Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  Next day, riding at the head of his depleted column across a pale landscape baked hard by the sun, Humayun still felt suffused with joy. If only the price had not been his rift with Hindal. An hour ago his heart had quickened at the sight of dust rising from the road ahead. Seized by hope that Hindal had changed his mind and was coming back, he’d despatched scouts to investigate but they’d found only a group of silk merchants with their mules. By now Hindal was probably some miles to the northwest of Humayun’s column.According to Kasim, who had spoken briefly to one of Hindal’s commanders, his half-brother planned to cross the Indus and head north.

  Was Hindal intending to seek out Kamran and Askari? With all three of his half-brothers allied against him once more, his own situation would be perilous. Hindal knew exactly where Humayun was taking his army and what his strategy was. Such information would be useful to Kamran and Askari – and of course to Sher Shah. Humayun rode on oblivious of the bleached landscape as he brooded on this fresh twist in his fortunes. His disappointment that Hindal had not returned was not simply that he had lost an ally and gained an enemy but that over the last months he had grown closer to his youngest half-brother and had valued his companionship.

  That night as the camp was being set up and the cooking fires lit, he looked longingly to where the women’s tents were being pitched. What was Hamida doing and what was in her mind? Desire to see her again mingled with guilt at the distress he had caused her and he hesitated, uncertain as a youth about what he should do. Then it came to him. Summoning Jauhar, he ordered him to ask Khanzada to come to him. As the minutes passed, Humayun waited anxiously. He would not be surprised if his aunt refused to see him, but when Jauhar finally returned Khanzada was with him.

  ‘Well, nephew, I understand you wish to see me.’

  ‘Thank you, Aunt . . . ’ Humayun hesitated, seeking the right words. ‘Last night we parted in anger. There was much justice in what you said. Though I cannot undo what has happened – and if I speak honestly I would not wish to even if I could – I’ve reflected upon your words. All my life you have stood by me, helped me. Do not desert me now.’

  Khanzada’s expression remained stern and she said nothing but a softening in her raisin eyes gave him courage to go on.

  ‘Tell Hamida that I’m sorry for my thoughtlessness, that I never meant to cause her pain.’ He stepped a little closer. ‘Talk to her of me. Tell her I acted only out of love. Plead my cause . . . She will listen to you. And tell her that after the evening meal I will visit you all – but only if she is willing.’

  Two hours later, Humayun followed some of Khanzada’s attendants as they guided him with lighted torches through the camp to the women’s quarters. Ducking inside Khanzada’s tent, he saw his aunt and Gulbadan seated in the centre on low stools in a pool of soft orange light shed by oil lamps and wicks burning in diyas. They rose to greet him, and as he came towards them a veiled figure – he knew it was Hamida – moved out of the shadows to stand at Khanzada’s side. Unbidden, Hamida dropped the veil covering the lower part of her face and stood before him. He hadn’t realised how tall Hamida was – at least three or four inches taller than either Khanzada or Gulbadan. She was also slender, standing there in her dark blue robes, belted with a silver chain set with turquoises.

  ‘Hamida.Thank you for receiving me here.You know why I’ve come. I want you for my wife . . . ’

  Hamida said nothing but continued to look directly at him, her black, long-lashed eyes reddened with tears, and it was Humayun who lowered his gaze first.

  ‘What is your answer to me?’

  ‘My father told me I must obey . . . ’

  ‘I don’t want an unwilling bride . . . What is in your own heart?’

  ‘I don’t know. I cannot answer you. Only yesterday I parted from my father. I may never see him again . . . ’

  ‘It was your father’s choice to go with my brother. Shaikh Ali Akbar is a good man, loyal and honest, and I have no quarrel with him. I will do everything in my power to make sure that one day – God willing – you are reunited with him. And I also promise that I will be a good husband to you. I will love and honour you. And though at present my fortunes are low, my ambitions are high and one day you will be a great empress . . . I swear it on my life.’

  Hamida drew herself up but did not reply. She was still so young, Humayun thought. She was grieving at her sudden separation from her father and the loss of much of what was familiar. ‘A lot has happened,’ he said softly, ‘and you are tired. I will leave you now but think over what I have said.’

