Caution is a fine and worthy thing in any monarch, but a truly great ruler must also know when to take risks.
Chapter 19
Riders in the Snow
The winter sun was already low on the horizon when Humayun, well swathed in a sheepskin-lined coat against the bite of the cold wind blowing down the steep pass he and his army were descending on their march away from Kabul, saw Ahmed Khan ride towards him.
‘Majesty, my scouts have located a place just four miles ahead where we can camp. It’s in the lee of a high ridge that will protect us from the prevailing winds, and from the top of the ridge our sentries will have good warning of anyone approaching.’
‘Excellent, Ahmed Khan.’
Humayun watched his chief scout ride off ahead of the column again. He had not confided in any of his commanders about the reasons for his sudden withdrawal from Kabul, not because he doubted their loyalty but because even a stray remark by one of them might betray everything. Instead, he had told them he was losing patience with the siege — that he intended to ride east to the mountains of Bajaur where there were other, lesser fortresses garrisoned by Kamran’s men to capture and where he hoped to recruit more men. When the snows finally melted, he would return to Kabul to renew his siege.
Zahid Beg, Ahmed Khan and Nadim Khwaja had looked astounded. If Zahid Beg had wondered whether Humayun’s decision was connected with Hindal’s secret nocturnal visit, he’d not shown it but, like the others, immediately set about the cumbersome business of preparing to strike camp. Only in Bairam Khan’s keen-eyed gaze had Humayun thought he detected a hint of speculation as to his motives but, like the others, the Persian had said nothing. Humayun had told the truth to Gulbadan. As Hindal’s sister it was her right to know. Just like Hamida, she had been certain Hindal’s offer was genuine.
Suddenly behind him Humayun heard shouting and distant cries from the rear of his column. This narrow winding pass with its precipitous drops on one side down to a frozen river would make an ideal ambush spot. Humayun turned in his saddle but could not see round the zigzag bends to where the noise was coming from.What he could see was that some of his men were already turning their horses to head back towards the rearguard. At once the fear that was never far from his thoughts returned. Surely Hindal had not betrayed him and brought Kamran and his men down on him? He hadn’t been such a fool as to be deceived again by one of his half-brothers, had he? Humayun wrenched his black horse round and followed by his bodyguard pushed his way back up the pass through the mass of his troops.
Even when he had rounded the first bend he could still see nothing, but the commotion to the rear was louder and increasing. Then, as heart pounding he turned the second corner, he saw the cause. It was not, God be praised, an ambush.Two bullock carts were stuck across the narrow track. One had slewed around entirely. Its back wheels were hanging out over nothingness, while some of his men were hauling at the bullocks’ heads, grabbing at the heavy wooden yokes and putting their own shoulders to the front wheels to drag the cart back on to solid ground.
But the greater problem was with the second cart which seemed to have been the originator of the accident. At least half of its bullock team had gone over the edge. Looking down into the gorge, Humayun could see the bodies of three of them lying among the sharp, jumbled rocks of the frozen riverbed, the blood oozing from them colouring the surrounding snow red. Another bullock was dangling, hooves flailing from the traces, over the drop and two of the drivers were leaning out, pulling at the harness in a futile attempt to recover it. Others were trying to stop the cart being dragged over the side by frantically piling rocks in front of its wheels. As Humayun watched, one of the two drivers slipped on the ice and overbalancing plunged headfirst from the pass. His body struck the rocky side of the gorge twice before hitting the ground by that of one of the oxen.
‘Cut the traces. Let the bullock fall,’ shouted Humayun. ‘It’s not worth losing more lives. Let the cart go too if you have to.’
Swiftly, a large, red-turbaned man drew a long dagger from his belt and ran over to the stricken bullock. Within less than two minutes, he had cut through the leather traces and the bullock, bellowing and kicking wildly, had crashed to the rocks with a sickening thud. The cart, which Humayun now saw contained several large copper cauldrons and other cooking equipment, had stayed on the path. Good, thought Humayun; his army needed hot food in this weather. Eventually, too, the men pushing and straining at the other cart, hot breath rising in the winter air, were succeeding in getting its rear wheels on to the track again by dint of lightening its load of tents and piling them on to the icy ground.
