Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  What of Dildar herself? What would have been in her mind all those years? At least she had had Gulbadan to console her . . . But when she was born, had Dildar feared that Maham would try to take her also? Humayun shook himself. He would never know. Dildar was dead now. Maham never spoke of these things and he was reluctant even to ask Khanzada.The world of women could be a dark and difficult place. In comparison the world of men with all its battles and conflicts, where disputes could be settled with fists or the slash of a blade, seemed cleaner and easier.

  Beneath an almost golden moon, the courtyard which Gulrukh had chosen for her party was lit by the soft radiance of hundreds of wicks burning in pools of scented oil in copper bowls or diyas. Against one wall of the courtyard was a large tent – conical in shape like those of the Moghuls’ homelands. But instead of the sturdy sticks locked together to withstand the shrieking winter winds and covered in thick felt, Humayun could see that the framework was of slender silver rods covered with flowered silk. The silk was caught back on each side by pearl-sewn ribbons so the entrance was half open to the warm night air.

  Two of Gulrukh’s women led him to the tent where she was waiting, wearing a robe of dark purple and a shawl of the same colour, shot through with silver thread, that covered her head and shoulders. But her young attendants were dressed in semi-transparent muslins. As they moved in the flickering light, Humayun caught the curve of slender waists, firm breasts and voluptuously rounded hips and buttocks. Jewels flashed in their navels and their dark hair was interwoven with white jasmine flowers in the Hindustani fashion.

  ‘Please . . .’ Gulrukh indicated a low, velvet-covered chair. As Humayun took his place, one of her women knelt before him with an enamelled golden ewer of cool, sandalwood-scented water while another brought a cotton cloth. Humayun held out his hands and the first attendant let the water flow over them. Slowly, caressingly, the second dried them.

  Puzzled, Humayun looked around for his mother and Khanzada and the other royal women, but apart from Gulrukh and her servants, they seemed to be alone.

  ‘I thought a smaller, less formal celebration might be more to your taste,’ Gulrukh said. ‘I am your only hostess but hope you will pardon my deficiencies.’

  Humayun sat up a little straighter in his chair, eyes watchful. What was Gulrukh doing? As she must know, he’d accepted her invitation only out of courtesy – nothing more – yet she seemed to be trying to turn the occasion into something intimate. For a moment he feared she might be trying to seduce him, either herself or through her attendants.

  ‘I have prepared a surprise for you.’

  Humayun looked around, half expecting to hear the clash of cymbals and bells and see the usual line of undulating dancing girls or tumbling jugglers, acrobats and fire-eaters that were the staples of court entertainment. Instead, a willowy form emerged from the shadows to his right. As the figure came towards him, Humayun recognised the pale face of Mehmed. The Turk knelt before Humayun and held out a goblet of what looked like red wine.

  ‘What is it?’ Humayun ignored Mehmed and turned to Gulrukh.

  ‘A special blend of heady opium from south of Kabul and the red wine of Ghazni, mixed by my own hand to a recipe handed down within my family. Sometimes – when he was weary – I made it for your father. He said that it transported him . . .’

  As Humayun gazed at the dark, almost purple liquid, a series of images flashed through his mind – of Babur, high with joy after victory on the battlefield and calling for opium to take him to yet further heights . . . He’d seen the ecstasy on his father’s face, heard his delighted murmurings. Of course, he was no stranger to opium himself. It had numbed his grief at his father’s death. Later, he’d discovered the sensual languor that a few pellets dissolved in rosewater could induce and that heightened the pleasures of love-making. But seldom had he been as completely transported as Babur had seemed to be.

  ‘Do you wish to send for your food taster first?’ Gulrukh asked. But before Humayun could answer, she stepped forward, took the goblet from Mehmed and raised it to her own full lips. Her plump throat quivered as she swallowed and Humayun saw her raise her hand to catch a few beads of liquid that had trickled down her chin and then delicately lick her fingers clean.

