Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World by Alex Rutherford Page A

arms wrapped tightly around herself.
    ‘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
alachi
, that devil, tried to do . . .’
    ‘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 naïve not to be aware of it . . .
    Suddenly he realised his mother and aunt had stopped talking and that both were looking at him.