Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  He must be patient, Humayun thought, swaying a little in the saddle, just as he had forced himself to be while waiting for news of Hindal’s rescue of Akbar. But it was hard knowing Kamran was so close. Sometimes it was all Humayun could do not to gallop up the ramp to the citadel and challenge his brother to single combat. Not that Kamran would ever agree – all Humayun would get would be an arrow in the throat.

  Behind him, the cannon began to boom once more.Turning his head painfully Humayun looked back at the citadel. Not for the first time, the fear that Kamran was no longer there seized him. Suppose there was a secret route from the citadel down through the rocks and away. He hadn’t known of any in his youth but it was always possible Kamran had located one and fled, leaving others to defend the fortress on his behalf.

  He could wait no longer. He would talk to his commanders about storming the citadel. It would be costly in lives but with their overwhelming numbers the outcome would surely not be in doubt. Glancing down, he noticed that the ground beneath his horse’s hooves was spongy with moisture from the melting snow. Every day the patches of bare ground were growing bigger. At least the seasons were on his side . . .

  ‘Nadim Khwaja is wounded. He and his men are being shot down by the musketeers and archers on the battlements even before they can get their scaling ladders into position against the walls,’ shouted Bairam Khan to Humayun when the attack on the citadel had been under way for half an hour. ‘I’ll rush as many musketeers as I can to try to pick off the defenders as they expose themselves by firing at our men.’

  ‘Order the artillerymen to redouble their fire. The smoke from their cannon will at least give some cover,’ Humayun commanded. As he watched, some of the defenders fell back from the wall behind its deeply crenellated battlements, seemingly wounded. At least two others pitched head first over them to smash on the rocks below, but the defenders’ fire did not slacken and more and more of Humayun’s men were falling. ‘Sound the retreat, Bairam Khan,’ Humayun ordered. ‘We are making little progress and we cannot afford to lose so many good men.’

  Soon those of Humayun’s soldiers who had survived the attack began making their way past his command position, some limping, others bleeding from bandaged wounds. As a litter was carried past by two men, Humayun heard the man on it scream in pain like an animal and saw that his right arm and shoulder had been burned by pitch poured on to the attackers from the battlements. As Humayun looked, his body kicked and twisted and suddenly he was still, free of his torment for ever. Almost the last to pass Humayun and Bairam Khan was Nadim Khwaja, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from his thigh as he lay on a rough stretcher made of branches and jute cloth. But Nadim Khwaja said, ‘It’s nothing, Majesty, only a flesh wound. I’ll live to serve again.’

  It was good he had such loyal supporters, but could he count on the rest of his troops to be ready to take more casualties? He had promised them rewards on victory but that would only mean something to them if they believed they would be victorious in the end. How could he take Kabul? How could he capture Kamran? For the first time he felt truly at a loss.

  ‘What should our next move be, Bairam Khan? I know I can trust you to tell the truth.’

  ‘A frontal attack was as I think we both know a mistake – a mistake born out of frustration. We must once more be patient and keep the siege tight. We can and should send our men out for more supplies but Kamran and his troops cannot.They have no hope of relief.Their morale will decay before ours if we hold our nerve.’

  ‘Wise advice. Give the necessary orders to reinforce the siege.’

  As he approached one of the picket posts around the perimeter of the camp on a tour of inspection, Humayun heard angry voices. Probably another squabble about ownership of a sheep or a goat, he thought without much interest. As he drew nearer, he saw the cause of the shouting. A man with a stubbly shaved head was standing dagger in hand amidst six of Humayun’s soldiers, who had drawn their swords.

  Humayun reined in his horse. ‘What’s going on?’

  Recognising him, the soldiers at once touched their hands to their breasts. Humayun saw the man’s eyes flicker over his horse’s enamelled gold bridle and the jewelled clasps on his sheepskin coat, assessing who he might be.

  ‘I am the emperor. Who are you and why are you causing trouble here?’

  The man looked startled but recovered himself.‘I am Javed, a Ghilzai. I didn’t start it.Your soldiers thought I was a spy . . . ’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No. I came to your camp openly. I have information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That depends on the price.’