  ‘Majesty, drink. It is my gift to you . . .’ Humayun hesitated then took the goblet, still three-quarters full, and raising it to his lips took a sip. The wine tasted of something fiery – Gulrukh must have spiced it to mask the faint bitterness of the opium. Humayun drank again, this time more deeply, and felt a soft warmth start to spread through his body – first down his throat, then to the pit of his stomach. After a few moments, his limbs were beginning to grow heavy. A delicious, irresistible lethargy was taking possession of him and Humayun gave himself up to it like a weary man who sees a soft bed laid ready for him and cannot wait to lie on it.

  He swallowed what was left in the goblet. His eyes were already half closed as he felt soft hands take the cup from him, raise him out of the chair and guide him to a soft mattress, where they laid him down. Someone placed a cushion under his head and gently wiped his face with scented water. It felt good and he stretched luxuriously. Soon his body began to feel as if it was dissolving into nothingness. He could no longer feel any part of it but what did it matter? His spirit – the very essence of who he was, not the prone, earth-bound creature he had once been – seemed to be streaming up into the star-splashed heavens that were suddenly opening up before him.

  Released from his body, Humayun felt himself soaring like a comet. Beneath him, he could make out the waters of the Jumna flowing dark as Gulrukh’s cup of wine beneath the battlements of the Agra fort. Beyond in every direction stretched the flat, seemingly limitless plains of Hindustan, the warm darkness pierced, now here, now there, glow-worm like by the dung fires burning in the villages of his new subjects. Stretched on their simple beds beneath the acacia and banyan trees outside their mud-baked houses, they were dreaming the dreams of people whose lives were governed by the seasons, when to sow and when to reap, and whose greatest worry was the health of their bullocks and how they would pull at the plough.

  As his spirit flew onwards, Humayun could see the sun beginning to rise. A pool of orange light was seeping over the rim of the world bringing warmth and renewal. And what was that he could see beneath him now in the pale apricot glow? – the palaces, towers and grandiose royal tombs of the great city of Delhi, once capital to the Lodi sultans but humbled by the Moghuls. Still Humayun’s unleashed spirit flew on, leaving the heat and dust of Hindustan behind. Below him now were the chill waters of the Indus. Beyond lay the bleached, bone-hard hills and twisting passes leading to Kabul and on towards the hard, diamond-bright peaks of the Hindu Kush, gateway to the Moghuls’ ancestral homelands on the plains of central Asia. What a long way they had travelled. What glories they had achieved. And what marvels still awaited . . . To what new heights could they ascend with the help of visions such as these? Above Humayun’s still exultantly soaring spirit the sky glowed like molten gold, embracing the entire world.

  Chapter 5

  The Tyranny of the Stars

  ‘I have decided to change how I govern. The imperial court is not as I would wish it.’

  Humayun’s counsellors, sitting cross-legged in a semicircle before his gilded throne, stared in surprise. He saw Baisanghar and Kasim exchange puzzled glances before returning their attention to him. No matter. Soon they would understand the wonderful ideas that had come to him in his opium-induced dreams when, released from the everyday obligations of ruling, his thoughts seemed to flow with a crystal clarity. Everything that had been revealed to him had a purpose. Everything he had dreamed was indeed written in the stars . . .

  Humayun raised his right hand and his astrologer Sharaf, a thin, elderly, beak-nosed man dressed in sweeping brown robes, stepped forward holding a heavy leather-bound volume in his thickly veined hands. With a grunt of relief, he laid it on the white marble table inlaid with images of th
e planets that Humayun had had placed before his golden throne.

  Humayun rose and leafed through until he found the page he was seeking. There in the hand of his ancestor, the great astronomer Ulugh Beg – Timur’s grandson – was a chart depicting the celestial movements of the planets and the stars. As he stared at the delicate drawing, the heavenly bodies seemed to start moving in stately progress, slowly at first but then gathering momentum so that they appeared to be chasing one another. He blinked and looked again and the page was still . . . It must be the effect of the opium he had taken last night.The now familiar concoction mixed for him by Gulrukh and carried to his apartments by Mehmed must have been especially potent. He’d not woken until the sun was a spear’s length above the horizon and had chided Jauhar for not rousing him earlier on a day when he would reveal his insights.

