Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  He could feel her lying very still in his arms. Gently releasing her, he pulled himself up into a half-sitting position. ‘My love . . . ’ he tried to say but no words came. ‘Hamida,’ he managed at last and reaching forward tried to pull her up too. Finding her shoulders, he ran his hands up her neck to take her face between his palms. She felt so limp. It was like holding a dead bird in his hands . . .

  Stifled groans were rising from all around but Humayun had no thought for anyone but Hamida. Gently he pulled her face against his chest once more and began to stroke the hair that was once so silken and soft but was now gritty and tangled. He began rocking gently back and forward, as if he were holding a child. The motion comforted him, delaying the moment when he must face the pain of losing the person he loved above all others.

  But after what seemed an age but could only have been a few moments, he felt Hamida move. Then she started to cough, spitting out a dirty orange-coloured mixture of saliva and sand. Joy that she was alive surged through Humayun. Helping her to sit up, he heard her taking in great, greedy gulps of air, just as he had done.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said gruffly, ‘everything’s all right . . . ’

  After a moment he felt Hamida take his hand and place it on her domed belly. As he felt the child within kicking strongly, fresh tears ran down his sand-covered face but this time they were of joy not pain.

  Slowly, people and animals were hauling themselves to their feet, though some lay ominously still. Standing up, Humayun saw the feebly twitching body of a horse lying nearby beneath a thick layer of sand. Staggering over, he knelt beside it and brushing the sand from its face recognised his stallion. In the last terrifying moments before the whirlwind ripped over them he’d forgotten the animal completely. It must have tried to gallop off but hobbled had crashed to the ground. Running his hands over its fetlocks, Humayun felt the fracture in the bone. Whispering softly into its ear and stroking its neck with one hand, with the other he drew his dagger and swiftly severed the jugular, warm blood spurting over him and staining the sandy ground.

  Looking round he saw that Zainab had brought Hamida some water to drink. But another female figure was stumbling towards him – Gulbadan, hair wild, clothes crusted with sand and glistening tracks on her filthy face from the tears she was crying. He tried to take her in his arms to comfort her but she pulled away from him.

  ‘It’s Khanzada . . . ’ Gulbadan led him over to where a body was lying and Humayun looked down on his aunt’s sand-streaked face. Her eyes were closed and from the angle of her head, he – who had seen so many dead bodies on the battlefield – knew she was dead. Mechanically, he put a hand against her neck but there was no pulse. She must have suffocated – her nostrils and mouth looked choked with sand and her hands were clenched as if she’d engaged in a mighty struggle with death, fighting until the last.

  ‘She behaved like the mother she had become to me since the death of my own. She shielded me with her body. She knew how afraid I was . . . ’ Gulbadan whispered.

  Humayun was silent, unable to conjure any words even to comfort Gulbadan. Khanzada – the woman who had shared Babur’s tragedies and triumphs and guided his own first steps as emperor, forcing him to fight opium and face his destiny – was gone. That she should die like this, snuffed out in a sandstorm, after all that she had seen and endured in her lifetime seemed cruel and terrible. Never would he forget her courage or her selfless love for him and unflinching devotion to their dynasty. A deep sadness crept over him, extinguishing the joy of a few moments ago. Khanzada’s final resting place should have been a flower-filled garden on the banks of the Jumna in Agra, or on the hillside above Kabul next to her brother Babur. But that couldn’t be. He bent and lifted his aunt’s body and cradling her tenderly in his arms spoke. ‘Though this is a wild and desolate place, we must bury her here. I myself will dig her grave.’

  At last, ten long hot days later, the walls of Umarkot appeared on the horizon before Humayun’s exhausted column. He saw Kasim and Zahid Beg exchange glances of relief. Ten of Humayun’s men had been killed in the storm – two struck by pieces of flying timber from bullock carts that had been smashed by one of the whirlwinds. Many, like Jauhar, had been badly grazed and cut, some had broken bones and one of his best musketeers had lost the sight of an eye to a piece of sharp stone.

