger—had gone a pale yellow with age. She stroked his cheek, and the frown on his brow receded.
‘Listen to your mother, okay?’ she said.
He nodded.
* * *
Mahesh Das knocked on the door and waited. When he did not receive a response, he pushed it open with a dusty squeak. He entered with his head bowed, because this was after all the emperor’s mother, Maham Anga’s chamber. And Akbar revered her above all, they said. Whether Mahesh Das liked her or not, it would be to his benefit to ensure that she liked him.
Although it was bright and sunny outside, the room was engulfed by a musty darkness. Maham Anga liked to keep her windows closed and the curtains drawn at all times, he had heard. She had long been conscious of her plain looks, and preferred visitors to see her only veiled by shadows.
Maham Anga was not alone. He saw Adham Khan sitting on a chair with the red cushions beside the window. Adham Khan sat up in the chair, his gaze sizing him up, appraising his chest cloth, the thread around his shoulders, the plait that fell down his neck.
If he were to get anywhere in this court, Mahesh Das thought, he would have to dress like these men, learn to speak like them.
But not now. There would be enough time for that later.
‘Yes?’ a voice cracked came from the bed. A face hooded in wool peered out at him. The eyes were dull and grey, as if they were about to plunge into sleep. But deep within them, Mahesh Das thought he saw tiny spots of red embers, turning over in ash, throwing out fiery sparks.
‘I am a sick woman,’ she said. ‘Did the emperor not tell you that I do not entertain visitors in my chambers?’
‘My lady,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘I come here bearing the emperor’s seal. It is his wish that I should speak to you about Bairam Khan’s passing.’
‘Bairam Khan’s passing? What do I have to say about that, other than it was most unfortunate to have happened?’
‘The emperor hopes that you can cast some light on the matter, because the manner of the Khan’s death suggests that there may be a killer on the loose in the palace–’
‘We seem to have more than a few strangers lurking about the grounds these days,’ she said flatly. ‘Too many, if you ask me.’
Mahesh Das did not rise to the bait. It was plain from their faces that neither mother nor son welcomed his presence.
‘The emperor tells me,’ he said, ‘that you and Bairam Khan have not been great friends in the past.’
Maham Anga sat upright against the dark teak headrest. ‘It has come to this, has it? That I have to answer the questions of a lowly Brahmin.’
Mahesh Das reached into his pocket and produced the emperor’s signet. ‘I shall hold this in my hand so that you can see it at all times, Begum. Perhaps then you will agree that all I ask, I do so on the emperor’s behalf.’
‘Why shall I talk to the emperor’s servant? Why is he not here asking me the same questions?’
‘Because he is the sole emperor now, my lady. He is making arrangements for the official ascension to the throne at the month’s end, on the day of the next full moon.’ Mahesh Das caressed the
smooth surface of the ruby studded into the signet. ‘And he assured me that you shall comply with his word, as you always have in the past.’
‘I am being made to feel like a servant in my own home,’ she said, looking at her son, who glared at Mahesh Das. ‘And all that for what! For the death of a traitor, for a man who never had Jalal’s good at heart, who always had both his greedy eyes fixed on the throne since the very beginning.’
‘With respect, Begum,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘the emperor says that Bairam Khan had done nothing but good for the kingdom of Agra.’
‘Jalal is a loyal lamb. He will trust anyone who does him a favour,’ she said, ‘even if they are infidels, even if they worship false gods, even if—as in Bairam’s case—they plan rebellions against him in clear daylight.’
‘I am given to believe that you have saved the emperor’s life once or twice in the past. My lady, is that true?’
‘I do not know what you mean, Brahmin, but yes, it was my idea to get the emperor out of Bairam Khan’s clutches. If I had not done what I did, I dare say we would not have had the emperor with us today, alive and well.’
‘Indeed. But to send him on his own, with just one riding companion, into the forest that is infested with bandits…was it wise?’
Maham Anga did not answer at once. She removed her hood and rubbed her ears. ‘Is this also a question that the emperor wants an answer to? Or is it the creation of your fertile mind?’
