Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘Ahmed Khan, send scouts closer to the fort to see what they can find out while the rest of us halt here.’

  ‘I will go myself, Majesty.’ Summoning two of his men, Ahmed Khan cantered off, raising a cloud of powdery grey dust.

  Humayun rode slowly back to the covered wooden cart – one of several he had purchased at the settlement to transport the women and the sick – in which Hamida and Gulbadan were travelling. Pushing his head inside the wool hangings, he saw that Hamida was asleep and that Gulbadan was writing – doubtless that diary of hers.They both looked pale and thin.

  ‘We have reached the river,’ he said quietly so as not to wake Hamida. ‘If Ahmed Khan reports that all is well and the Persians do not object, we will cross and make camp. How is Hamida?’

  ‘She still says so very little . . . She seldom shares her feelings or her thoughts, even with me.’

  ‘Try to make her understand, as I have, that I won’t rest until we have our son again. Everything I am doing . . . will have to do over the months ahead . . . will above all be for Akbar.’

  ‘She knows that she must be strong for you but she worries how the shah will receive us . . . and how Kamran is treating Akbar.’

  As Hamida stirred, Humayun turned away and pulling back the hangings returned to the front of the column. He didn’t have to wait long for news. Barely an hour after Ahmed Khan and his men had ridden away, Humayun saw them returning. Close behind them were two other riders. As they drew closer Humayun made out that, though one was a stranger, the other was the tall figure of Jauhar. Why wasn’t he on his way to the shah? Had the shah denied them entry to Persia? Had Kamran somehow won his favour? Full of anxiety, he kicked his horse forward to meet them.

  ‘Majesty.’ Ahmed Khan was smiling. ‘All is well. This,’ he indicated the stranger, ‘is Abbas Beg, the governor of Seistan, who has come to escort you into Persia.’

  Abbas Beg, a tall, black-bearded man of about forty, magnificently dressed in dark purple velvet and with a white egret’s feather secured by a jewelled clasp to his tall cap, dismounted and bowed before Humayun. ‘Majesty, I have despatched your letter to the shah. Our swift post riders can cover eighty miles a day. I requested your envoy to remain behind to advise me how best to receive you. Everything is ready. You only have to cross the ford.’

  A tremendous weight lifted from Humayun. For the first time in months he need not worry where his family and his men were to sleep, whether there was food, whether they were safe from attack. For a moment he closed his eyes and bowed his head in gratitude, then drawing himself up said, ‘I thank you, Abbas Beg. Your words are very welcome.’

  ‘Then, in the name of Shah Tahmasp, Lord of the World, I welcome you to Persia.’

  One hundred attendants were sweeping the road ahead and sprinkling it with rosewater to subdue the dust. Ahead of Humayun and his party trotted one thousand gorgeously caparisoned horsemen whom the shah had sent to escort them to his capital, Kazvin, seven hundred miles to the northwest. Humayun’s own party was no less magnificently mounted on Persian horses – sable black with gold-mounted bridle and saddle for Humayun. Hamida and Gulbadan were in a gilded, velvet-lined wagon drawn by white oxen, horns adorned with ribbons of Moghul green.

  Shah Tahmasp’s response to his letter had reached Humayun just three weeks after he had crossed into Persia. Three pages of extravagant compliments had ended with the words: You are my brother, a precious jewel of sovereignty whose bright magnificence makes dim the world-illuminating sun. My days will seem empty until I have the happiness of receiving you at my court in Kazvin.

  The shah had issued firmans, written orders, to the governor of every town and province through which Humayun would be passing, giving the most minute instructions for his comfort and pleasure. Humayun knew this because the shah had sent him copies of these firmans – written on thick gold-bordered paper – in an ivory casket so that my brother may know that I have spared no effort to welcome him.

  The shah had decreed exactly where the column should halt each night so that, as they rode in, tents of fine embroidered white cloth with awnings of velvet and silk were already erected and waiting. Every night brought another exquisite feast – golden platters of sweet white bread baked with milk and butter and sprinkled with poppy and fennel seeds, five hundred different savoury dishes – duck simmered in a walnut sauce, lamb stewed with quinces and dried limes – nuts of every kind covered in gold and silver leaf, dried apricots stuffed with chopped nuts and honey and pyramids of sweetmeats scented with rosewater and sprinkled with jewel-like pomegranate seeds.

