Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘Majesty . . . Majesty, wake up.’ At the feel of a hand on his shoulder, he opened sleepy eyes to see the dry, wrinkled face of the keeper of the haram looking down at him.

  ‘What is it?’ Akbar looked instinctively for his dagger. Even in the haram the emperor must always be prepared for attack.

  ‘A messenger has come. One of Ahmed Khan’s scouts. He says he has news that will not wait.’

  ‘Very well.’ Akbar rose, wrapped a robe around him, thrust his feet into pointed red leather slippers and followed the old woman to the doors of the haram. Outside, beyond the guards by the entrance, he recognised the scout. He looked dirty and tired but what struck Akbar most was his expression. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bad news, Majesty. About four weeks ago, Bairam Khan with ten of his men were attacked while out hunting near his camp on the banks of the Chambal river.’

  ‘And Bairam Khan?’ The blood was already draining from Akbar’s face. He had guessed the answer.

  ‘Killed, Majesty, along with all his hunting companions.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘Yes. Others of his party discovered the bodies half hidden among the reeds along the Chambal.’

  ‘I want to question them. I must know exactly what they found.’

  ‘They are still on the road to Agra after attending to the funeral rites. I had the news from the post rider they had sent ahead, whom I encountered at a caravanserai in Dholpur. Learning who I was, he told me what had occurred and gave me this letter for you, written by Bairam Khan’s senior officer.’ The scout pulled a folded piece of paper from his dusty green leather satchel.

  As Akbar opened it, a second folded note speckled red-brown in one corner fell to the ground. Akbar picked it up, then handed the first letter back to the scout. ‘Read it to me.’

  ‘“Majesty,”’ the man began, ‘“it grieves me to report that Bairam Khan has been murdered. We discovered his body and those of our comrades on the banks of the Chambal river. All had been killed by arrows, many shot in the back. In the case of Bairam Khan – and this is terrible to relate – the head had been hacked off. We found it some yards away at the edge of the water. All the bodies had been stripped of jewels, money and weapons. Though we searched for signs to tell us which way the attackers had gone, we could find none. Perhaps they fled by boat. As proof of what I relate I am sending a paper found on Bairam Khan’s body.”’

  Slowly Akbar opened the second letter. He didn’t need anyone to read it to him. He knew what it was – the order written by Maham Anga on his behalf to Bairam Khan to depart on the haj. He also knew what the dark brown stain was – Bairam Khan’s blood.

  Three hours later, from the balcony of his apartments Akbar watched the first shafts of sunlight warming the battlements of the Agra fort, but he didn’t feel it. Instead he was shivering as if the world around him were coated with ice. He could scarcely believe Bairam Khan was dead. He would make sure the perpetrators were found and punished as savagely as they deserved, but wasn’t he also guilty? If he hadn’t broken with Bairam Khan and sent him away, he would still be alive. And what would his mother say? She had been angrier than he had ever seen her on hearing that he had dismissed his commander-in-chief. How would she react to his murder?

  In the courtyard below he heard the timekeeper strike the brass disc that signalled the end of his watch. Soon the sun would be well above the horizon. He must not make the mistake of allowing Hamida to learn the news from anyone else as he had that of Bairam Khan’s dismissal. He must go to her straight away. Splashing himself with water, he dressed quickly without the aid of his attendants whom in his black mood he had ordered not to disturb him and made his way to her apartments. Though it was barely past dawn, Hamida was already awake and he saw at once from her tear-streaked face that he was too late.

  ‘Forgive me, Mother. You were right. I should never have sent Bairam Khan away. God has punished me.’ He waited for a torrent of anger to flow from her lips but she stood silent, eyes downcast.

  ‘Bairam Khan was like a member of the family,’ she said at last. ‘His death cuts me to the heart. But I do not blame you for his murder and you should not blame yourself. You wanted to be free of his influence but you never meant him harm, I know that. Akbar . . .’ She drew herself up. ‘Discover everything you can about his murder. Find his killers – common bandits, hired assassins, whoever they are – find them and make them pay in blood for what they have done.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’ Akbar hesitated, half hoping, childlike, that she might embrace him, but her hands remained by her sides. He knew he was dismissed.

