Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘I have summoned you here to see this wondrous carpet. It represents the sky above us. These circles are the planets – see, here is Mars and Venus and Jupiter – and, over here, we have the moon. When you have something you wish to say to me, you must stand on the appropriate circle. For example, if you wish to speak to me of army matters, you must stand on Mars. That will help the planets to guide you . . .’

  Humayun looked around but suddenly found the faces of his counsellors hard to distinguish – was that Kasim, forehead wrinkled in thought, over there? . . . He couldn’t be sure . . . everything around him seemed a little blurred. Maybe his eyes were weary from studying the star charts or straining into the heavens when, at night, he climbed to the battlements of the Agra fort to contemplate the stars.

  But after a moment everything slid back into focus. Yes, that was Kasim watching him thoughtfully and there was Baba Yasaval looking nonplussed, perhaps unable to comprehend the power of the carpet’s symbolism. But what about Asaf Beg? He seemed to be laughing – a disdainful curl to his lip – as he surveyed Humayun’s carpet. His expression as he raised his face to look full into Humayun’s seemed more than a little mocking. Anger ran like a flame through Humayun. How dare this ignorant petty chieftain from Kabul make fun of his emperor?

  ‘You there!’ Humayun rose and pointed a trembling finger towards Asaf Beg. ‘You are impudent and you will pay for your disrespect. Guards – take him into the courtyard outside and give him fifty lashes. Think yourself lucky, Asaf Beg, that you are losing only the skin off your back and not your head.’

  There was a collective gasp followed by shocked silence. Then a voice spoke. ‘Majesty . . .’

  Humayun swung round, determined to tolerate neither contradiction nor criticism, but saw that it was Kasim who had spoken. At the real concern showing again on the face of the man whom he trusted and who had served both his father and himself well, Humayun’s rage began to ebb. At the same time he realised his breathing was ragged, his pulse was racing and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

  ‘What is it, Kasim?’

  ‘I’m sure that Asaf Beg meant you no disrespect, Majesty . . . I beg you to reconsider.’

  Asaf Beg, pale and with no trace of a smile now on his wide mouth and usually cheerful face, was gazing pleadingly at Humayun. To be publicly flogged would bring terrible shame on him and all his clan, Humayun knew. He also recalled Asaf Beg’s bravery in battle. He was already regretting his action.

  ‘Kasim – you speak well, as always. Asaf Beg, I pardon you. But do not test my patience again or you will not find me so merciful.’ Humayun rose – the signal for his council to disperse, which they seemed to do more quickly than usual. As he sat down again Humayun found himself shaking. The carpet had lost its lustrous charm. It was growing late. Perhaps he should return to his apartments to rest. But as he entered them, he was surprised to find Khanzada waiting for him.

  ‘What is it, Aunt?’

  ‘Dismiss your attendants. I must speak with you alone.’

  Humayun gestured to his servants and to Jauhar to leave. The double doors had barely closed behind them before she began. ‘I witnessed what happened at the council meeting from behind the jali screen. Humayun . . . I had not thought it possible . . . first you behaved like a man in a trance and then like a lunatic . . .’

  ‘My council do not always understand that what I am doing is for the best, but you should. It was you who first taught me the value of display to a ruler – you who suggested the weighing ceremony and encouraged me to use ritual as an aid to governing . . .’

  ‘But not to the exclusion of humanity or reason . . .’

  ‘Under the tutelage of the stars I have devised new patterns and new procedures. Government will become simpler. If my counsellors and advisers follow my guidance the tedium of time spent in the audience chamber will be reduced, leaving me free for the further exploration of the unplumbed depths of the heavens.’

