The Crows of Agra Read online

  The Crows of Agra

  The Birbal Mysteries – Book 1

  Sharath Komarraju

  Copyright © 2019 by Sharath Komarraju

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  www.sharathkomarraju.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  A Note to the Reader

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  A Note to the Reader

  THIS IS A work perhaps best described as historical fiction, but it makes no claims to being free of inaccuracies. Depending on your knowledge and love of history, you will find a few (or many) details in the book that are inconsistent with known facts of how the Mughals lived.

  All the characters that populate these pages — though they have names and appearances that resemble the originals — are entirely my creations, and possess motivations and traits that I made up to fulfil the demands of my tale. They have little historical basis.

  The architecture and floor plans of the harem, Bairam Khan’s chambers and the emperor’s room, as they are described in this book, are products of my imagination. The protagonist, Mahesh Das, who, by the end, earns Akbar’s favour and becomes Birbal, has been drawn straight out of folklore. No historical truths here, either.

  Some of these liberties are intentional. Many of them are not. I apologize for them all.

  Maybe I could better persuade you to focus more on the story than on its historicity by not calling it historical fiction. Maybe ‘a murder mystery with a historical flavour’ is more appropriate. Maybe just ‘murder mystery’ is better still.

  I don’t know. You decide.

  One

  BAIRAM KHAN DESCENDED from his horse. He dragged the body of Hemu off the saddle onto his shoulders with a grunt. He swayed like a drunk, and it wasn’t because of the weight he was carrying. Bairam Khan had been fighting without food or sleep for three days straight. His right thigh had taken a deep dagger cut on the first day, but he had socked it with a piece of horse hide and carried on fighting. The wound had begun to ooze pus, and every time he took a step it burned his flesh, making him wince in pain.

  He held his lance in one hand and tightened his grip on the Hindu infidel. His very blood reeked of blasphemy. The first thing he had done on discovering Hemu in the battlefield was to snatch the locket of idols that hung around the king’s neck and kick it into the dirt with his shoe. He had wanted to prise open his rings too, one by one, with his pocket-knife, but he had resisted. Let the boy take a look at him too, he had thought. Let him see what strange monsters he must battle if he was to become the emperor of Hindustan.

  Bairam Khan became aware of a faint rising and falling against the back of his neck. Good. The prey was still alive. It would serve the boy well to slash Hemu’s throat with his own sword; it would give him the taste of things to come. Bairam Khan did not think it beyond young Akbar’s ability to divest life from a living being; he had seen him hunt down cheetahs with nothing but a spear and a shield. But this was a human being. Would he keep his nerve, or would he, like his father, turn out to be a sheep?

  With each step, the battle ground of Panipat sank beneath his feet, sometimes squishing into flesh, sometimes cracking against bone. On both sides of his path lay severed heads of horses, with eyes gouged out. If Bairam Khan could still look up at the yellow rising moon on the horizon and allow himself a smile, it was because such scenes were not new to him. Out of his fifty-four years almost forty had been spent either in battle or in preparation for it. He knew enough about the nature of war to feel sorry for those whose lives had been lost. The good thing was that it was over now. Yes, from tomorrow it would all be back to normal—until the next time.

  As evening fell, a murder of crows swooped down upon the corpses, cawing in raucous delight. At the entrance to the emperor’s tent Bairam Khan stood for a moment, watching the shadows move behind the drawn white curtain. He let the lance drop to one side with a thud. The murmurs inside the tent stopped. Bairam Khan rubbed his nose with a bruised hand and announced himself. ‘I have brought the prize, Jahanpanah,’ he said.

  Akbar’s thin voice returned. ‘Bring him in, Khan Baba.’

  * * *

  When they laid Hemu on the carpet in front of Akbar and turned him on his back, he appeared to be larger than he was. Bairam Khan stripped him of his armour with three or four deft swings of his knife and cast it aside. He lifted the dying man’s hand and held it up to the light so that Akbar could see the rings on Hemu's fingers. ‘Idols,’ said Bairam Khan in disgust. ‘Idols, idols, everywhere. These men are pagans, utter fools. Look at their gods, my king. Is it any wonder that they lost to us, that we have vanquished them even though our numbers are small? We have the mercy of Allah on our wings, whereas these wretches have their rocks looking after them.’

  The boy did not seem to look at the hand at all. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the bleeding empty socket where Hemu’s left eye ought to have been. The arrow that felled him had struck there. The fallen king’s chest rose and fell more evenly now, though blood flowed unhindered from the gash under his chest. Bairam Khan thought he saw a smile flicker on Hemu’s face, but it was just a trick of the shadows cast by the oil lamps.

  ‘This man is half dead,’ said Akbar. ‘Take him away and let him die in peace.’

  Bairam Khan let Hemu’s hand drop and stood face to face with his protégé. He drew his sword and held it out. ‘Take it, my king,’ he said. ‘Kill this infidel, and proclaim this war over. Claim your victory. Let your blade taste the blood of your enemy.’

  Akbar looked up at him, then at the unconscious man at his feet. ‘There is no honour in killing one who is already dead,’ he said. ‘If I were to claim my victory, I should care for this man, nurse him back to health, and then defeat him in single combat. That would be honour.’

