Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

Late last night, oblivious of the pouring rain, Humayun had returned to Agra in triumph from his conquest of Gujarat. The gold, silver and jewels that remained, even after rewarding his men, had already been piled in the imperial treasure houses. Except, that was, for a few items that Humayun had kept back – a silver belt set with pearls that he would enjoy fastening around Salima’s supple waist, a carved jade cup for his mother Maham, and for Khanzada a double-stranded necklace of rubies and uncut emeralds set in gold that had reputedly adorned the throats of generations of royal women of Gujarat. Unlocking an enamelled casket he drew it out, admiring once more the fiery brilliance of the rubies counterpointed by the dark green emeralds.

  Still holding the necklace, Humayun made for his aunt’s apartments. He knew the details of the campaign would interest her but he also wanted her advice. As he entered, he saw that Khanzada was reading and that sitting by her side, head also deep in a book, was his eleven-year-old half-sister Gulbadan. The child’s eyes – a dark tawny like her mother Dildar’s and her brother Hindal’s – gazed up at him, bright and curious.

  Khanzada rose at once and taking him by the shoulders kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Welcome back, Humayun. You conquered as I knew you would . . . Every report of your progress filled me with pride.’

  ‘I have a gift for you.’ Humayun opened his hand and let the ruby and emerald necklace trickle through his fingers. Gulbadan edged closer for a better look, but Khanzada seemed to hesitate before taking the jewels and holding them up to the light. ‘They’re beautiful, but they’re too fine for me . . . I am no longer young. Keep them for your wife when you take one.’ She returned the necklace to Humayun, closing his fingers over it before he could argue and gestured him to sit by her. ‘Gulbadan – leave us. But come to me again tomorrow – there is a Persian poem I want to show you.’

  As the girl closed her book and walked slowly away, Khanzada looked after her. ‘I’ve grown fond of her since her mother’s death last year – she’s a clever child and notices everything.’

  ‘As you did at her age? My father often told me nothing escaped you.’

  ‘He flattered me.’

  ‘I don’t think so, and it’s for that reason that once again I come to you for advice. I learned many things during my campaign against Bahadur Shah. My victory proved to me that I can inspire men to follow me in battle and confirmed to me that I am a good warrior . . . Many more fights lie ahead of me and I don’t fear them – indeed I’m eager for them if they help me make our empire more secure . . .’

  ‘You’re right.You’ve proved you are a leader of men. That you are fearless. So what is worrying you?’

  ‘As I travelled back to Agra, I often thought to myself, when the tensions and excitement of battle are over, what then? I know how to be a warrior, but do I really understand how to govern and keep an empire? How to behave when sitting on my gilded throne, surrounded by counsellors, sycophants and suppliants, all eager for my attention to their requests or problems? Sometimes I just wish to banish them all and be with Salima or one of my other concubines, or go out hunting.’

  ‘That is only natural for a young man, but you must resist such temptations. A ruler must be alive to what is going on around him and sensitive enough to sniff out discontent before it ferments into rebellion. You will learn just as your father learned. It wasn’t easy for him either. He was much younger than you when God gave him a throne but he became a great ruler. Read his diaries – you will find what you seek in their pages, born of hard experience and blood . . .’ Khanzada paused, then smiled a little sadly. ‘If Babur were here with us now he would tell you to be vigilant about those you allow close to you at court . . . Take care to whom you give power, trust few. Always ask yourself the question why – Why is this man advising me to do this? What will he gain if I agree? What will he lose if I don’t? Will he be grateful for what he is given or think it is due to him as of right?’

  ‘I think I understand much of this. It’s almost as if a ruler’s watchword must be suspicion. It grieves me it must be so, but my half-brothers’ rebellion has taught me to be less trusting and more on guard, even with members of my close family who I thought would be my natural allies. But what about my subjects, the ordinary people I see only as suppliants or on a royal progress but whose loyalty I must have?’

  ‘You will always be remote to them. What matters is not how you really are but how they perceive you. You must appear to them whenever you can and when you do you must be like the sun to them, too bright to gaze upon. They must believe in your power to protect them . . . and in your power to punish any who defy you. Remember how our ancestor Timur dazzled his people not only by his conquests but by his magnificence. The palaces and mosques he built in Samarkand, the fabulous wealth he displayed and distributed, were as important as his victories in stamping his footprint for ever upon the earth.’

