Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘Majesty, they’ve made a breach in the citadel wall.’ Zainab shook Humayun awake as he lay next to Hamida. ‘Bairam Khan is outside.’ As he struggled to consciousness, Humayun could not help feeling a sudden rush of joy. Now surely Kabul would be his and Akbar would be rescued. He dressed himself quickly and carelessly and stumbled outside into the night cold. ‘Where is the breach, Bairam Khan?’

  ‘To the right of the gate where you suggested that the wall was weakest.’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Not large but big enough, I think, if we act now. I’ve given orders already to our musketeers and archers as well as to our artillerymen to keep up a heavy fire to dissuade the defenders from attempting to repair it. Dawn is in an hour and a half and I can have a force ready to attack then if you give the order.’

  ‘Do it.’

  Low dark clouds obscured the winter sun and a bitter wind was blowing as the day dawned and Humayun, now dressed for battle, spoke to the assault force gathered around him at the bottom of the ramp leading up to the citadel.

  ‘I know the bravery and loyalty of each man here and am proud to go into battle with you. It is a bitter thing to have to fight against one’s own blood, but not content with usurping my throne my treacherous half-brother Kamran has betrayed every code of kinship and honour by stealing my son, an innocent child. In doing so he sullies the proud honour of the Moghuls. But together we can wipe clean the insult and punish the usurper. No more words – to battle!’

  Humayun charged forward at the head of his men with Bairam Khan at his side. Both were breathing hard as, sometimes skidding on patches of ice, they ran as best they could up the frozen ramp through the white cannon smoke towards the citadel’s gate. The sound of his own musket and cannon shot was partly deafening him but through a gap in the smoke Humayun saw there was indeed a jagged breach in the right-hand wall by the gate. His spirits soared. Then, to his surprise, he realised there was scarcely any return fire from the walls of the citadel.

  Suddenly, as he watched, he saw through another gap in the billowing smoke some sort of activity on the battlements directly above the gateway. Was Kamran preparing to surrender? He could scarcely believe it. He shouted to his gunners and musketeers to cease fire, then moved forward again to get a better look. As the acrid smoke began to clear, he saw that Kamran’s soldiers were erecting what looked like a wooden stake on the battlements. Then more soldiers appeared, pushing in front of them a tall figure with long, flowing hair silhouetted against the grey dawn sky. Humayun ran closer until he could see that the figure was a woman and that she was holding something in her arms. Something that wriggled and writhed – a child.

  The blood in Humayun’s veins ceased to flow. He watched like a man in a trance as the soldiers bound the woman to the stake, wrapping what looked like a length of rope or chain around her body but leaving her arms free to continue clutching her living burden. That burden, Humayun knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, was his son, held in the arms of his wet-nurse Maham Anga.

  A great cry tore from him. ‘No!’ By now, Zahid Beg and Bairam Khan were by his side, staring as he was at the sight of the woman and child exposed on the walls, living targets of flesh and blood.Wrenching his gaze away at last, Humayun put his head in his hands. Once again he’d underestimated his half-brother. This was what Kamran’s response had meant – continue your attack and you will be your son’s assassin.

  ‘Bairam Khan, call off the bombardment. I cannot risk my son . . . Zahid Beg, post strong enough detachments to keep the city and the citadel under siege but recall the assault troops to the camp.’

  As kettledrums and trumpets sounded and his forces began to pull back across the snow-covered plain to their tents, Humayun turned and without a further word to anyone – neither his commanders nor his bodyguard – made his slow way back. Though the sun was breaking through now, thin, pale shafts lightening the sky, his own world had never seemed so lost in shadow. How was he going to bring his campaign to a successful conclusion? What was he going to say to Hamida?

  Chapter 18

  A Visitor in the Night

  ‘Rustum Beg, I don’t understand.Howcan you speak of leaving?’

