Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (10 page)

Before speaking, Akbar glanced up at the small grille high in the wall behind which he was sure Hamida would be sitting in the little gallery where women could watch and listen unseen. He thought he caught a glimpse of her. ‘I summoned you here today because I have decided to make certain appointments. Ahmed Khan, Atga Khan and you, my milk-brother Adham Khan, approach.’ As soon as all three men were before him, Akbar continued, ‘Ahmed Khan, in recognition of your many years of service first to my father and now to me, I hereby appoint you my commander-in-chief, my
khani-khanan
.’

Ahmed Khan’s smile above his long, wispy beard showed his pleasure. ‘Majesty, I will serve you to the utmost of my ability.’

‘I know you will. You will also retain responsibility for intelligence gathering and remain the emperor’s eyes and ears.’ At a signal from Akbar, attendants stepped forward to present Ahmed Khan with a
green brocade robe of honour, the yak’s-tail standard – an emblem of authority since the days of Genghis Khan – and a jewelled sword.

Next, Akbar turned to his milk-brother. ‘Adham Khan. You have been my friend and companion since our boyhood. Now I wish to confer on you a position you richly merit and will discharge with honour.’ Adham Khan’s hazel eyes were shining. If he’d ever wondered about his milk-brother’s ambition, Akbar thought to himself, he had his answer now. Not that ambition itself was a crime. Indeed, it was the very foundation stone of the Moghul empire.

‘Step forward, my milk-brother, and let me embrace you as my new master-of-horse.’ Akbar rose, and stepping down from the carved marble dais on which his throne stood he put his arms round Adham Khan’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. But if he’d expected gratitude he was disappointed.

‘Your master-of-horse?’ As he spoke Adham Khan glanced for a second up at the grille in the wall. Was Maham Anga also there?

‘Yes, my master-of-horse,’ repeated Akbar, his smile hardening as he took in Adham Khan’s angry and bewildered expression. What had his milk-brother been expecting?

As if suddenly aware of Akbar’s scrutiny, Adham Khan seemed to pull himself together. ‘Thank you, Majesty,’ he said quietly. He acknowledged the traditional gift of jewelled bridle and saddle held out to him on velvet cushions by two attendants and stepped back, eyes on the floor.

Akbar returned to his throne. ‘And you, Atga Khan. In recognition of your many services I hereby appoint you my chief quartermaster.’

Atga Khan, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thin white scar running from his right eyebrow to his left cheekbone – a legacy of an ambush by Pashai tribesmen in the Khyber Pass many years ago – put his hand on his breast and bowed low. ‘Thank you, Majesty. It is a very great honour.’ When he too had been presented with a ceremonial robe and the insignia of his office – a jade seal on a thick gold chain – Akbar rose and left the
durbar
hall.

With his bodyguards preceding him two abreast he had nearly reached the doors to his apartments when Adham Khan darted out from a side corridor. He was breathing heavily – no doubt the result
of having run from the
durbar
hall to intercept Akbar. Even though they could see who it was, Akbar’s bodyguards at once crossed spears to stop Adham Khan coming any nearer. Their orders were to prevent anybody from getting close to the emperor without permission, and the penalty for negligence was death.

‘It’s all right.’ Akbar nodded to the guards, who lowered their spears. ‘What is it, Adham Khan?’

‘You have humiliated me in front of all the court.’ His milk-brother was so angry that Akbar could see a vein beating in his right temple.

‘Humiliated you? Be careful what you say,’ Akbar replied in a low voice, but Adham Khan seemed in no mood for restraint.

‘You’ve made a fool of me!’ His voice was even louder this time.

Akbar felt a strong desire to launch himself at him and wrestle him to the ground just as he’d done a thousand times when they were boys. Adham Khan had always had a temper, but Akbar was the better fighter and had found fists to be the best way of winning any dispute. But that was when, beneath the childish rivalry, they’d been friends. Perhaps they were so no longer . . . Looking at his milk-brother’s insolent face, Akbar wondered how well he really knew him. He had thought it was very well indeed, but suddenly he was no longer sure.

Conscious of the curious glances of his bodyguards and the other attendants hovering about the entrance to his apartments, he grabbed Adham Khan’s arm. ‘Whatever it is you wish to say, this isn’t the place. Come in here.’ When the doors closed behind them, he released his arm and turned to face him. ‘You forget yourself,’ he said coldly.

‘No, you forget who
I
am.’