  So many horses had been killed or scattered that most of the men were on foot, Humayun amongst them. Much of their equipment including many muskets had also been destroyed or buried. Even if it hadn’t, without carts and with only a few pack animals left – ten mules and six camels – they would have had to abandon most of it anyway. As it was, they’d loaded what they could on to the few beasts they had. Humayun’s one remaining treasure chest had survived intact but had now been emptied and the contents transferred into saddlebags. The Koh-i-Nur was still safely in its pouch around his neck.

  Humayun was trudging by the side of a moth-eaten camel that spat balls of malodorous phlegm into the sand and groaned as it made its splay-footed way. Hardly a suitable conveyance for his empress, Humayun thought, glancing up at Hamida who was riding in a pannier suspended against one of the camel’s bony sides, balanced by Gulbadan in another pannier on the other side. Hamida’s eyes were closed and she seemed to be dozing. With luck they should reach Umarkot by nightfall, Humayun thought, then he could find Hamida somewhere better to rest.

  But Umarkot must have been farther away than he’d reckoned. Distance could be deceptive in the desert. When the western skies turned blood-red as the disc of the sun slipped below the horizon, the low outline of the oasis still looked to be several miles off. With night falling, it might be unwise to go on. Humayun shouted the command for the column to halt and was looking around for Anil to ask his advice when suddenly he heard Hamida give a sharp cry, then another.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The baby . . . I think it’s coming.’

  Tapping the camel on its legs so that it collapsed grunting on to its knees, Humayun lifted Hamida out of the pannier and carried her over to a clump of low, spiny-leaved bushes where he gently laid her down. By now Gulbadan had climbed out of her pannier and was squatting down on the other side of Hamida, stroking her hot face and smoothing back her hair.

  ‘Stay with her, Gulbadan. I will send Zainab and the other women to you. I must try to get help from Umarkot.’

  As he ran towards where his men had halted, Humayun’s heart was pounding. Never had he known fear quite like this – not even during the worst, most bloody battle. The baby should not be coming now. Hamida had been certain there was at least another month to go . . . what if something went wrong, if she should die out here in this hostile wilderness which had already claimed Khanzada?

  ‘Jauhar,’ he shouted as soon as he was within earshot. ‘The empress is in labour. Take the best of the horses we have left and ride for Umarkot as hard as you can. Tell the people there who I am and that I ask for shelter for my wife. Under the customs of hospitality they cannot refuse. Even if the people fear me and my soldiers they will surely help Hamida – there will be hakims and midwives there. Hurry!’

  Jauhar rode off into the gathering gloom on a small roan mare which still had a little life in its wasted legs. Hurrying back to Hamida, Humayun found her surrounded by a small huddle of women who parted as he approached. She was lying on her back, eyes closed and breathing heavily. Her face was slippery with sweat.

  ‘Her waters have broken, Majesty,’ said Zainab. ‘I know – I watched my sisters give birth many times. And her pains are becoming more frequent . . . it won’t be long . . . ’ As if to bear out Zainab’s words, Hamida moaned and tears welled from beneath her eyelids, mingling with the sweat that was pouring off her now. As another spasm racked her, she arched her back then drew her knees up and rolled over on to her side.

  Humayun could hardly bear to watch. As the hours passed and Hamida’s groans grew louder and more frequent, he paced helplessly about, returning to Hamida’s sid
e every few minutes or so only to go off again. The sounds of the night – the occasional rasping shriek of a peacock, the bark of a jackal – increased his sense of powerlessness. Where was Jauhar? Perhaps he should have gone himself – or sent Timur’s ring with Jauhar as proof of who he was . . .

  Another half-smothered cry from Hamida made him wince as if he was feeling the pain as well. That she should be giving birth in this desperate, desolate place beneath a bush . . .

  ‘Majesty.’ Humayun had been so lost in his private agony that he had not seen or heard Jauhar approaching out of the darkness at the head of a small group of riders who were leading some spare horses, between two of which was suspended a litter.

  ‘Majesty,’ Jauhar said again.‘The ruler of Umarkot welcomes you. He has sent a hakim and a midwife and soldiers to bring you, the empress and your personal entourage to his dwelling.’