Humayun sighed with relief. It could have been much worse. He could have lost more men or some of his few precious baggage elephants. It was time he and his men stopped and he awaited developments, evidence one way or the other of Hindal’s sincerity. Tonight, he would announce to his men that, having travelled over forty miles from Kabul and found a good site, they would make camp for some days to rest and overhaul their weapons and equipment. The men should be glad of it, even though their general mood was sombre, sullen even. Some from the clans around Kabul had already drifted away, convinced their hopes of booty were gone, but Humayun had been prepared for that. If Hindal’s plan succeeded it wouldn’t be long before he returned to Kabul to unleash his full might against the citadel. As his cannon again crashed and boomed, those who had deserted would be quick to return. .
He had agreed with Hindal in which direction he would take his men and roughly how far. Once they had set up camp he would order Ahmed Khan to ensure his scouts kept watch day and night. They would believe they were watching for signs of pursuit by Kamran’s forces. Of course, if Hindal’s plan failed, or if Hindal betrayed him, that could still be the case. .
Humayun moved restlessly beneath the thick pile of furs and sheepskins, his thoughts and anxieties making sleep impossible. ‘We can trust Hindal, can’t we?’ he asked. ‘It’s been more than a month and we’ve heard nothing.’
Hamida was tossing and turning equally sleepless at his side. ‘I really do believe so. Everything my father said about him when he served as his counsellor makes me think it. So too does Gulbadan’s love and regard for her brother. My worry is not that he will betray us but that he will be betrayed or somehow fail to rescue Akbar. What will Kamran do then? He wouldn’t kill Akbar, would he. .?’
It was the first time Hamida had asked that question. ‘No,’ he said with more confidence than he felt. ‘He will be even more convinced of Akbar’s value as a hostage — though it might go hard with Hindal.’
‘You are right,’ Hamida said after a moment. ‘And there’s no reason to think anything has gone wrong yet. Hindal will need time to ingratiate himself sufficiently with Kamran to gain a position of trust so he can rescue our son. We must be patient.’
‘Patience and uncertainty have always come hard to me. I long for an end to this gnawing suspense so I can compose myself to the outcome and act.’
‘Uncertainty and anxiety are part of all mortal lives. After all, the spotted fever could carry us off at any moment, destroying all our hopes and dreams, but we don’t think about it every day. We must learn to accept that sometimes events are beyond our control.’
‘I know, but as a leader as well as Akbar’s father I have a duty to make things turn out as I would wish and I cannot influence what is happening in Kabul however much I worry.’
‘Then you must try not to worry. . it does no good. We must have faith.’ Hamida enfolded Humayun in her arms and at last, clinging to each other in their cocoon of furs, they slept.
This was not the last such conversation Humayun had with Hamida during the long nights when sleep eluded them. Nevertheless, sometimes he could not restrain himself from leaving his tent to stare into the cold stars to see if they held any message for him, but he found no response. Even when he summoned old Sharaf, whose thin mottled hands protruded like gnarled claws from the sleeves of his sheepskin coat,
he could find none.
As the days passed little moved over the frozen landscape except trotting foxes and a few rabbits that Humayun’s men hunted for the pot. Humayun tried to lose himself in physical activity. Bairam Khan taught him some useful tricks of Persian swordplay including how, by catching the tip of his blade in his opponent’s hand guard, he could twist his enemy’s wrist and force him to drop his weapon. He also practised his archery, firing at straw targets set up on poles driven into the snowy ground. It was good to find his eye as sharp and his hand as steady as ever, though it made him long for the real action that could only follow news from Hindal. But at last, one afternoon while Humayun was out hawking, watching his bird arcing in light blue skies that hinted at the approach of spring, he saw Ahmed Khan galloping towards him from the direction of the ridge.
‘Majesty, my men have seen riders approaching.’
‘How many?’
‘Just a few, mostly mounted on mules — probably a small caravan of merchants. They are still about two miles away but seem to be heading in this direction.’
‘Take me to them.’
