Standing on the roof of a single-storey mud-brick house, Humayun gazed down towards the river. It was September now and the heat was no longer quite so relentless. Balotra had been a good place to halt — a safe place — tucked away in this sparsely inhabited region. According to Simbu, the elderly, almost blind village headman, Balotra and the handful of other settlements sprinkled along the Luni river were of little interest to the regional rulers or warlords, who left them in peace. Only the seasons governed the villagers’ quiet lives.
Humayun had not told Simbu who he was and the headman, filmy eyes turned on him, had not asked. In fact, he’d asked few questions and seemed to have accepted Humayun’s story that he was a commander a long way from his own lands whose column needed rest and water. Nevertheless, Humayun had sensed Simbu’s anxiety that, despite his assurances and his money, he and his soldiers might bring trouble on his people.The old man would clearly be relieved when they rode away.
Humayun was also anxious to be gone — it was too dangerous to stay in one place for long, however remote — but where should he go? He couldn’t afford a false move. All his instincts — now that he seemed to have shaken off Maldeo — were to go northward to the Khyber Pass and on towards Kabul to raise the mountain clans who owed him their loyalty and attempt to take back the city before Kamran and Askari became even more entrenched there. Until he had re-established his authority in Kabul and removed the threat to his rear he could not even think of challenging Sher Shah.
Going north would, of course, take him close to Marwar again but his other options were also risky without the benefit of returning him swiftly to Kabul. If he ventured east, he soon would enter the Rajput kingdoms of Mewar and Amber whose rulers, for all he knew, might have joined forces with Maldeo. Though the Rajputs were notorious for warring with one another they might well unite against a man they believed was their common enemy — or if the bribe from Sher Shah was great enough.
If Humayun went south he would enter Gujarat, now in Sher Shah’s hands, while the way due west also had its hazards. According to Simbu, across the Luni river lay a further desert, stretching nearly three hundred miles westward all the way to Sind — a treacherous place of wild winds and quicksands that could bring death to the unwary. It had been known to swallow up whole caravans making for Umarkot, the ancient oasis at its heart. Several of Balotra’s villagers had made the journey to trade in Umarkot and knew a safe route but, Simbu had cautioned Humayun with a grave shake of his old head, it was not a journey to be undertaken lightly.
Humayun’s ignorance of events in the wider world made it even harder to take a decision. He knew nothing of what Sher Shah was doing or Maldeo or indeed his half-brothers. Where was Hindal now? With Kamran and Askari? And were his elder half-brothers attempting further conquests to add to the lands they had already stolen? Knowing the extent of Kamran’s ambition he would not be surprised. His half-brother must know that at some point Humayun would come after him and he would be strengthening his position as much as he could. Neither wise old Kasim nor his aunt Khanzada with all her experience had anything to suggest and even his elderly astrologer Sharaf seemed baffled. The stars that shone with such clear and piercing beauty in the night skies offered Humayun no illumination. He knew that, just as his father Babur had done when the world turned its back on him, he would have to rely on his own inner resources to find his answers.
The sound of a woman singing distracted Humayun from his thoughts. Low and sweet, it was a voice he knew well — Hamida’s. At least she was healthy, thriving even, belly round as a watermelon. The child would be big, she would tell Humayun, placing his hand on her stomach so that he could feel the vigorous kicks. Descending the narrow, wooden ladder down from the roof he went in search of her.
She was sitting in the shade of a fig tree spinning woollen thread on a wheel she had borrowed from the headman’s wife, with her waiting woman Zainab holding the skein beside her. Seeing Humayun, Hamida smiled but went on with her song, matching her movements to the rhythm of the music.
‘Where are Khanzada and Gulbadan?’ Humayun asked when the song was ended.
‘Gulbadan has found a quiet place to write that diary she’s started keeping but Khanzada is sleeping. The heat tires her.’
‘But it doesn’t tire you?’