  Humayun bowed his head in relief.

  Pale moonlight silvered the crude mud walls of Umarkot as Humayun and his small party, including half a dozen of his bodyguards, rode in, leaving the rest of the column to make its way under Zahid Beg. The midwife had already given Hamida a potion of herbs which seemed to have eased her pains.

  In the torchlight it was hard for Humayun to take in his surroundings and his eyes were anyway on Hamida as the soldiers gently detached her litter from the horses and bore it through the doorway of a large building lit on either side by torches burning in sconces. He followed the litter down a corridor at the end of which he saw a pair of carved wooden doors with attendants stationed by them. As the party drew near, the attendants swung the doors open. Hamida, with the hakim and the midwife close behind, was carried in. Humayun was about to follow when a man he hadn’t noticed in long dark green robes stepped forward and bowed.

  ‘Majesty, I am the Rana of Umarkot’s vizier, whom he has sent to welcome you. This is the way to the women’s apartments.The only man apart from the rana who is allowed to enter is the hakim. But you will have apartments close by and news will be brought to you at once.’

  What could he could do but agree, Humayun thought, and nodded. The hours passed very slowly that night, or so it seemed to him. Just as dawn was breaking – he had been watching the slow lightening to the east through the casement – he must have drifted into a light sleep. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he immediately leaped up, feeling instinctively for his dagger, then saw that it was full daylight and that it was Gulbadan who had roused him. She was smiling in a way he had not seen for many days.

  ‘Humayun, you have a son, lusty and sturdy and already bawling his head off. The midwife will bring him to you in a few minutes, as soon as she has cleaned him.’

  ‘And Hamida?’

  ‘The labour was very hard for her. She needed all the midwife’s skill. But she is well and is sleeping now.’

  For a moment Humayun bowed his head, as joy and relief flooded through him in equal measure. Then from his pocket he drew a pod of precious musk that he had been saving for this moment and handed it to Gulbadan. ‘Take it to the birth chamber. Break it open in celebration and let the fragrance fill the room – let it be one of the first things my son smells on this earth. Tell Hamida that though it is all I can give her just now it carries not only my love but the scent of our family’s greatness to come.’

  Chapter 14

  Akbar

  ‘I name you Akbar – it means “great” and great you will Ibe.’ As he spoke Humayun picked up a cream-coloured jade dish – a gift from the Rana of Umarkot – and gently showered Akbar’s head with the contents, shahrukhys – tiny golden coins – to symbolise his future prosperity. Akbar, lying naked on a velvet cushion in Kasim’s arms, flailed his arms and legs in surprise but did not cry. Taking him gently from the cushion, Humayun lifted him high so that all his assembled commanders could see him and cried out, ‘I present to you my son, seventh in descent from the great Timur. Be as loyal to him as you have been to me.’ Clashing their swords on their shields, Humayun’s men roared the traditional greeting to a new prince of the blood of Timur, ‘Mirza Akbar! Mirza Akbar!’ until Humayun raised his arms for calm.

  Now it was time for Hamida’s part in the ceremony. Propped on a divan she still looked exhausted – skin pale as ivory and deep shadows under her dark, luminous eyes. Though Humayun had suggested waiting until she felt stronger, she had said no. ‘Your men have been through so much for you. You owe it to them to show them your heir as soon as possible. It will bind them to you even more strongly.’ Carrying the squirming Akbar over to her, Humayun placed him in her arms. Simulating putting the child to her breast, she recited the words that had come down to the Moghuls from before even Timur, from the days of the Oceanic Ruler himself, Genghis Khan: ‘Drink, my son. Put your honeyed lips to my benign breasts and sweeten your mouth with the life-giving fluid.’

  Discovering that he was not, after all, about to be fed, Akbar began to yell.As Hamida tried to quiet him, Humayun addressed his men once more. ‘With my astrologer Sharaf, I have cast my son’s horoscope. The date of his birth – 15 October 1542, with the moon in Leo – could not be more auspicious. A child so born will be fortunate and long-lived. We have suffered hardship and reverses. There are perhaps more dark times to come before we can reclaim what is ours but a glorious future beckons to Akbar and to us. Tonight we will feast and celebrate the victories to come.’ Again his men clashed their weapons. This time their chant was ‘Mirza Humayun’ but he turned away, heart too full for any more words.