  Humayun rose and walked slowly over to the casement. The rain was easing and a few pale shafts of sunlight were penetrating the sullen grey sky. His aunt was right – he must not begrudge the time and effort he expended on court politics. He must give his people not only victories but also pageants and spectacles . . . They must see him not as a man but as an image of perfection and power.

  ‘Humayun – look at this . . .’

  Turning, he saw Khanzada undoing two silver clasps on the carved ivory covers of a large book that one of her attendants had brought her. Resting it on a sandalwood stand, she began to turn the pages, frowning as she scanned the lines until, finding what she wanted, she gave a nod of satisfaction.

  ‘While you were away, I ordered some of Sultan Ibrahim’s household documents to be translated into our tongue. To our eyes the court customs of the rulers of Hindustan seem strange – bizarre even – but they deserve careful study. For example, it’s written here that every year, on the anniversary of his accession, Sultan Ibrahim was weighed at a public ceremony and an equivalent weight of silver, food and fine cloth was distributed to his courtiers and the people according to their rank and merit. Why shouldn’t you do something similar? Bind your subjects high and low to you by showing them your wealth and power – and your generosity. See – the ceremony is described in precise detail . . .’

  Coming close to Khanzada, Humayun read over her shoulder. At first, the description of the elaborate ritual of the weighing ceremony made him smile. No wonder the Moghuls had smashed through Sultan Ibrahim’s armies at Panipat if the sultan had indulged in such things. It seemed soft, unmanly, to dish out wealth that had not been earned through hard combat and blood. How much better in the immediate aftermath of victory to pile his warriors’ shields with booty . . .

  His lip curled a little with contempt. The Moghuls hadn’t conquered Hindustan to rule as its past kings had done. But Khanzada’s eyes, fixed intently on his, made him pause and as he did so his certainty wavered. Perhaps his reactions were still those of a nomadic warrior from the Asian steppes . . . But he was in Hindustan now and must learn to change. Khanzada could be right. A king’s power did reside in his ability to awe and reward as well as to conquer on the battlefield. There might indeed be something in these old ceremonies. Perhaps he should adopt some of Sultan Ibrahim’s customs but build on them to create new spectacles . . . new magnificence . . .

  Humayun put his hand on Khanzada’s shoulder. ‘Again you have shown me what I should do . . .’

  Humayun looked at his reflection in the burnished mirror held up by Jauhar. His robes were of pale blue brocade encrusted with gold embroidery and gems glittered on his fingers and around his neck. He smiled, pleased with the image he presented, encased in his finery. In fact, the only pieces of jewellery that mattered to him were the Koh-i-Nur diamond, his Mountain of Light, that mounted in gold was pinned to his breast, and – even more so – Timur’s gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand. The ring was Humayun’s talisman – its virile, elemental strength a constant reminder of how much he had to live up to, how much he had yet to accomplish .
. .

  Humayun signalled that he was ready to proceed to the great audience chamber of the Agra fort. To the blast of two long-stemmed bronze trumpets and cries of ‘Padishah salamat’, ‘All hail the emperor’, he entered the many-pillared durbar hall where his leading subjects – his officers of state, his commanders, his courtiers and the Hindustani rajas who had acknowledged his supremacy – were waiting. As they prostrated themselves, touching their foreheads to the ground, they looked in their bright robes like a field of flowers tossed down by a sharp gust of wind.

  ‘You may rise.’

  The scent of rosewater, cascading down a tiered fountain at the far end of the hall into a marble pool carved into the shape of a lotus leaf, mingled with the spicy incense smoking in four tall golden burners shaped like slender-legged cranes with rubies for eyes. Beneath Humayun’s feet, the carpets of red and blue spread over the stone floor felt thick and soft as he advanced slowly towards the green velvet, gold-fringed canopy erected over a raised platform on which stood giant golden scales – two great saucers, their edges set with lozenges of pale pink quartz rimmed by pearls, suspended by gold chains from a stout wooden frame.

  Directly in front of the scales was the largesse to be weighed against him – carved ivory boxes of unset gemstones, gilded wooden trunks filled with silver and gold coins that had each taken eight men to carry into the chamber, bales of pashmina goat’s wool so soft and supple a length six feet wide could pass through a tiny golden ring, rolls of silks in rainbow colours and brass trays piled with spices.