  ‘I will think about it.’ Hamida was still scrutinising him intently as if trying to divine something. Humayun felt he was being tested and for the first time his confidence wavered. He realised that he had come to her tonight sure of success, believing any woman would be dazzled to be chosen by him as his wife.

  In the event, Humayun had to curb his impatience and wait for longer than he’d expected. He found it hard to stop himself from visiting Khanzada’s tent each night to see Hamida but he forced himself not to. He had promised her time to consider and must abide by his promise. Nearly a month passed before finally, on a humid evening with fireflies shining like jewels in the darkness around the encampment, Khanzada at last brought him news.

  ‘Humayun, Hamida has agreed. She will become your wife whenever you wish it.’

  A tremendous happiness overwhelmed him and he embraced his aunt. ‘What did you say finally to convince her?’

  ‘The same I’ve been telling her ever since I took her into my care – that she must marry someone and who better than a king – indeed an emperor? I reminded her that many girls of good family are married off to old men but that you are a handsome warrior in his prime with a certain reputation among the women . . . ’ Khanzada’s eyes twinkled.

  ‘You are certain she is willing?’

  ‘Yes. What counted most with her was my promise that you truly love her.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen it in your face every time you spoke of her, otherwise I would never have been your ally in this.’

  ‘What about Hindal? Does she ever mention him?’

  ‘No. He may have loved her but I don’t think she was aware of it. If you can find your way into her heart, you’ll find no rival there . . . ’

  ‘Thank you, Aunt. As ever, you have been my benefactress.’

  ‘And as ever, I wish you happiness, Humayun.’

  ‘Wait – I wish you to take Hamida a present from me.’ Going to his iron-bound chest he took out a piece of flowered silk and unwrapping it extracted the double-stranded necklace of fiery rubies and uncut dark green emeralds set in gold that had been among the treasures he had seized in Gujarat. The gems glinted richly in the candlelight and would well become Hamida’s dark-eyed beauty. ‘You once told me to keep this to give to my wife . . . that moment has come . . . ’

  The next morning, Humayun cancelled the day’s march and summoned his astrologer Sharaf to his tent. Together they studied the sky charts, trying to work out from the positions of the planets the most auspicious day for the wedding. It was soon, Sharaf said, putting down his astrolabe – just three weeks away. That decided Humayun. He would halt his advance into Rajasthan until after the wedding so that there would be time to prepare. Though he was landless and throneless, his union with Hamida must not be a mean affair. They were not humble camp followers to be wedded and bedded in between marches but an emperor and his empress.

  Hamida was sitting motionless beneath layers of shimmering golden gauze, the veils held in place by a chaplet of pearls interwoven with yellow cat’s-eyes symbolising Ferghana and emeralds for Samarkand that Gulbadan had fashioned for her. As the mullahs finished intoning their prayers, Humayun took Hamida’s hennaed hand in his and felt a responsive tremor. As his vizier Kasim led the cries of ‘Hail Padishah’, Humayun and Hamida rose and he led her from the wedding tent to his own where the marriage feast was spread.

  The gue
sts were few – Kasim, Zahid Beg, Ahmed Khan and some other officers and Khanzada, Gulbadan and their women. If he’d still been emperor in Agra, there would have been thousands of guests.Trays of wedding gifts – rare spices, silks and jewels – would have been spread before him. In the courtyard would have been living gifts – bejewelled elephants with gilded tusks and strings of high-spirited, high-stepping horses. Obsequious rajas would have queued to make obeisance and when night fell soft music would have risen over the scented courtyards and brilliant fireworks would have turned the dark sky back to day.

  But glancing at Hamida, seated beside him on a red velvet cushion and all but one of her veils thrown back so that he could see her perfect features – the soft curve of her cheek, the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her robe – Humayun felt close to true happiness. He had made love to many women, taking pleasure in his prowess as a lover, but the emotions welling inside him were new to him. Not even for Salima had he ever felt such tenderness.

  As the feast ended, the dishes were cleared and all but their personal attendants left, Humayun felt shy as a boy about to know a woman for the first time. While his own servants undressed him and wrapped a silk robe around him, Hamida’s women led her into the bridal bedchamber created by scarlet leather-covered wooden screens interlaced with hide thongs that stretched across the far end of the tent. Humayun paused then ducked beneath the stiff brocade hung over the gap between two of the screens.