  ‘Forget the stars.You’re obsessed with them and are losing your hold on reality. I’ve tried to warn you before but you wouldn’t hear. Now you must or you risk losing everything you’ve striven for – everything your father achieved . . . Humayun, are you even listening to me?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ But Khanzada was wrong, he was thinking . . . only in the patterns of the stars and the planets could he find the answers to other questions that had long fascinated and tormented him. Whether everything was somehow predestined by the heavens? Whether his father’s early death had been part of some greater plan? How much of a man’s destiny rested in his own hands? How much was preordained, like the position and the family into which he had been born and the responsibilities and privileges that flowed from it? And how could he know . . . ? An old Buddhist monk whom he had visited in his youth in the monk’s solitary retreat by one of the great statues of the Buddha – cut into the cliffs of the Bamian Valley a hundred miles west of Kabul – had told him that, given the precise date, time and place of his birth, he could foretell not only the course of his life but as what animal he would be reincarnated in the next. The idea of reincarnation was nonsense to him, but what of the rest? Of one thing he was already sure – that with the star charts and tables and records of events long past that he spent so much time studying and that in his opium-fuelled dreams came alive for him, he could create a framework for living and ruling and was already well along the way to doing so.

  ‘Humayun! Won’t you even answer me?’

  Khanzada’s voice seemed to be coming from far off and as he stared at her she seemed to diminish in stature, becoming a little doll animatedly waving her arms and waggling her head. It was almost comic.

  ‘You smile when I speak of the danger you are in . . .’ Khanzada’s firm grip on his arm, the sharpness of her nails digging into his flesh, brought him back to reality. ‘You will hear me out. There are things that must be said . . . that perhaps only I can say . . . but remember I speak only from love.’

  ‘Say what you wish.’

  ‘Humayun, you spend your days fuddled with opium.You used to be a ruler, a warrior.What are you now but a dreamer, a fantasist? I never thought I’d have to say these words to you . . . but a leader must be strong, he must be decisive. His people must know that they can look to him at all times. You know that. How many times in the past have you and I not discussed such things? Now you seldom visit me . . . And when I look around the court, I see expressions of fear and uncertainty and hear uneasy laughter behind your back. Even to those who’ve known and served you long and loyally – like Kasim and Baba Yasaval – you’ve become like a stranger. They no longer have confidence in your judgement. They never know how you will react – whether you will approve their actions or whether you will be angry. Sometimes they can get no coherent guidance or direction from you for hours . . . even days . . .’

  Never before had Khanzada spoken to him in this way and he felt resentment stir. ‘If you or my courtiers disapprove of my decisions and of how I choose to govern my empire, it is because you do not understand. But in time you will come to see that everything I’m doing is for the best.’

  ‘Time is not on your side. If you do not rule as you should, the eyes of your nobles and commanders will turn to your half-brothers – to Kamran in particular. Think, Humayun. He’s only a few months younger than you and has already proved himself an able warrior and a strong governor of his province. Babur’s blood and Timur’s too flows through his veins just as it does through yours.You know he is ambitious – ambitious enough to have already plotted against you.You have no reason to think he won’t do so again. Hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder why Gulrukh has insinuated herself into your favour, why she plies you with that brew of hers? Instead of gazing into the infinite mysteries of the stars it better befits an emperor to peer deep into the minds of those around him. Remember what I once told you . . . always to look for the motive. Gulrukh could never encourage open revolt against you in favour of Kamran and Askari . . . how much cle
verer and more subtle of her to undermine you gradually with opium. And as your powers weaken and fade and your subjects begin to despise the ruler they once admired, what would be more natural than for them to turn to one of her sons? Remember also the fate of Ulugh Beg. When he – like you – became obsessed with the stars and what they could tell him about the purpose of life, one of his sons had him murdered and took his throne.’

  ‘You speak out of anger and jealousy. You resent the fact that I have taken your thoughts on ceremony and, with the stars’ aid, improved them beyond your narrow comprehension. You resent my not needing you as I once did, that I am a grown man who takes his own decisions and has no need of the advice of women – not yours, nor Gulrukh’s nor any of you . . . You should know your place – all of you.’

  Khanzada’s gasp told him how much he had hurt her, but she needed to be reminded of certain things. Much as he loved and respected her, he, not she, was emperor and he would decide how he would rule.

  ‘I have done my best to warn you. If you choose not to listen there is no more I can do . . .’ Khanzada’s voice was low and measured but he could see a vein throbbing in her temple and that her body was trembling.

