Brothers at War eotm-2

by Alex Rutherford

Humayun himself was quickly on the smooth battlements, peering along them to see whether there was a guardhouse. Yes, there was one — about a hundred yards away. Suddenly its door opened and six men appeared with torches — presumably a skeleton guard left behind while the others rushed to bolster the troops on the front wall which judging from the noise and commotion was now under full assault. The guards moved towards the wall to look down and, as they did so, Humayun ordered his men carrying bows to shoot as fast as they could before the guards could raise the alarm. Almost immediately there was a hiss of arrows and the six men were hit, two falling headfirst from the walls they were looking over and another drumming his legs on the stone battlements in his death throes. The other three were at once still.

  Humayun led the charge towards the guardhouse. As he reached it, another Gujarati who had been hiding inside sprinted out, making for a covered staircase only ten yards away leading to the courtyard below. He was too near it for there to be time to loose off arrows before he disappeared beneath its protective roof. Humayun ran after him, arms and legs pumping, and reached the top of the staircase to see that the guard had descended most of its twenty or so stone steps. Without pausing to think, Humayun leaped from the top step on to the guard, knocking him down to the bottom. Both men were winded but the guard was the first to his feet and attempted to run on. Humayun scrambled after him and catching him by the ankle brought him to the ground once more. Summoning all his skill as a wrestler to pin the wildly struggling man beneath him, Humayun succeeded in closing his fingers round his neck and started to squeeze the life out of him until he heard the man’s breath rattle in his throat and threw the limp body aside. Humayun’s men were surrounding him again.

  ‘We now have at least four hundred men,’ Ahmed Khan gasped. ‘What next?’

  ‘Get as far to the front of the fort as we can before we are detected.’

  Ahead, the men could see the flashes of the cannon and hear their boom and the crack of muskets as well as all the cries and screams of battle. Smoke was drifting across the courtyard, in particular through a large gateway in the opposite wall. This must mean that the gate gave directly on to the main part of the fort where the defenders were concentrated, Humayun thought. ‘Get our men to the gate, half on each side, and then we’ll sound our drums and trumpets to alert our fellows attacking the front wall before we charge into the enemy’s rear,’ he ordered. The command was quickly passed on and at Humayun’s signal his men rushed to the gateway. Peering round the corner of the gate, Humayun could see through the billowing smoke cannon positions on the front wall and also defenders firing and pouring burning pitch and oil on to his own men attacking below.

  ‘Trumpeters and drummers, give the signal and keep on doing so. The rest of you, follow me!’ As the instruments sounded out, Humayun rushed through the gateway. Once through, the first volley from his archers took many of the Gujaratis in the back, the whole crew of one cannon falling together. Turning in surprise and confusion, some tried to fight back. Others seemed to lose heart and ran into the shelter of the buildings.

  ‘Make for the main gatehouse. Kill the defenders and open the gates to our troops.’

  Humayun’s men rushed to obey, one of his trumpeters at their head, still sounding his call. However, from behind a pile of his dead comrades, a Gujarati fired an arrow which caught the trumpeter in the throat, and as he fell his last breath bubbling with blood produced a weird scream from his instrument. Nevertheless, Humayun, with Ahmed Khan and at least fifty men at his side, were in the gatehouse killing or putting to flight its defenders. Soon they were winching open the gates. Once they were even a quarter open, the Moghuls began to pour through. Seeing them do so, most of the remaining defenders threw down their arms but a few took refuge in an inner keep and maintained steady fire on Humayun’s men, several of whom fell, mortally wounded.

  ‘Get our men under cover.We need not risk more casualties. The fort is ours. Bring me the most senior of the Gujaratis we’ve captured.’

  Soon, a tall, balding officer with blood running from sword-slash wounds to his arms and legs was dragged before Humayun and pushed to his knees. ‘I am not a barbarian,’ Humayun told him. ‘I will not spill blood unnecessarily. You will go to those in the keep and tell them resistance is useless. If they surrender now I swear on the Holy Book that I will spare their lives. If they resist, all will die, including those I have already captured.’

  Humayun saw the fear and alarm in the man’s eyes. He believed him and should convince his fellows.

