Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  First, though, he must deal with the half-brother whom he’d last seen face to face two years ago when he’d woken in his tent in a blizzard to find his knife at his throat. ‘Where is Kamran?’ he demanded of Jauhar, who was as usual at his side.

  ‘I was told he is being held in the cells beneath the citadel.’

  ‘Have him brought before me here in the courtyard now.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  A few minutes later, Humayun saw Kamran emerge through a low door which led up from the cells, blinking at his sudden exposure to sunlight. His legs were tightly shackled and he was followed by two armed guards. However, his hands were free and as he passed three grooms leading some of Humayun’s commanders’ horses back to the stables at the conclusion of the entry parade, he suddenly grabbed a long riding whip from one of them. Before the guards could react, he had placed it round his neck in the same way that the whip was placed round the neck of common criminals condemned to be flogged as they were led to the punishment frame.

  Was Kamran suggesting he was submitting himself to whatever punishment he might impose, Humayun wondered? He motioned to his guards to leave the whip where it was and walked towards his half-brother. As he drew closer, he saw that Kamran looked unkempt and the bags beneath his eyes showed exhaustion, but his green eyes themselves looked straight into Humayun’s and betrayed not a hint of submission or repentance, merely arrogance and disdain. There was even a trace of a supercilious smile on his lips.

  How can he jest with me? How can he not recognise his guilt for what he has done? How can he not show some signs of remorse for the many lives lost on his account, for all those wasted years when we could have been re-conquering Hindustan, thought Humayun.As he stared at his half-brother the image of Kamran pushing Hamida to the floor as he grabbed Akbar in the tent came unbidden into his mind, quickly followed by that of Akbar exposed on the walls of Kabul as the cannon roared. Suddenly emotion erupted like a volcano within him and he lost all control. He hit Kamran with his clenched fist hard in the mouth, breaking one of his teeth and splitting his lip, yelling ‘That is for Hamida’ as he did so. Next he brought up his knee with all the force he could muster into Kamran’s groin. ‘And that is for Akbar!’ he screamed, eyes bulging. Then he brought both his arms down on Kamran’s neck and Kamran fell to the floor where he lay doubled up, clutching his groin and spitting out bloody bits of tooth but uttering not a single word, not a single groan.

  Shaking with fury, Humayun was drawing back his foot, ready to kick his defiant, devious brother hard in the stomach, when a cry of dismay from behind him broke into his rage. He twisted round to see frail old Kasim shuffling towards him as fast as he could propel himself on the two ivory-handled walking sticks that he had long relied on.

  ‘Majesty, this is not the way. If he must die, let him do so with dignity as befits a descendant of Timur. What would your father think?’

  His words felt to Humayun like a bucket of cold water poured over him, cooling his temper. Kasim was right. He stepped back from his half-brother. ‘I forgot myself, Kamran. I lowered myself to your level. I will decide your fate later and not in the heat of my anger. Guards! Pick him up. Take him back to the cells, but do not ill-treat him.’

  Humayun surveyed his audience chamber with satisfaction. Hangings of Moghul green shone in the light of hundreds of candles and wicks burning in diyas of scented oil. This was truly a victory celebration. It had been such a long time – years – since he had been able to reward his warriors as a Moghul ruler should.The treasuries and armouries of Kabul – though not as full as in his father’s time – had yielded enough jewelled daggers and swords, coats of fine mail, finely chased armour, enamelled and gem-encrusted drinking cups and gold and silver coins to reward all his commanders and officers and their men. That Kamran had been so prudent with Kabul’s wealth had surprised Humayun.

  His officers and commanders were eating now – the sweet, juicy flesh of young lambs, chickens roasted in butter, quails and pheasants stewed with dried fruits and served whole, their tail feathers still attached but gilded, and fragrant flat bread still hot from the bricks on which it had been baked. The luxurious abundance – the exquisite dishes on which the food was served – seemed a dream after all the years of danger and hardship, of betrayal and deceit. Humayun’s eyes rested with real affection on the battle-scarred faces of Zahid Beg and Ahmed Khan and on the lined faces of Kasim and Sharaf, who had followed him across blistering deserts and over mountains where the cold was so intense it seemed to freeze a man’s heart. When his warriors had numbered less than two hundred – and what tribal leader here tonight had so few? – these loyal men had stayed with him.

