Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  Kasim picked up Kamran’s letter from the floor where Humayun had let it fall and reread it, face creasing in shock as he took in Kamran’s arrogant, murderous words. Humayun himself strode to the doors and flinging them open shouted, ‘Guards, bring my brother Kamran to me immediately. If he resists, overpower and bind him.’ He had suspected his brothers might intrigue against him but never that one of them would be so lost to what he owed to the dynasty to offer to betray him to an outsider. Humayun paced his chamber, watched by a silent and anxious Kasim, until at last one of the guards returned.

  ‘Majesty, we cannot find him.We went first to his apartments but he was not there. Then we searched the rest of the fort – we even sent into the women’s apartments to see whether he might be with his mother, Her Highness Gulrukh, but she was not there either . . . ’

  Humayun and Kasim exchanged glances. ‘Send me the officer in charge of guarding the main gate – quickly, man!’

  A few minutes later a nervous-looking officer was ushered before Humayun.

  ‘Have you seen any of my brothers today?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty. This morning Prince Kamran and Prince Askari went out riding. They have not yet returned . . . ’

  ‘And their mother Gulrukh and her women?’

  ‘They too left the palace in a litter. The begam said she wished to call on her cousin, the wife of the chief treasurer of Lahore, in her palace in the north of the city.’

  Humayun swore. Doubtless she was already with her sons and their troops and they were all hurrying to get beyond his reach. The temptation to ride in pursuit was almost overwhelming but that was exactly what Sher Shah would hope he would do. His enemy had played his hand well, on the one hand giving Humayun evidence of his brother’s duplicity and on the other giving Kamran reason to fly. But he would not fall into the trap so artfully set for him by neglecting Sher Shah’s threat and immediately pursuing Kamran and Askari to pit brother against brother in battle.

  Revenge must wait.

  Chapter 10

  Flight

  Humayun twisted in the saddle. It was thirty-six hours since he had abandoned Lahore to Sher Shah. Behind him streamed his remaining troops, only some fifteen thousand men – many had deserted. Beyond them straggled for miles a desperate mass of humanity half choking in the hot dust, their possessions loaded higgledy-piggledy on carts, donkeys and mules.

  Only four days ago a group of travel-stained merchants – so terrified that they’d abandoned their mule trains and goods along the way – had galloped into Lahore, yelling to whoever would listen that Sher Shah was threatening to put the city to the sword. A few hours later, a messenger had arrived from Sher Shah himself. The letter he was carrying was simple and to the point. Sher Shah was indeed threatening to destroy the city and slaughter its people – but only if Humayun refused to withdraw from it.

  The decision to quit Lahore just as he had been forced to yield Agra was a terrible humiliation. But Sher Shah commanded vast armies that – if the reports reaching Humayun were true, and there was no reason to doubt them – outnumbered his own forces by twenty to one, perhaps more. Despite the trenches and fortifications he had ordered to be dug, without city walls to protect it any attempt to defend Lahore against such an overwhelming force was doomed, even if the troops he had summoned from Kabul could reach him in time.

  After only a few hours’ reflection, Humayun had ordered his commanders to prepare to evacuate Lahore. As the news had spread, the citizens had refused to believe that with Humayun gone, Sher Shah would keep his word to spare them. There had been panic. From one of the citadel’s stone towers, Humayun had watched people pouring from their houses, clutching cloth-wrapped bundles of their most precious belongings and gripping the hands of small, screaming children. A few carried old people on their backs. Soon the narrow streets had become clogged with handcarts and wagons drawn by stumbling animals. Under the pressure of fear ordinary citizens had lost their reason and become a crazed and callous mob, desperate only to get away and save themselves. Shops had been looted and the weak and frail elbowed and pushed aside, some falling to be trampled and crushed underfoot. It had been like witnessing the end of the world.

