‘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. .’