  Hamida was not yet ready. He found himself half averting his gaze as her smiling women undressed her, combed the long, shining fall of dark hair and then laid her beneath a thin coverlet on the rosewater-scented bed. As the women withdrew, he could hear their soft laughter. He felt awkward, confused. He had been so determined to have Hamida, so certain that this was the woman with whom his future must be linked, but she was virtually a stranger. They’d never even been alone together. The few words they’d exchanged had always been in the presence of others. Unbidden, the thought returned that she’d accepted him only because she’d felt she had no choice. It made him nervous of approaching her.

  ‘Humayun . . . ’ Hamida’s soft voice at last broke the silence. Turning, he saw she had raised herself on her left elbow and was half sitting up. Her right hand was extended towards him. Slowly he came nearer and kneeling by the bed took her hand and touched the fingers to his lips. As she raised the coverlet, he rose and slipped in beside her. Her body felt warm, and slowly, almost reverently, he touched her face then entwined his hands in the spilled mass of her hair. Her eyes, looking up at him, were wide but trusting. Gently pulling her closer, he began to explore her slender body from the delicacy of her small shoulders to the satin curve of her hips. Caressing her breasts with his tongue he felt the hardening of her small, pink nipples and her response gave him courage. A thin sheen of sweat was forming on Hamida’s body as his hands gently probed her. Her eyes were closed but her lips were parted and from them came a gasp.

  Containing his own impatience, Humayun waited until he judged she was ready then, carefully easing himself on top, began gently to enter her. As he thrust harder he felt the tightness in her yielding and glanced anxiously down but saw pleasure not pain in her half-closed eyes. As he pushed deeper a passionate tenderness for this woman, a desire to protect her at all costs, filled his soul. She was his now and would be as long as they both lived.

  They woke, bodies intertwined, as in the half-light of the tent their attendants came to rouse them, bringing ewers of warmed water. It was Hamida who waved them away but once they were alone again, she sat silent and still.

  ‘What is it, Hamida? Have I offended you . . . ?’

  She looked at him a little shyly and shook her head.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘These past days I was afraid . . . ’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That you wanted me for your wife shocked me. I feared I might displease you . . . disappoint you. But last night your tenderness, the joy you brought me, soothed away my anxieties . . . ’ She was looking at him now with shining eyes. He began to speak but she placed a fingertip on his mouth. ‘You know that a seer’s blood runs in my veins. But there is something you don’t know. Sometimes, I too have the gift to see into the future. Last night, I dreamed that very soon I will conceive a child . . . a son. Do not ask me how I know, only believe me that it is so.’

  Humayun took her in his arms again. ‘I will rebuild the Moghul empire and we will be great, you and I and our son,’ he whispered as slowly, tenderly he began to make love to her again.

  Chapter 12

  Into the Desert

  ‘Majesty, my scouts have seized a lone traveller in the bazaar of a small mud-walled town a few miles to the south. Clearly a stranger from his dress and his accent, he had been asking the stallholders and anyone else who would listen whether you and your column had passed this way. I had him brought straight to me in case he was a spy,’ said Ahmed Khan.

  ‘If he is a spy, he’s not a very good one. He wasn’t apparently making much attempt to keep his mission secret.’

  Ahmed Khan did not share Humayun’s smile. ‘He claims to have come from Kabul, Majesty, and says he must see you. If his purpose is genuine, I fear from his face he has no good news to relate.’

  ‘Fetch him here at once.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  A shadow of foreboding crept over Humayun. A few minutes later, through the neat rows of tents, he saw Ahmed Khan returning and, behind him, two of his scouts escorting a tall young man. As they drew nearer, Humayun saw how travel-stained the new arrival’s clothes were. He was gaunt and the purple shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his exhaustion.

  ‘Majesty.’ He prostrated himself on the ground in the formal salute of the korunush.

  ‘Rise. Who are you and what is it you wish to tell me?’

  The newcomer got slowly to his feet. ‘I am Darya, the son of Nasir, one of the commanders of your garrison in Kabul.’