  Every day saw the arrival of fresh gifts – jewelled daggers and coats cut from cloth of gold and flowered brocades for Humayun and amber and exquisite perfumes sent by the shah’s sister, Shahzada Sultanam, to Hamida and Gulbadan. The rest of Humayun’s retinue was not forgotten – Shah Tahmasp sent daggers and swords made by the finest armourers for his men. Everyone had new clothes. The ragged, weary band that had crossed the Helmand river had been transformed.

  But as the weeks passed and they were drawing nearer to Kazvin, passing through orchards of peach and apricot trees and along riverbanks lined with drooping willows, Humayun had still not found an answer to the question that kept troubling him. Why had Shah Tahmasp gone to such extravagant lengths? Was it simply to impress Humayun? Did it flatter his ego to have the Moghul emperor seeking his protection, or was there something deeper?

  Though Humayun shared his unease with Kasim and Zahid Beg, he knew he could not discuss it with Hamida. Every sign of the shah’s goodwill seemed to revive her – in her eyes it spelled hope that Tahmasp would assist Humayun against his half-brothers and help him win back Akbar. Of course, in a way Hamida was right. Whatever the shah’s true motives – and just possibly they might be entirely benevolent – he must make an ally of him . . .

  At last on an early summer’s day, the moment Humayun had been so keenly anticipating arrived. In a meadow bright with flowers near Kazvin, Shah Tahmasp, accompanied by ten thousand of his cavalrymen, was waiting to greet the Moghul emperor. As Humayun had come to expect of the shah, every last detail had been thought of – the exact spot where Humayun was to dismount, where his men were to wait, the path of thick, dark-red rugs sprinkled with dried rosebuds leading to the centre of the meadow where a vast, circular, golden carpet – silken threads gleaming in the sun – had been spread.

  Standing alone in the very centre of the carpet, his troops drawn up some fifty yards behind, was the shah, dressed in crimson velvet and on his head a tall, pointed jewelled cap of crimson silk embroidered with gold thread. Humayun knew what the hat signified. It was the taj – the symbol of the Islamic Shia faith. As Humayun approached the edge of the carpet, Tahmasp stepped towards him and taking him by the shoulders smilingly embraced him. Then he led Humayun to a large bolster and seating Humayun to his right, sat down beside him.

  ‘You are welcome, my brother.’ Humayun saw that Tahmasp was about his own age, strong-featured, pale-skinned and with luminous black eyes beneath thick brows.

  ‘I am grateful for your hospitality. I had heard of the glories of Persia and now I have seen them for myself.’

  Tahmasp smiled. ‘What little I could provide while you were on the road was, I am sure, poor compared with the magnificence of the Moghuls of which I, in turn, have heard.’

  Humayun looked sharply at his host. Tahmasp knew very well there had been nothing magnificent about his flight to Persia. Had there been a barb in those flattering words? Conscious of the thousands of watching eyes – eyes that would see what he was about to do – Humayun made a sudden decision. He must show them that he had not come to Persia a beggar. He would make a gesture so splendid that even in fabulous Persia it would be spoken of down the ages – a gesture so unmatchable that it would place Persia’s ruler in his debt.

  ‘Shah Tahmasp, I have brought you a gift from Hindustan.’ Reaching inside the neck of his robe, Humayun pulled out the flowered silk pouch in whi
ch, through all the hard and hazardous times, he had kept his greatest treasure close to his heart. Slowly, deliberately, Humayun extracted the Koh-i-Nur and raised it high in the air to catch the sunlight. It shone bright as a star and Humayun heard Shah Tahmasp gasp.

  ‘Had I not been on the road so long, I might have found something yet more worthy of you. But I hope this bauble pleases you. It is named the Koh-i-Nur, the Mountain of Light. May its light shine on you, Shah Tahmasp, and on our enduring friendship.’

  Chapter 16

  Kandahar

  ‘That you turned to me in your distress touched my heart.The world will see that when the Moghul emperor sought my help, I answered him. I will give you an army and one of my best generals so that you may reclaim what has been taken from you.’ Shah Tahmasp clasped Humayun by the shoulder. ‘As our fathers were once allies, so we will be . . .’ They were sitting on silk cushions on a marble platform constructed over the intersection of two water channels flowing north to south and east to west through the shah’s private gardens.The four quarters of the garden created by the channels were planted with fruit trees – quince, cherry, apple, apricot, peach and the shah’s favourite, apple trees – on whose branches small golden fruit were already forming. Songbirds with jewelled collars hopped among the branches.