  The panic and chaos had grown yet worse as the boom of massive explosions had begun to reverberate in the citizens’ ears, coming from the great parade ground near the palace where Humayun had ordered the destruction of his largest bronze cannon, which would be too slow and cumbersome to take with him. Teams of straining oxen had dragged the guns out on to open ground where Humayun’s gunners, their naked torsos dripping with sweat, had hastily stuffed their barrels with powder and – after fixing long cotton fuses – ignited it, sending fragments of hot, twisted metal into the air.

  Snatching his thoughts back to the present, Humayun glanced to his left at the powerful figure of Hindal riding on a great cream-coloured stallion at the head of his own small entourage. Immediately on hearing of Sher Shah’s message, Hindal had sought Humayun out and sworn on their father’s name that he had known nothing of Kamran’s and Askari’s defection. Since childhood Hindal had never been good at concealing his emotions and seeing his half-brother’s shocked face and incredulity at what Kamran and Askari had done, Humayun had believed him. Later, calm reflection had told him his instincts had been correct. Otherwise, why would Hindal have remained in Lahore and risked retribution? Also, Kamran and Askari were full brothers. Hindal – like Humayun himself – was only their half-brother, so the ties of blood and honour were weaker. As if sensing Humayun watching him, Hindal turned his head and gave him a brief smile. It was good that Hindal had chosen to stay with him, thought Humayun. Perhaps amid the present danger to their dynasty at least two of Babur’s sons could form an enduring bond and draw strength from it.

  In the last desperate hours before abandoning Lahore to his rapidly advancing enemy, Humayun had embraced Baisanghar and bidden him farewell, perhaps for the last time. It had been hard to part from his grandfather and even harder to convince the old man he must go north with a detachment of troops to secure Kabul for Humayun. Again and again Humayun had had to argue that Kamran and Askari might take advantage of his plight to try to seize the kingdom, that he no longer had confidence in his governor there who had been so tardy in sending reinforcements and that Baisanghar was one of the very few he could trust unreservedly to hold it for him.

  This was true, but there was another reason too why Humayun wanted his grandfather to go north, although he could not have admitted it to Baisanghar. Though the warrior spirit still burned within him and his mind was clear, he was old – eight years older even than Kasim – and losing his physical stamina. He’d be safer as well as more useful in Kabul rather than draining his small remaining stock of strength accompanying Humayun on the long, perhaps dangerous, journey he had decided on: six hundred miles southwest down the Ravi and Indus rivers to Sind. The Sultan of Sind, Mirza Husain, was of Humayun’s blood – his mother was Babur’s cousin – so he was honour bound to receive Humayun. But would honour mean any more to Mirza Husain than it had to his half-brothers with whom his ties of blood were so much closer?

  Eventually, Baisanghar had given way, persuaded by the logic of Humayun’s arguments. However, Khanzada and Gulbadan had been harder to deal with and this time it was Humayun who had conceded defeat. His aunt and half-sister had refused to accompany Baisanghar. ‘I have earned the right to decide my own fate,’ Khanzada had insisted quietly. ‘All the years I suffered in Shaibani Khan’s haram, I told myself that if I survived never again would I lose control of my life, my destiny, even if death was the only alternative. And the destiny I choose is to go with you, nephew.’ Gulbadan had remained silent throughout this speech but Humayun had noticed how tightly she was gripping Khanzada’s hand and how determined was her expression. When Khanzada had finished speaking Gulbadan too had made clear her wishes to accompany Hindal and Humayun.

  In his heart Humayun was glad they were with him. They were riding close by on stu
rdy brown ponies, followed by their attendants and the wives and daughters of some of his and Hindal’s commanders, including Zahid Beg’s wife, also mounted on ponies. Speed was vital and this was no time for more decorous modes of transport, concealed from the common gaze behind the curtains of litters or howdahs. Nevertheless, the small group of women was closely guarded by the most trusted of Humayun’s bodyguards and well hidden from prying eyes beneath voluminous garments, their hair bound up and concealed by tight-fitting caps. Above the cotton face cloths that protected them from the wind and the choking dust only their eyes were visible.