  It was some time before he returned to his own quarters. Needing space and fresh air, he climbed to the battlements of the fort. The waters of the Jumna glinted amber in the early morning light but his mind’s eye was filled with very different scenes – himself riding in triumph into Delhi with his father and Bairam Khan; Bairam Khan’s hand resting on his shoulder as they stood by his father’s grave; steel blades flashing as Bairam Khan taught him subtle Persian sword tricks, insisting Akbar try again and again until his technique was perfect; Bairam Khan’s indigo eyes watching approvingly as he practised his musketry. How could he have ignored the bonds of trust between them and acted as he had? He had allowed himself to be influenced against Bairam Khan by Maham Anga because, thoughtlessly, selfishly, impetuously, he had wished to think badly of him because he wanted to rule. It was as simple as that.

  At last, with the sun rising high into a pale blue sky patterned with clouds blowing in from the west, Akbar returned to his rooms. Almost at once he noticed an item he was sure hadn’t been there earlier. Someone had placed what looked like a strip of material on top of the ivory and mother of pearl inlaid box in which Akbar kept some of his jewels. They had also taken the precaution of weighting the strip down with an ivory paperweight carved like a lotus flower. Picking up the material, Akbar saw it was a scrap of pale green silk with several lines of writing upon it. Here and there the author had allowed a few drops of blue ink to fall. It looked like the work of a child and he was about to toss it aside when some instinct told him not to. Instead, he took the piece of fabric out on to the balcony where the light was better. Why had the author chosen to write on silk not paper? Perhaps to disguise their handwriting, not that it made any difference to him, since he couldn’t read it anyway. The more he looked, the more the thick, inky symbols seemed to dance about. Akbar summoned his qorchi.

  ‘What does this say?’

  The young man studied it for a moment then looked up, eyes startled. ‘It’s a warning, Majesty. It says, “Though a river of milk from the same breasts binds you, your milk-brother is not your friend. Ask Adham Khan what he knows about the murder of Bairam Khan.”’

  ‘You are certain that’s what’s written?’ The qorchi nodded. ‘Give it back to me.’ Akbar tucked the piece of silk inside his tunic. ‘Say nothing about this to anyone. It is just a piece of malice written by an enemy of Adham Khan.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  Akbar tried to put the odd message out of his mind, but couldn’t. Whoever had written the warning had not had the courage to accuse Adham Khan openly. Why? Because they feared retribution or because they were trying to make mischief? Poison once poured out was hard to put back in the flask – some drops always escaped. Whatever the case, they had shattered his peace of mind, making him think the unthinkable – that the youth he had grown up with and loved as a brother might be his foe. After all, it had been Adham Khan’s mother who had warned him against Bairam Khan. But he had just made one terrible error of judgement that had cost him a friend. He must not rashly make another.

  ‘Akbar, look! I told you my hawk was the best,’ shouted Adham Khan. High above their heads, the bird swooped like an arrow on the pigeon it had been pursuing. ‘I win!’

  A few minutes later, Adham Khan held out his left arm and his yellow-eyed hawk landed on the elbow-length leather gauntlet, curved beak bloodied and more
blood staining the leather jesses trailing from its legs. Still smiling triumphantly, he returned the bird to a wooden perch driven into the ground, tied the jesses to the plaited leather leash attached to the perch and placed a tufted cap inlaid with tiger eyes over the bird’s head.

  ‘I concede. Your hawk makes the faster kill,’ said Akbar.