  Later, as the final course of the meal – sweetmeats of all descriptions including dried apricots stuffed with walnuts and curd cheese mixed with sultanas and pistachios – was brought in on silver platters, Humayun looked around at his commanders, all enjoying the feast and discussing the future and the prospects for the reconquest of Hindustan. He felt content as he had not done for many years. He had never doubted his courage or skill in combat; nor, he suspected, had his followers. But he knew he had gained other perhaps more important strengths as well. He was becoming ever more confident in his authority as a ruler and a leader and in his ability to inspire loyalty in those such as Bairam Khan who had no pre-existing ties to him.

  But what about those who had such ties but had not been loyal, among them the nobles and commanders who had supported Kamran and Askari and, of course, his half-brothers themselves? Humayun’s mood sobered. Over the past sixty hours since he had entered the citadel he had been pondering their fate, especially Kamran’s. He had nearly yielded to a visceral desire to revenge himself on his half-brother with his bare hands for threatening his child.

  But as his rage had cooled he had begun to think more calmly. He could never forgive Kamran but did he owe it to the future of his dynasty to try to heal the rifts within it rather than deepening them? His father’s face – so like Kamran’s with those brilliant green eyes – swam before him. Suddenly the contentment and confidence welling through him coalesced to make his decision. Standing up, Humayun called Jauhar to him. ‘Have Kamran and Askari brought before me here, at once, together with those of their leading commanders whom we have also kept prisoner.’

  A quarter of an hour later, Jauhar whispered to Humayun that the prisoners were outside the chamber’s thick doors. Humayun rose to his feet and clapped his hands to call for quiet. Almost instantly a hush fell on the room as his officers put down their eating implements and goblets, wiped their mouths, sticky from the sweetmeats, and turned all their attention to their emperor.

  ‘My loyal commanders, we have celebrated our victory and rightly rejoiced in our success in overcoming our enemies, but our task is only half complete. Now we must look to the future and the reconquest of Hindustan. However, first I must deal with those who, unlike you, showed me no loyalty and neglected the ties of blood and of ancestral obligations. Bring in the prisoners.’

  Two attendants pulled open the doors and Kamran walked into the room. His hands were tied but his legs were free. Straight-backed, head high, and bruised, hawk-nosed face emotionless, he walked forward, looking neither to left nor right until the guards escorting him halted him ten feet in front of Humayun. He was followed by Askari, who had been confined in comfortable private quarters since being brought to the citadel but whose hands were now also bound. Even though he must have known he had less to fear than his brother since Humayun had promised him his life, his demeanour was less assured than Kamran’s. He was perspiring a little and looking round and smiling nervously at some of those of Humayun’s men he recognised. Behind him came ten of Kamran and Askari’s senior commanders. Among them were Hassan Khahil, a burly, wild-haired Uzbek, and Shahi Beg, a diminutive but courageous Tajik with a livid white scar on his left cheek. He had been Kamran’s commander in Kabul and was in fact a cousin of Zahid Beg, Humayun’s own general. As Shahi B
eg entered, Humayun noticed the two men’s eyes met but then both looked instantly away.

  Once the commanders were lined up behind Kamran and Askari, Humayun began addressing his own troops. ‘You see before you the men we have defeated. The men who have shed our blood and killed our friends. Yet the war we have fought was a battle between brothers and relations. I know this only too well, as do many others of you. We have fought those with whom we should have banded together to fight the common enemy who has usurped our lands in Hindustan. Much more – heritage, tradition and ambition – should bind us together than those rivalries and jealousies which have split us apart. Divided among ourselves, we may never reconquer Hindustan. United we should be so powerful we need fear none. The fear would be our enemy’s alone – our conquests and ambitions would be without limit.