  Still a boy, thought Bairam Khan. Emperor only in name. He saw shades of Humayun in this boy—that same false sense of honour and bravado, that furtive darting of the eyes in speech, that weak, sinewy voice, that flinch and grimace at the sight of human blood.

  He turned his back on Akbar and placed the sword on Hemu’s neck for all to see. ‘The first thing you need to learn about war, my king,’ he said, ‘is that you never, ever pardon your enemies.’

  With that, he raised his weapon and struck down on Hemu’s bare throat, severing the wind pipe and eliciting one last, tired groan from the victim. Bairam Khan knelt on one knee and held a finger to Hemu’s nose, and after ascertaining that he was dead, got to his feet. Two more well-aimed strikes
severed the Hindu king’s head from his body.

  ‘Hoist his head to the mast on the battlefield,’ he instructed his soldiers, ‘and let tomorrow be declared a day of prayer and gratitude to Allah for giving us this victory.’ He turned to Akbar and presented him his sword. ‘The kingdom of Hindustan is now yours, Jahanpanah,’ he said.

  But he thought: he’s just a boy.

  Two

  RUQAIYA SULTAN BEGUM looked up from the carpet she was painting at her husband, Mohammad Jalaluddin Akbar, who was leaning back against a bolster. As always, he sat just out of reach from her.

  The silk carpet on which they sat had come from Kabul just last week. It was pink around the edges, and in the centre, enclosed in a leafy glade, a bright blue peacock serenaded his lover amid almond-shaped raindrops. As per the emperor’s fancy, they had made love on it the first night it had been laid out, right here in the open courtyard, the gurgle of fountains filling their ears. He had not come to her after that night. How could he indeed? Since he had the other women in the harem to attend to too. So if he had found time this evening for her, it could not have been without reason.

  Ruqaiya reigned in her curiosity. It was not her place to ask the emperor questions. Akbar came to his gardens for peace and quiet, seeking the company of his women to escape the matters of court. If he wished them to speak, he would make it known.

  She signalled to a slave girl, who hurried down the stairs with a tray full of warm, white towels, her silver anklets tinkling urgently. Ruqaiya took one, wiped the green and yellow dye off her hands, and cast one careful glance at the incomplete cotton carpet that lay spread on the granite floor next to her. The leaves were coming out nicely, she thought, though the sunflowers were not quite the right shade. ‘Get some water, Raheema,’ she said to the slave-girl, ‘and lighten this yellow a little?’

  As the girl retreated, Akbar’s gaze shifted from the flowers in the garden to his wife, but before Ruqaiya could hold it he looked away. She dipped her hands into the silver vessel of water. As she shook the water drops off her fingers, Akbar’s eyes came to meet hers once again. This time he sighed and entwined his fingers, the emeralds in his rings catching the feeble light of dusk.

  ‘Yes, Alampanah?’ she said in a whisper.

  Akbar’s drooping moustaches made him look older than his twenty years; and the bejewelled turban hid his thick dark hair from view. When he smiled now, lines appeared at the corners of his mouth. Six years on a throne could make a boy look like an aged man.

  The gong sounded, indicating a change of guard. Two slave-girls—Ruqaiya did not know their names—bounded in, sprinkled rose perfume in the air, bowed and left. It smoothed the lines on Akbar’s face. A sitar came to life in one of the rooms inside, plucking out a soulful Persian melody. Gulbadan foofi must have arisen from her long afternoon nap. Akbar smiled at her, the skin around his eyes crinkling. Ruqaiya lowered her gaze and ran her fingertips over the sole of his foot. In spite of his relentless riding, his feet were always softer than hers.

  ‘Khan Baba is robbing us of our sleep, Shehzaadi,’ he said suddenly.

  When she looked up in surprise, he shook his head. ‘Yes, we know, Allah will not forgive us if we eyed him with doubt in our heart; for was it not he who gave us this throne? If you and we are here today, Ruqaiya, safe and sound in this paradise of a garden, if we are being hailed as the Shehenshah, is it not all to his credit?’

  ‘And yet he has done something to awaken your ire, my lord,’ said Ruqaiya tentatively.

  ‘He has, yes.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Maham Anga thinks Khan Baba sent Pir Muhammad away so that he could one day claim the throne as his own. We have seen you laugh at Pir’s silly little sonnets, Shehzadi. We are led to believe that he has made himself indispensable here in the harem. Is that so?’

  ‘I have only ever laughed at him, Jahanpanah. He is no more than a jester here, and if I may say so, he is not of a noble sort. I have seen him steal into the shadows of the fort with a slave-girl…but I knew he was a servant of yours, so I looked the other way.’

  ‘Maham Anga thinks that this is a sign, that if we did nothing now, Khan Baba would cast us to the same fate.’

  Ruqaiya moved closer to her husband and said in a whisper, ‘Jalal,’ she placed her hand over his, fingering the scars on his wrist, ‘you are the emperor. Why must you be scared of anyone at all? Hindustan became yours that day six years ago when you vanquished Hemu. Bairam Khan is but your regent, your servant.’