  When Tahmasp had summoned him to this audience in what the shah called his ‘paradise garden’, Humayun had allowed himself to hope. But the shah’s offer went beyond anything he’d anticipated. The sacrifice of the Koh-i-Nur had been worth it and he struggled to control his elation. ‘You are gracious,’ he replied. ‘With your men fighting beside mine, I have no doubt of victory . . .’

  ‘You may wonder why I am so ready to assist you. It is not just out of sentiment. I have many reasons. Treachery within royal dynasties such as ours is dangerous. You were not the only Moghul to write to me.Your half-brother Kamran also sent me a message – that you were fleeing into Persia, that if I imprisoned you he would give me many things – gold, gemstones and even the city of Kandahar.’ Tahmasp’s black eyes glittered. ‘He sought to bargain with me as if I were a merchant in the bazaar. His arrogance angered me. But more than that, I asked myself, how can I trust a prince eager to shed his own brother’s blood? If I wished I could squash him like a fly but I prefer to help you do so.’

  He leaned forward. ‘I have little interest in expanding my lands eastwards. What I want is stability on my borders as there was in your father’s day. While Babur – may his soul rest in Paradise – ruled, he kept the tribes – the Pashais, Kafirs and others – in check. Persia’s merchants travelled safely without let or hindrance all the way from Meshed, Isfahan and Shiraz to Kashgar beyond the mountains of Ferghana. But since your half-brother seized Kabul there has been anarchy and my people are suffering. With my help you can restore order.’

  As the shah was talking, Humayun recalled Darya’s account of how Kamran had used gold plundered from Persian merchants to raise and fund the army with which he had taken Kabul and wondered whether Tahmasp knew of this.

  ‘Winter comes early to my homelands, and gracious as is your hospitality I am eager to begin the campaign as soon as possible. I would like to move first against Kandahar and then on to Kabul before the first snows. When do you think your troops might be ready to accompany me?’

  ‘I began assembling a force weeks before you reached Kazvin. I can give you ten thousand men, including mounted archers, musketeers, and artillerymen as well as cavalry. They – and their commander Rustum Beg – can be ready with their cannon, other weapons and baggage train in two weeks’ time. Do the ladies of your family wish to remain here in Kazvin? My sister will take great care of them.’

  Humayun shook his head.‘Danger and hardship are nothing to them.They will want to go with me. My wife is tormented by anxiety over the fate of our son. If she had her way we would leave today.’

  ‘Her feelings do her honour as a mother and as an empress. I’ve heard much of the courage of Moghul women. My father held your aunt Khanzada Begam in high esteem.’

  ‘She had reason to be very grateful to Shah Ismail . . . ’

  Tahmasp acknowledged the compliment with a graceful gesture of his bejewelled hand. ‘But before we speak further of going to war, there is something I must ask you. You are a true believer but it grieves me that you follow the Sunni path and not that of the Shias, like myself. Show me that you are indeed my brother, that the bonds between us are as strong as those of blood. Embrace the Shia sect so that you and I can worship side by side to ask God’s blessing for our enterprise.’Tahmasp’s dark eyes, fixed on Humayun’s face, were fervent and glowing.

  Humayun struggled to contain his surprise and dismay. Tahmasp had chosen his moment well – offering Humayun everything he could wish for before making his demand. It was easier to deal with a man hungry for the material things of life – lands and gold, Humayun reflected. Such a man was usually prepared to compromise. A man hungry for another’s soul was not. He must be very careful how he handled Tahmasp.

  ‘You seek this only of me, not of my commanders and my men?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Only of you, but of course where an emperor leads, others often wish to follow.’

  ‘I must think over what you have said.’

  ‘Do not take too long, my brother. As you yourself said, you wish to campaign before the winter snows become an extra enemy . . . ’ Shah Tahmasp rose from the silk cushions and summoning his guards, who had been waiting at a discreet distance while the two rulers talked, stepped down from the platform and walked away through the garden, pausing to examine the crimson blooms on a rose bush.

  Humayun went straight to Hamida. As he entered her apartments, her hopeful, expectant expression made him feel his predicament even more keenly.

