Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘We will question the recently arrived travellers further. And of course send out more spies and scouts.’

  ‘We will resume our discussion tomorrow to plan our campaign in detail. Now is the time for our evening meal.’ Humayun turned to leave the audience chamber. However, as he did so, Ahmed Khan approached him and handed him a small square of paper.

  ‘One of the travellers brought this sealed message which he told our guards was for your eyes only. He said that a member of his family – a sailor who had just returned from Arabia and heard that he was travelling to Kabul – had asked him to bring it to you. It is probably nothing, Majesty, but I thought I should leave it to you to open.’

  ‘Thank you, Ahmed Khan. I will read it shortly.’

  A quarter of an hour later, Humayun entered the women’s quarters and made his way to Hamida’s apartments. Looking up, she said, ‘I hear there is good news from Hindustan . . . ’

  Humayun smiled, but the smile and his eyes were clouded by a look of melancholy.‘The news from Hindustan is indeed good, but I’ve received other, sadder news today. It’s about Askari. As you know, I’ve long feared that some accident had befallen him since I’d had no news of him after the message eighteen months ago that he had taken ship from Cambay for the holy lands around Mecca.Today I received confirmation of his fate . . . ’

  Humayun pulled from his pocket the paper which Ahmed Khan had handed him. It had many creases and folds. ‘It is from Mohamed Azruddin – the commander of the escort I provided for my brother. It tells briefly how the voyage from Cambay was going well with favourable winds when about twenty miles from the port of Salala on the Arab coast a fleet of three fast pirate vessels overhauled their ship. Askari led the fight against the pirates as they boarded but was overwhelmed and killed, sword in hand. Many others died with him. Mohamed Azruddin was badly wounded and captured with the remainder of the escort and the coin they were carrying. On his recovery he was sold in the great slave market of Muscat to work in the quarries outside the town. He escaped his captors six months ago and his first action was to send this message to me in advance of his return.’

  ‘May God forgive Askari for his misdeeds and may his soul rest in Paradise,’ said Hamida. After a few moments she continued, ‘Nevertheless, this definite news of his death frees you from any fear that he might have disappeared on purpose to plot in exile against you.’

  ‘True, but he was never so committed an adversary as Kamran and often, I think, acted only from loyalty to his brother and mother. I believed him when, before he left on the haj, he said he’d renounced all thoughts of rebellion. His death makes me more conscious that I am the only one left to fulfil the destiny my father saw for his family.’

  ‘For a long time you have been the only one of his sons to be true to his memory.’

  ‘But I have lost much of his empire and failed to recover it, never mind to expand his dominions. I have let myself and you, as well as my father, down. My intentions have been good but I’ve not been single-minded enough to carry them through.’

  ‘That is changing. Since Askari’s departure for the haj and that of Kamran too, I have seen a real determination within you. You no longer allow your mind to be distracted by pleasure or idle musing. You’ve always wanted to recover what is yours, but now you give time and concentration to achieving it.’

  ‘I hope so. I’ve used bitter memories of how I lost my throne, of your face in our bleakest moment when Akbar was taken from us, of how we passed, frozen and half-starving, into Persia as suppliants to the shah, to act as goads to focus all my energies on recovering Hindustan.’

  ‘You are succeeding. I know you don’t think just one step ahead but about how to plan the whole journey.’

  ‘I pray that it will take me back to my throne.’

  ‘Make sure it does, for our son’s sake.’

  Humayun had never seen Hamida look so determined. He would not fail her.

  In November 1554, Humayun stood straight-backed, a fur-lined robe pulled tight around him against the autumn cold, on the walls of Kabul with the twelve-year-old Akbar at his side as his newly recruited armies marched before him.

  ‘Our emissaries have done well.They have brought in men from all over our own lands. Those pale-skinned men over there are from Ghazni. The ones with the dark turbans and face cloths are from the mountains north of Kandahar. Our vassals in Badakhshan and the lands of the Tajiks have sent soldiers.They are always amongst the bravest and best fighters, and well equipped too. Look how fine their horses are.’