  Humayun remembered Nasir – a tough old Tajik chieftain who had served him loyally for many years. He had been well known in the camp for his voracious sexual appetite and for the number of children he had had by his four wives – eighteen sons and sixteen daughters – and many others by his numerous concubines. Humayun had not seen Nasir for many years and the only children of his he had met had been just that.

  ‘So that I may know you are who you claim to be, tell me how many children your father has.’

  Darya smiled a slightly melancholy smile. ‘No one knows, but he had thirty-four of us by his first four wives and after one of them – not my mother, I give thanks – died last year, he married a fifth who bore him a thirty-fifth. However, as a token of my identity I have here in a pouch beneath my garments the wolf-tooth necklace my father wore.’ He made to delve beneath his dusty garments.

  ‘No need. I believe you are Nasir’s son. What is the news from Kabul? Speak . . . ’

  ‘Bad, Majesty, the worst I could bring. Soon after your grandfather reached Kabul he had a sudden seizure. He lost much of the power of speech and could scarcely use his limbs. He appeared to be slowly regaining his strength but . . . ’

  ‘What happened?’ Humayun broke in, though in his heart he knew.

  ‘He died in his sleep, Majesty, nearly four months ago. His attendants found him in the morning, a peaceful expression on his face.’

  Humayun looked down, trying to take in that Baisanghar had gone.

  ‘There is more, Majesty . . . Your half-brothers Kamran and Askari, who had established themselves in Peshawar at the foot of the Khyber Pass, learned of your grandfather’s illness and hoped to take advantage of it.They brought troops up through the pass to Kabul. By the time they reached it your grandfather was dead. Without warning, they attacked the citadel and despite all my father and others could do quickly overran it.’

  For a moment Humayun forgot his grief for Baisanghar. ‘Kabul has fallen to Kamran and Askari?’

  ‘Yes, Majes
ty.’

  ‘Impossible! How could my half-brothers have raised an army sufficient for such a task so quickly?’

  ‘They had gold, Majesty, from raiding the caravans. We heard that they captured a group of wealthy Persian merchants and used their gold to bribe some of the mountain clans. Pashais, Barakis and Hazaras and members of other lawless breeds came in great numbers to fight for them. But in the event there was little fighting in Kabul. Your half-brothers bribed one of our captains to open the gates of the citadel to them.’

  Though the camp was bathed in sunlight, the world seemed suddenly dark and chill to Humayun.

  ‘My father . . . ’ Darya’s voice shook a little, ‘my father was hit between the shoulder blades by a Pashai battleaxe as he tried to run up from the gate to warn the defenders that we had been betrayed and that the enemy had gained entrance. He managed to crawl into a doorway where I found him. His last words to me were that I must escape from Kabul . . . that I must take his necklace to establish my identity and find you and tell you what had happened and . . . that he was sorry . . . he had done his best to defend Kabul but he had failed you. I sought you first at Sarkar but you had already left. Since then I have been searching for you. I thought I would be too late, that you would have already heard . . . ’ ‘No, I knew nothing of this.’ Humayun struggled to compose himself. ‘Your father did not fail me – he gave his life for me and I will not forget it. You have made an epic journey. Now you must rest but we will talk more later. I must learn as much as possible about what has happened.’

  As Ahmed Khan’s men led Darya away, Humayun gestured to Jauhar that he wished to be alone and entered his tent. As he splashed his face with water he scarcely felt the cold drops trickle down his face. Conflicting emotions – some personal, some political, but none pleasant – jostled in his mind. Initially simple grief, the knowledge that he would never see his grandfather again, was uppermost. Humayun closed his eyes as he recalled his father’s vivid stories of Baisanghar in his youth, of how as a young cavalry captain he had brought Babur Timur’s ring, still crusted with the blood of its previous wearer; how Baisanghar had sacrificed his right hand out of loyalty to Babur and opened the gates of Samarkand to him. Humayun’s mother Maham too had had her own fund of stories of her father – less violent but even more fond. Now Baisanghar was dead without ever knowing that Humayun had married. But at least he had died before Kamran and Askari had attacked Kabul.