Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  On the far side of the tent, encircled by high screens that concealed them from view, a small group of women including Khanzada and Gulbadan were seated. Their conversation sounded decorously muted and their laughter was more restrained than the men’s but almost as frequent. Humayun hoped they had everything they wanted and decided to see for himself. Looking round the edge of the screen he saw Gulbadan talking to a young woman seated close beside her, feet gracefully curled beneath her. The woman’s face was in shadow but as she leaned forward to take a sweetmeat from a dish, candlelight illuminated her features.

  Humayun felt a tightening in his stomach as he took in the graceful set of her small head on her long slender neck, the pale oval of her face, the shining dark hair pulled back and secured with jewelled combs and the luminous eyes which, suddenly aware of his scrutiny, she turned towards him. Her gaze was open and appraising – no trace of nervousness that she was looking at the emperor – and it sent an almost visceral shock through him. As Humayun continued to stare, the young woman dropped her gaze and turned back to Gulbadan. Her profile – they were sharing some joke by the way she was smiling – showed a small nose and delicate chin. Then, leaning back, she was once more lost to the shadows.

  Humayun returned to his place with the men, his polite interest in the women’s well-being completely forgotten. As the feast continued he found it hard to concentrate, so haunted was he by that glimpse of an unknown face. He tapped his brother on the shoulder.

  ‘Hindal, there’s a young woman sitting by your sister whom I don’t recognise – take a look and tell me if you know her.’ Hindal rose, went across to the screen and peered round. Then slowly he returned to Humayun’s side.

  ‘Well?’

  It seemed to Humayun that Hindal hesitated before answering. ‘Her name is Hamida. She’s the daughter of my vizier, Shaikh Ali Akbar . . . ’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘About fourteen or fifteen . . . ’

  ‘To which of the clans does Shaikh Ali Akbar belong?’

  ‘His family is of Persian descent but were long settled in Samarkand until, in our father’s time, the Uzbeks drove them out. Shaikh Ali Akbar fled as a young man and eventually found his way to my province of Alwar. I made him my chief counsellor there.’

  ‘Is he a good counsellor?’

  ‘Yes. And something more than that, perhaps. The blood of a famous mystic runs in his veins – Ahmad of Jam, who had the ability to foretell events. In his lifetime he was known as Zinda-fil, “the Terrible Elephant”, because of his powers.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning before we march send Shaikh Ali Akbar to me. I wish to talk to him.’

  Humayun barely slept that night. Though in Sarkar he had told Mirza Husain he would not take a wife until he had won back his throne, he knew in his very soul that he must marry Hamida. There was no thought, no logic to it, just an overwhelming attraction. A feeling which, despite his many previous lovers, he had never experienced with such overpowering intensity before, not even when he had chosen Salima. It was not simply the desire to possess Hamida physically – though that was certainly a part of it. Instinctively he sensed within her a beauty of mind, a strength of spirit radiating out towards him. He knew that not only would she make him happy but that with her by his side he would also be a better ruler, more able to achieve his ambitions. However hard he tried to dismiss such thoughts as irrational and better fitted to a blushing adolescent, they returned with renewed vigour. Was this what the poets described as falling in love?

  Even before it was light, Humayun washed, dressed and then, dismissing his attendants, waited impatiently. At last his men began to stir, kicking the smouldering embers of last night’s fires into new life and starting to pack up their tents and possessions ready for the day’s ride.Then he heard footsteps outside his tent and Jauhar held back the flap as Shaikh Ali Akbar ducked inside.

  ‘Majesty, you wished to see me.’ Shaikh Ali Akbar was tall and, like his daughter, fine-boned. He made graceful obeisance to Humayun and waited.

  ‘I saw your daughter, Hamida, at the feast last night. I want to make her my wife. She will be my empress and the mother of emperors . . . ’ Humayun burst out.

  Shaikh Ali Akbar looked astonished.

  ‘Well, Shaikh Ali Akbar?’ Humayun persisted impatiently.

  ‘She is so young . . . ’

  ‘Many are married at her age. I will treat her with great honour, I promise you . . . ’

  ‘But my family is not worthy . . . ’

  ‘You are nobles of Samarkand . . . Why object if I wish to raise your daughter further as my father did my own mother? Her father – my grandfather Baisanghar – was a nobleman of Samarkand like yourself.’