‘All of us in the palace today have but one wish, my lady,’ said Mahesh Das, bowing, ‘and that is the emperor’s welfare.’
‘I wonder,’ said Maham Anga.
‘You do not seem to be saddened with Bairam Khan’s death.’ Mahesh Das looked at both of them now. Adham Khan bristled under his gaze, and his hands seemed to itch with a desire to draw the sword resting by his feet. ‘Not you, my lady, and may I say not you either, my lord?’
Adham Khan half-rose in his seat to say something, but his mother laid a cold hand on his wrist and stilled him.
‘You are right, sir,’ she said. ‘Neither of us is particularly displeased that Bairam Khan is dead. But that is only because we know that he was a threat to the emperor. Now that he is dead, Jalal can rule the land that is his, with no fear of a usurper sneaking upon him from within his ranks.’
‘Just because one usurper has been killed it does not mean that another will not arise.’
‘That may be true. But I think Jalal is safer now with Bairam Khan dead than he was when the regent sat on the throne.’
Observing her Mahesh Das could imagine a time, many years ago, when those tired embers in her eyes could have raged as hungry fires. He cast a quick look at the tall, sturdy frame of her son; she could not have had a child like that if she had not seduced a man way above her station.
‘Were you here in your bed all of last night, my lady?’
A smile spread across Maham Anga’s face. ‘Do you think, sir, that I was the one who drove the knife into Bairam Khan’s back?’ She raised her hands so that he could see her exquisitely rounded nails. ‘With these hands?’
‘Not with your bare hands, Begum,’ said Mahesh Das, smiling back. ‘It does not take much strength to slide a dagger into a man’s back.’
‘You vile bastard!’ Adham Khan got to his feet with his sword in hand. ‘I shall cut your tongue off for speaking such words! By all the gods that you worship, you shall not leave this room alive!’
‘Sit down, Adham,’ she said calmly.
‘Mother! You heard what this man said–’
‘Sit down.’
Adham Khan fumbled for the support of the chair’s arm and sat down, muttering under his breath.
Mahesh Das realized that his armpits had become damp and his heartbeat had quickened. If Adham Khan had indeed pounced on him, it would have been all over. He had faced men with swords before, but none of them had the pure animal lust in their eyes that this man did. He licked his lips and composed himself.
Maham Anga’s smile broadened. ‘You will do well not to annoy my son here,’ she said. ‘Not everyone in the palace is as tolerant as I am with men of your ilk. The emperor may indulge you, and I shall pretend to listen to your words because of that, but some people here—like my son, for example—prefer to let their swords do the talking.’
‘Yes, Begum.’
‘But since you are here on the emperor’s behalf, I shall indulge you…and him. I returned from the dinner at the stroke of the eighth and did not venture out all night thereafter. You can speak to my servants if you wish, and I assure you they will speak the truth.’
Mahesh Das turned to Adham Khan. ‘And you, sir?’
After trading a glance with his mother, Adham Khan replied, ‘I reached my chambers at the ninth stroke. I did not leave the room after that.’
Mahesh Das felt his heartbeat slow down to its normal rate. ‘There is also the matter of the letter found in Bairam Khan’s pocket.’ He cast a quick glance at Adham Khan. ‘The regent was expecting your son to visit him last night, was he not?’
‘What need would he have to visit Bairam Khan?’
‘I do not know,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘Perhaps he could tell us.’
‘He did not write that letter.’
Adham Khan was beginning to get worked up again. His lips were pursed tightly and he glared at Mahesh Das.
Taking a step back, Mahesh Das said, ‘Are you implying, then, that somebody is trying to frame your son for a crime that he did not commit?’
‘A crime that he did not need to commit,’ said Maham Anga, placing a calming hand on her son’s wrist. ‘After all, Bairam Khan was leaving for Mecca this morning. Even if Adham were to gain something from his death, why would he kill him on the eve of his departure? He is not a knave.’