Hamida shrugged. ‘I must keep active and cheerful. It is important for our child and when I think of him nothing seems to matter except that he is born healthy. Gulbadan told me something amusing today — that the mountain clans around Kabul have a way of predicting the sex of a child. They take two scraps of paper and on one they write a boy’s name and on the other a girl’s. Next they wrap the papers in thin sheets of clay which they plunge into a basin of water. Then they wait to see which sheet of clay opens first. . I have no need of such tricks. I know it’s a boy. . ’
She looked so happy, Humayun thought, despite everything. But he still felt guilty. If he hadn’t chosen her — insisted on her — as his wife she would still be with her father. Now, instead of living as an empress, waited on by hundreds of attendants, dressing in gleaming silks and dining off jewelled plates as he had promised her father, he had reduced her to living like the wife of a poor peasant. And far worse than that he had exposed her to danger. He ran a finger along the curve of Hamida’s cheek. ‘As soon as it grows cooler this evening, I will go hunting with Zahid Beg. We might find some ducks amongst the reeds that would make good eating.’
But as Humayun walked along the riverbank to the camp to find Zahid Beg, a rider came galloping into the settlement. Humayun recognised Darya, who had joined Ahmed Khan’s scouts. His grey horse was foamy with sweat and his own clothes were dark with it. He looked only a little less anxious and exhausted than when he had brought the news of Kabul’s fall.
‘Majesty!’ Darya slid from the saddle.
‘What is it?’
‘A column of Rajput cavalry about fifteen miles from here.’
‘How many?’
‘At least three hundred, well mounted and some armed with muskets. They are travelling light and fast — we saw no baggage train.’
‘From which direction are they coming?’
‘From the northwest.’
‘So they could be soldiers from Marwar. . ’ Why had he assumed Maldeo had given up the hunt when the prize was so great? ‘Where is Ahmed Khan?’
‘Still trying to discover whose men they are and where they might be heading. He sent me to warn you but promised he would not be far behind.’
Ten minutes later, Humayun addressed his commanders. Darya’s news had ended his uncertainties. He knew with absolute clarity what he must do.
‘Our scouts have sighted a detachment of Rajput cavalry only fifteen miles away. Whether fate has brought them this close to us or whether they know we are here, I don’t know. But what I am certain of is that we cannot fight here.’ He gestured towards the mud-built dwellings outside which women in cotton saris with brass bangles gleaming on their wrists and ankles were squatting, trying to coax fires of cattle dung into life so they could start cooking the evening meal.
‘But where will we go, Majesty?’ asked Zahid Beg.
‘Over the Luni. The ford a mile upriver from here is easy to cross — no more than a couple of feet deep. I was there yesterday. Then we will head due west across the desert. The headman has told me of a remote place called Umarkot where we should be safe.’
Humayun saw his commanders exchange glances. They too had heard of the desert’s dangers. ‘The desert has an evil reputation, I know. But that is why our enemies will hesitate to follow us, even if they discover that is where we have gone. But don’t fear — we will take a guide from here to lead us. . He will make sure that. . ’
Distracted by the beat of fast-approaching hooves, Humayun looked round to see Ahmed Khan career into the camp raising plumes of dust and scattering hens.
‘Majesty, they are soldiers of the Raja of Jaisalmer. He has allied himself with Maldeo. I
learned this from a herdsman who’d sold them some sheep. They boasted to him that they were hunting an emperor, that the scent was warm and that soon they’d be moving in for the kill. But their conceit is greater than their skill. I don’t think they’ve yet discovered exactly where we are. . I watched them ride off to the south. . ’
‘Even so, we have little time. Ahmed Khan, we must quickly strike camp, cross the river and head westward. Summon the headman and ask him to provide us with a guide to lead us through the desert to Umarkot. Tell him I will reward him well — that he will have gold.’
As — watched by startled villagers — his men rushed to douse fires, collapse tents, collect their weapons and fill saddlebags, Humayun returned to Hamida. She had put her spinning aside. Gulbadan was with her now and they were laughing about something, but seeing Humayun’s expression both fell silent.
‘Ahmed Khan reports Rajput soldiers not far from here.’
Gulbadan gasped and Hamida instinctively put her hand on her stomach. Humayun took her face in his hands, feeling the warm smoothness of her skin. Bending his head, he kissed her lips. ‘Courage. No one will harm you, I promise. Pack up what you can. We leave within the hour. Gulbadan — find Khanzada and tell her what has happened.’