‘I have just made you my master-of-horse. I thought you’d be glad . . .’

‘Glad to be your stable boy? I deserve something better. Since the defeat of Hemu you’ve changed towards me . . . we used to be companions who did everything together but you have shut me out. You never ask what I think. I have royal Moghul blood in my veins as well – my father was a cousin of your father . . .’

‘What appointment were you hoping for? To be my chief quartermaster perhaps, or my
khan-i-khanan
? I chose experienced men of proven ability and loyalty . . . men I could trust . . .’

‘Whom should you trust more than your milk-brother?’

‘That depends on the milk-brother.’ The words came out before Akbar could restrain himself.

‘What do you mean?’ When Akbar didn’t reply Adham Khan continued, ‘It’s because of those kidnapped concubines, isn’t it? I told you I know nothing about that. It was a plot. Whoever took them was trying to implicate and ruin me.’

‘Why should they do that? You’re not important enough for anyone to want to destroy . . . Bairam Khan warned me you thought too well of yourself.’

‘Yes, the great Bairam Khan. If his advice was so invaluable, why did you send him away?’

The sneer on Adham Khan’s lean face was too much for Akbar. Before he’d quite realised it, he’d taken a swing at him and his milk-brother was sprawling on the ground. Akbar stepped back, balancing himself on the balls of his feet in case Adham Khan, who was scrambling to his feet and wiping blood from his face, should try to come at him. But instead his milk-brother just stood very still, breathing heavily through his bleeding nose and glaring at him.

Akbar fought to master his anger. He must make Adham Khan see sense. ‘My brother, we have been through much together and I can’t forget what I owe your mother, who risked her life to save mine. I thought you would like to be master-of-horse and would discharge the duties with honour. I want to expand my empire, but before I can do that I must make sure my army is ready. Speed has always been one of the Moghuls’ greatest strengths. Our cavalry, our mounted archers and musketmen, require the strongest and swiftest mounts, but after the campaign against Hemu our stables need replenishing. Travel through the empire – beyond, if necessary, to Turkey, Persia, Arabia – but bring me back the best.’

Akbar moved towards his milk-brother, stepping over an incense burner that Adham Khan had sent crashing to the ground as he fell.
‘Let’s forget what happened just now.’ He took Adham Khan by the shoulders and embraced him, ignoring the blood dripping on to his pale green tunic. But Adham Khan’s body was stiff and unresponsive against his own. Akbar released him and stepped back. ‘I won’t say anything to Maham Anga about this,’ he said dispassionately. ‘It would only distress her.’

‘What shall I say, that I bruised myself in a fall from my horse?’ Adham Khan’s tone was still sneering.

‘Say what you like. There’s a bowl of water over there. Clean yourself up.’ Akbar turned away. He should not have lost his temper like that – it was unworthy of him. He was Adham Khan’s emperor now, not his equal. Both of them should remember that.

The rains had come early, falling from skies so grey and heavy with clouds they looked as if they meant to engulf the sodden world beneath them. The swollen waters of the Jumna had burst their banks two weeks ago and since then an unwholesome collection of detritus had come bobbing past the fort – drowned sheep and dogs, even a camel, thin legs ludicrously splayed as the current whirled it round. It was the time of year that Akbar disliked most in Hindustan, when everything seemed rotten with moisture. Despite the summer heat, fires of camphor wood were lit for a few hours each day in the important apartments and in the
haram
to protect the sumptuous silks, brocades and velvets from damp and from the legions of insects that infested anywhere they could gain entry.

Akbar could smell the slightly acrid camphor now as he lay naked on a low red-sheeted bed in Mayala’s chamber. She was massaging his back and shoulders with almond oil to relax him and rid him of the sharp headache behind his eyes that often came upon him during the monsoon, and had been troubling him all day. His father had also suffered from it. In his youth, Humayun’s favourite remedy had been pellets of opium dissolved in wine, but his addiction had nearly cost him his throne and he had warned Akbar against it.

Perhaps if Humayun had had Mayala to massage him he wouldn’t have needed opium. Akbar grunted with satisfaction as he felt the
palms of her hands working methodically and expertly over his muscles, releasing the tension. She could also make him laugh. A sharp observer, she could mercilessly mimic every member of his court, from his comptroller of the household, Jauhar – as pursed-lipped when he was scribbling in his leather-bound ledgers as when he was playing his flute – to Ahmed Khan, unconsciously tugging at his thin little beard.