  ‘Majesty, my cousin Shah Tahmasp, the Lord of the World, gave me explicit orders before we left Kazvin that if your campaign faltered – if after six months it seemed to me unlikely that you would succeed – I must lead his troops home. I have been patient but now that time has come. It’s over six months since we rode from Persia . . . two months since we ceased the bombardment and began this fruitless siege of Kabul. My men are suffering in the bitter cold and harsh conditions, and to what end? The town and the citadel are well provisioned – your brother’s soldiers taunt us from the walls, offering us food . . . I am sorry, Majesty, but I have no choice. The shah can find better employment for his troops elsewhere . . . ’ Rustum Beg raised his hands, palm up, as if he personally regretted a situation that was beyond his control. But during the past half-hour since he had asked for a private audience with Humayun, though courteous as ever, he had conceded nothing.

  By now shock and surprise had given way in Humayun to an anger he was struggling to contain. ‘As I’ve told you, Shah Tahmasp said nothing to me about deadlines or timescales. He called himself my brother and offered me his help to reclaim not only my ancestral homelands but also the throne of Hindustan . . . He understood it would take time. We spoke of it together . . . ’

  ‘I’m sorry, Majesty. If I don’t take my troops back to Persia I will be disobeying my orders. That I cannot do.’

  ‘Well, when you reach Kazvin tell your cousin this – that I will continue the fight and however long it takes I will crush my enemies so completely they never rise again. And when I once more sit on my throne in Agra I will have the satisfaction of knowing that the glory of the achievement belongs to the Moghuls and the Moghuls alone.’

  Rustum Beg’s face remained impassive.

  ‘When will you leave?’

  ‘In three or four days, Majesty, as soon as my men are ready. I will leave you the cannon. They were the shah’s gift to you.’

  If Rustum Beg expected his gratitude he would be disappointed, Humayun thought as he rose to his feet to indicate the interview was over. ‘I wish you and your men a safe passage back through the mountains. Tell the shah that I thank him for the assistance he gave me and only regret that it proved so short-lived.’

  ‘I will, Majesty. And may fortune one day shine on you again.’

  After Rustum Beg had left, Humayun sat for a while alone. The Persian commander’s announcement had come without warning. He needed time to think it through and fathom a way forward. At least his own men nearly matched the Persians in numbers now and these were their own lands they were fighting in. They were hardened to the conditions and would not be deterred by snow, ice and the bitter winds that buffeted the encampment, exposed as it was on the plains. Almost as much as the loss of the Persian forces, what galled Humayun was Rustum Beg’s dismissive assessment of his chances. Since the first day of the siege, Humayun had never allowed himself to lose heart, hoping each day to find a way of breaking his enemy . . . of detecting some weakness in Kamran’s position. And even if such a breakthrough didn’t come, he need only have patience – inevitably Kamran’s supplies would run out.

  Sometimes, of course, it took as much fortitude to be patient as to ride into battle. The memory of his infant son on the battlements was all that was preventing Humayun from assaulting the citadel with everything he had. Perhaps Rustum Beg had interpreted his feelings for his son – his unwillingness to call Kamran’s bluff – as weakness. Well, so be it. If he must, he would – just as he had told Rustum Beg – fight on alone.

  Through the tent flap that still hung partially open, Humayun saw the wintry light was fading. Soon he would summon his commanders to tell them what had happened. They might be glad to see the Persians gone.The camaraderie that had existed in the early days when Humayun led his forces out of P
ersia had ebbed as more and more of the clans around Kabul had come to swell his numbers. Only three days ago, Zahid Beg had told him of a violent incident between his men and the Persians. A Tajik chieftain, believing some Persian soldiers had stolen some of his stores, had called them Shiite dogs. In the ensuing brawl, one of the Tajik’s men had been stabbed in the cheek and a Persian badly burned on one side of his body when he was thrown against a brazier of blazing logs. Perhaps it was better that the Kizilbashi – the ‘Red-heads’, as Humayun’s men called the Persians for their conical red caps with strips of scarlet cloth hanging down behind to proclaim their Shiite faith – should depart. He himself would immediately renounce his token adherence to the Shia sect. That too would hearten his men.

  The sound of voices outside his command tent interrupted Humayun’s thoughts. Then the tent flap was pushed back and Jauhar ducked inside. ‘Majesty, Bairam Khan asks to see you.’

  ‘Very well.’

