Akbar was always pleased to see Ahmed Khan, one of the most trusted of his father Humayun’s ichkis, his inner circle. Humayun had appointed him Governor of Agra, but when the trouble with Hemu began Bairam Khan had recalled him and asked him to resume his former role of chief scout and intelligence gatherer. The liberal speckling of dust on his clothes suggested he had only just arrived in the camp.

‘Hemu is advancing on Delhi from the northwest at the head of his main army of two hundred thousand men. If he maintains his present pace he will reach the city in about a week. According to a small band of soldiers my men intercepted as they were riding to join him, he intends to proclaim himself emperor there. He has already assumed the title of padishah and ordered coins to be minted in his name. What is more, he claims the Moghuls are alien interlopers in Hindustan ruled by a mere boy, and that the roots of our dynasty are so weak they will be easy to pluck out.’

His words seemed to stir the council into life, Akbar thought, watching them exchange shocked glances. ‘We must strike now — before Hemu reaches Delhi and consolidates his position,’ Bairam Khan was saying. ‘If we are quick we can intercept him before he gets there.’

‘But the risk is too great,’ objected a commander from Herat whose left arm ended in a stump where his hand should have been. ‘If we are defeated we will lose everything. We should try to win ourselves time by negotiating. .’

‘Nonsense. Why should Hemu negotiate from a position of such strength?’ said Muhammad Beg, a thickset and grizzled veteran Badakhshani with a broken nose. ‘I agree with Bairam Khan.’

‘You are all wrong,’ cut in Ali Gul, a Tajik. ‘We have only one option — to withdraw to Lahore which is still under Moghul control and regroup. Then, when we are strong enough, we can drive out our enemies.’