‘What’s that?’ Humayun stared at the cloud swirling and dancing along the distant horizon. Surely it hadn’t been there a few moments ago. The sky too had changed — no longer a bright almost turquoise blue but a lowering, steely grey. Humayun’s horse whinnied and tossed its head uneasily. Anil — Simbu’s eighteen-year-old grandson who was acting as guide and was walking by the side of Humayun’s horse — was also peering hard at the rolling billowing shape that even as they watched seemed to grow larger.
‘I saw it only once before, when I was a child. Desert travellers call it “the Demon of the Sands”. . it is terrible. . It’s a great sandstorm with whirlwinds in its midst.’Anil rubbed a hand over his eyes as if, by that gesture, he might make the terrible sight bearing down on them disappear. But as Humayun looked, the great tawny cloud was rushing towards them, blotting out the sun. Suddenly he saw one of the whirlwinds at its centre. It looked as if it was sucking up the guts of the earth and spewing them out.
‘Quickly. . Tell us what to do.’ Humayun leaned down and shook Anil’s thin shoulder.
‘We must make hollows for ourselves and the animals in the sand and lie in them with our backs to the storm until it has passed over.’
‘How long have we got?’
The youth stared again at the advancing turmoil. ‘Only a few minutes. . ’
‘Tell the men to dig themselves into the sand and pull their horses down behind them as extra protection,’ yelled Humayun to Jauhar and Zahid Beg, who had overheard his conversation with Anil. Dismounting and leading his own nervous, skittering horse by the reins, Humayun stumbled across to the bullock carts containing Hamida, Gulbadan, Khanzada and their retainers.
‘Dig places in the sand for the women to shelter in — they must help you — and for yourselves,’ Humayun shouted to the bodyguards who’d been escorting them. ‘Quickly! Make your horses lie down by you but unyoke the bullocks — they must fend for themselves.’
Even before he had finished speaking, Humayun saw that despite her many years Khanzada was out of her bullock cart and bending to tear at the ground with her hands. Gulbadan was close beside her. ‘Aunt, when the storm breaks over us, you and Gulbadan must lie down together, backs towards it, and hold on to each other, do you understand?’
Without stopping her digging, Khanzada nodded but his half-sister looked ashen and he saw she was shaking. ‘Dig!’ Khanzada shouted at her.
With figures frantically burrowing all around, Humayun hobbled his horse then lifted Hamida from the bullock cart and carried her a few yards away to where the sand looked softer and easier to dig.
‘Let me help. . ’ Despite her bulk, Hamida knelt beside him and began clawing at the ground.They worked frantically, hollowing out a place as best they could with bare hands. Hamida’s nails were soon bleeding. Glancing over his shoulder Humayun saw the storm was much closer now, the sand and dirt within it darkening the sky. A roaring filled the air and though he could see Hamida was saying something he couldn’t hear her. Frantically he redoubled his efforts and, as the wind and sand overwhelmed them, grabbed Hamida and pulled her down into the space they’d dug. Her face was against his chest as he held her tightly to him, arms wrapped around her, trying to shield her with his body.
Hamida was almost torn from his arms but he clung tightly on to her, his face feeling as if it was being skinned and his hair as if it was being ripped from his scalp. Sand clogged his nostrils and mouth and as he struggled for breath his burning lungs felt ready to burst. He was choking and as he fought for life felt his grip on Hamida slacken.
With an enormous effort he willed himself to keep hold of her. What mattered above all was that she and their child should survive. He understood now how his father must have felt when, believing Humayun was dying, he had run into the mosque of the Agra fort to offer God his life for his son’s. Let her live, he prayed, and let our child live. Take my life for theirs if that is your will. .
As he continued to pray he realised that the dust and tumult were receding. He felt his tortured lungs expand as, at last, he managed to take in air. Every gasp hurt — lips, mouth, throat, windpipe felt raw and his nostrils were still full of sand. As for his eyes, sand had got under the lids and he felt as if red-hot needles had pricked his eyeballs. He tried to force them open and through streaming tears to look down at Hamida but everything seemed blurred and he closed them again.
