Free Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War by Alex Rutherford Page A

distributed among the poor as a reminder that the emperor thought not just of his rich and important subjects but of all his people.
    By the time it was all over and the roars of thanks and acclamation had died down, Humayun’s head was aching. Court ceremonial – the messages it conveyed – was essential to the dynasty. He understood that now, and that he must find further ways to awe his people, but he was relieved to return to his own apartments and throw off his heavy robes. As his attendants dressed him in a simple tunic and trousers and Jauhar locked away his jewels, he felt a need to be alone, to have time to think. He’d go out for a ride along the banks of the Jumna where the air would be cooler than the stifling atmosphere here in the fort. Perhaps on his return he would visit the sweet-scented haram and one of his beautiful young concubines who inhabited it.
    ‘Majesty, Her Highness Gulrukh begs a word with you.’ A soft, oddly accented voice interrupted his thoughts.Turning, Humayun saw a dark-eyed young man with luxuriant black hair curling down to his shoulders. Humayun did not recall seeing him before. He looked no more than about twenty and was slender and supple. His arms – left bare by his embroidered scarlet waistcoat – were smoothly muscled.
    ‘What is your name?’
    ‘Mehmed, Majesty.’
    ‘And you serve my stepmother?’
    Mehmed’s amber eyes flickered. ‘Yes, Majesty.’
    ‘Where are you from?’
    ‘The Ottoman court in Istanbul. I came to Agra with my master, a spice merchant, but when he departed I remained to seek my fortune here. I have been lucky enough to find favour with Her Majesty.’
    What did Gulrukh want? She seldom troubled him. Indeed, since the death of his father and his half-brothers’ conspiracy he’d barely seen her. Never before had she asked him to go to her. Unsettled by her request, Humayun reluctantly decided to postpone his ride. It would appear courteous to go to her straight away, and the sooner he went, the sooner he’d find out what it was about. ‘Very well; take me to your mistress.’
    Humayun followed Mehmed out of his chamber, across a courtyard and up a flight of stairs that led to the suites of rooms overlooking a flower-filled garden where the senior royal women – except for Khanzada who preferred to live in another part of the fort – had their apartments. As befitted her status as Babur’s second wife and mother of two of his sons, Kamran and Askari, Gulrukh’s apartments were grand. As they reached the silver-inlaid mulberry wood doors outside them, attendants swung them open and Humayun entered.
    ‘You are kind to come so quickly,’ said Gulrukh in her rich, warm voice – easily the most attractive thing about her – as she came towards him. ‘I did not expect such an honour.’ Two years older than his own mother, Gulrukh was in her early forties but her sleek plumpness made her look younger. Kamran – sinewy as a mountain cat with slit-like green eyes – had inherited his looks from Babur, not from her, Humayun thought. But Gulrukh’s small black eyes – fixed intently on his face – were just like Askari’s.
    ‘Please – won’t you rest?’ She gestured towards a red silk bolster and Humayun sat back against it.
    ‘I’ve never spoken of it to you because I was ashamed, but my sons’ folly in plotting against you caused me much distress. Your father – may his soul rest in peace in Paradise – chose you as his heir and it was not for anyone to challenge. Believe me – I knew nothing of their rash and childish scheming. When I heard what they had done I was terrified. I thought you’d have them executed. I was about to come to you to plead for their lives. But then I heard of your generosity – how you had raised them up and forgiven them and appointed them to govern wealthy provinces . . . I have long wished to have this conversation with you because I wished to thank you as a mother. I chose today because it is