  Shaikh Ali Akbar said nothing. Puzzled, Humayun stepped closer. From the man’s troubled face something was wrong. ‘What is it? Most fathers would rejoice.’

  ‘It is a great, an unimaginable honour, Majesty. But I believe . . . no, I know . . . that your half-brother Prince Hindal cares for Hamida. He has known her since she was a child. I serve him and it would be disloyal of me to give her to another, even you, Majesty, without telling you this.’

  ‘Are they yet betrothed?’

  ‘No, Majesty.’

  ‘And Hamida. What are her wishes?’

  ‘I do not know, Majesty. I’ve never spoken to her of such things and I have no wife who could have done so . . . Hamida’s mother died of a fever soon after she was born.’

  ‘You have been honest. I respect that but I repeat that I wish to wed your daughter. Give me your answer within a week from now. And Shaikh Ali . . . my brother told me that the blood of a great seer who could foretell events runs through your veins . . . If you, like him, have the power to see into the future, use it. You will see that greatness – and happiness – await your daughter if you will give her to me.’

  ‘Majesty.’ But Shaikh Ali Akbar’s face still looked anxious and unhappy as he turned to leave. Shafts of sunlight came pouring into the tent, dazzling Humayun for a moment, as Shaikh Ali Akbar pushed the entrance flap aside and vanished.

  That day, needing space to think, Humayun decided to leave the main column and gallop alone. As the rhythmic thud of his horse’s hooves filled his ears, he was still trying to come to terms with these feelings so unexpected, so overpowering, so sudden. No other woman had roused such sensations in him. Something darker was also lurking in his heart – guilt that he wanted to take a woman loved by his half-brother. But he could not get Hamida’s exquisite face, her shining personality, out of his mind. He would make her his empress however much he bruised Hindal’s feelings.

  That evening, Humayun was splashing his face with cold water brought to him in a brass ewer by Jauhar when he heard raised voices outside his tent. Then Hindal burst in, still in his riding clothes, soiled and dusty after the day’s journey.

  ‘Is it true?’ Hindal’s voice was quiet but his eyes were burning.

  ‘Is what true?’ Humayun gestured to Jauhar to withdraw.

  ‘Shaikh Ali Akbar tells me you wish to marry Hamida.’

  ‘Yes. I want her for my wife.’

  ‘She . . . she is the daughter of my vizier. I watched her grow up . . . My claim to her is stronger than yours . . . ’ Hindal seemed almost hysterical.

  ‘I did not want to cause you pain, but it will pass. You will find another woman to please you . . . ’

  ‘These last few months I thought we had come to understand one another. I trusted you. I gave you my support when – like Kamran and Askari – I could have sought my fortune elsewhere and perhaps fared better.What reward have I had for following you? Nothing! We fled Lahore with our tails between our legs. In Sind we fared little better – fed like little lapdogs by Mirza Husain until we took ourselves off. Still I remained loyal and worked to keep my force of men together in the hopes that soon you and I would be fighting shoulder to shoulder against Sher Shah. Instead, like a thief in the night, without a moment’s thought, you have decided
to abuse your position as head of our family to steal the woman I love . . . ’

  ‘Believe me, I didn’t know that you cared for her until I spoke to her father.’

  ‘But it didn’t stop you when you found out, did it?’ Hindal came closer. ‘Kamran and Askari were right.You are the self-appointed centre of your own universe. For years you ignored us, leaving us to fester in our provinces while you played the great emperor. It was only because you needed us against Sher Shah that you began to speak of fraternal duty, of bonding together against a common enemy.’

  Hindal’s voice was rising to a shout and he was shaking with pent-up fury. Instinctively, Humayun glanced to the chest on which a few minutes earlier Jauhar had placed Alamgir in its jewelled scabbard. He still had his dagger and could feel its hard metal hilt pressing against his ribs beneath his sash.

  ‘Be careful what you say, brother . . . ’

  ‘Half-brother only.’

  ‘You forget why I sent you and the others away. You plotted against me. I could have had you executed . . . I gave you back your life.’