Humayun’s heart was thumping as, ten minutes later, he galloped out at Ahmed Khan’s side. It was probably nothing — just a few merchants as Ahmed Khan had said — yet he couldn’t prevent a wild hope from welling up inside him. He strained his eyes into the hazy far distance, impatient for any sign of movement out there on the drear, seemingly empty white landscape. At first there was nothing but then he gasped.What looked like a string of black dots was moving slowly but unmistakably towards them from the west — the direction of Kabul.
Bending low over its neck, Humayun urged his horse on and was soon outstripping Ahmed Khan. All the time the dots were becoming bigger and more distinct — starting to take substance. As he drew yet closer — only some four or five hundred yards away now — he thought he could make out about eight or nine riders; a small party to be out alone in such uncertain times.
They had halted and the foremost had risen in his stirrups and, shading his eyes with one hand, was looking in his direction. Even from this distance, there seemed something achingly familiar about that large figure. . He wasn’t deceiving himself, was he? It could be Hindal, couldn’t it? Humayun wheeled his own mount to a halt as he too stared intently ahead. Moments later Ahmed Khan and his guards came galloping up, their horses’ hooves flinging up puffs of powdery snow.
‘Shall I send men to find out who they are, Majesty?’ asked Ahmed Khan.
‘No. . I will go. . Stay here, all of you!’ Ignoring Ahmed Khan’s protests, Humayun kicked his horse on. He must be first to know his son’s fate if the riders carried that news and he could wait no longer. As he galloped over the frozen ground, the sound of hooves echoing in his ears, he saw that the leading rider was still watching him, motionless. Looking beyond him, Humayun discovered that most of the rest of the group — six men and a slightly smaller figure — a woman by the long plait hanging down from beneath a black shaggy lamb’s wool hat — were on mules. The woman was holding the reins of another mule. Drawing nearer he made out that strapped to its back was a wicker basket in which he thought he saw two rolls of bedding — or could it be children, so wrapped in sheepskins they looked almost spherical?
Humayun was just fifty yards away now. For a moment, he felt afraid to go closer in case the people before him on the snowy landscape were just an illusion, conjured by his own hopes and desires. Reining in and not daring to take his eyes from them, Humayun slid from his saddle and made his way on foot over the last few yards, slowly at first but then breaking into a run, feet slipping and sliding.
The leading rider, gazing towards him so intently, was indeed Hindal shrouded in a thick fur cloak. Scarcely aware of what he was doing and with tears of joy already streaming down his face, Humayun ran past Hindal towards the mule carrying the bundles. He heard Maham Anga’s cry of ‘Majesty!’ but then he saw the bundles were indeed children and had thoughts only for Akbar, sitting calmly next to Adham Khan, his milk-brother. As Humayun leaned over him, Akbar gazed at him with friendly interest from within his nest of sheepskins. In the nearly fourteen months since Kamran had taken him he had changed so much, but he was still unmistakably Akbar. As Adham Khan began to wail, Humayun gently lifted Akbar from the basket and held him close against him, breathing in the warm scent of him.
‘My son,’ he whispered, ‘my son.’
An hour later, Humayun rode at the head of the party back into the camp. Reaching the women’s tents, he dismounted then carefully took Akbar from his basket. Lulled by the resumed motion of the mule, the child was fast asleep. With Maham Anga by his side, Humayun entered Hamida’s tent. She had been reading some of her beloved poetry but the volume had fallen from her hands and she too was sleeping, lying back against some red and gold velvet cushions. How young she looked with her silken hair falling about her and her breast gently rising and falling.
‘Hamida,’ he whispered, ‘Hamida. . I have something for you — a gift. . ’
As her eyes opened and she saw Akbar, joy such as he had never witnessed before lit up her face. But as Humayun placed him in her arms, Akbar awoke. Looking up at Hamida, he released a bewildered yell and began struggling to get free. Maham Anga darted forward, and as soon as he saw her Akbar’s distress vanished. Smilingly he stretched out his chubby arms to his wet-nurse.
All around him, Humayun’s officers were reclining against the great bolsters carefully arranged around his scarlet command tent, amid the debris of the celebration feast. Earlier that afternoon he had called an assembly of all his men and announced the rescue of Akbar.