  At Javed’s insolent words, a soldier stepped forward and jabbing him in the small of his back with a spear butt pushed him to the ground. ‘On your knees before the emperor. Show some respect . . . ’

  Humayun let the man lie for a moment on the dank ground before saying, ‘Get up.’ Javed scrambled to his feet and for the first time looked a little nervous.

  ‘I repeat my question. What information do you have? I – not you – will decide whether it’s worth paying for. If you don’t tell me, my men will force it from you.’

  Javed hesitated. Was he simple-minded, Humayun wondered? Only an idiot would ride into a military camp and then seek to bargain with an emperor. But Javed seemed to have made his decision. ‘There’s sickness in the town. Some two or three hundred have already died and more bodies are piling up in the bazaars . . . ’

  ‘When did this start?’

  ‘A few days ago.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘From my brother who is inside the town. He and I are horse and mule dealers. As we do every year, we came to Kabul to sell our animals to the merchants who need them to transport goods when the snows recede and the caravans begin. I was tending our beasts in the hills when the commander of the Kabul garrison ordered the gates to be closed against your advancing army. My brother – who was transacting business in one of the caravanserais – was trapped. Over the weeks since the siege began I of course heard nothing from him. But my hunting dog was with him. Three nights ago it returned to my encampment in the hills, a message tied to its collar. My brother must have found a way to lower the dog over the city walls, though not without injury – one of its sides was badly grazed and bleeding and it was lame in one paw. Nevertheless, it managed to find me.’

  ‘What else did the message say? Why did you think this would be of interest to me?

  The cunning returned to Javed’s face. ‘My brother writes of panic and fear in the town. He says the citizens want the siege to end so they can escape the city and its pestilence. He believes the people may even rise up against the garrison and throw open the gates to you.’

  ‘Show me this message.’

  Javed bent and reaching down inside his boot produced a much-folded piece of paper which he handed to Humayun. Humayun unwrapped it and scrutinised the dense lines of badly written Turki. They confirmed everything Javed had said. The last words read: The disease comes without warning, striking down even the young and healthy. First comes a high fever and vomiting, next uncontrollable diarrhoea, then delirium and death. Every day the stinking piles of bodies grow higher. We are in a trap from which there is no escape. We talk of killing the garrison while we still have strength and opening the gates but perhaps we will not have to. The soldiers are also dying. They too know that unless the siege is lifted or God shows us his mercy, many more will die. But God has turned his face away. What have we done to anger him? I hope this note reaches you, brother, because we may not meet again.

  As Humayun took in the full import of those words, his pulse quickened.This could be the opportunity he was seeking – yet could he trust Javed? He might even be an agent of Kamran. Humayun kept his voice calm and cold. ‘You seem more interested in personal gain than in your brother’s well-being, but if this information is true you will be rewarded. If it is false I will have you killed.’ Humayun turned to his
soldiers. ‘Keep him closely confined.’

  As Javed was led away, Humayun kicked his horse on again and making for his command tent in the centre of the camp allowed himself a smile. If what the message said was indeed the truth, Kabul might soon be his, but only if he knew how to exploit the information to maximum effect.

  ‘Majesty, the citizens of Kabul have sent an envoy. Half an hour ago, the gates opened and a bullock cart carrying an old man came trundling out towards our lines. He is waving some sort of rag as a sign he wishes to speak to us.’

  So it had taken only three days. Immediately after receiving Javed’s intelligence, Humayun had strengthened the ring of troops he had placed noose-like around the city. He had also withdrawn some of his cannon from the assault on the citadel and, placing them behind makeshift barricades for protection, had ordered his gunners to fire at the city walls to further demoralise the inhabitants and the garrison. Apart from a few half-hearted return salvos on the first day, the guns on the battlements had remained silent and there’d been few signs of defenders on the city walls.

  ‘Bring the envoy to me.’

  As he waited outside his tent, Humayun felt the warm sun of an early spring morning on his face. It felt good. So did his growing conviction that victory was almost close enough to reach out and touch. He must not allow it to elude his grasp.