  Humayun surveyed his audience, grouped around the front and sides of the dais, among them his grandfather Baisanghar and his white-bearded vizier Kasim. The two elderly men were watching him approvingly and for a moment Humayun thought of Babur whose early reign they had also guided . . . but this was not a moment for grief and regrets but for pomp and ceremony. He had an imperial pronouncement to deliver.

  ‘Nine years ago I fought by my father’s side at the battle of Panipat. God granted us a great victory and a new realm. It was also God’s will that my father did not live long to enjoy what he had won. This is the third anniversary of the reading of the khutba proclaiming me Moghul emperor of Hindustan. My empire is still young but it will grow . . . indeed it will become great, surpassing that of the Persian shah or the Ottoman sultan. The Moghuls’ magnificence will blaze like the noonday sun, blinding those who dare gaze into its heart. Already, I have shown my power to defeat those who threaten our borders. Bahadur Shah and the Lodi pretender Tartar Khan skulk in the mountains and their once great wealth now fills my treasuries. But you who are loyal to me and to my house, you will share in the glory and the riches, starting today.’ Humayun nodded. ‘Kasim, let us proceed.’

  Just as they had carefully rehearsed, Kasim gestured to the trumpeters who delivered a further long blast that reverberated around the chamber. Humayun approached the scales. Stepping on to one of the golden saucers, he felt it dip to the floor beneath his weight. At a clap of Kasim’s hands, attendants began to pile box after box of gems on to the other saucer until slowly, to the sonorous beating of drums, Humayun began to rise off the floor. When, finally, the scales were in equilibrium, the trumpets sounded once more.

  Opening a book bound in red leather, Kasim began to read. ‘His Imperial Highness, Humayun, has in his infinite generosity decreed that these gems be shared among his courtiers and loyal subjects who are listed here.’ Slowly, portentously, he intoned name after name. Humayun saw the smiles of gratification – greed even.

  And so it went on. Next Humayun was weighed against the bags of gold and silver to be distributed as a further reward to his commanders and then against the silks, brocades and spices to be sent to leading officials and subjects in other cities and provinces. Finally he ordered grain and loaves to be 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 the third anniversary of the start of your reign. I thought it auspicious and also I wanted to congratulate you. You have been emperor only a short while but already you’ve achieved much.’

  ‘I trust my brothers have learned their lesson and that they are finding fulfilment . . .’ Humayun shifted uneasily against the bolster, embarrassed and anxious to be gone. But, as he suspected, Gulrukh had more to say. She moved closer, her hennaed fi
ngers clasped over her breast.

  ‘I have a favour to ask of you though I hardly dare . . .’

  Was she going to ask him to recall Kamran and Askari to court? Humayun felt a flash of irritation as he waited for her to go on.

  ‘If you grant my wish it will give me much pleasure.’ Gulrukh was seemingly undisturbed by his silence. ‘To celebrate your victory over Gujarat, I wish to hold a feast for you. Your mother and aunt and the other royal women will also be my guests. Let me do this for you and I will know that you have truly forgiven my sons and that harmony has returned to Babur’s family.’

  Humayun felt himself relax. So that was all she wanted – no tearful pleading about her sons returning to Agra . . . just a celebration. He bowed his head, signifying his acceptance of Gulrukh’s request, and after a final exchange of graceful courtesies left her.

  Abandoning thoughts of his ride, he decided instead to visit his mother. As he made for Maham’s apartments, he passed what had been Dildar’s rooms. He had been very young – only ten or eleven – when Babur had given Hindal to Maham. All he remembered was his mother calling to him to look at the baby she was holding in her arms. ‘See, you have a new brother,’ she had said. Puzzled, Humayun had stared down at the bawling infant that he knew was not his mother’s but another woman’s . . .

  At the time he’d dismissed it from his mind. Growing up in Kabul, learning to fight with a sword and fire off thirty arrows a minute and play polo had been what mattered. Only later had he come to realise that giving Hindal to Maham had been one of the few acts of weakness of his father’s life – albeit done out of love.

  What good had it done? It had soothed Maham’s grief but it had nourished discord within the family. In the early years she had jealously guarded Hindal, keeping him away from Dildar. But as Hindal had grown older and learned who his true mother was, inevitably he had turned from Maham. Perhaps that was why, young as he was, Hindal had joined Kamran and Askari’s plot against him. Perhaps it was his revenge for that day when he had been torn from Dildar’s arms.