  Suddenly Humayun became conscious of the eyes of his counsellors watching him intently. He’d almost forgotten they were there. He drew himself up. ‘You know I have studied the never-ending motion of the planets and stars as did my ancestor Ulugh Beg. After much thought I have concluded that we can go beyond his researches and that the star charts and tables and the records of events long past, when interpreted with the aid of learned astrologers and one’s own power of pure thought, can provide a framework for living and even for ruling.’

  By his counsellors’ expressions, Humayun saw they still had no idea what he was talking about. But then how could they? They had not seen what he had seen when – set free by Gulrukh’s potions – his mind had travelled through realms they could not begin to imagine. But they were about to learn of the great improvements he planned to make to his government.

  ‘I have come to realise that we can learn from the planets and the stars. Under God Almighty they govern us, but like a good master they can also teach us. Henceforward, I will only deal with certain matters on the days the stars designate as auspicious for them . . . and I will dress appropriately. The stars tell us that today, Sunday, is governed by the sun whose golden rays regulate sovereignty. Therefore on Sundays, clad in bright yellow, I will deal with affairs of state. On Mondays – the day of the Moon and of tranquillity – I will be at leisure and wear green, the colour of quiet reflection. On Tuesdays – the day of the planet Mars, patron of soldiers – I will devote myself to matters of war and of justice. I will wear the red raiment of Mars, the colour of wrath and vengeance, and dispense both punishment and reward with lightning speed. Treasurers with purses will stand ready to reward any I deem worthy while guards in coats of mail and blood-red turbans will stand, axe in hand, before my throne to punish culprits instantly . . .

  ‘Saturdays – the day of the planet Saturn – and Thursdays – the day of the planet Jupiter – will be devoted to religion and learning, and Wednesday – the day of the planet Mercury – will be a day of joy when we will make merry and wear purple. And on Fridays, dressed in blue like the all-embracing sky, I will deal with any matter. Any man or woman – no matter how humble or poor – may approach me . . . All they need do is beat the Drum of Justice that I have ordered be set up outside my audience chamber.’

  Humayun paused again. Kasim, who had been recording his pronouncements in his ledger, seemed to have halted in mid-sentence while Baisanghar was pulling with the fingers of his left hand at the metal hook that many years ago had replaced his severed right hand. The rest of his counsellors looked stunned by his pronouncement but they would come to accept his insights. In the mechanical movements of the stars and planets everything was in its properly ordained place. And that was exactly how the government of a great empire should be. Everything must be done in the appropriate way and at the appropriate time . . .

  After a minute or two Humayun continued slowly, his tone flat and formal. ‘I have also decided to reorganise my offices of government according to which of the four main elements – fire, air, water or earth – dominate them. The Office of Fire will be responsible for my armies. The Office of Air will deal with matters of the imperial kitchen, stables and wardrobe. The Office of Water will be responsible for everything to do with the rivers and canals of my empire, for irrigation and for the imperial wine cellars. And the Office of Earth will deal with agriculture and grants of land. And all actions, all decisions, must be taken in accordance with the guidance written in the stars to ensure everything is done in the most auspicious way . . .

  ‘And you – my counsellors and courtiers – you will also have your place in this new structure. The stars tell us there are three classes of men. All of you, my nobles and officials and commanders, are Officers of State. But there are two other classes essential to the well-being and health of the empire – Good Men, which includes our religious leaders, philosophers and astrologers, and Officers of Pleasure who are the poets, singers, musicians, dancers and artists who beautify and embellish our lives, just as the stars decorate the sky. Each of these three classes will be divided into twelve ranks and each rank will have three grades – high, middle and low. In due course I will inform you to which rank and grade I have assigned you . . . Now, leave me. I have much to think upon.’