‘My loyal men — I present to you my son, the symbol of our future, safely returned to me. . ’ Standing on a makeshift wooden dais in the centre of his camp, Humayun had lifted Akbar high above his head. A great cheer accompanied by the clashing of swords on shields had thundered around him. Akbar had still been blinking in surprise at the uproar as Humayun had handed him back to Maham Anga, but he hadn’t cried. It was a good omen. Humayun had raised his hands to call for calm.
‘It is time to return to Kabul to finish what we started and eject the impostor who hides behind innocent children. Our cause is just and God is with us. Tonight we feast but our feasting will be nothing compared to our celebrations once Kabul is ours. Tomorrow at dawn we ride for the city.’
The cooks had laboured hard on their preparations, spitting and roasting meat over great fires whose smoke billowed into the sky. Now that his son was safe, Humayun didn’t care from how many miles his camp was visible.
Some of his commanders were starting to sing — heroic songs of deeds on the battlefield, bawdy songs of even greater feats in the haram. Looking around he saw Zahid Beg swaying back and forth, skull-like face glowing with the effects of the strong red wine of Ghazni for which the kingdom of Kabul was famous and which his own father Babur had enjoyed so much. Even Kasim, normally so quiet and reticent, was joining in the singing from the corner of the tent where he had found a comfortable place to rest his old bones.
Humayun had lost no time in telling his inner circle, his ichkis, that the abandonment of the siege had been only a ruse. Most had looked genuinely astonished. Only Bairam Khan had shown little surprise and his intense indigo eyes had seemed knowing as gravely he had congratulated Humayun on the return of his son, making Humayun doubly certain he had known all along. More than ever he was glad to have the Persian at his side.
Humayun glanced at Hindal sitting close beside him. Unlike the rest of the revellers, he had said little and looked withdrawn and uncomfortable to be seated with Humayun and his officers. Since their return to the camp the previous evening, Humayun had seen little of his half-brother. Instead, in his relief to be reunited with his son, he’d spent most of his time with Hamida and Akbar. To Hamida’s sorrow, their son was still clinging to Maham Anga. Every time Hamida tried to pick him up, he struggled and screamed. But that would pass, Humayun had comforted Hamida, who was torn be
tween relief and exultation at her son’s safe return, wonderment at how much he had grown and grief that in the months they had been apart she had become a stranger to him. At least his vigorous wriggling showed that despite his traumatic experiences he was in robust good health, Hamida had said, smiling through her tears.Then she had added,‘Thank Hindal for me, won’t you.’
Looking again at Hindal’s half-averted face, Humayun guessed this might be a harder task than she had realised.
‘Hindal. . ’ He waited until he had his half-brother’s full attention then continued, lowering his voice so that they would not be overheard. ‘I know what you did was not for me, but for Hamida. She asked me to thank you.’
‘Tell her there is no need. It was a matter of family honour. .’
‘You may not wish to hear this, but I too will be for ever in your debt. Your reasons for your actions don’t absolve me of my obligation to you.’
Hindal gave a slight shrug but said nothing.
‘Tell me, did your plan go as you expected? Hamida too is anxious to know what happened. . ’
For the first time a faint smile lightened Hindal’s face. ‘It went better than I’d dared to hope. Several days after my scouts reported your withdrawal from Kabul, I rode down from the mountains with my men and sent messengers to the citadel to tell Kamran I was ready to pledge my support to him as the true head of our family. As I’d thought, conceited and arrogant as he is and already euphoric at your departure, he ordered me to be admitted. He even threw a feast in celebration and gave me gifts. . ’
‘He really had no suspicions?’
‘None. Believing he had defeated you, his confidence blinded him. Even before I’d arrived, he’d ordered the gates of both the town and the citadel to be kept open once more in the hours of daylight. I’d only been there about a week when he began to speak about going south on a hunting expedition in search of wolves and the great-horned sheep forced down from the mountains by hunger and the winter cold. I encouraged him — even offered to go with him. But, as I suspected and hoped he would, he ordered me to stay behind. He’d already found tasks for me like drilling some of his guards. He joked that he’d be leaving plenty of loyal officers behind just in case I’d any thoughts of grabbing Kabul for myself.
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