  ‘I told you your new falconer hasn’t been training your birds properly to follow the lure. Let mine have care of them for a few days, then you’ll see the difference.’ Adham Khan’s wide-jawed, strong-featured face was split by a broad grin.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Akbar smiled back. It was as well that Adham Khan couldn’t see into his mind, he thought. It was also good that his swaggering milk-brother was too conceited to wonder why Akbar had recently been seeking his company. In the aftermath of the victory over Hemu and the triumphal progress through Hindustan they had seen relatively little of each other, but as Akbar’s doubts had grown about the cause of Bairam Khan’s death he had deliberately invited Adham Khan hunting or hawking, or to join in games of polo on the banks of the Jumna. All the time, while seemingly focused only on the sport in hand, Akbar had been observing his milk-brother carefully, but Adham Khan had done or said nothing to rouse his suspicions. He was merely his usual boastful, ebullient self.

  But in that case, whom had he so offended that they wished to damage him in Akbar’s eyes with their scrawled note implying his complicity in Bairam Khan’s death? Akbar frowned as he watched his milk-brother dig his heels into his horse’s sides and canter over to where the falconers were waiting with fresh birds. Though he had offered a huge reward – enough to feed an entire village for ten years – even after three months there was still no intelligence about who had slaughtered Bairam Khan.

  Thoughts of conspiracy – however shadowy and insubstantial – never left him, but he must learn patience. Across such a vast and in places untamed land as Hindustan, information took time to travel. Perhaps Ahmed Khan and his network of spies and scouts would soon have news. He had promised his mother he’d not rest until he’d found and punished the murderers and he would keep his word. Should he have told her about the curious warning on the piece of silk? he wondered yet again. Often he had been on the brink of it but each time had drawn back, fearing it would only distress and alarm her. And, of course, he could say nothing about it to Maham Anga either . . .

  The council meeting had seemed especially long and tedious. Akbar’s head was aching and he wanted to hear nothing further about caravanserai construction or revenue gathering. But as he left the council chamber and made his way to the women’s quarters his mood lightened. A few days ago, a new ally from the hill country beyond the Jhelum river had sent some concubines to join Akbar’s haram. The party had reached Agra three nights ago and now Akbar was eager to see the women for himself. His first bashful though passionate love-making with Mayala seemed to belong to another life. She was still his favourite but he had found many other women to please him too. In the haram he felt free of court cares. At the thought of fresh pleasures ahead he quickened his step.

  The elderly khawajasara was waiting for him and smilingly led him to a room hung with brilliant silks and ornaments of coloured glass that were also a gift from Akbar’s new ally. ‘The girls have been made ready and are eager to serve you. You have only to choose the one who pleases you the most.’ She clapped her hands and a door in a side alcove opened. Three young women entered, dressed identically in tight-fitting bodices and wide trousers fastened at their waists with pearl tassels. Their dark hair, pulled back from their faces with jewelled clasps, gleamed with henna. Two were tall and voluptuous while the third was short and delicately formed. She was exquisite but something more than her beauty held Akbar’s attention. She was standing very still and breathing rapidly like a deer that knows the hunter is there and is too afraid to move. Her vulnerability moved him and he felt a strong desire to show her she had nothing to fear from him.

  ‘This one’

  ‘She is called Shayzada. You have chosen well, Majesty.’

  ‘Leave us, please.’ As the keeper ushered the other girls from the room, Akbar saw Shayzada’s eyes shining with tears. ‘Don’t be afraid. If you are not willing, say so. I would never force any woman.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of you, Majesty.’ She spoke the old Moghul language, Turki, but haltingly and with a strange accent Akbar had never heard.

  ‘Then what is it?’ He came closer, noting the delicate oval of her face and the unusual vivid blue of her eyes that for a moment reminded him of Bairam Khan. She looked so achingly beautiful he wanted to reach out and touch her. She hesitated, and when finally she spoke he could tell she was choosing her words with great care. ‘When I was told I was to come to your court, it was a great honour and I was happy. So were my two elder sisters.’

  ‘The two young women who were with you just now?’

  ‘No, they are not my kin.’

  ‘Then where are you sisters?’

  Her face tightened. ‘When our party was still two days from Agra, a group of Moghul soldiers stopped us. They said that they were an advance guard sent by you to inspect us and take the most beautiful to you at once. They said you were impatient and took my sisters away. When we reached Agra, I asked the keeper of the haram where they were but she said she knew nothing of any other women. Please, Majesty, I am frightened for my sisters . . .’

