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.
‘Maham Anga, all my life you have been as a mother to me. What I have to say isn’t easy, so let me be direct. An hour ago your son murdered my chief quartermaster, Atga Khan, then burst armed into the
haram
intending to kill me also.’
‘No.’ She spoke so softly that the one word was almost inaudible. Blindly she reached out to catch at something to support her, buther flailing hand caught against a dish of marzipan sweetmeats and sent it crashing to the floor.
‘There is more. Adham Khan challenged me to combat. I defeated him in a fair fight and then I ordered his immediate death – the death of a traitor.’
Maham Anga was shaking her head slowly from side to side and making a pitiful sound between a whimper and a wail. ‘Tell me he isn’t dead,’ she sobbed at last.
Akbar came closer. ‘I had no choice. I had him flung headlong from the walls. Not only did I have the evidence of my own eyes but he boasted to me of his other crimes – the girls destined for my
haram
whom he seized from spite and jealousy and then had killed. Even worse, he taunted me that he was the author of Bairam Khan’s death. Such arrogance and ambition could not go unpunished . . . what else could I do but have him executed?’
‘No!’ This time the word was a shriek. ‘I gave you my milk when you were a baby. I risked my life to protect you when your uncle ordered you to be exposed to cannon and musket fire on the walls of Kabul. And you betray me by slaughtering my only son – your own milk-brother! I have nourished a viper at my bosom, a devil.’ Maham Anga fell to the floor, clawing hysterically first at the rich red rug, then at Akbar, ripping at his calves with her nails and drawing blood as red as the carpet.
‘Guards!’ Akbar could not bear to lay hands on her himself. ‘Be gentle with her. She is hysterical with shock and grief.’ Two of his men pulled Maham Anga away from him. In a moment she broke free but made no further attempt to attack him. Instead, she just knelt there, rocking back and forth,
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.
‘Maham Anga, all my life you have been as a mother to me. What I have to say isn’t easy, so let me be direct. An hour ago your son murdered my chief quartermaster, Atga Khan, then burst armed into the
haram
intending to kill me also.’
‘No.’ She spoke so softly that the one word was almost inaudible. Blindly she reached out to catch at something to support her, buther flailing hand caught against a dish of marzipan sweetmeats and sent it crashing to the floor.
‘There is more. Adham Khan challenged me to combat. I defeated him in a fair fight and then I ordered his immediate death – the death of a traitor.’
Maham Anga was shaking her head slowly from side to side and making a pitiful sound between a whimper and a wail. ‘Tell me he isn’t dead,’ she sobbed at last.
Akbar came closer. ‘I had no choice. I had him flung headlong from the walls. Not only did I have the evidence of my own eyes but he boasted to me of his other crimes – the girls destined for my
haram
whom he seized from spite and jealousy and then had killed. Even worse, he taunted me that he was the author of Bairam Khan’s death. Such arrogance and ambition could not go unpunished . . . what else could I do but have him executed?’
‘No!’ This time the word was a shriek. ‘I gave you my milk when you were a baby. I risked my life to protect you when your uncle ordered you to be exposed to cannon and musket fire on the walls of Kabul. And you betray me by slaughtering my only son – your own milk-brother! I have nourished a viper at my bosom, a devil.’ Maham Anga fell to the floor, clawing hysterically first at the rich red rug, then at Akbar, ripping at his calves with her nails and drawing blood as red as the carpet.
‘Guards!’ Akbar could not bear to lay hands on her himself. ‘Be gentle with her. She is hysterical with shock and grief.’ Two of his men pulled Maham Anga away from him. In a moment she broke free but made no further attempt to attack him. Instead, she just knelt there, rocking back and forth,
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