He could feel her lying very still in his arms. Gently releasing her, he pulled himself up into a half-sitting position. ‘My love. . ’ he tried to say but no words came. ‘Hamida,’ he managed at last and reaching forward tried to pull her up too. Finding her shoulders, he ran his hands up her neck to take her face between his palms. She felt so limp. It was like holding a dead bird in his hands. .
Stifled groans were rising from all around but Humayun had no thought for anyone but Hamida. Gently he pulled her face against his chest once more and began to stroke the hair that was once so silken and soft but was now gritty and tangled. He began rocking gently back and forward, as if he were holding a child. The motion comforted him, delaying the moment when he must face the pain of losing the person he loved above all others.
But after what seemed an age but could only have been a few moments, he felt Hamida move. Then she started to cough, spitting out a dirty orange-coloured mixture of saliva and sand. Joy that she was alive surged through Humayun. Helping her to sit up, he heard her taking in great, greedy gulps of air, just as he had done.
‘It’s all right,’ he said gruffly, ‘everything’s all right. . ’
After a moment he felt Hamida take his hand and place it on her domed belly. As he felt the child within kicking strongly, fresh tears ran down his sand-covered face but this time they were of joy not pain.
Slowly, people and animals were hauling themselves to their feet, though some lay ominously still. Standing up, Humayun saw the feebly twitching body of a horse lying nearby beneath a thick layer of sand. Staggering over, he knelt beside it and brushing the sand from its face recognised his stallion. In the last terrifying moments before the whirlwind ripped over them he’d forgotten the animal completely. It must have tried to gallop off but hobbled had crashed to the ground. Running his hands over its fetlocks, Humayun felt the fracture in the bone. Whispering softly into its ear and stroking its neck with one hand, with the other he drew his dagger and swiftly severed the jugular, warm blood spurting over him and staining the sandy ground.
Looking round he saw that Zainab had brought Hamida some water to drink. But another female figure was stumbling towards him — Gulbadan, hair wild, clothes crusted with sand and glistening tracks on her filthy face from the tears she was crying. He tried to take her in his arms to comfort her but she pulled away fr
om him.
‘It’s Khanzada. . ’ Gulbadan led him over to where a body was lying and Humayun looked down on his aunt’s sand-streaked face. Her eyes were closed and from the angle of her head, he — who had seen so many dead bodies on the battlefield — knew she was dead. Mechanically, he put a hand against her neck but there was no pulse. She must have suffocated — her nostrils and mouth looked choked with sand and her hands were clenched as if she’d engaged in a mighty struggle with death, fighting until the last.
‘She behaved like the mother she had become to me since the death of my own. She shielded me with her body. She knew how afraid I was. . ’ Gulbadan whispered.
Humayun was silent, unable to conjure any words even to comfort Gulbadan. Khanzada — the woman who had shared Babur’s tragedies and triumphs and guided his own first steps as emperor, forcing him to fight opium and face his destiny — was gone. That she should die like this, snuffed out in a sandstorm, after all that she had seen and endured in her lifetime seemed cruel and terrible. Never would he forget her courage or her selfless love for him and unflinching devotion to their dynasty. A deep sadness crept over him, extinguishing the joy of a few moments ago. Khanzada’s final resting place should have been a flower-filled garden on the banks of the Jumna in Agra, or on the hillside above Kabul next to her brother Babur. But that couldn’t be. He bent and lifted his aunt’s body and cradling her tenderly in his arms spoke. ‘Though this is a wild and desolate place, we must bury her here. I myself will dig her grave.’
At last, ten long hot days later, the walls of Umarkot appeared on the horizon before Humayun’s exhausted column. He saw Kasim and Zahid Beg exchange glances of relief. Ten of Humayun’s men had been killed in the storm — two struck by pieces of flying timber from bullock carts that had been smashed by one of the whirlwinds. Many, like Jauhar, had been badly grazed and cut, some had broken bones and one of his best musketeers had lost the sight of an eye to a piece of sharp stone.
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