Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘I’d heard Bairam Khan ordering us to get out of the ravine,’ Akbar continued eagerly, ‘but just as we were turning the baggage wagons – which wasn’t easy, the defile was narrow – we were suddenly attacked by men swarming about on a rock shelf high above us. From what little we could see of them they didn’t look like soldiers of Sekunder Shah. They were poorly armed – no muskets, just arrows and spears. I think they were probably mountain tribesmen who’d been observing our progress and hoped for a chance of plunder. Perhaps they’d even caused the landslip . . . Whoever they were, their arrows and spears were soon falling thickly around us and several of our men were hit.

  ‘I shouted to our troops to take cover behind the wagons and then ordered the few musketeers we had with us to fire at our assailants. They had the sinking orange sun in their eyes but the flash and bang of their guns was enough to frighten our attackers off and we got at least one of them. His body came tumbling down and when we inspected it we found a musket ball in his forehead. Though we remained on guard all that night they didn’t return and next morning, after the fallen rock had been cleared, we were reunited with the main column.’

  ‘And your hand?’

  ‘My first battle wound – a graze from an arrow. Adham Khan saw it coming and pushed me to one side or it might have hit me in the body . . . ’ Akbar’s amber-brown eyes – so like Hamida’s – had been glowing as he had relived the skirmish.

  ‘You acquitted yourself bravely and well,’ said Humayun. Privately he wondered what Hamida, watching and listening behind the grille set high in the wall to the right of his throne, would be thinking. But despite her maternal fears she should be as proud of Akbar as he was. He had shown coolness and resourcefulness – essential survival skills for an emperor and ones that could not be acquired too early.

  That night, Humayun ate with Hamida and Akbar in the haram. As he looked at his exquisite wife and handsome, athletic son bursting with confidence and youthful vitality, he felt a deeper content than he had perhaps ever known. The pieces of his fragmented life seemed to have fallen into place at last. The empire that God in his wisdom and mercy had allowed him to take back was secure and with Akbar by his side he would expand it. And one day Akbar in turn would launch his own wars of conquest and extend the Moghul lands from sea to sea.

  Hamida too looked happy. Her face had acquired a new bloom and her clinging silk garments showed the supple, fluid outline of her body that, grown a little more voluptuous since the days of her girlhood, was even more beautiful. Tonight ornaments of blue sapphires set with diamonds sparkled in her flowing dark hair, and another sapphire was in her navel left bare by low, wide-cut trousers of duck-egg blue and a short, tight-fitting bodice that revealed the swell of her breasts.

  ‘How is it with my empress?’ Humayun asked when Akbar left them and they were alone.

  ‘As I have told you again and again’ – she smiled – ‘it is very well. So many hundreds of attendants . . . my every desire anticipated . . . My life is everything I could have imagined and more. But what pleases me above everything is that our son has returned safely. He fills me with such joy. It seems so strange to me to remember how – after he was taken from us and Hindal brought him back – Akbar seemed not to know me. I was so envious of Maham Anga when I saw how he stretched out his hands to her and how his smiles were for her, not me. I was so angry with myself, so ashamed of my jealousy, after everything we owed to brave Maham Anga . . . But all that belongs to the past. Now I feel I know every thought running through Akbar’s mind, that I understand all his desires and ambitions. The bonds between us could not be stronger . . . ’

  ‘I remember what you told me on the morning after our wedding night – that you knew you would bear a son and that he would be a great ruler one day . . . What do you see now when you look into the future?’

  ‘Akbar’s birth was the last thing I foresaw clearly. Though as a girl I seemed to have inherited the mystic powers of my ancestor, they left me . . . Perhaps that is for the best. The ability to see into the future may not always bring happiness . . . sometimes it may be better not to know . . . ’

  Chapter 28

  Staircase to Heaven

  In his apartments Humayun was studying the plans for a new library that his architects had presented to him earlier that afternoon.The pale clear light of a perfect January afternoon played over drawings of a building of red sandstone patterned with milk-white marble and, on each of its four sides, a tall iwan – a recessed entrance arch – on which would be inscribed verses from Humayun’s favourite Persian poets. One day, Humayun thought, his library would eclipse even the fabled collections of his Timurid ancestors in their glorious palaces beyond the Oxus. And in pride of place, carefully preserved in an ivory box to match their still beautiful but yellowing ivory covers, would be his father’s memoirs.