  ‘For that reason I have preferred reconciliation to punishment, however well deserved. I have decided to forgive these my former enemies you see before you, provided they will join us in regaining and expanding our empire in Hindustan.’

  With that, Humayun walked over to Askari and drawing a small dagger cut his brother’s bonds and embraced him. As he did so, he felt Askari relax and there were wet tears on his half-brother’s cheek as it brushed against his own. Then he moved towards Kamran and severed his bonds too and embraced him. Kamran’s body felt rigid but he did not pull back. Nor did he resist as Humayun held his and Askari’s arms aloft and yelled to the resounding cheers of all present, ‘Onwards to the reconquest of Hindustan.’

  An hour later, Humayun made his way to Hamida’s apartments in the royal women’s quarters. She had arrived with Akbar and Gulbadan the previous evening and in the joy of their reunion they had not spoken of Kamran and his fate. As he entered, he could tell at once from her expression that she knew of his decision.

  ‘How could you!’ she burst out.‘You have pardoned Kamran, the man who stole our child and exposed him on the walls of Kabul. Are you mad? Don’t you care about our son and my feelings?’

  ‘You know I do. It was a hard decision. A ruler must think about more than his personal emotions. He must think about what’s best for his kingdom. If I’d had Kamran executed, I would have made implacable enemies of some of his most loyal followers and relations, not least Askari whom I had already agreed should live as a condition of his surrender of Kandahar. If I’d had Kamran imprisoned, he would have become a focus for discontent and plotting. The same would have been true if I’d punished his commanders. Our family is not the only one riven by the rebellions. Much better that I try to reconcile my enemies than to provoke blood feuds. If I am to reconquer Hindustan, I will need the willing commitment of all my nobles and vassals, not just those who have supported us this far.

  ‘Yes, of course I could press others to accompany me or to send levies, but they would soon be plotting or looking for any opportunity to defect or at the very least to return home. That would not help to win back our lands. The wounds that are most difficult to heal are those inflicted by the ones who should be the closest. But if I can heal those from my brothers, our dynasty will be the stronger and Akbar’s position in its future the more secure.’

  At the mention of Akbar, Hamida’s expression softened a little, but it still betrayed scepticism and uncertainty. This was so hard for her. Humayun thought back to his own enraged assault on Kamran. At least he had had an opportunity to vent his feelings . . .

  ‘I loathe Kamran. I can never forgive him.’

  ‘Hamida, I’m not asking you to forgive Kamran – that I know you can never do. But I am asking you to trust in me . . . in my judgement. And I have another more personal reason for sparing Kamran . . . loyalty to my father and above all the promise I made to him as he lay dying to follow his wishes and do nothing against my half-brothers, however much they deserved it. Their failure to honour his decision that I should succeed to the throne should not absolve me from keeping my own word to him.’

  Humayun looked straight into Hamida’s eyes. ‘I am truly sorry if my decision hurts you, but you must know nothing can alter my great love for you and our son and my determination that when I die, which God willing will not be yet, I will leave him secure on the throne of Hindustan as my father left me.’

  ‘If you tell me that allowing Kamran to live will make Akbar’s future more secure then I must accept it. The future of our son is what matters most. But I cannot lie to you. In my heart I wish Kamran was dead. I would sleep more easily in that knowledge.’

  ‘This is best for Akbar.’

  At last, Hamida smiled and stretched out her hand to Humayun. ‘Come to bed. It is late.’

  It was nearly ten o’clock the next morning when Humayun emerged from the women’s quarters to find Jauhar waiting for him, beaming broadly. ‘Majesty, good news . . . wonderful news. Our spies have brought reports that Sher Shah is dead. He was assaulting a fortress in Rajasthan when a missile filled with burning pitch that one of his siege engineers had hurled at the walls rebounded and landed on a gunpowder store. The entire store exploded, dismembering Sher Shah and two of his senior commanders. They say parts of Sher Shah’s body were scattered over a hundred yards.’