  Later, when they were alone again, Humayun watched Hamida pull down the neck of her robe and give Akbar her breast, looking tenderly down on his head with its soft fuzz of black hair as he sucked vigorously. The knowledge that he had a son filled him with unspeakable pride. In the days before Hamida, none of his concubines had, as far as he knew, borne him a child. Now, at thirty-four years old, he realised how much a son would satisfy his craving for some deeper purpose to his life.

  ‘Hamida . . . ’ He paused, searching for words to express his feelings. ‘For the first time I feel I truly understand the depth of a father’s love . . . how far it exceeds even that of a child for its parent. I have tried to be true to my own father’s love and trust in bestowing my inheritance on me but now, as a father myself, I promise you I will recapture and enlarge my empire so that I leave a worthy legacy to our son.’

  Hamida nodded but said nothing. But there was something he had to talk to her about – something important for Akbar’s future. He must tell her that soon another woman would feed her son. They must appoint a wet-nurse. It was the most important position that could be given to a woman at the Moghul court. She became his ‘milk-mother’, establishing a bond that would endure her whole life through. Any son of her own automatically became the prince’s kukaldash, his ‘milk-brother’, bound to protect him and in turn to receive favour. Her husband, too, enjoyed great status. Senior courtiers and commanders coveted the position for their wives as keenly as any political or military rank for themselves. If handled badly, the choice would provoke jealousy and envy.

  ‘Hamida, there is something we must decide. In these difficult times, I have few ways to reward my commanders but I do have one thing to give. As is the Timurid way, we must choose a wet-nurse for Akbar, a woman who is worthy and whom we can trust but also a woman whose husband deserves my favour and will consider himself honoured by our choice.’

  Hamida raised her head and looked at him. She had not been brought up as a member of the royal house, of course. She could not know all the old royal customs. Though noblewomen often employed nurses to suckle their children, they were only servants who could easily be dispensed with and had no lasting role in the child’s life. He was asking something very different of Hamida – to share her child with another woman.

  For a while she was silent, then she spoke. ‘Don’t look so anxious. I’ve known about the custom for a long time – Khanzada told me. I think she wanted to help prepare me, not just for becoming a mother but f
or being the mother of a future emperor. At first I was upset. But since Khanzada’s death, I’ve reflected on her words – that by choosing the right wet-nurse I would not be giving up my child but helping to protect him. Though it still makes me sad, I can see that she was right . . . Let us be practical. Whom should we choose? There are so few women with us now, even fewer with babies.’

  ‘Zahid Beg’s wife is too old to have milk in her breasts or I would have chosen her in recognition of his loyalty and bravery. But there is another commander I would like to reward – Nadim Khwaja, a chieftain from near Kandahar whose wife is with him. Shortly after we fled from Marwar she bore him a son.’

  ‘I know her, of course. A tall, handsome woman called Maham Anga. Her son’s name is Adham Khan.’

  ‘You would accept Maham Anga? If there is another you would prefer . . . ’

  ‘I am content. Maham Anga is strong and healthy, as well as honest and full of good common sense. Her son is a sturdy vigorous baby. She is the one I would have chosen.’ Gently detaching Akbar from one breast, Hamida moved him across to the other. How beautiful she looked, Humayun thought, despite all the recent hardships and the ordeal of childbirth. And though still so young, nearly twenty years his junior, how strong. It must be hard for her to think of Akbar in another woman’s arms yet she hid her pain as courageously as a warrior concealed his fear. He had chosen her out of love but even here in this remote, mud-walled oasis, far from home and safety, she had the bearing of an empress. Approaching the divan, he bent and kissed Hamida’s lips and then the downy crown of his son’s head.

  ‘What came of your meeting with the rana? Do you believe we are safe here?’ Hamida asked.