‘Well, time will tell us how much of a knave he is,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘One last question, Begum. Do you have any guesses as to who could have killed Bairam Khan?’
Maham Anga replied without a beat. ‘Of course. I am certain that it was Shamsuddin.’
Adham Khan looked up at his mother in shock. She, however, did not look in his direction at all, but held Mahesh Das’s gaze instead.
Mahesh Das tried to keep his face from betraying any emotion.
‘Let me give you a piece of advice, sir,’ she said. ‘When a leader of men is killed in the Mughal court, before you do anything at all, you must first arrest the second-in-command and imprison him.’
‘But Shamsuddin is not the second-in-command. What could he possibly gain from killing Bairam Khan?’ said Mahesh Das.
‘To borrow your words,’ said Maham Anga, ‘that is something only time will tell us.’
A low drawl came to their ears at that moment from the praying chamber in the harem courtyard. It began like the whine of a petulant child, thin and stringy, but soon settled into a hefty purring of a sleepy cat.
‘Now,’ said Maham Anga, sitting up. ‘It is time for our morning prayers. If you have any more questions, we shall have to speak later.’
Mahesh Das bowed in silence and left the room.
Seventeen
HE WALKED ALONG the corridor, his eyes sweeping the courtyard below, where a few women were on their knees, palms laid flat on the ground. The red sandstone had not warmed up yet even though it was already mid-morning. Each time his right big toe came in contact with the grains in the stone, the corn at the top stung and sent spasms of pain through him. All these years he had not thought twice about walking barefoot, but two nights at the palace, and he was already becoming accustomed to its pleasures.
The emperor had ordered the royal cobbler that very morning to make Mahesh Das a pair of sandals. Mahesh Das wished that they would be ready by the night; and if only the hakims could take a look at the corn too.
A servant girl saw him approaching and jumped out of his path. Mahesh Das was growing accustomed to this treatment. Everyone at the palace regarded him with suspicion, someone who was out to con the emperor. When Adham Khan l
eapt at him today, Mahesh Das was sure that he would not think twice before cutting his throat; and more chillingly, he would perhaps not have been punished either. These were not Hindu kings to fear the sin of slaying a Brahmin.
Of all the people who intimidated him, though, Maham Anga topped the list. Yes, she had held her son back from attacking Mahesh Das, but she looked like she was almost sorry for having to do so. If she ever got an opportunity to do away with Mahesh Das, she would take it.
And so would Adham Khan.
Bairam Khan’s death did not bother him. But it bothered Akbar. If he could find out who killed Bairam Khan, if he could somehow wedge himself into the Mughal court, then he could bury his past life and carve for himself a little place in this magnificent place. And then, waiting women, servants, large beds and goblets of wine—all these would be his.
That would be more than nice.
He passed the staircase and carried on towards the other wing of the harem, to Ruqaiya Begum’s quarters. Two armed guards jumped to their feet and glared at him. Anticipating their suspicion, Mahesh Das held the emperor’s seal in front of him as he approached. When their eyes fell on it, they thrust their spears to one side and cast their heads down with murmurs of reluctant reverence.
‘Your Majesty,’ ‘Jahanpanah,’ they said.
He stopped in front of the ornate door, which bore the delicate carvings of two white elephants facing one another, their trunks held up to the air. The attendants standing guard bowed at the signet in his hand. He handed it over to one of the girls and told her, ‘When the queen is finished with her prayers, will you please tell her that the emperor’s humble servant prays for an audience with her?’
The girl nodded and disappeared behind the door.
Mahesh Das walked to the edge of the balcony. From here he could see the entrance to Bairam Khan’s quarters, green and gold with ivory carvings. Ruqaiya Begum’s room was the first next to the stairs that led directly to the courtyard, and from there it was but a short walk to Bairam Khan’s room. Once night fell and the torches were lit, servants could be sent away on errands. Guards could be asked to stand by the outer gate. And with the path cleared, it would not take much to pass unnoticed from this building to that, especially if one kept to the shadow of the walls and moved quietly.
The Crows of Agra Page 9