  As Bairam Khan entered Humayun noticed that the scar on his neck was pink and puckered and still very new-looking. He was a good fighter and a clever tactician. Though Rustum Beg was overall commander of the Persian forces, it had been obvious to Humayun almost from the start that Bairam Khan was their true leader and general. He would be sorry to lose him.

  ‘What is it, Bairam Khan?’

  Bairam Khan hesitated, as if what he wished to say wasn’t easy. Then, fixing his indigo eyes on Humayun’s face, he began. ‘I know what Rustum Beg has told you . . . I am sorry.’

  ‘No blame attaches to you. What I am sorry for is that I will lose you—’

  ‘Majesty,’ the usually courteous Bairam Khan broke in, ‘hear me out. When we were attacked in the defile on the way to Kabul, you saved me. Never in all the battles I have fought had I felt death so close . . . in my mind’s eye I already saw my grave dug in that lonely place. But you gave my life back to me. I have come to ask you to let me repay you.’

  ‘There is no debt, Bairam Khan. I only did what any man on the battlefield would do when he sees a comrade – a friend – in danger.’

  ‘I do not wish to return to Persia with Rustum Beg but to remain with you and do all in my power to further your cause. Will you take me into your service?’

  Humayun rose, and stepping forward gripped Bairam Khan’s arm. ‘There is no man in the entire Persian army I would rather have fighting by my side . . . ’

  ‘Majesties . . . Majesties . . . wake up.’ Someone was gently shaking his shoulder . . . or was it just a dream? Humayun moved closer to the soft warmth of Hamida’s body lying close beside him. But the shaking grew more insistent. Humayun opened his eyes to see Zainab, an oil lamp in her hand, standing over them. In the flickering light, he saw she looked excited, the birthmark on her face seeming more pronounced than usual.

  ‘What is it?’ Beside him, Hamida opened sleepy eyes.

  ‘Half an hour ago a man tried to ride into the camp. When the pickets challenged him, he would not say who he was but asked to be taken to Zahid Beg. After talking to him, Zahid Beg, knowing you were with Her Majesty in the women’s tents, sent for me and asked me to summon you.’

  ‘Why the urgency? Can’t it wait till sunrise?’

  ‘Zahid Beg told me nothing . . . only to ask that you come at once . . . ’

  ‘Very well.’ Humayun rose and wrapping a long, sheepskin-lined coat around him stepped out into the chilling wind. Who could it be? Perhaps Kamran had sent a messenger, though why he should do so by dead of night was a mystery. By the light of a brazier of glowing charcoals, he saw Zahid Beg standing beside a tall, square-shouldered man wearing a dark cloak with the hood pulled forward concealing his face. Could it be an assassin sent by Kamran . . . or even by the Shah of Persia?

  ‘Is he armed, Zahid Beg?’

  ‘No, Majesty. He volunteered to let us search him.’

  As Humayun drew closer, the man pushed the hood back with a slow, deliberate gesture. Even in the shadowy light from the brazier, Humayun knew at once that it was Hindal, thick-set face now heavily bearded but still unmistakably his half-brother. For a moment, the two of them stared at one another in silence. Despite all that had happened since, memories of Hindal were suddenly vivid again in Humayun’s mind – of Hindal as a baby in Maham’s arms, of how he had taught his younger brother to ride his first pony, of Hindal’s joy when he had shot his first rabbit; then later memories of the look on Hindal’s face at the time of his rebellion, of how he had loyally accompanied Humayun on his first journey as an exile to Mirza Husain and Maldeo; then above all of their last meeting – how they had pounded each other with their fists over Hamida and how, after spitting at Humayun’s feet, a bleeding, bruised but still defiant Hindal had ridden away.

  ‘Leave us, please, and make sure no one disturbs us.’ Humayun waited until Zahid Beg had disappeared into the darkness, all the while looking hard at Hindal, then asked, ‘Why have you come here? And why alone, placing yourself in my power like this?’

  ‘For some months – since escaping from Kamran – I have been taking refuge with my remaining loyal friends in the high hills of Jagish, northeast of Kabul. But news travels even to such remote regions. I learned what Kamran had done – how he had exposed Akbar on the battlements of the Kabul citadel as your cannon pounded its walls. His actions shocked me – they defy everything noble in our warrior code and stain our family’s honour.’