  ‘But who are those men over there under the yellow flag, Father?’

  ‘They are from Ferghana – the land of your grandfather’s birth. Hearing rumours of the death of Islam Shah they had started unbidden on the road to Kabul to offer their services to me, knowing I would be sure to attack Hindustan . . . ’ Here Humayun stopped for a moment, his voice choking with emotion, and then continued, ‘I will lead them to victory just as your grandfather did. But see that group of mounted archers? They are from around Samarkand and Bokhara and have fashioned themselves the flag of our great ancestor Timur – see it fluttering now with its orange tiger . . . ’

  ‘How many men do we have?’

  ‘Twelve thousand.’

  ‘That’s less than when my grandfather invaded Hindustan.’

  ‘True, but we’ve more cannon, more muskets and additional recruits are joining every day. We have messages that many of Islam Shah’s vassals will defect to us once we reach their territories in Hindustan.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  Humayun smiled wryly. ‘Just as when their fathers deserted me so many years ago, they believe they know who the victor will be.’

  ‘So their belief in our success will ensure it happens?’

  ‘Yes – to have the confidence of those around you in your success takes you a great way to victory. Once it abates it is difficult to restore. That is one lesson I have learned. This time we must ensure it does not. Each victory we win will add to the tide of confidence washing away any remaining strength our opponents have.’

  ‘I understand, Father.’

  Looking at his son, Humayun realised that Akbar probably did. He had changed a lot in the past year. He was mature for his age, not only in his muscular physique and stature but also in his power of analysis and in a growing astuteness in his judgement of others. Humayun recalled his discussion with Hamida the previous night when he had told her that he intended to take Akbar with him when he set out on his invasion of Hindustan in a few days. He had reminded her that Babur had only been Akbar’s age when he became king. To take Akbar with him would inspire confidence in the future of the dynasty, he had told her. It would show that, should he himself fall, unlike Islam Shah he would have a worthy successor.

  Humayun had expected Hamida to resist, mindful of the danger to which Akbar would be exposed, but although tears had wetted her cheeks at first, she had choked them back. ‘It is right that he should go, I know. It is difficult for a mother to see her son ride to war but he will soon be a man. I must remind myself I was only two years older when I left my family to share your life and the many dangers that accompanied it – a thing I have never regretted.’

  As she spoke, Humayun had realised why, despite the many other women he had known, Hamida was the one true love of his life. He had embraced her and together they had made love long and tenderly.

  Humayun forced himself back to the present. It was time to tell his son of his decision. ‘Akbar, would you wish to accompany me as I go to recover our inheritance?’

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Akbar answered simply, ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid?’

  ‘A little bit, but somehow I know inside myself it is right. It’s my destiny . . . Besides,’ and a youthful grin lit up his face, ‘it will be a great adventure and no adventure is without danger – that I already know. I will make you and my mother proud of me.’

  ‘I know
you will.’

  By now, musketeers were marching below in disciplined ranks, some on horseback with their long weapons tied to their saddles, others on foot with them over their shoulders.

  ‘How will the men on foot keep up, Father?’

  ‘They will be able to march as fast as the oxen who pull the cannon. Besides, we’ll gather more horses as we advance. We’ll use rafts on rivers such as the Kabul to speed us on our way and to carry the heavy baggage and cannon. Those on foot can ride on them too. I’ve already given instructions for rafts to be built for the Kabul river with special mountings constructed for the oars and for the steering rudders.’

  Two nights later, Humayun lay with his arm across Hamida’s smooth, naked body. They had just made love and Humayun felt that never before had the act made them so truly one. Perhaps it was because of the knowledge they shared that Humayun and Akbar were to set off on their campaign the next morning.

