‘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
‘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 naive 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
‘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
Chapter 6
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.