  Babur had constructed a handsome mosque and madrasa in Kabul and laid out several fine gardens, but had not had time to leave any great monument behind him in Hindustan. Humayun felt grateful that he now had that opportunity. At forty-seven years old he was still in his prime. As well as planning a library, he had already commissioned an octagonal floating palace to be built on the Jumna river and surrounded by barges planted with fruit trees – oranges, lemons and pomegranates – and sweet-smelling flowers.

  He was equally pleased that the observatory he was installing on the roof of the Sher Mandal – a graceful octagonal pavilion of red sandstone, built by Sher Shah in the grounds of the Purana Qila – was nearly complete. On the Sher Mandal’s open roof was a platform beneath a small open dome – chattri his Hindustani subjects called it – supported on slim white pillars which was a perfect place from which to view the stars. The astronomical instruments he had had specially made and the copy he had acquired of the Zij-i-Gurkani – the astronomical handbook compiled by Timur’s grandson Ulugh Beg that gave the celestial locations of the stars – were all ready and in the care of a new imperial astronomer.

  According to the star charts, this evening – Friday 24 January – would be an especially good time to observe the ascent of Venus into the night sky. Glancing out through the casement Humayun could see that the sun was already starting to sink. Putting down the building plans and calling to his attendants that he was going to the observatory and was not to be disturbed there, he quickly descended from his apartments and went out across the flower-filled gardens to the Sher Mandal. Climbing the steep, straight stone stairway to its roof, he found his astronomer already waiting for him beneath the slender-columned chattri.

  Humayun had seldom seen the sky – flushed pink and gold – look so mesmerising. And there she was – Venus herself – the Evening Star – growing every second more brilliant in the darkening heavens. Moths fluttered around the wicks in diyas of oil that the observatory servants were lighting as dusk fell, but Humayun continued to stare upwards, transfixed.

  It was the voice of the muezzin calling sonorously from the minaret of the nearby royal mosque that finally jerked Humayun from his reverie. He would far rather stay here but it was Friday – the day when he prayed in public before his courtiers. Dragging his gaze from Venus, Humayun turned and made for the stairs. The muezzin had almost finished – he must hurry . . .

  But as he stepped down on to the first step, the toe of his leather boot caught in the fur-edged hem of his long blue robes and he was suddenly pitched forward into nothingness. He put out his hands but there was nothing to grab and he went plunging down head first. A sudden pain sharp as a blade pierced his skull. Stars appeared before his eyes, forming and re-forming in dancing patterns, drawing him onwards to become one with them and merging into a single bright light. Then all was black and still and peace.

  ‘Is the great hakim here yet?’

  ‘He is coming, Bairam Khan.’ Jauhar’s expression in the dim light of Humayun’s sick chamber was as anxious as the Persian’s. ‘We sent for him at once, of course, but unluckily for us he had left Delhi a week ago to at
tend a family wedding in his home village a day’s ride from the city. It took my messengers time to discover this and then to go there. However, word reached me just an hour ago that he has been found and is being brought to the Purana Qila.’

  ‘I pray God that he is in time and that his skill is as great as his reputation . . . ’ Bairam Khan broke off as he heard voices outside in the corridor. Then the doors swung open to admit a tall, smooth-shaven man in dark robes, a large, battered leather bag on his shoulder.

  Bairam Khan stepped forward. ‘I am His Majesty’s khan-i-khanan . I sent messengers to find you. You are the most respected hakim in Delhi and our last hope. Our own doctors have been able to do nothing but one of them told us of you – that you once saved Islam Shah when he was close to death after a fall from his horse.’

  The hakim nodded.

  ‘I trust that your past service to Islam Shah doesn’t make you unwilling to treat his successor?’