  Alone in his audience chamber except for Sharaf, Humayun again examined the star charts of Ulugh Beg, losing all sense of time as one hour flowed into the next. Not till the sun was beginning to sink, sending purple shadows creeping over the Agra fort, did Humayun lift his eyes from the pages. As he returned to his apartments a yearning for the dark opium-infused wine that unleashed his soul again welled up inside him and he walked more quickly.

  ‘Kasim, I did not realise how many hours had passed.’ Humayun rubbed his eyes and pushed himself upright from where he had been slumped on a purple-silk-covered divan. It was embroidered in gold thread with a network of stars and Humayun believed that, lying on it, he thought more deeply. ‘Are the council still assembled? What about the envoy from my governor in Bengal?’

  ‘The council broke up a long time ago. As for the envoy, you had already postponed your meeting with him several times because you did not consider the days well suited to such discussion and once – forgive me for mentioning it, Majesty – when you banished him from your presence for entering the audience chamber by the wrong door, thus rendering a discussion that day too inauspicious. The season for travel down the Jumna and the Ganges to Bengal is coming to an end and he could wait no longer. Therefore Baisanghar and I took the great liberty of offering guidance on your behalf on the level of taxes to be imposed and the number of troops to be raised. He went aboard his boat and the anchor was weighed two hours ago.’

  For a moment Humayun felt anger that the two old men had usurped his authority.

  ‘Majesty, we can of course send another boat after him if you disagree with what we said.’

  Kasim must have sensed his annoyance, thought Humayun. He’d been unjust.The envoy was both garrulous and tedious. He had delayed his audience with him deliberately, sometimes using excuses which seemed trifling even to himself. Humayun spoke softly. ‘I’m sure that when I hear in the morning what you and Baisanghar suggested I will agree, Kasim. Now leave me to rest and relax once more.’

  Kasim seemed reluctant to do so, shifting from foot to foot and fiddling with a golden tassel on his robe. Then he made his mind up and spoke. ‘Majesty, you know for how long I have loyally served you and your father.’

  ‘Yes, and I appreciate it.’

  ‘Therefore may I take advantage of my years of experience to proffer you some advice? Majesty, you indulge in opium. Your father enjoyed it too, as well as wine and bhang – marijuana.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Some of us have more tolerance of such things than others. Even when I was young, bhang could prevent me from working for days so I abstained from all such potions despite your father’s urgings. Perhaps they have more effect on Your Majesty than you realise.’

  ‘No, Kasim. They help me to think and to relax. Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  ‘Yes, but please remember even your father did no
t indulge every day, particularly when he had important business to transact.’As Kasim bowed and turned to leave, Humayun saw an expression of deep anxiety on his lined face. His concern was genuine. It had cost the self-effacing, reticent old man much to make his little speech. Humayun could not be angry with him.

  ‘I will give thought to your words, I assure you.’

  Humayun looked with satisfaction at the huge circular carpet woven in silk blue as the sky that attendants were unrolling before his throne. The series of circles – outlined on the carpet in red, yellow, purple and green chain stitch and representing the planets – were placed exactly as he had ordered. He would reward the weavers well for their skill and the speed with which they had brought his ‘Carpet of Council’ to life.

  The idea had come to him only a month ago during a particularly vivid dream – indeed his drugged sleep after drinking Gulrukh’s opium and wine seemed to be growing ever more marvellous and revelatory. One of the stars had actually seemed to speak to him, telling him to make such a carpet so that – when advising him – his counsellors could stand on the planet most appropriate to the business in hand. He had had the weavers work on the carpet in secret, taking it in turns so that the looms were moving every hour of the day. He had not spoken of the carpet to anyone except Sharaf – not Baisanghar, nor Kasim nor even Khanzada. Let it be a surprise to them as it would be to the rest of his council, whom he’d summoned to join him here.

  Before long his counsellors were assembled. As it was a Wednesday, their robes, like Humayun’s, were a bright purple and their sashes orange. Humayun smiled to see their curious glances fall on the shimmering circle of pale blue spread out before him. Baba Yasaval was scrutinising it in frank puzzlement.