  ‘Fine sentiments, but you still haven’t answered my question. Let us be frank with one another. Why have you come?’

  ‘To help get Akbar back.’

  Humayun was so astonished that for a few moments he could only stare at the massive figure of his half-brother, calmly warming his large hands over the brazier.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Hindal filled the silence. ‘You are asking yourself why I should wish to help you. It’s simple. Despite the blood ties that will bind us till death, you and I will never be reconciled. That won’t change. I have come here tonight for Hamida and Hamida alone . . . to help relieve her agony by offering to bring her child back to her . . . She must be suffering . . . ’

  Humayun shifted uneasily, uncomfortable about talking to Hindal about Hamida at all and even more so to be talking to him about how he had failed her by being unable to recover her son.

  ‘If you have truly come with thoughts of easing Hamida’s grief, I am grateful to you.’ He paused again, then made up his mind to swallow his pride. ‘To be honest as I said we should be, she has known no true rest or peace of mind since Akbar was taken . . . But when you speak of help, what do you mean? I have been besieging the citadel for nearly four months with no success. What do you think you can do alone that I can’t with my army?’

  ‘I can win Kamran’s confidence and get into the citadel. Once inside, I can find a way of rescuing Akbar.’

  ‘How? Why should Kamran trust you any more than me?’

  ‘I can do it because I understand him, because I know his weaknesses. He despises you and believes he is the natural head of our family. I will use his conceit, his vanity, to convince him that I have come to my senses and wish to be his ally again . . . to reunite the rest of Babur’s sons behind him against you. But it all depends on creating an illusion . . . ’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You must raise the siege and make it appear you are leading your forces away from Kabul. That will leave the way clear for me to bring my own men down from the hills and offer Kamran an alliance . . . ’

  ‘You are suggesting I abandon the siege after so many weeks, just when I might at last be tightening the screw on Kamran?’

  ‘You must. My plan can’t work if you are still encamped anywhere near Kabul. Kamran must believe you’ve given up.’

  ‘You ask too much. For all I know you’ve already made your peace with Kamran and he’s sent you here to try and trick me.’

  ‘I am ready to swear on our father’s memory that this is no subterfuge . . . ’ Hindal’s tawny eyes returned Humayun’s gaze unflin
chingly.

  ‘Very well – assuming I do as you suggest, what happens then?’

  ‘Kamran will think he’s got the better of you. In his elation he will be all the more ready to accept my story – that since not even you have been able to overcome him, I am ready to acknowledge and serve him as our father’s true heir.’

  ‘You really think he will believe you?’

  ‘Don’t underestimate his conceit. After all, why shouldn’t he believe me? Why shouldn’t I wish to exchange the life of a renegade in the hills for a share of the reflected glory of a Moghul prince whose star is rising as yours wanes? And he will be glad of the extra men I can bring him. Then once inside the citadel I will find a way of smuggling Akbar out of Kabul . . . but it will take time. Not only must I win Kamran’s trust but I must also find the right opportunity . . . ’

  ‘What about Kamran’s mother Gulrukh? She’s as shrewd as – probably shrewder than – her son. If she is with him she won’t be easy to deceive.’

  Hindal looked surprised. ‘Gulrukh’s dead.The bullock cart in which she was travelling from Kandahar to Kabul fell into a ravine. I thought you would have heard.’

  ‘No.’ Humayun digested the news. He could feel little sorrow for the woman who had tempted him with her potions of opium and wine to further her sons’ ambitions. ‘Even so, you would be putting yourself at great risk. Just assuming you succeeded, what would you want from me?’

  ‘Nothing. You have taken everything I wanted and you cannot give it back . . . ’

  For a moment they looked at one another in silence. Now that he was face to face with Hindal again, Humayun realised how much he wanted to say – about his guilt, his regret at having wounded him. But his half-brother wouldn’t believe him and anyway nothing could alter the facts – Humayun loved Hamida with a passion he’d never known for any other woman. If he had his time again, he would be just as ruthless in his determination to have her.