  Hamida lifted herself on one elbow and looked fondly into Humayun’s dark eyes. ‘You will protect yourself and our son as best you can, won’t you? It’s more difficult than you realise to be a woman, left behind waiting and watching for the next post runner, scrutinising his face and, if it looks drawn, wondering whether it reflects merely fatigue from the journey or bad news. Sometimes you go to bed and try to sleep, attempting to guess what is happening, knowing that any news that comes, good or bad, will be many weeks old and that the loved one you are thinking about may already be dead and you an unknowing widow.’

  Humayun touched her lips with his index finger and then kissed them long and hard. ‘I know Akbar and I will live and – more than that – that we will be victorious and you will be my empress in the palace at Agra. I feel it deep within me. This is my great chance to redeem my past failures and reclaim my father’s throne to make it safe for Akbar, and I will take it.’

  Hamida smiled and Humayun pulled her towards him and they began to make love once more, moving slowly at first and then faster and faster in passionate and all-consuming union.

  Humayun sat on his black horse on the south bank of the Indus. A chill wind blowing from the Himalayas in the north ruffled his hair. As he watched, on the north shore – already churned into sticky mud by the passage of many men and horses – twenty or so of his gunners pulled and heaved at the yokes of a team of oxen hauling one of his great bronze cannon. They were using their whips as well as shouts of encouragement to persuade the reluctant beasts to set foot on the bobbing bridge of rafts and boats Humayun and his men had constructed over the river, which at this point was nearly two hundred feet wide.

  Humayun had learned from his father’s experience and chosen a point just downstream from where a right-angled bend in the river slowed its force. In the six weeks since he had left Kabul, the oared rafts he had had manufactured in advance had speeded him down the Kabul river through the grey, barren mountains even faster than he had anticipated. They had been so useful, in fact, that remembering his father’s difficulty in assembling enough boats to cross the great barrier of the Indus and conscious all the time that he must move fast if he were not to lose his opportunity, Humayun had had half the rafts dismantled and put on the backs of pack animals for the journey into Hindustan so that they could be used again for his Indus bridge. He was glad he had done so since, although he had managed to secure some boats, nearly half his makeshift bridge consisted of his rafts or components from them. They had been lashed together through the ingenuity of his engineers during the past three days since he had reached the shores of the river. Humayun had joined in, standing waist-deep in the cold water, encouraging his men, himself twisting and knotting leather thongs with fingers which soon grew blue and numb with cold.

  Now he saw with relief that the first pair of grey oxen was moving on to the bridge and that the rest of the team were following. More of his gunners were pushing and heaving at the four large wooden wheels of the cannon’s limber to help the oxen propel it through the mud on to the bridge. As they did so, the bridge sank much lower into the water beneath the weight. However, within less than a minute, cannon, men and beasts were across and the next team of oxen was being encouraged down the north bank to begin the whole procedure over again.

  All of a sudden Humayun heard a trumpet sound out from one of the circle of pickets he had placed on the low hills bordering the southern banks to warn of anyone drawing near during the crossing. The first call was followed by a second and then a third – the signal he and Ahmed Khan had agreed would warn of the approach of a large body of men.

  ‘Stop any more cannon being transported across the bridge while we investigate what the pickets have seen. Throw out a further screen of horsemen and have our musketeers load and prime their weapons.’

  Gesturing to his bodyguard to follow, Humayun urged his black horse into a gallop and soon he was on the low hill from which the trumpeter had sounded the alarm. Humayun immediately saw why he had done so. About three-quarters of a mile away, riding up from the south – the direction of Hindustan – was a large party of mounted men. Even at this distance Humayun could make out the tops of their lances glistening in the sunlight and flags fluttering as the horsemen advanced. The riders, who probably numbered around a hundred, seemed to be cantering rather than galloping as they would if they intended to attack. Humayun, however, was taking no chances.

  ‘Make sure we get musketeers and archers into firing positions quickly,’ he shouted to one of his officers. As the horsemen came nearer Humayun could see that they were unhelmeted and that their weapons remained sheathed.When they were about three hundred yards away they halted and after a minute or so one man rode slowly forward alone on his grey horse. He was clearly an ambassador or herald of some kind and Humayun ordered two of his bodyguards to ride out in front of his line to bring the man to him.

