‘I will try, but his life is in God’s hands.’
The hakim slid his bag from his shoulder and opening it took out a bunch of herbs whose pungent bitter smell filled the air. ‘Build up the fire,’ he ordered the attendants. ‘I need to infuse these herbs in boiling water to make a poultice to reduce the swelling.’ As the attendants added more charcoals to the brazier burning at the foot of Humayun’s bed, the hakim took out a small brass bowl and a bundle fastened with a strap. Undoing it, he unrolled the bundle to reveal a selection of medical instruments from which he took a small sharp-bladed knife. ‘I will try bleeding His Majesty. It may help relieve the pressure on his brain that I believe his injury has caused. I need someone to hold the cup.’
‘I will,’ Akbar said at once. The hakim carefully took Humayun’s right arm from beneath the coverlet, turned it wrist side up, picked up his knife and drawing the blade over Humayun’s waxen skin made a small incision just beneath the elbow. As the blood flowed, Akbar carefully caught it in the brass bowl. The sight of the vital red fluid brought him hope. It was proof that the inert figure still lived. His father was so strong, he thought. He had already survived so much. Surely he could overcome this. .
As the hakim gestured to Akbar to remove the bowl and pressed a pad of white cotton against the cut to staunch the flow, Humayun murmured something. Akbar put his head nearer to his lips, trying to catch what he was saying, but he couldn’t. ‘I am here, Father, I am here,’ he said, hoping that somehow Humayun would hear him and understand. Suddenly tears ran down his face and splashed on to Humayun’s.
‘Majesty, we must leave the hakim space to do his work.’ Bairam Khan touched Akbar gently on the shoulder.
‘You are right.’ With one final glance at his father, Akbar rose and walked slowly from the sick chamber. As the doors closed behind him, he didn’t see the hakim’s slow shake of the head as he turned to Bairam Khan and Jauhar.
‘Majesty, I am sorry to intrude upon your grief so soon after your husband’s death, but I have no choice. If you value your son’s life you must listen to me. . ’
Hamida lifted her pale, strained face from her hands and looked towards Bairam Khan. Above the veil she had pulled across the lower portion of her face her eyes were red with weeping. But at the suggestion that Akbar might be in danger, something in Hamida changed. She drew herself up and her voice was calm as she said, ‘What do you mean, Bairam Khan?’
‘God saw fit to call His Majesty your husband to Paradise when he had been back on the throne of Hindustan for only six months. Although Akbar is his undisputed heir, the prince is only thirteen years old. If we are not careful, ambitious men will try to take the throne from him. Men who had been supporters of Kamran or Askari but would have remained loyal to your husband for years if he had lived may see his sudden death as their opportunity, even though Askari is dead and Kamran blinded and in Mecca.We must also think of the rulers of subject kingdoms such as the smooth-tongued and slippery Uzad Beg, the Sultan of Multan, who have only resubmitted to Moghul authority during our invasion and may try to break free again. And of course the news may encourage Sekunder Shah to emerge from the jungles of Bengal to attempt to raise armies once more. There are also our external enemies such as the Sultan of Gujarat. . ’
‘Bairam Khan, enough,’ Hamida interrupted. ‘My husband chose you as khan-i-khanan because he trusted you. I trust you too — tell me what we should do.’
‘We must keep His Majesty’s death a secret for a few days to give us time to summon from the provinces those we know to be loyal — men like Ahmed Khan from Agra. When enough of our faithful supporters are here with their men, we can have the khutba read in the prince’s name in the mosque without fear of challenge. I wish Zahid Beg were not so far away. I’ve already sent riders to inform him of His Majesty’s death and to ask him to secure Kabul and the territories beyond the Khyber for Akbar.’
‘But how can we keep my husband’s death from becoming known?’
‘By acting quickly and decisively. Although here in the Purana Qila and outside in the city people know that the emperor has had an accident, at present only a very few — the hakims, Jauhar, your husband’s personal attendants — know of his death. All must be sworn to secrecy and as soon as I have despatched messengers to the provinces — which I will do within the hour — I will order that no one is to enter or leave the fortress. I will say that there has been an outbreak of disease in the Purana Qila and that I am taking measures to prevent its spreading to the city.’
‘But my husband showed himself to the people every day from the balcony of the Purana Qila that overlooks the river. What will they say when he doesn’t appear?’
‘We must choose someone of similar height and build to dress in imperial robes and impersonate the emperor. From across the river no one will be able to distinguish his features.’
‘What of Akbar during these next days?’
‘He should stay within the haram. I will post extra guards — my most trusted men — around your apartments. All his food, everything he drinks — even water — must be tasted first.’
‘You think the situation so dangerous?’
‘Yes, Majesty, beyond a doubt. Remember how the newly dead Islam Shah’s eldest son was murdered before his mother’s eyes here in Delhi, scarcely three years ago.’
‘Then we will do exactly what you say. It is what my husband would have wished.’
That night, with only moonlight and starlight for illumination, Akbar was standing in the small garden within the walls of the Purana Qila that Humayun had begun laying out just three months earlier. Behind him stood Jauhar, Bairam Khan and a few others who could be trusted to witness the secret burial of Humayun, Moghul Emperor of Hindustan. Since women did not attend funerals — even clandestine ones — Hamida and Gulbadan were watching from a casement above. Humayun’s body, washed in fragrant water and shrouded in soft linen, lay inside a plain wooden casket beneath the freshly turned earth.The mullah had just finished intoning the prayers for the dead and Humayun’s funeral — such as it was — was over.
Tears welled in Akbar’s eyes as he thought of the father he’d never see again. He also felt apprehensive. A few days ago his life had seemed happy and secure but now everything had changed. He sensed tension all around him. Though his mother and Bairam Khan had said little, he knew from their every look and gesture that they were concerned and that their concern was for him.
But he wouldn’t be afraid. He was of Timur’s blood. Like his grandfather Babur before him, he wouldn’t allow a cruel mischance to deprive him of what was his. Closing his eyes, Akbar began silently to address his dead father. ‘I promise that you won’t lie long in this simple grave, hidden from the eyes of men. As soon as I am able, here in Delhi, I will build for you the most magnificent tomb the world has ever seen. I, Akbar, the new Moghul emperor, swear it on my heart and on my soul. . My beloved father, you named me “Great” and great I will be — not only in memory of you but in fulfilment of the destiny I feel within me.’