  ‘A doctor’s duty is to save lives.’ The hakim glanced at the bed where Humayun was lying, head heavily bandaged, eyes closed and utterly still. ‘Before I examine His Majesty, tell me exactly what happened and how he has been. I must know everything.’

  ‘I fear there is little to tell. Three days ago he fell down a stone staircase. He must have smashed the side of his head against the bottom step – the edge is hard and sharp. His attendants found him with his head covered with blood and carried him unconscious to his apartments. Our hakims examined him and found a gash and a huge swelling on his right temple. He was also bleeding from the mouth and from his right ear. Since then he has been drifting in and out of consciousness. Even in his more lucid moments, which are becoming fewer, he recognises no one – not even the empress or his son.’

  The hakim nodded thoughtfully then moved towards the bed and gently pulled the coverlet back from Humayun, who made no movement. Bending his head, the doctor listened for a few moments to Humayun’s heartbeat, then lifted first one of his eyelids then the other. His expression was grave as, covering his patient again, he raised Humayun’s head a few inches and, unwinding the bandage of fine wool around the top of his head, revealed his cut, swollen and discoloured temple. Humayun stirred briefly as the doctor’s fingers probed gently but made no sound.

  The hakim was still examining the wound when Akbar returned to the sickroom from the women’s quarters where he had been comforting Hamida. He had hardly been able to bear the sight of his father lying so helpless but at the same time couldn’t stay away. For most of the seventy-two hours since the accident he had been at Humayun’s bedside hoping in vain for some sign of improvement. ‘Please,’ he whispered to the hakim, ‘you must save him. Return my father to life.’

  ‘I will try, but his life is in God’s hands.’

  The hakim slid his bag from his shoulder and opening it took out a bunch of herbs whose pungent bitter smell filled the air. ‘Build up the fire,’ he ordered the attendants. ‘I need to infuse these herbs in boiling water to make a poultice to reduce the swelling.’ As the attendants added more charcoals to the brazier burning at the foot of Humayun’s bed, the hakim took out a small brass bowl and a bundle fastened with a strap. Undoing it, he unrolled the bundle to reveal a selection of medical instruments from which he took a small sharp-bladed knife. ‘I will try bleeding His Majesty. It may help relieve the pressure on his brain that I believe his injury has caused. I need someone to hold the cup.’

  ‘I will,’ Akbar said at once. The hakim carefully took Humayun’s right arm from beneath the coverlet, turned it wrist side up, picked up his knife and drawing the blade over Humayun’s waxen skin made a small incision just beneath the elbow. As the blood flowed, Akbar carefully caught it in the brass bowl. The sight of the vital red fluid brought him hope. It was proof that the inert figure still lived. His father was so strong, he thought. He had already survived so much. Surely he could overcome this . . .

  As the hakim gestured to Akbar to remove the bowl and pressed a pad of white cotton against the cut to staunch the flow, Humayun murmured something. Akbar put his head nearer to his lips, trying to catch what he was saying, but he couldn’t. ‘I am here, Father, I am here,’ he said, hoping that somehow Humayun would hear him and understand. Suddenly tears ran down his face and splashed on to Humayun’s.

  ‘Majesty, we must leave the hakim space to do his work.’ Bairam Khan touched Akbar gently on the shoulder.

  ‘You are right.’ With one final glance at his father, Akbar rose and walked slowly from the sick chamber. As the doors closed behind him, he didn’t see the hakim’s slow shake of the head as he turned to Bairam Khan and Jauhar.

  ‘Majesty, I am sorry to intrude upon your grief so soon after your husband’s death, but I have no choice. If you value your son’s life you must listen to me . . . ’

  Hamida lifted her pale, strained face from her hands and looked towards Bairam Khan. Above the veil she had pulled across the lower portion of her face her eyes were red with weeping. But at the suggestion that Akbar might be in danger, something in Hamida changed. She drew herself up and her voice was calm as she said, ‘What do you mean, Bairam Khan?’

