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.
A bubbling, gasping noise was coming from Adham Khan as Akbar hauled him to his feet, and he could taste his own blood, metallic and salty, in his mouth. As he looked at the mangled, drooping figure of his milk-brother — only upright because he was holding him — he felt an almost overwhelming urge to pound him to a lifeless pulp, so deep was his sense of hurt and betrayal. But losing control was not how an emperor should behave. Stepping back, he reluctantly let go of Adham Khan, who crumpled to the ground.
‘Before I have you executed do you have anything you wish to say?’
Adham Khan slowly raised his shattered face. ‘You may have triumphed now, but I have been making a fool of you for months. Those stupid little bitches, of course it was me who took them — why should you always get the best? I killed them so they wouldn’t tell.’
‘And Bairam Khan?’
‘What do you think?’ Adham Khan’s bloodied features could still approximate a triumphant sneer.
That would be his last laugh, Akbar thought as rage and anger at his own gullibility and foolishness overcame him. ‘Guards. Take him and fling him from the walls.’
He watched as two guards dragged Adham Khan by his ankles across the courtyard, leaving a long smear of blood on the flagstones. Grunting with effort, they hauled him up a shallow flight of steps in one corner that led on to a narrow walkway with a low balustrade overlooking a sandstone terrace. The drop was about twenty feet. Akbar watched unmoved as, letting go of Adham Khan’s ankles, they gripped him under the armpits and heaved him over head first. Akbar heard a thud. The guards peered over. ‘Majesty, he’s still moving.’
‘Then haul him up again by his hair and throw him down a second time.’
The soldiers ran off down a sloping passageway leading to the terrace. It was some minutes before they reappeared, dragging Adham Khan’s still feebly jerking body by his long dark hair. This time Akbar followed them up to the ledge and watched as once again his milk-brother was shoved over the balustrade. This time, as Adham Khan’s skull hit the hard stone it cracked like a ripe nut, sending pink-grey brains spewing out. Within seconds, a kite dropped from the blue sky to peck at the corpse. Soon a dozen were feeding on what remained of the companion of Akbar’s boyhood.
He didn’t stay to watch. The full impact of what had happened had struck him. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let others see his stupidity? Despite the heat, he felt cold and was beginning to shake. His mind was full of the one question he had wanted to ask Adham Khan but hadn’t — perhaps because he feared the answer. How much had Maham Anga, the woman who had given him her milk and protected him when he was alone and vulnerable, known of her son’s doings? The courtyard was crowded with people now — the women had come out of the chambers where they’d taken refuge and were discussing with the haram guards and attendants the extraordinary incident that had just taken place. Glancing round, Akbar saw Mayala watching him from the doorway of her apartment, her usually smiling face strained and anxious. He’d have liked to go and reassure her that all was well, but it wasn’t, and there were things he must do. ‘Fetch my robe,’ he shouted to an attendant, keeping his voice as steady as he could.
A quarter of an hour later, his mind still in turmoil, Akbar made his way to Maham Anga’s apartments. He had already detailed members of his personal bodyguard to search them and then to stand guard outside until he arrived. Given his semi-drunken state, Adham Khan had probably been acting alone and on impulse, even if his grievances and jealousies had been festering for a long time. Nevertheless, it was as well to be certain no further traitors lurked there. Outside, he received the brief salutation of the captain of his bodyguard. ‘We have searched the chambers. It is safe for you to enter, Majesty.’
‘And you’ve said nothing of what has occurred?’
‘No, Majesty.’
‘Did she mention her son?’
‘Again, no, Majesty.’
As the guards swung the double doors open to admit him, Akbar knew the task ahead of him was far more distasteful than any battle. Given what the captain of his guard had said, it seemed that Maham Anga didn’t yet know of his fight with Adham Khan or of her son’s summary execution or the reasons for it, though it would have taken a fleet-footed attendant only five minutes to carry the news to her. Maham Anga was standing in the middle of the chamber in which in happier times she had held parties and celebrations, and where by the soft light of oil lamps she had fondly told him the stories of his youth that never bored him. Her expression now was anxious.
‘Akbar, what is going on? Why am I suddenly a prisoner?’ Her clear brown eyes fixed on his face were genuinely puzzled. To give himself strength, he let his mind dwell for a moment on the bloody corpse of the murdered Atga Khan, which he had inspected just a few minutes earlier and was even now being washed in camphor water and readied for burial.