  ‘What did he say? Will he help us?’ she asked, as soon as they were alone.

  ‘The shah is no friend to Kamran and will give me an army to defeat him, but there is a price . . . ’

  ‘What price? He has the Koh-i-Nur. What more do we have to give?’

  ‘He wants me to become a Shia Muslim . . . ’

  ‘Is that all?’ Hamida came closer and took his face between her hands.

  ‘It’s a great deal. Shah Ismail tried to force my father Babur to become a Shia – it nearly cost him his life and it certainly cost him Samarkand. Our people hated him for it – they turned to Shaibani Khan, preferring to be ruled by a murderous Sunni Uzbek than a Timurid prince they suspected of converting to Shiism . . . ’

  Hamida released him and stared up at him incredulously. ‘But those were different times. We’re not in Samarkand now. Most important, we have lost our son. We must do everything in our power to save him . . . it is our duty . . . our sacred duty above anything else.You must accept this, just as I accepted your arguments not to pursue Kamran when he took Akbar.’

  ‘But this explains why Shah Tahmasp was so welcoming . . . this is what he really wants . . . to convert the Moghuls to Shiism. I saw it in his face as he spoke to me . . . ’

  ‘Are you sure he doesn’t just want you to convert as some kind of token recognition of his authority?’

  ‘I don’t think even his mind is subtle enough for that. And don’t you see? That would be even more repugnant. You don’t understand how it would affect my troops.’

  ‘No, you are the one who doesn’t understand. Swallow your pride, if not for my sake then for our son’s!’

  ‘My pride is one of the few things left to me and you ask me to sacrifice it?’

  ‘You have no choice. Our situation is too perilous to be over-scrupulous. Go through the outward ceremonies. Think what you will in your heart.True pride is internal, not external. Remember how much outward pride it must have cost your father to surrender Khanzada to Shaibani Khan, but he kept his inner spirit strong.’

  Humayun said nothing and Hamida continued more softly, ‘In any case, don’t Shias and Sunnis worship the same God? Their divisions are of human not d
ivine manufacture. They stem from quarrels in the Prophet’s family, just like those that have split your own . . . ’

  Humayun bowed his head. She was right, he didn’t have a choice if he wanted to regain his throne and recover his son. His decision was made. Whatever his commanders and their men might think, at least temporarily he must don the crimson silk taj of the Shia monarch and kneel at Shah Tahmasp’s side in the mosque to call down God’s blessing on his campaign. Sunni or Shia, his cause was just and God – the one God – would still be on his side . . .

  They were making good progress, Humayun thought with satisfaction – much swifter than on the journey to Kazvin that had been at the stately pace dictated by the shah. Ahead of Humayun rode the Persian archers and musketeers and directly behind him were Hamida and Gulbadan and their women in their wagons, surrounded by his bodyguard. Next came the rest of his soldiers, then the baggage train including the cannon loaded on bullock carts and finally the Persian cavalry, the tips of their spears – broader-bladed than Moghul ones but no less sharp – catching the early morning sun.

  Zahid Beg was to Humayun’s left but at his right shoulder was Rustum Beg, the Persian commander. He was a thin-faced, delicate-boned elderly man, a cousin of the shah’s, fond of quoting from the Persian poets to Humayun’s war council but content to leave the day-to-day command of his force to his deputy, Bairam Khan. The latter was still quite young – no more than about thirty-four or five – but his thick-set build and the scar at the right corner of his mouth made him look older. His eyes were an unusual colour for a Persian – deep, almost indigo blue – and his long dark hair protruded in a plait from beneath a pointed steel helmet hung with chain mail to protect the neck and the sides of the face and surmounted by a peacock feather.

  In the first days after leaving Kazvin, Bairam Khan had spoken little, beyond responding to Humayun’s questions. However, as the weeks passed he had become more expansive. Everything he said was well considered and he listened to Humayun’s commanders with courtesy and tact. That was good. Had Rustum Beg pushed himself forward more and had Bairam Khan been over-haughty, it might have caused dissension between Humayun’s men and the far more numerous Persians. As it was, they co-existed well. Humayun was also relieved that his men seemed to have accepted his conversion to Shiism as the pragmatic decision it was. They had watched the public ceremony at which the shah himself had placed the scarlet taj on his head without protest, understanding, as he did, that it was necessary to secure the future of them all.