  The envoy was indeed old – so ancient in fact that he couldn’t walk without the help of a tall, polished wood staff. Reaching Humayun, he attempted to bow low but couldn’t. ‘Forgive me, Majesty, it isn’t lack of respect that prevents me, only my old bones . . . But I have escaped the sickness. That is why I was chosen as the city’s messenger.’

  ‘Fetch him a stool.’ Humayun waited as the old man lowered himself painfully down, then asked, ‘What is your message to me?’

  ‘Many in our city are dying. We do not know the cause – perhaps our water supply became tainted when the soldiers tried to poison the wells and springs outside – but it is especially the young who are suffering. Many mothers in Kabul have reason to mourn a loss. We are all weary of conflict – even the garrison on whose behalf I also speak. We wish for an end to the siege so that those who want can leave the city.’

  ‘I will accept nothing less than total surrender.’

  ‘That is what I told them you would say. Majesty, don’t you remember me . . . ?’

  Humayun stared at his old face, wrinkled as an apricot left to dry in the sun. Something was familiar.

  ‘I am Yusuf, eldest nephew of Wali Gul who was once your father’s treasurer. I remember you and your brother Kamran as boys . . . It is sad that it should have come to this between you . . . it is also hard that ordinary people should suffer because of the ambitions of princes. I have always known that you – the son most beloved by Babur – were the rightful King of Kabul. But men are fickle and these days seem to care more for expedience than honour. When they believed Kamran would defeat you, they gave their allegiance to him.’

  ‘That is why the citizens must submit to me unconditionally. Go back and tell them that if every man – the soldiers of the garrison as well as the ordinary people – lays down his arms I will spare their lives. I want all the weapons from cannon and muskets to swords and bows brought out and piled before the gates. The people themselves cannot leave – not until the disease has run its course. I’ll not put my own men at risk. But I will send in hakims and supplies of fresh food and water . . . What will be their answer?’

  Yusuf’s dark brown eyes looked close to tears. ‘They will bless you for your mercy, Majesty.’

  Slowly Yusuf rose and leaning heavily on his staff made his way back to the bullock cart and climbed in. Soon the cart was on its way back towards the city, whose gates swung open to receive it. Would they open as easily in response to his terms, Humayun wondered, as he paced back and forth in front of his tent, feeling too tense to answer Jauhar’s summons to the midday meal. An hour passed, and then another. Then a noise arose within the walls of the city, faint at first but quickly growing in intensity . . . the sound of thousands of voices cheering. It could only mean that the citizens had decided to surrender.

  Minutes later, the gates were pulled wide open and a number of bullock carts emerged. When they had gone only halfway into the no-man’s-land between the town walls and his encircling forces, they stopped and the drivers and the men sitting beside them began to throw the contents – weapons of all sorts and bows, muskets glinting in the sunlight – unceremoniously down to form rough heaps on the earth.

  Humayun smiled. He had judged the surrender terms correctly. The city was his but his task was not even half complete. Kamran’s troops still occupied the citadel. Humayun knew that if his half-brother was still with them he would be watching the city’s surrender. How would he react now?

  The answer was not long in coming. From the battlements Kamran’s men fired volleys of arrows towards Humayun’s cannon positions. They were accompanied by the discharge of small cannon Kamran had positioned on the citadel walls. Then Humayun heard the drums above the citadel gates boom and trumpets blare and saw the gates inch slowly open. Was Kamran about to surrender? No. Suddenly Humayun saw soldiers wielding long whips drive a dozen or so skinny oxen with bundles of burning straw tied on to their backs through the gates and down the ramp towards Humayun’s positions. Terrified, the animals charged onwards like living torches.‘Shoot them down before they burn the artillerymen’s tents or set alight their powder stores,’ yelled Humayun.

  Soon eleven of the oxen lay on the ramp, arrows protruding from their corpses. Only one in its pain-maddened charge had reached Humayun’s position and it had been despatched before it could do any serious damage. However, three of Humayun’s archers had been badly wounded, shot down from the battlements of the citadel as they left cover to fire on the oxen.