  ‘Now go. You have ten minutes in which to bring an answer.’

  Humayun ordered his men to hold their fire while the officer limped over to the keep. Recognising him, the defenders swung open the heavy metal-studded oak door and he disappeared inside. After five minutes he re-emerged and crossed to Humayun’s troops. ‘They will surrender provided they can leave with their personal weapons.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Humayun and immediately a great surge of relief travelled through him. He had been victorious in his first campaign as emperor. ‘We have won a great victory.Take care of our wounded. Then start the search for the treasure vaults.’

  ‘We still can’t find the entrance to the vaults, Majesty,’ one of his officers told Humayun thirty-six hours later. ‘May we put some of the captured Gujaratis who remain to the torture?’

  ‘No. I promised on the Holy Book they could depart unharmed and under safe conduct. We need to secure the treasure — but there are other means to get information from people than torture. Tell Baba Yasaval to throw a feast for the most senior of the captured Gujaratis on the pretext of honouring their bravery. Then when many toasts have been drunk and the alcohol has loosened their lips, bring the conversation round to the subject of treasure and see what you get from them that way.’

  Towards midnight that same day, Baba Yasaval staggered up to the door of the apartments temporarily occupied by Humayun. Even though his gait was unsteady and his eyes were unfocused, a broad smile creased his face. ‘May I speak to His Majesty?’

  A few moments later, he was admitted to Humayun’s presence. ‘I’m sure I know the answer, Majesty. I’ve spent much of the night dining and carousing under the stars in the courtyard with the Gujarati officers. As he drank deeply of the rich red wine of Ghazni, one of them — Alum Khan by name — relaxed and became ever more garrulous, confiding titbits of gossip about the Gujarati royal family and his fellow officers. When I thought the moment right, I slipped in a question about the treasure. Startled, he did not betray the location in words but I noticed his eyes flash across to one of the marble pools and he became flustered.

  ‘Instinctively I knew that the pool had something to do with it so I questioned him further about it. You know — how long it had been there, its depth, its construction, how often it was drained and refilled. With each question he became ever more agitated as he stammered unconvincing and contradictory answers. I am sure the entrance to the vaults is concealed beneath that pool.’ Baba Yasaval stopped, seemingly exhausted by the effort of forcing himself to speak so coherently after his drinking.

  ‘You’ve done well.We’ll drain the pool and excavate beneath it as soon as it is light. Now go and lie down before you fall down.’

  Early the next morning, amid the raucous cawing of green parrots from the jungle surrounding the fortress, Humayun, with a somewhat pale and bedraggled Baba Yasaval at his side, watched as a team of labourers naked but for their white loincloths formed a chain to empty the pool with their leather buckets. Then, clambering down, they began to prise up one by one the marble slabs forming its lining before heaving them on to the poolside where others took them and piled them carefully in the courtyard.

  As the first slabs were moved there was, to Baba Yasaval’s obvious consternation, nothing to see beneath them but reddish sandy earth. Then, as Humayun paced impatiently along the poolside, Baba Yasaval shouted, ‘Look, Majesty! Those four slabs towards the centre have indentations and chips ar
ound their sides. They’ve been lifted before.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Humayun replied. ‘Remove them.’

  As soon as the crowbars were inserted the slabs came up quickly and as the sweating labourers lifted them, Humayun saw part of a wooden trap door emerge beneath them.

  ‘That’s it! Your instincts were right, Baba Yasaval, I’m sure. What a reward I will give you to compensate for that sore head.’

  Jumping down on to the pool bottom, Humayun himself tugged at the trap door. It came up easily to reveal several shallow steps leading to a low, iron-studded door secured with a large metal lock. ‘Give me a crowbar,’ he ordered. Taking it, he pushed its tip into the lock and using all his force levered it apart. Swinging the door open, he bent his head and entered. In the half-light he caught the glint of gold. As his eyes adjusted he saw that the floor was piled with thick gold ingots and open chests of what looked like gems. There seemed to be several other chambers radiating off the first. Humayun shouted for torches and as servants brought them he saw that the chests indeed contained sapphires, rubies, emeralds and other glittering stones and that there was more booty in the other chambers including silver dishes and drinking vessels and ornately decorated weapons and armour. He would have more than enough to reward his faithful and brave warriors.

