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With one slash of his sword, Akbar severed his head. Shaking with rage, his face spattered with Hemu’s hot blood, he could not speak for some moments, but then, wiping hisface with a cloth and sheathing his sword, he turned to Bairam Khan, his voice once more composed. ‘You are right. We should not be merciful to the undeserving. Display this creature’s body around the camp. Send his head to Delhi and set it up to rot in one of the public squares as a lesson to all other potential rebels.’
    As Akbar was turning away with Bairam Khan to head back towards his own camp, Adham Khan approached. He had a bandage round the knuckles of his left hand, which had clearly suffered a cut, but seemed otherwise unscathed. Yet he too appeared less elated than Akbar thought might have been likely in this hour of victory. ‘You fought well, my milk-brother. I was watching some of your deeds.’
    ‘I hear you tasted blood too, killing the head of Hemu’s bodyguard. But I’ve sad news to report to you and Bairam Khan. Tardi Beg is dead.’
    ‘What? . . . How did he die?’
    ‘When you instructed me to gather some of his troops to feign flight back towards your position, I and my men fought our way towards his command post. As we reached it, we saw from a distance that all but a very few of his bodyguard were sprawled on the ground, dead or wounded. He himself was unhorsed and surrounded by a group of Hemu’s men whom he was trying valiantly to fight off. As we got nearer, hoping to save him, we heard one of his attackers calling on him to surrender. “No,” Tardi Beg shouted. “I am a man of honour, true to my emperor.” With that he rushed at his enemies a last time and I saw one spear him through the abdomen with a lance. As he lay impaled, twitching and clutching his guts, another of Hemu’s men pulled back his head and slit his throat like a slaughterer does to an animal.’
    ‘You died bravely, Tardi Beg, my brother, my
tugan
. May your soul rest tonight in Paradise,’ murmured Bairam Khan. ‘I am sorry I ever doubted you.’
    After a long pause, Akbar spoke to Bairam Khan. ‘In the case of Tardi Beg it was good not to execute or banish him, wasn’t it? I was wrong to contemplate mercy for Hemu, but it was correct to extend it to Tardi Beg to allow him to vindicate his honour in battle.My father was right, wasn’t he? Mercy has as much place in the armoury of a great ruler as severity.’
    ‘Yes, Majesty,’ said Bairam Khan, and Akbar saw that a tear was running down his commander-in-chief’s face.

Chapter 3
Manhood
    I n the palace fortress of Lahore, Akbar looked down from the marble dais. He was sitting on the high-backed throne that at Bairam Khan’s suggestion he had ordered to be cast from melted-down gold coin from Hemu’s treasure chests. The throne had accompanied Akbar everywhere during his six-month-long imperial progress through Hindustan. The idea of showing himself to his people in the aftermath of his triumph had been his own, but Bairam Khan had helped him orchestrate an awesome display of Moghul power.
    The progress had delivered everything Akbar had hoped. How powerful, how proud, he had felt to ride at its head on his favourite black stallion with the gold-mounted saddle and bridle, wearing his father’s gleaming breastplate and Alamgir at his side. Next to him had been Bairam Khan and immediately behind them those commanders who had especially distinguished themselves in the battle against Hemu, including Adham Khan his milk-brother. After that – keeping in time with the martial cacophony of trumpets and kettledrums – had come the squadrons of horsemen, green pennants fluttering and steel-tipped lances erect, then the archers, musketmen and artillerymen, some mounted and some on foot. Behind had rumbled the wagonloads of booty seized from Hemu’s camp – sacks of coin, chests of jewels, bales of silks – protected by a special detachment of guards.
    A quarter of a mile further