  ‘I was just a youth, easily led. If you’d shown any interest in me it would never have happened. But all you ever wanted to do was stare at the stars . . . You still have no desire to know what I’m really like, what my hopes and aspirations are. You just want my unquestioning loyalty and obedience so you can realise your own ambitions . . . ’

  Humayun had never seen or heard his half-brother so animated. He was breathing heavily. His face was flushed, his nostrils were dilated and a vein throbbed at his temple.

  ‘We must not quarrel over this, Hindal. Believe me, this isn’t just some whim or momentary lust for a new woman. I didn’t plan it – it happened. When I saw her at the feast I knew . . . ’

  But Hindal didn’t seem to be listening. Without warning he launched himself at Humayun who, taken off guard, didn’t move quickly enough. Hindal’s powerful hands grabbed him by the shoulders and the next thing Humayun knew, he was crashing into a tall iron incense burner.

  Hearing the noise, Humayun’s guards rushed into the tent. ‘No!’ he shouted, waving them back. Hindal was closing in on him again and Humayun felt his half-brother’s leather-booted foot slam into his ribs, knocking the breath from him. But from the days of his youth Humayun had been a good wrestler – quick and strong – and the skills hadn’t deserted him. Instinctively he grabbed at Hindal’s foot as his brother tried to kick him again and twisted it sharply. Thrown off balance, Hindal’s heavy body tumbled sideways and he hit his head on the edge of the metal-bound chest where Humayun kept his most valued possessions – the Koh-i-Nur and his father’s diaries.

  With blood trickling from his temple and looking dazed, Hindal hauled himself to his feet. Before he could steady himself, Humayun ducked forward, pitting his speed and momentum against Hindal’s bulk. Hooking his right foot behind Hindal’s left leg, he succeeded in pushing him backwards, falling with him and landing on top. He seized Hindal’s head with both hands, raised it up then brought it smashing down on the ground. Hindal writhed beneath him, trying to dislodge him, but Humayun’s fingers were pressing on his windpipe. Hindal’s breath was coming in great, rasping sobs as he thrashed wildly, almost sending Humayun flying. However, gripping as hard as he could with his thighs, Humayun stayed uppermost and pressed harder on his brother’s throat.

  He felt Hindal slacken beneath him and looked down at his face – it might be a trick, one that he’d used many times himself in wrestling contests – but Hindal’s eyes were closed and his face was purpling. Humayun relaxed his grip and rose cautiously from his brother’s prone body, eyes never for an instant leaving him.

  Hindal was taking great gulping mouthfuls of air as he struggled to breathe and his hands were clutching at his neck which Humayun could see was already darkening with bruises. After a few moments, he got shakily to his feet, looking like a great bear that had just been worsted in a fight. The cut on his temple was bleeding even more profusely, so that blood was dripping on to the front of his tunic. But the eyes he turned on Humayun were clear, bright and defiant.

  ‘Take her then. You are the emperor as you never tire of reminding me. But do not expect to see me again. Our alliance is over. Tonight I will take my men and ride from here.’

  ‘I didn’t want to hurt you. You forced me to. Don’t act rashly . . . I never schemed to take Hamida from you . . . but when I saw her I knew it was meant to be . . . ’

  A sneer spread across Hindal’s bleeding face. ‘Meant to be . . . ? You still don’t understand the minds of men, do you, not even your own brother’s. You inhabit a different world in which you confuse fate or destiny with your own desires and much good may it do you. Goodbye, brother.’ Drawing himself up, Hindal spat slowly and deliberately on the carpet, sending a gob of bloody saliva to land just in front of Humayun’s right boot. Then, without a backward glance, he walked slowly and painfully but straight-backed towards the entrance of the tent, looking to neither right nor left as Humayun’s bodyguards parted to let him pass.

  For a moment Humayun was tempted to go after him, but what would be the point? After what had been said, there could be no going back. ‘Jauhar,’ he called. As soon as Jauhar was by his side, Humayun lowered his voice so they would not be overheard. ‘Send my bodyguards immediately to the tents of my brother’s women.They are to find Hamida, daughter of Shaikh Ali Akbar, my brother’s vizier, and escort her into the care of my aunt. Hurry, and let me know as soon as my orders have been carried out . . . ’

  Half an hour later, Jauhar returned to report that Hamida had been taken to Khanzada. Outside, Humayun could hear men shouting and running about, oxen bellowing, the jingling of bridles and the neighing of horses. Peering out through the tent flaps he saw by the orange light burning in the braziers that Hindal’s men were striking camp. His half-brother’s tent had already been collapsed and was being loaded on to a cart. As he continued to watch, Humayun made out a familiar figure hurrying towards his tent through the press.