  There should have been a further pair of eyes – grey ones – to gladden his soul, Humayun thought. Before finally quitting the Lahore palace he had paid a brief visit to the newly dug grave in the garden where Salima had been buried only two days before. She too would have wanted to go with him – he was sure of it – but a sudden fever contracted just as news came of Sher Shah’s ultimatum and with chaos rising all around had claimed her life within twenty-four hours of its onset. In the last minutes of her sweating delirium, her staring, unfocused eyes had not recognised him or seen the tears in his eyes as he held her small hand in his own larger one and watched as her last breaths fled from her body. He would miss her so much. Since he had abandoned Gulrukh’s opium-laced wine and even more since his defeats at the hands of Sher Shah, Salima had become ever more important to him, providing an all-consuming physical relief from his mental doubts and daily cares and responsibilities.

  But there was no time now for grief or for reflections upon the fragility of human existence. All the time as he rode Humayun kept returning to the same question. Had he done the right thing in abandoning Lahore? The answer, though, was always the same. Faced with an imminent bloodbath – the massacre of so many thousands of innocent citizens – he’d had no choice but to order his forces to retreat across the broad wooden bridge that spanned the Ravi river north of the city. As soon as his men were safely over, he’d had the bridge destroyed to hinder Sher Shah’s troops from pursuing him. The camp followers had had to cross as best they could, scrambling aboard fishing – and ferry-boats.

  But Sher Shah had as yet made no attempt to pursue Humayun who, after a day and a half almost constantly in the saddle, was now forty miles clear of Lahore. With each passing mile and hour he became more and more convinced that he would be given time to regroup. It was also good that those cannon he had been able to bring with him – dragged to the Ravi river by bullocks – had been safely loaded on to rafts to be floated downriver under the care of Humayun’s gunnery commander and his men. Their orders were to wait for the rest of the army to catch up at Multan, two hundred miles southwest of Lahore. He was well provided with muskets, powder and shot as well as with treasure in coin and gems which he could use to pay his forces and buy provisions for them as they journeyed to Sind. Perhaps things were not as bleak as they seemed.

  But gazing up into the bleached, cloud-streaked skies, Humayun saw two vultures, circling doubtless above some dead or dying creature. At Panipat – just before the Moghuls’ great victory – he had seen eagles wheeling above the battlefield. From noble eagles to filthy, ill-omened devourers of carrion . . . Was that a symbol of how his fortunes had declined? Humayun plucked an arrow from the gilded leather case hanging across his back and, unstrapping his double-curved bow from his saddle, sent an arrow hissing through the hot air. It found its mark. Swiftly he drew another arrow but as he looked up, eagerly seeking his second target, all he saw above him was an empty sky.

  ‘Majesty, my scouts report a small band of riders still some three or four miles off but galloping quickly towards us,’ Ahmed Khan said, reining in his horse.

  ‘God willing, it’s the messenger I sent to Mirza Husain, returning with an escort. But just in case, halt the column and order the men to take up defensive positions around its perimeter. Post extra guards around the women and the treasure.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  With luck, the arduous six-week trek from Multan, where he had rendezvoused as planned with his gunners and cannon, and then along the Indus would soon be over and he could plan how to regain the initiative against Sher Shah. Humayun strained his eyes towards the western horizon where the great, blood-red sun was sinking rapidly. Soon, he could make out a cloud of dust rising from among the spindly trees and tumbled rocks ahead and then the horsemen themselves – about thirty of them – led by a cavalryman whose steel helmet glinted in the last rays of sunlight. As the horsemen reined in, Humayun saw that the messenger he had despatched with letters to Mirza Husain nearly two weeks ago was indeed among them. The leading rider removed his helmet, dismounted and made obeisance.

  ‘Greetings, Majesty. Mirza Husain, Sultan of Sind welcomes you to his lands. He awaits you at a camp just ten miles from here. He denied himself the honour of greeting you in person because he wished to assure himself that all was ready for your reception. I – the captain of his bodyguard – and my men will escort you there.’