  This response convinced Humayun as could nothing else that Kamran had not fled as he had feared but was still within the citadel. It was so typical of him. When they were young, Kamran had always taken any defeat in play or in sport hard, as a child sticking his tongue out at Humayun and balling his fists and, when they were youths, crying ‘foul’ and promising all would be different at their next encounter. In those days, Humayun had laughingly ignored Kamran and his gestures and thus increased his half-brother’s rage. Now, though, he would test Kamran’s resolve and, even more important, that of his confederates. After some minutes’ thought, Humayun sat down to compose a letter to Kamran, then sent for Jauhar.

  ‘I wish you to ride to the citadel with this ultimatum for my brother. I will read it to you so you know what words you carry. They are few and they are blunt. “Our sister Gulbadan tried to appeal to your sense of family honour, of duty. You wouldn’t listen. Instead to your everlasting shame you threatened the life of a child – your own nephew. The town of Kabul has fallen to me and your position is without hope so I offer you this choice, out of concern not for you but for those who follow you. Surrender the citadel and I swear that I will spare your men. Your own fate, however, will be for me to decide and I can give you no promises. If you will not surrender, I will turn my full might against you. However long it takes, my men will pound your walls to dust and once inside kill every man in the citadel without quarter. You have until sunset to give me your answer. If it is no, I will have archers fire arrows containing this message within your walls under cover of night so that your followers can see how cheap you hold their lives.”’

  In fact, Jauhar had barely been back from the citadel an hour and the sun was still a spear’s length above the horizon when, from where he was standing on the perimeter of the camp talking to Ahmed Khan, Humayun saw a rider slowly descend the steep ramp from the citadel and then set out across the plain towards them.As the man drew nearer, Humayun saw a flag of truce fluttering from the tip of his spear. The minutes seemed to pass impossibly slowly as Humayun waited but at last the rider was just a few yards away – a young man in chain mail, with a falcon’s plume in
his helmet and a sombre expression. Reining in his horse, he dismounted and raised his arms from his sides to show he wasn’t armed.

  ‘Approach,’ Humayun said.

  When he was some ten paces from Humayun, the young man fell to the ground in the full obeisance of the korunush. Then, getting to his feet, he spoke. ‘Majesty. The message I bring is short. The citadel of Kabul is yours.’

  A fierce joy surged through Humayun. At the same time came a thought. Before he did anything else he would ride to the gardens his father had laid out on the hills overlooking Kabul where Babur’s grave lay open to the sun, rain, wind and snow. There, kneeling by the simple marble slab, he would give thanks. Just as Babur had done, he would use Kabul as the stepping stone for his reconquest of Hindustan.

  Trumpets sounded as beneath a brilliant blue sky Humayun rode at the head of a picked column of men representing all the clans who had joined in his conquest of Kabul, up past where his cannon had been stationed, past where he had looked up to see to his anguish Akbar exposed as a human shield on the battlements, through the high gate from which the fire-carrying oxen had charged and on into the sunlit courtyard of the citadel itself. As he dismounted from his black horse, an immense pride in what he had achieved since he left Persia washed over him. Most important, of course, he had recovered Akbar, but he had also reasserted his authority over Kamran and Askari and re-occupied the kingdom of Kabul.

  Bairam Khan, Nadim Khwaja and others of his generals behind were exultant, waving at the crowds and rejoicing in their victory. But mingling with Humayun’s euphoria were more sombre thoughts. Kneeling at his father’s grave last night he had vowed never again to become a king without a kingdom. Before he could even think of retaking Hindustan, just as Babur had done he must make his rule over Kabul and all its lands unassailable. He must force every chief in the surrounding territories who ruled as his vassal to submit totally to his overlordship. Many of those chiefs had supported Kamran and several had friendships and alliances with him going back to the time when as a youth Kamran had remained in Kabul while Humayun had accompanied Babur on his conquest of Hindustan. They would require careful handling. A simple show of force might obtain their allegiance for a while but what would happen when he advanced on Hindustan? They might well rebel.