  ‘Aunt . . .’ He reached out to touch her arm but she turned away and making for the doors flung them open herself. Calling to her two women who were waiting for her, she hurried away down the torch-lit corridor. Humayun stood for a moment in silence. He’d never quarrelled with Khanzada before, but what he’d said had been necessary, hadn’t it? The stars and their messages could not be ignored. A man – even one as powerful as an emperor – was as nothing compared to the seemingly never-ending cycles of movement of the stars within the fathomless universe. If he followed their signs his reign would surely prosper.

  And what his aunt had said about Gulrukh . . . that was also wrong. Of course, like all those at court she wanted the emperor’s good will. Maybe she hoped that by pleasing him she’d secure favours and privileges for her sons, his half-brothers Kamran and Askari . . . but that was all. The mind-expanding journeys on which Gulrukh’s dark, opium-laced wine took him were her gift to him and he would not, could not give them up . . .not when they were bringing him ever closer to unravelling the mysteries of existence.

  ‘Let whoever is striking the drum approach. Today is Friday – the day when I am ready to dispense justice to even the most humble of my subjects.’ Humayun smiled as he sat on his high-backed throne. This was the first time in the six months that it had been sitting outside his audience chamber that anyone had struck the great ox-hide drum to demand justice of the emperor. At the beginning the sound had been faint and uneven and for a moment had seemed to stop entirely. Then Humayun had heard it again. Whoever was beating the Drum of Justice seemed to have taken courage. The booms had grown louder and more frequent. He’d known this moment would come just as – in time – his ministers would accept the reforms he was making. Even old Kasim, standing so solemn-faced by the side of his throne, would acknowledge he’d been right.

  The footsteps of six of his blue-turbaned bodyguards rang on the stone floor as they marched out to the courtyard. When they returned, a young Hindu woman in a red silk sari with a red tilak mark on her forehead was with them. Her long dark hair was streaming unbound over her shoulders and her expression was both nervous and determined. The guards brought her to within ten feet of the throne and she knelt before him.

  ‘Rise. The emperor is ready to hear your request,’ said Kasim. ‘You may be assured that you will receive justice.’

  The woman glanced uncertainly at the glittering, bejewelled figure of Humayun on his throne as if she could not quite believe she was in his presence. ‘Majesty, my name is Sita. I am the wife of a merchant in Agra. My husband deals in spices like cinnamon, saffron and cloves. A week ago he was returning to Agra with a small mule train carrying goods he had purchased in the markets in Delhi. Two days’ ride from here – near our holy Hindu city of Mathura – he and his men were attacked by dacoits who robbed them of everything they were carrying – even stripping the clothes off their backs. The dacoits were about to ride away with the mules when a party of your soldiers came riding by. The soldiers killed the dacoits but instead of restoring his goods to my husband they jeered at him. They said that he was bleating like a sheep and that was how he deserved to be treated. Cutting the ropes with which the dacoits had bound him, they made him run naked and barefoot over the hot sand, chasing him on horseback and mocking and pricking him with the tips of their spears. When finally they had tired of their sport, they rode off leaving him lying exhausted and bleeding in the dust.And with them they took all my husband’s mules with their precious cargo of spices . . .’

  Sita’s voice was trembling with anger and indignation but she raised her chin and looked Humayun squarely in the face. ‘I seek justice for my husband. He is a loyal subject of Your Majesty and no longer young.Your soldiers should have protected not abused him. Now he is lying at home covered in festering wounds inflicted by them . . .’

  Kasim stepped forward, ready to question the woman, but Humayun waved him back. The soldiers’ behaviour reflected on his dignity. He must be like the sun to his subjects. His light and warmth must fall on them all but this poor merchant had been cast into the darkness . . .

  ‘What more can you tell me of these soldiers? Do you know their names?’

  ‘My husband said that one of them called their leader Mirak Beg and that he was a tall, broad man with a broken nose and a white scar disfiguring his lip.’