  ‘Remove all the gold, jewels and other valuables. Have them guarded well and their number recorded. Tonight we will feast and share our spoils.’

  In the late afternoon, servants and soldiers alike worked hard. Their first task was to construct a low wooden platform in the centre of the courtyard from which Humayun could address his troops and distribute their share of the booty which was piled under guard at the back of the dais. Then they rigged additional awnings around the courtyard using all the fabrics they could find, whether wool, cotton or mere jute, whether bright reds or purples or duller duns and greens, whether elaborately patterned or plain. Beneath them they improvised low wooden tables and around them scattered all the cushions, blankets and mattresses they could find for the banqueters to recline upon. They fashioned rough stands for torches and placed them where they were least likely to get knocked over as the revelries got wilder as they inevitably would.

  As they were completing their work, their appetites were whetted by the smell of cooking wafting from the nearby field kitchens. Sheep were roasting on spits, men were stirring spices into bubbling vats of vegetables, more skilled cooks were combining sugar, yoghurt, rosewater and spices in smaller copper pots to make sweetmeats. Probably more important to the mind of many of the soldiers who, in common with Humayun and most of his courtiers, were good Muslims but could not convince themselves that the consumption of alcohol was entirely sinful, all the supplies of drink from the fortress and Humayun’s own baggage train — including the red wine of Ghazni that had been the downfall of Alum Khan — were being assembled in whatever containers were available.

  An hour after sunset, when the bats were swooping through the warm, velvet darkness and the noise of insects was at its height, two of Humayun’s trumpeters put their lips to their six-foot-long brass instruments. Then, as their reverberations stilled the voices of officers and common soldiers alike, Humayun appeared from the main door of the fortress clad in a tunic and trousers of gold-coloured material over which he was wearing a coat of gold chain mail found in the treasure chambers. To the continuing sound of the trumpets and the heavy beat of the large military drums from the battlements above, Humayun advanced through the ranks of his soldiers to the low dais and slowly mounted it, followed by his most senior officers, and stood before the assembled treasure. Motioning the trumpeters and drummers to be silent he addressed his men.

  ‘Tonight we celebrate the successful end to our campaign in Gujarat. Everywhere we have defeated those of our enemies brave enough to face us. Sultan Bahadur Shah has not even dared to do so, hiding in the most remote corners of his realm like the cowardly rat he is.Yet we have conquered his lands and behind me you see all the piles of his treasure we have made our own. First let us give thanks to God for our victory.’

  ‘Allah akbar, God is great,’ came the instant response from the ranks.

  ‘Before we feast let me share some of this treasure with you. Each senior officer has been ordered to bring his shield to this assembly. Shortly you will see why. It is not for fear of sudden attack — our enemies are well scattered and demoralised — but to carry off rewards for himself and his men. Officers, advance with your shields. First you, Baba Yasaval.’

  The shaven-headed Baba Yasaval walked forward and bowed low before Humayun.

  ‘Take your shield from your back and place it upside down on the ground.’

  Baba Yasaval did so.

  ‘Servants. Pile it with gold and silver bars and top it with jewels.’The servants brought forward the precious metals and gems, glinting and glittering in the torchlight, and heaped them on the shield. ‘Now carry it away, Baba Yasaval, with my heartfelt thanks, and if you’re still too weak from drinking get your men to help!’

  The burden would have been far too great for any man, young or old, hungover or not, and a smiling Baba Yasaval bowed his head, his hand on his heart, and motioned to his men to assist. As together they bore their treasure off, Humayun signalled to the next officer, a tall pale Afghani, to mount the stage and the process was repeated. All the time the cries of ‘Glory to Humayun, our emperor, our padishah’ increased. As he acknowledged the acclaim, both hands held high above his head, Humayun smiled. He had been successful in his first campaign as emperor. Like his father before him, he had brought himself and his men glory and booty. Life was good — long might it continue so.