  ‘We are not scared of him,’ said Akbar. ‘Mughal blood does not allow for cowardice.’

  But his eyes belied his fear. A petulant look came over him, the kind Ruqaiya had seen often during their eleven years of marriage, as he tried to pull his hand back. When they left Punjab for Agra two years ago, Hamida Begum, Akbar’s mother, had told her how to manage his odd moods. How right the Begum had been. Feed a man well, listen to him, speak with him, hold his head to your bosom, and you shall rule his heart—no matter whose bed he crawls into at night.

  Ruqaiya raised her hand, therefore, and signalled to the attendant.

  A golden platter of black grapes and pomegranate seeds, exquisitely arranged in the shape of a crown, arrived. Akbar smiled at it. His hand relaxed in hers. She fed him in silence, listening to the plucky sitar notes. A growl of thunder rolled through the sky, followed by a rain-scented breeze.

  ‘Merciful heavens,’ whispered Akbar, looking up. ‘The rains are coming.’

  ‘Yes, we are glad about that, my lord,’ said Ruqaiya, ‘because it means we shall see more of you. When the sun’s out you ride your elephants out onto the plains and disappear for months on end.’

  With a smile, he raised her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. ‘Does the Shehzaadi miss us even after so many years of marriage? Does she not know that she has forever made us her slave?’

  ‘There is no cause to descend into poetry, Jahanpanah,’ said Ruqaiya, turning cold all of a sudden. ‘There is talk in the harem about how long it will take us to have children.’ A lump appeared in her throat, but she swallowed it. ‘Some of the girls that you take to your bed, they have gotten with child, Allah knows. But where is mine, my lord? Where is your successor?’

  ‘Ruqaiya,’ said Akbar, ‘we must take what the lord gives us. Perhaps a son is not in our destiny. If that is so, we must accept it.’

  ‘How often do you come to me at night now, Jahanpanah? I can accept Allah giving up on me, heaven knows that he already has, but I cannot bear you doing the same.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. She shook her head, thinking: now look what you have done, Ruqaiya, ruining the emperor’s evening with your silly tears.

  Akbar took her by the hands and guided her over to his side. He put his arms around her and held her so close that her cheek pressed against a spot of dried wine on his kurta. ‘Why must you worry, my queen?’ he said. ‘As long as we breathe, we shall love you with all our heart. There may be other women, with whom we may sleep and whom we marry, but we shall love only you, whether you give us a hundred sons or none!’

  She allowed herself to be drawn into his embrace. She knew it would only be a matter of time before he would be given some princess as tribute for some war, and Ruqaiya would become but a faint shadow in his mind. But what was the need of tormenting herself with thoughts of the future, which may or may not come to pass? She had him now, and no matter what was to happen in time to come, nothing could take away from them the last eleven years.

  Akbar kissed her on the forehead. ‘Do you feel better?’ Before she could respond he raised his head and looked away. ‘We think Maham Anga wants an audience with us. Is it her gong that we hear?’

  Ruqaiya listened. Yes, there was the gong. Worry prickled through her. ‘Must you always run to Maham Anga whenever she calls for you? After all, you are the emperor. Can she not seek your audience as she is supposed to?’

  Akbar disengaged gently from her and straightened himself. With both hands he adjusted the turban on his head, ma
king certain that the central sapphire sat in the right position. ‘Of course she can,’ he said in a distant voice, ‘but she is my foster mother, is she not? It would be improper of me to make her come to me in her failing health.’

  ‘Improper?’ said Ruqaiya, sitting up. ‘You are the emperor, my king. Why must you listen to what Maham Anga tells you?’

  ‘Maham Anga has only our good at heart.’

  ‘So does Bairam Khan.’

  ‘Bairam Khan is turning against me, Shehzaadi. He has become greedy in his old age. The time has come for him to make way.’

  ‘And for Maham Anga to make way too, I think,’ said Ruqaiya firmly.

  In a flash Akbar got up to his feet and pushed his hands behind his back. ‘Who’s there!’ he said. Two attendants came running and bowed to them. ‘Clear these bowls and clean this carpet. Draw the curtains before the rain comes.’ As the servants scurried back and forth, he said to Ruqaiya, ‘It does not suit you, my lady, to advice us in matters of the court. You will do well to confine yourself to your carpets and your art.’

  Anger swelled up within Ruqaiya. ‘Perhaps I will,’ she said, and though she knew she would regret her outburst soon after Akbar’s departure, she could not stop. ‘Even when I see that you are walking into the cave of a lioness, I shall not open my mouth.’

  Akbar began to walk away.

  Ruqaiya got up to her feet. ‘Yes, walk away, Alampanah,’ she said, her voice never rising. ‘Do not come to me when the old woman plunges her knife into your spine and twists it. Do not ask me for advice when she places her own son on the throne and kicks dust into your mouth. Do not ask me how I know, my king, but I do—that woman will be your death.’

  Ruqaiya stood there for a long time, watching her husband’s quickly disappearing form, hoping that he would come back, so she could take back her words. ‘My king,’ she said softly, looking at the gate through which he passed. ‘My Akbar.’