  Humayun knew Mirak Beg – a rowdy, hard-living chieftain from Badakhshan who had marched with Humayun and his father to invade Hindustan. He had distinguished himself at Panipat, leaping from his horse on to the back leg of a war elephant and hauling himself up the beast to kill enemy archers who’d been firing arrows at Humayun’s men from the howdah on its back. But past bravery was no excuse for present crimes. Mirak Beg must answer for his lawlessness.

  ‘If what you have told me is the truth, I will give you justice. Go home now and await my summons. Kasim – find Mirak Beg and bring him before me as soon as possible.’

  Rising, Humayun rushed from the audience chamber. He felt sick. His head was aching again – these sharp stabbing pains behind his eyes were becoming more and more frequent and so too were the tricks his eyes were playing, making it hard for him to focus. He needed more wine and opium to soothe away the pain, relax his mind again and free him from the mundane obligations of the court.

  Dressed in blood-red robes as befitted Tuesday, the day governed by the planet Mars, Humayun looked down at Mirak Beg’s defiant face. Though hauled into the audience chamber in chains, he was somehow managing to maintain his usual swaggering air. His dark eyes were fixed on Humayun’s face and he seemed not to have noticed the executioners standing ready with their freshly oiled axes or the dark red blood staining the Stone of Execution – the giant slab of black marble that had been placed to the right of the throne and on which four of Mirak Beg’s wildly struggling men had just had their right hands chopped off and the stumps cauterised with red-hot irons. The smell of their burning flesh still filled the air, even though they had been led out.

  ‘I have left you till last, Mirak Beg, so that you could witness the punishment meted out to your soldiers. Though they did wrong and have paid the price, you, as their leader, bear the responsibility for their shameful acts.You have freely admitted your guilt but that will not save you . . . Your acts have put a stain on my honour that only your death will cleanse.What is more, you will not die by the axe. The means of your execution will fit your crime. Woman – come closer.’

  Humayun gestured to Sita, the spice merchant’s wife, who wrapped in a dark blue sari was standing to one side. She had not flinched from watching the amputations and now she would see true imperial justice, Humayun thought. The punishment he was about to pronounce on Mirak Beg had come to him in his dreams and its appropriateness pleased him. It would come as a surprise to all – h
e had not even told Kasim or Baisanghar, both standing by the throne and, like the rest of his courtiers, dressed in red as he had commanded.

  ‘On your knees, Mirak Beg.’ The chieftain looked almost surprised as if until now he’d not believed Humayun would kill him. The white scar on his upper lip almost disappeared as the blood seemed to drain from his face, which now had a waxy sheen. He licked his lips, then, finding his courage again, spoke out firmly for all to hear.

  ‘Majesty . . . I fought for you at Panipat and later in Gujarat . . . I have always been loyal to you. All I did was seek some sport with a fat, cowardly merchant. That does not merit death. I and my men are warriors, yet since Gujarat you’ve given us no fighting . . . no conquests . . . you spend your time eating opium and gazing at the stars when you should be leading your armies. That’s what we came from our homeland for . . . that’s what you promised us . . . the sound of our horses’ hooves pounding on the earth as we rode from victory to victory . . .’

  ‘Enough!’ Raising his hand, Humayun signalled to the two executioners. They put down their axes and one of them picked up a small sack that had been placed against a nearby pillar. Then, as Humayun’s guards held Mirak Beg by the shoulders, one of the executioners went behind him, wrenched back his head and forced his mouth open. The other man dug his hand into the sack. Humayun could smell the sharp tang of the coarse-ground turmeric and pepper as he took a fistful of the bright yellow powder and crammed it into Mirak Beg’s gaping mouth.

  Mirak Beg at once began to choke. His streaming eyes bulged from his head as a second, then a third fistful was rammed through his open jaws down into his throat. His face was purpling now and strings of yellow saliva were dribbling from his tortured mouth while mucus streamed from his nostrils. Desperately he fought to get free of the strong arms holding him down and to struggle to his feet, kicking out with his legs like a man being hanged.