  Chapter 4

  In the Balance

  The monsoon rains were falling so hard that the courtyards of the Agra fort were awash. The heavy drops bounced off the paving stones and drowned the fountains that should have been bubbling up. Clothes were beginning to mildew and in the imperial library anxious scholars were at their annual task of trying to protect from the damp the manuscripts brought to Hindustan by Babur. Among them were Babur’s own diaries, which Humayun had ordered his librarians to store in a specially made metal box with a tight-fitting lid to protect against the moist air and the ceaseless swarms of insects. In the room where the box was kept, a fire of camphor wood was kept constantly burning during the monsoon to dry the air.

  Late last night, oblivious of the pouring rain, Humayun had returned to Agra in triumph from his conquest of Gujarat. The gold, silver and jewels that remained, even after rewarding his men, had already been piled in the imperial treasure houses. Except, that was, for a few items that Humayun had kept back — a silver belt set with pearls that he would enjoy fastening around Salima’s supple waist, a carved jade cup for his mother Maham, and for Khanzada a double-stranded necklace of rubies and uncut emeralds set in gold that had reputedly adorned the throats of generations of royal women of Gujarat. Unlocking an enamelled casket he drew it out, admiring once more the fiery brilliance of the rubies counterpointed by the dark green emeralds.

  Still holding the necklace, Humayun made for his aunt’s apartments. He knew the details of the campaign would interest her but he also wanted her advice. As he entered, he saw that Khanzada was reading and that sitting by her side, head also deep in a book, was his eleven-year-old half-sister Gulbadan. The child’s eyes — a dark tawny like her mother Dildar’s and her brother Hindal’s — gazed up at him, bright and curious.

  Khanzada rose at once and taking him by the shoulders kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Welcome back, Humayun. You conquered as I knew you would. . Every report of your progress filled me with pride.’

  ‘I have a gift for you.’ Humayun opened his hand and let the ruby and emerald necklace trickle through his fingers. Gulbadan edged closer for a better look, but Khanzada seemed to hesitate before taking the jewels and holding them up to the light. ‘They’re beautiful, but they’re too fine for me. . I am no longer young. Keep them for your wife whe
n you take one.’ She returned the necklace to Humayun, closing his fingers over it before he could argue and gestured him to sit by her. ‘Gulbadan — leave us. But come to me again tomorrow — there is a Persian poem I want to show you.’

  As the girl closed her book and walked slowly away, Khanzada looked after her. ‘I’ve grown fond of her since her mother’s death last year — she’s a clever child and notices everything.’

  ‘As you did at her age? My father often told me nothing escaped you.’

  ‘He flattered me.’

  ‘I don’t think so, and it’s for that reason that once again I come to you for advice. I learned many things during my campaign against Bahadur Shah. My victory proved to me that I can inspire men to follow me in battle and confirmed to me that I am a good warrior. . Many more fights lie ahead of me and I don’t fear them — indeed I’m eager for them if they help me make our empire more secure. .’

  ‘You’re right.You’ve proved you are a leader of men. That you are fearless. So what is worrying you?’

  ‘As I travelled back to Agra, I often thought to myself, when the tensions and excitement of battle are over, what then? I know how to be a warrior, but do I really understand how to govern and keep an empire? How to behave when sitting on my gilded throne, surrounded by counsellors, sycophants and suppliants, all eager for my attention to their requests or problems? Sometimes I just wish to banish them all and be with Salima or one of my other concubines, or go out hunting.’

  ‘That is only natural for a young man, but you must resist such temptations. A ruler must be alive to what is going on around him and sensitive enough to sniff out discontent before it ferments into rebellion. You will learn just as your father learned. It wasn’t easy for him either. He was much younger than you when God gave him a throne but he became a great ruler. Read his diaries — you will find what you seek in their pages, born of hard experience and blood. .’ Khanzada paused, then smiled a little sadly. ‘If Babur were here with us now he would tell you to be vigilant about those you allow close to you at court. . Take care to whom you give power, trust few. Always ask yourself the question why — Why is this man advising me to do this? What will he gain if I agree? What will he lose if I don’t? Will he be grateful for what he is given or think it is due to him as of right?’