  ‘God saw fit to call His Majesty your husband to Paradise when he had been back on the throne of Hindustan for only six months. Although Akbar is his undisputed heir, the prince is only thirteen years old. If we are not careful, ambitious men will try to take the throne from him. Men who had been supporters of Kamran or Askari but would have remained loyal to your husband for years if he had lived may see his sudden death as their opportunity, even though Askari is dead and Kamran blinded and in Mecca.We must also think of the rulers of subject kingdoms such as the smooth-tongued and slippery Uzad Beg, the Sultan of Multan, who have only resubmitted to Moghul authority during our invasion and may try to break free again. And of course the news may encourage Sekunder Shah to emerge from the jungles of Bengal to attempt to raise armies once more. There are also our external enemies such as the Sultan of Gujarat . . . ’

  ‘Bairam Khan, enough,’ Hamida interrupted. ‘My husband chose you as khan-i-khanan because he trusted you. I trust you too – tell me what we should do.’

  ‘We must keep His Majesty’s death a secret for a few days to give us time to summon from the provinces those we know to be loyal – men like Ahmed Khan from Agra. When enough of our faithful supporters are here with their men, we can have the khutba read in the prince’s name in the mosque without fear of challenge. I wish Zahid Beg were not so far away. I’ve already sent riders to inform him of His Majesty’s death and to ask him to secure Kabul and the territories beyond the Khyber for Akbar.’

  ‘But how can we keep my husband’s death from becoming known?’

  ‘By acting quickly and decisively. Although here in the Purana Qila and outside in the city people know that the emperor has had an accident, at present only a very few – the hakims, Jauhar, your husband’s personal attendants – know of his death. All must be sworn to secrecy and as soon as I have despatched messengers to the provinces – which I will do within the hour – I will order that no one is to enter or leave the fortress. I will say that there has been an outbreak of disease in the Purana Qila and that I am taking measures to prevent its spreading to the city.’

  ‘But my husband showed himself to the people every day from the balcony of the Purana Qila that overlooks the river. What will they say when he doesn’t appear?’

  ‘We must choose someone of similar height and build to dress in imperial robes and impersonate the emperor. From across the river no one will be able to distinguish his features.’

  ‘What of Akbar during these next days?’

  ‘He should stay within the haram. I will post extra guards – my most trusted men – around your apartments. All his food, everything he drinks – even water – must be tasted first.’

  ‘You think the situation so dangerous?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty, beyond a doubt. Remember how the newly dead Islam Shah’s eldest son was murdered before his
mother’s eyes here in Delhi, scarcely three years ago.’

  ‘Then we will do exactly what you say. It is what my husband would have wished.’

  That night, with only moonlight and starlight for illumination, Akbar was standing in the small garden within the walls of the Purana Qila that Humayun had begun laying out just three months earlier. Behind him stood Jauhar, Bairam Khan and a few others who could be trusted to witness the secret burial of Humayun, Moghul Emperor of Hindustan. Since women did not attend funerals – even clandestine ones – Hamida and Gulbadan were watching from a casement above. Humayun’s body, washed in fragrant water and shrouded in soft linen, lay inside a plain wooden casket beneath the freshly turned earth.The mullah had just finished intoning the prayers for the dead and Humayun’s funeral – such as it was – was over.

  Tears welled in Akbar’s eyes as he thought of the father he’d never see again. He also felt apprehensive. A few days ago his life had seemed happy and secure but now everything had changed. He sensed tension all around him. Though his mother and Bairam Khan had said little, he knew from their every look and gesture that they were concerned and that their concern was for him.

  But he wouldn’t be afraid. He was of Timur’s blood. Like his grandfather Babur before him, he wouldn’t allow a cruel mischance to deprive him of what was his. Closing his eyes, Akbar began silently to address his dead father. ‘I promise that you won’t lie long in this simple grave, hidden from the eyes of men. As soon as I am able, here in Delhi, I will build for you the most magnificent tomb the world has ever seen. I, Akbar, the new Moghul emperor, swear it on my heart and on my soul . . . My beloved father, you named me “Great” and great I will be – not only in memory of you but in fulfilment of the destiny I feel within me.’