  ‘I gave no orders for any advance guard. Who was their commander?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think I heard one of the soldiers address him as Adham Khan.’

  Akbar’s head jerked back in surprise. ‘Did you see any of their faces?’

  ‘It was evening, and anyway the men had face cloths pulled up to their eyes.’

  The tears were running down her face now and she made no effort to wipe them away, but Akbar, overcome with anger, was no longer attending to her. ‘Wait here,’ he said.

  A few minutes later he was striding towards his milk-mother’s apartments. Waving her attendants aside, he flung the silver doors open himself and burst in. Seeing the expression on his face, Maham Anga, who had been writing in a book, at once closed its ivory covers, fastened the gilt clasp and rose to her feet.

  ‘Akbar, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Where is your son?’

  ‘Away hunting. I haven’t seen him for nearly a week.’

  ‘Have him found – wherever he is – and tell him to return to the court immediately.’

  ‘Of course. He is yours to command. But why?’

  ‘A woman newly arrived in the haram – sent to me with several others as a token of respect and friendship by a new ally – accuses him of abducting two of them – her sisters.’

  Maham Anga paled. If her son had committed such a crime she certainly knew nothing about it.

  ‘The accusation is very serious,’ Akbar said more gently, ‘but let my milk-brother answer the charge. If he is innocent he has nothing to fear.’

  ‘Of course.’ Maham Anga put a hand on his arm. ‘But, Akbar, there has been some mistake. My son would never . . .’ Her voice faltered.

  ‘Let us hope you are right.’

  In fact, Akbar learned the fate of the missing young women three days before Adham Khan and his hunting party of other young nobles came riding up the ramp into the Agra fort in obedience to his summons. He was woken with news that two female bodies had been pulled from the Jumna river. A camel driver taking his beasts down to the water’s edge to drink had found them. Both were naked, and their throats had been cut.

  ‘What is it, Akbar? Why did you summon me to your apartments so late when I’m still tired and dusty from my journey?’

  ‘Adham Khan, do your remember how we used to gallop our ponies through the meadows beneath the Kabul fortress?’

  ‘Of course I do. But I don’t see—’

  ‘Those were good times. We seldom spent a day apart.’

  ‘That is what a milk-brother is for.’

  ‘It
was more than that. I had no brothers or sisters of my own. Without you I would have been lonely. And when I was kidnapped from my parents by my uncles, your mother was my sole protector and you shared my captivity, suffered the same hardships, faced the same perils . . . That is what makes what I have to ask you so difficult. But we are no longer boys, and I am an emperor, and so I must.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Akbar?’ Adham Khan’s light brown eyes – so like Maham Anga’s – were fixed on Akbar’s face and his expression was no longer light-hearted.

  ‘Three days ago, an old man – a camel driver – discovered the bodies of two young women floating in the river when he took his beasts to drink. He found a long stick and with its help dragged them to the bank and raised the alarm. The corpses weren’t very pretty.’ Akbar again saw before him the grazed, muddy bodies, already buzzing with flies, that he had insisted on viewing. Those staring eyes – a paler blue than Shayzada’s – looking sightlessly out from purpling bloated faces, those gaping blood-encrusted throats, had somehow been more horrible than anything he’d witnessed on the battlefield.

  Adham Khan shrugged slightly. ‘I’m sorry to hear it, but what has this to do with me?’

  ‘Be patient. I ordered my hakim to examine the bodies. He told me the cuts were deep and clean – probably inflicted with a sharp dagger – and that the women had not been dead for more than two or three days. He also said they had been raped.’ Again Akbar’s mind conjured the shameful scene: two young women, sent to what should have been a luxurious and pampered life at his court, lying blood-stained and violated on the hakim’s marble slab. ‘Adham Khan, do you know who these women were?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Akbar studied his milk-brother’s indignant face. ‘Are you certain?’