  ‘Humayun, what have you done? . . . Have you lost your mind?’ Khanzada shouted even before she was inside Humayun’s tent. ‘How can you hope to succeed if Hindal leaves? And all because of a woman you caught a fleeting glimpse of, a woman you’ve never even spoken to and whom without telling me you’ve consigned into my care.’ He had seen his aunt angry many times before but never with such a look of outraged bafflement in her eyes. ‘Forget this madness. Go to Hindal now, before it is too late, and tell him you will give up the girl.’

  ‘I can’t, Aunt. It’s as if I had no choice . . . ’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Coming closer, she stared into his eyes. ‘Are you taking opium again? Having hallucinations? Is that what is making you act so crazily? I saw Hindal’s bruised and bleeding face . . . is that the behaviour of an emperor, to pound your brother into submission and drive him from your camp?’

  ‘He attacked me . . . ’

  ‘That’s not the point. He was loyal to you at a time when few others are, when our dynasty’s fate in Hindustan has never been more uncertain. Your latest madness has left us in desperate straits – how many men do you have left of those who rode with you from Lahore? Eight or nine thousand only. I know because Kasim told me. If Hindal goes, how many will you have then? Five or six thousand at most. And how many of them will stay when they begin to doubt your judgement? Soon you’ll barely have enough to defend us from brigands and dacoits, let alone get back your throne. And all through unbridled, heedless, selfish desire . . . ’

  ‘No.The moment I saw Hamida, I felt something different from mere physical desire, something I’d never experienced . . . I knew love had overwhelmed me and that I wanted her as my wife. I had not thought such things possible but it happened. I promise I’m not fuddled with wine and opium. My mind is clear and I know that what I am doing is right. Aunt . . . ’ he laid a hand gently on her shoulder, ‘trust me and help me in this . . . I beg you . . . ’

  ‘I can’t. I’m getting ol
d, Humayun. I’ve seen too much, suffered too much, to have any energy left. Ever since Babur died I’ve tried to help you as I promised him I would. You have shown you are a fearless fighter but you have so much to learn about being a king and I wonder whether you ever will. You are different from your father. Babur always used his head. His marriages – even to your mother whom he loved – were considered acts. He didn’t behave like a selfish boy who must always indulge his lusts and desires without a thought for the consequences. First opium. Now this.’

  ‘But Aunt, as I keep trying to tell you, my feelings for Hamida go far beyond simple desire . . . ’ ‘And what about Hamida’s feelings, left here without her father? You know of course that Shaikh Ali Akbar is going with Hindal? He has just been to bid his daughter goodbye.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Gulbadan is trying to soothe Hamida but she is distraught. Truth be told, Gulbadan is distressed too, though she has chosen to stay with me rather than go with her brother.’

  ‘I never meant that . . . I . . . ’

  ‘No more, Humayun.’

  Khanzada turned and left the tent. Humayun waited, hoping she might relent and come back but she didn’t. He sat down and for a while just stared into the dancing amber flame of an oil lamp. Was his aunt right as she so often was? Certainly, he had been impulsive – reckless even – and he had hurt Hamida. He had also broken the fragile bonds that had been forming between himself and Hindal.

  ‘Majesty.’ It was Jauhar and in his hand was a piece of paper which he held out to Humayun. ‘Shaikh Ali Akbar asked me to give you this.’

  You are the emperor, Humayun read, if you ask me for my daughter I cannot refuse. I leave her with a heavy heart but I must go with your brother to whom, long ago, I swore to be loyal. Treat Hamida well. I have no power to protect her and must trust you to do so as you have pledged. Shaikh Ali Akbar.

  A fierce happiness filled Humayun, overriding any lurking feelings of doubt or of guilt about his behaviour towards Hindal. ‘I will protect her with my life, Shaikh Ali Akbar. I will make her happy.You have no cause to fear,’ he whispered to himself.