Akbar stretched out his strong body – hardened and battle-ready as any of his soldiers’- the better to enjoy Mayala’s touch. The pain behind his eyes had almost gone, and, resting his forehead on his forearms and closing his eyes, he began to allow himself to drift off into sleep. But almost at once he became aware of raised voices not too far away from him. They sounded angry – very angry. Then above the shouting came a familiar sound – the clash of steel on steel. Someone was fighting. He heard female screams and, above it all, a deep voice he knew well calling, ‘Akbar! Come out and fight me, you coward . . .’

Drowsiness gone, Akbar leapt up. Pausing only to grab his dagger, and heedless of his nakedness, he rushed from Mayala’s chamber out into the courtyard. The rain had ceased and normally there would have been women singing, dancing or sitting by the fountain talking, but only one person was there now – Adham Khan, standing just inside the entrance to the
haram
, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Beyond him, in the watery sunshine, Akbar could see the spread-eagled and bloody bodies of two
haram
guards, the legs of one still twitching. He turned his gaze back to Adham Khan.

‘What are you doing?’ He was so shocked he could hardly force out the words.

His milk-brother was swaying. ‘I’ve killed that jumped-up dog Atga Khan . . .’ A slur in his voice confirmed what Akbar already guessed. He had been drinking strong spirits.

‘Why? Atga Khan was no enemy to you.’

‘He thought himself so fine, sitting there in the gaudy robe of honour that should have been mine and dictating to his scribe a list of all the things he was planning to do. The fool even smiled at me when I entered his chamber. But he wasn’t smiling when I stabbed
him right through the heart . . . in fact he looked astonished, just as you do now . . .’

Akbar heard Mayala cry out behind him but he didn’t take his eyes off Adham Khan. ‘Get back inside your room, Mayala,’ he yelled without turning his head. ‘Stay there until I tell you it’s safe. It seems there is a mad dog loose.’

‘But Majesty . . .’

‘Now!’ He heard her door slam shut. At almost the same moment came the sounds of shouting and running feet approaching the
haram
. The other guards, who must have fled when Adham Khan burst in, had returned with reinforcements and now came spilling into the courtyard. Among them was an elderly servant, Rafiq, who had once served Humayun and was now Hamida’s steward. The old man was brandishing a scimitar that he must have grabbed from somewhere. At one signal from Akbar they would have fallen on Adham Khan and cut him down, but Akbar had no intention of allowing anyone else to inflict death on the milk-brother who had broken the sacred bond between them. It was his duty and he would not shirk it. He waved the guards back.

‘Just now, you were calling on me to fight you. Very well. Rafiq, give me that scimitar.’

Keeping a wary eye on the slightly swaying figure of Adham Khan, Rafiq tottered towards Akbar, who took the weapon and made a few swishing passes through the air. The cumbersome hilt was old-fashioned and uncomfortable, but the curved blade was sharp and bright. He knotted the length of cloth Rafiq was offering him tight round his naked waist.

‘All right then, Adham Khan. We each have a sword and a dagger, so we are equal. Let’s see what happens, shall we?’

Akbar moved a few paces towards Adham Khan and paused, hoping to tempt him to rush him. But though his milk-brother’s wits had been slowed by drink he was still sufficiently master of himself, it seemed, not to be lured into an early blunder. As they began slowly to circle one another Akbar was reminded of the hunt, when he tried to predict what his prey would do next. Suddenly seeing an opportunity, he flung himself forward, flicking his scimitar
to catch the pommel of Adham Khan’s sword and then giving a quick twist that sent the sword spinning from the other’s grip to fall with a clatter on the stone ground. It was a Persian trick Bairam Khan had taught him long ago. Adham Khan dodged hastily back before Akbar could slice at him with the scimitar. Then he raised his dagger and flung it at Akbar, who swerved, but not quickly enough, and felt the tip of the blade slice across his cheekbone. With warm blood dripping down his neck, Akbar threw his own sword and dagger aside and taking three giant steps hurled himself on his milk-brother. As they went crashing to the ground, he could feel Adham Khan struggling to wriggle from underneath him and grasping a handful of his milk-brother’s long hair he banged his head hard once, then again, against the paving stones. Then, leaning back, he smashed his right fist so hard into his face he felt the snapping of a cheekbone. ‘You
batcha-i-lada
, you son of a bitch . . .’ he yelled.