  Within five minutes, the rider – a tall, slim youth dressed in cream robes and wearing a heavy gold chain round his neck – was brought before Humayun. Seemingly oblivious of the dirt and stones he prostrated himself face down, arms widespread, before Humayun, who was still mounted on his black horse which was restlessly pawing at the stony ground with its front hooves.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘I am Murad Beg, the eldest son of Uzad Beg, the Sultan of Multan. I come from my father who waits with his bodyguard over there. He seeks your permission to approach and offer you, his overlord, his obeisance. He wishes to pledge his troops to you to assist in the recapture of your rightful throne of Hindustan.’

  Hearing the name of Uzad Beg, Humayun smiled. During his descent of the Kabul river and the Khyber Pass, many tribal chieftains had come to submit to him. Some had even followed the old tradition of appearing before Akbar and himself with grass in their mouths to show that they were Humayun’s beasts of burden, his oxen, to do with whatever he would. In each case, Humayun had welcomed them and their men as useful additions to his army.

  However, Uzad Beg was different. He was no small tribal chieftain but a sophisticated and wily ruler. Fifteen years previously, after the battle of Chausa, Humayun had sent emissaries to him asking for troops to help halt Sher Shah’s advance, but Uzad Beg had been one of the most assiduous prevaricators. His repertoire of excuses had varied from personal illnesses through the need to suppress rebellions to a fire in his fortress-palace. Later Humayun had heard he’d been one of the first to recognise Sher Shah as his overlord. That he was now rushing to offer his submission to Humayun once more was a real indication that victory was expected to be his and that soon he would again sit on the imperial throne. Humayun realised that this was no time to settle old scores but rather to conciliate his former vassals and subjects to be sure that peace ruled in his rear as he advanced on Delhi and Agra. Besides, if he recalled correctly, Uzad Beg’s men were doughty, well-equipped fighters when their ruler could be persuaded to commit them to battle rather than to sit on the sidelines until the outcome was clear. Nevertheless, thought Humayun, he would make Uzad Beg swe
at just a little . . .

  ‘I remember your father well. I am glad that his health, which he used to write to me was such a trouble to him, has improved so much over the years that he is able to visit me in person. You may tell him that I will be delighted to receive him in an hour’s time, just before sunset, when my camp will be better equipped for the reception of such an important vassal as he.’

  ‘Majesty, I will tell him so.’

  Just over an hour later, Humayun, dressed as befitted an emperor, was sitting beneath the scarlet awning of his command tent on a gilded throne with Akbar seated at his side on a low stool. Humayun’s commanders were arranged on either side of his throne, behind which stood two green-turbaned bodyguards with shining steel breastplates. The sunset was colouring the sky pink and purple as Uzad Beg approached, accompanied by his son and flanked by an escort of Humayun’s guards. As soon as they reached him, Uzad Beg and his son prostrated themselves full-length. He allowed them to remain face down on the cold, damp ground for just a little longer than he thought they might have anticipated. Then he spoke.

  ‘Rise, both of you.’

  As Uzad Beg did so, Humayun saw that his vassal’s hair and beard were now white and his shoulders a little stooped, and that a pot belly strained the ties of his green silk under-tunic. Almost unconsciously Humayun pulled in his own already much flatter stomach and began.

  ‘I am glad to see you again after all these years. What brings you before me?’

  ‘I thank God he has preserved Your Majesty and that I have kept my own worthless life long enough to greet you on your journey to recover your rightful throne. I come to offer you, my overlord, my humble submission and that of my people.’ Uzad Beg paused and gestured to one of his attendants who had followed him at a distance. ‘If I may, Majesty, let this man approach.’

  Humayun nodded his assent and the servant came forward to Uzad Beg with a large ivory casket on a gold cushion. Uzad Beg extracted from it a golden drinking cup set with rubies which he held out to Humayun.