  ‘Are the reports reliable?’

  ‘The spies say they come from several sources. There is no reason to doubt them.’

  Humayun found the news difficult to take in. It seemed to justify his decision to pardon his half-brothers and unite his subjects. They would need to act quickly and together to seize the opportunity to regain the throne of Hindustan.

  ‘Call my commanders to me. Let my half-brothers join us too. Together we will march to fulfil our family’s destiny.’

  Part IV

  Return of the Moghuls

  Chapter 21

  A Brother’s Grief

  ‘Majesty, you must come at once.’ Humayun slid back into its embossed black leather scabbard the ivory and steel-hilted sabre – a recent gift from a vassal – that he had been examining. ‘What is it, Jauhar?’

  Jauhar spread his hands in a helpless gesture and Humayun read such distress in his face that he asked no more questions but simply followed him. Dusk was falling and purple shadows softened the stark outlines of stone and brick as Humayun quickly descended into the courtyard. Just inside the gateway four of Ahmed Khan’s men were clustered around a tall chestnut horse. Drawing closer, Humayun noticed that its neck and shoulder were stained with something dark that was attracting flies, and as the men stepped back from the horse to salute him he saw a body slung face down over the saddle, limp as a dead deer. The discolouration on the horse’s coat was congealed blood. But it was the body itself that arrested his gaze. Though he didn’t want to believe it he thought he recognised that powerful form, whose lifeless arms and legs were so long they dangled down beneath the horse’s belly.

  With an ever-increasing sense of foreboding Humayun slowly approached and, crouching down, raised the dead man’s head. Hindal’s tawny eyes stared blankly at him. Unable to bear their unblinking gaze, Humayun closed them. As he did so, the warmth of his brother’s dead flesh shocked him, then he realised that Hindal’s face had been resting against the horse’s flanks. He drew his dagger from his sash and waving back his guards cut through the ropes with which someone had secured Hindal’s body to the horse. Then he carefully lifted his brother’s corpse and laid it gently, face up, on the flagstones. As he knelt beside it, by the flickering amber light of a torch held aloft in the gathering gloom by one of Ahmed Khan’s men he saw a raw wound in Hindal’s throat that only an arrowhead could have made.

  Grief washed through him. Hindal was the one of his half-brothers he had cared for most. Courageous, honest and principled, and less ambitious than his siblings, perhaps Hindal had been at heart the best of all Babur’s sons. ‘I wish you godspeed to Paradise, my brother, and that in death you will forgive me the hurt I did you in life,’ Humayun whispered. Images of Hindal in his youth and of him proudly recounting his rescue of Akbar filled Humayun’s mind, bringing
tears to his eyes. It was some minutes before, brushing them away with the back of his hand, he got to his feet and asked, ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘I did, Majesty,’ said the torchbearer, who, Humayun saw, was no more than a youth.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘His horse was tethered by some juniper bushes half a mile from the town.’

  So someone had drawn out the fatal arrow, tied Hindal to his horse and then left him where he would be found. Such an act bore all the hallmarks of Kamran, Humayun thought with a weariness of heart. Far from being grateful for his mercy, within two months of being set free Kamran and Askari had vanished from Kabul. United against him again, they had become raiders, sweeping down from remote strongholds at the head of bands of tribesmen – lawless Kafirs and Chakraks mostly, but whoever they could find; they weren’t particular – to attack Humayun’s outposts and the caravan trains that were the source of Kabul’s prosperity – its life’s blood. Kamran would not have forgiven Hindal’s betrayal in rescuing Akbar and he certainly had the malice to send Humayun the message of Hindal’s slaughtered body.

  But what had actually happened? If the murderer was Kamran, had Hindal’s death been the result of a chance encounter or had Kamran deliberately hunted Hindal down in the northern mountains which he had made his retreat in the years since he had rescued Akbar? ‘Search my brother’s body and his saddlebag. Look for anything that might tell us how or why he met his end,’ Humayun ordered as he turned away, unable to face the task himself.