  Dusk had fallen by the time Humayun saw the orange light of camp fires through the dark silhouettes of the trees. The only time he had seen Mirza Husain was many years ago when the sultan had come to Kabul to pay his respects to Babur and he’d no memory of what he looked like. The tall, straight-backed man waiting in the centre of the camp, hand on breast and dressed in magnificent red robes with a tightly wound golden turban on his head, was therefore a stranger to him.

  ‘Welcome, Majesty. Your arrival honours my kingdom.’

  ‘Your hospitality is most welcome, cousin. My brother and I thank you.’

  Mirza Husain was a good-looking man if a little fleshy, Humayun thought as the ritual exchange of courtesies continued. Before he let himself run to fat he must have been a good fighter. He recalled Babur’s stories of how Mirza Husain had consolidated and enlarged his kingdom, even taking land from his neighbour to the south in Gujarat, Bahadur Shah.While Humayun had been fighting in Gujarat, Mirza Husain had sent messages of support but had offered no troops. Neither had Humayun asked his cousin for any. Confident of victory, he’d had no wish to share Gujarat’s rich booty any more widely than he’d needed to.

  ‘Everything is ready for your reception, Majesty. Special quarters have been prepared for the women, near your own, and rows of tents erected for your soldiers. Tonight you must rest. I have ordered food to be brought to you. Three days from now, when we reach my palace at Sarkar, we can talk of former times.’

  And of future ones, Humayun thought to himself. He needed Mirza Husain’s help if he could be persuaded to give it. But of course the courtesies must be observed . . .

  That evening, lying back on a brocade-covered bed in his own tent, Humayun felt himself begin to relax for the first time since leaving Lahore. He had brought his family and his remaining forces to safety. God willing, soon he would be riding to battle again.

  Sixty hours later under a blazing sun, with Mirza Husain on one side and Hindal on the other, Humayun rode into the fortress palace of Sarkar, set within thick walls on a high rocky promontory overlooking the sea. Above the gatehouse, two banners fluttered in the clear air – the scarlet red of Sind and by its side the brilliant green of the Moghuls. The palace, approached up a short, steep ramp leading up from the gatehouse, was a golden-stoned building constructed around three sides of a courtyard.

  Installed in opulent apartments covering almost the entire middle floor of the palace’s west wing, Humayun summoned Hindal and Kasim. He wished to confer with them alone without the listening ears of his own attendants, apart from Jauhar whom he trusted with his life and who was standing on guard by the door.

  Humayun gestured Hindal and Kasim to be seated. The vizier lowered himself with difficulty. The hardships of recent weeks had taken their toll. Kasim looked even thinner and more stooped than before. Humayun waited while his old counsellor settled himself before speaking. ‘Though for courtesy’s sake I’ve not yet said anything, Mirza Husain knows very well why I have come
– that I want his help against Sher Shah. Soon, though, I must raise the matter and wish to be prepared. Have you yet managed to glean anything of his thoughts or intentions from those around him, Kasim?’

  ‘I may have learned something of what is in his mind . . . ’ Kasim said cautiously. ‘People reveal more than they realise if you are a good listener . . . I’ve been told that when Mirza Husain first read your letter asking him to receive you, he was thrown into great consternation. He has no desire for his kingdom with its prosperous merchants and harbours crammed with cargo dhows from Arabia to be drawn into a conflict. He even fears you mean to take his kingdom from him . . . ’

  ‘Then why did he welcome us here? He could have made excuses,’ asked Hindal.

  Humayun grunted. ‘He had little choice. He is our cousin and I think that means something to him. Also, despite my reverses I am an emperor intending to recover my lands and, when I do, well placed to reward him and to further his ambitions. Mirza Husain knows this. And unless he wished for an open breach he could not bar his doors against me. But whatever is in his heart and mind, I must plan our next steps. Has any further news reached us of Sher Shah’s movements these past three days?’

  ‘None, Majesty,’ said Kasim. ‘From what little we can glean from travellers and others, he has still not moved beyond Lahore.’

  ‘And what news of Kamran and Askari?’

  ‘No one knows where they are at present, Majesty. According to some rumours they have withdrawn northwards up the Kabul river to Badakhshan – but as I say, Majesty, those are only rumours . . . ’