Brothers at War

Chapter 10

Humayun twisted in the saddle. It was thirty-six hours since he had abandoned Lahore to Sher Shah. Behind him streamed his remaining troops, only some fifteen thousand men — many had deserted. Beyond them straggled for miles a desperate mass of humanity half choking in the hot dust, their possessions loaded higgledy-piggledy on carts, donkeys and mules.

Only four days ago a group of travel-stained merchants — so terrified that they’d abandoned their mule trains and goods along the way — had galloped into Lahore, yelling to whoever would listen that Sher Shah was threatening to put the city to the sword. A few hours later, a messenger had arrived from Sher Shah himself. The letter he was carrying was simple and to the point. Sher Shah was indeed threatening to destroy the city and slaughter its people — but only if Humayun refused to withdraw from it.

The decision to quit Lahore just as he had been forced to yield Agra was a terrible humiliation. But Sher Shah commanded vast armies that — if the reports reaching Humayun were true, and there was no reason to doubt them — outnumbered his own forces by twenty to one, perhaps more. Despite the trenches and fortifications he had ordered to be dug, without city walls to protect it any attempt to defend Lahore against such an overwhelming force was doomed, even if the troops he had summoned from Kabul could reach him in time.

After only a few hours’ reflection, Humayun had ordered his commanders to prepare to evacuate Lahore. As the news had spread, the citizens had refused to believe that with Humayun gone, Sher Shah would keep his word to spare them. There had been panic. From one of the citadel’s stone towers, Humayun had watched people pouring from their houses, clutching cloth-wrapped bundles of their most precious belongings and gripping the hands of small, screaming children. A few carried old people on their backs. Soon the narrow streets had become clogged with handcarts and wagons drawn by stumbling animals. Under the pressure of fear ordinary citizens had lost their reason and become a crazed and callous mob, desperate only to get away and save themselves. Shops had been looted and the weak and frail elbowed and pushed aside, some falling to be trampled and crushed underfoot. It had been like witnessing the end of the world.

The panic and chaos had grown yet worse as the boom of massive explosions had begun to reverberate in the citizens’ ears, coming from the great parade ground near the palace where Humayun had ordered the destruction of his largest bronze cannon, which would be too slow and cumbersome to take with him. Teams of straining oxen had dragged the guns out on to open ground where Humayun’s gunners, their naked torsos dripping with sweat, had hastily stuffed their barrels with powder and — after fixing long cotton fuses — ignited it, sending fragments of hot, twisted metal into the air.

Snatching his thoughts back to the present, Humayun glanced to his left at the powerful figure of Hindal riding on a great cream-coloured stallion at the head of his own small entourage. Immediately on hearing of Sher Shah’s message, Hindal had sought Humayun out and sworn on their father’s name that he had known nothing of Kamran’s and Askari’s defection. Since childhood Hindal had never been good at concealing his emotions and seeing his half-brother’s shocked face and incredulity at what Kamran and Askari had done, Humayun had believed him. Later, calm reflection had told him his instincts had been correct. Otherwise, why would Hindal have remained in Lahore and risked retribution? Also, Kamran and Askari were full brothers. Hindal — like Humayun himself — was only their half-brother, so the ties of blood and honour were weaker. As if sensing Humayun watching him, Hindal turned his head and gave him a brief smile. It was good that Hindal had chosen to stay with him, thought Humayun. Perhaps amid the present danger to their dynasty at least two of Babur’s sons could form an enduring bond and draw strength from it.

In the last desperate hours before abandoning Lahore to his rapidly advancing enemy, Humayun had embraced Baisanghar and bidden him farewell, perhaps for the last time. It had been hard to part from his grandfather and even harder to convince the old man he must go north with a detachment of troops to secure Kabul for Humayun. Again and again Humayun had had to argue that Kamran and Askari might take advantage of his plight to try to seize the kingdom, that he no longer had confidence in his governor there who had been so tardy in sending reinforcements and that Baisanghar was one of the very few he could trust unreservedly to hold it for him.

This was true, but there was another reason too why Humayun wanted his grandfather to go north, although he could not have admitted it to Baisanghar. Though the warrior spirit still burned within him and his mind was clear, he was old — eight years older even than Kasim — and losing his physical stamina. He’d be safer as well as more useful in Kabul rather than draining his small remaining stock of strength accompanying Humayun on the long, perhaps dangerous, journey he had decided on: six hundred miles southwest down the Ravi and Indus rivers to Sind. The Sultan of Sind, Mirza Husain, was of Humayun’s blood — his mother was Babur’s cousin — so he was honour bound to receive Humayun. But would honour mean any more to Mirza Husain than it had to his half-brothers with whom his ties of blood were so much closer?

Eventually, Baisanghar had given way, persuaded by the logic of Humayun’s arguments. However, Khanzada and Gulbadan had been harder to deal with and this time it was Humayun who had conceded defeat. His aunt and half-sister had refused to accompany Baisanghar. ‘I have earned the right to decide my own fate,’ Khanzada had insisted quietly. ‘All the years I suffered in Shaibani Khan’s haram, I told myself that if I survived never again would I lose control of my life, my destiny, even if death was the only alternative. And the destiny I choose is to go with you, nephew.’ Gulbadan had remained silent throughout this speech but Humayun had noticed how tightly she was gripping Khanzada’s hand and how determined was her expression. When Khanzada had finished speaking Gulbadan too had made clear her wishes to accompany Hindal and Humayun.

In his heart Humayun was glad they were with him. They were riding close by on sturdy brown ponies, followed by their attendants and the wives and daughters of some of his and Hindal’s commanders, including Zahid Beg’s wife, also mounted on ponies. Speed was vital and this was no time for more decorous modes of transport, concealed from the common gaze behind the curtains of litters or howdahs. Nevertheless, the small group of women was closely guarded by the most trusted of Humayun’s bodyguards and well hidden from prying eyes beneath voluminous garments, their hair bound up and concealed by tight-fitting caps. Above the cotton face cloths that protected them from the wind and the choking dust only their eyes were visible.

There should have been a further pair of eyes — grey ones — to gladden his soul, Humayun thought. Before finally quitting the Lahore palace he had paid a brief visit to the newly dug grave in the garden where Salima had been buried only two days before. She too would have wanted to go with him — he was sure of it — but a sudden fever contracted just as news came of Sher Shah’s ultimatum and with chaos rising all around had claimed her life within twenty-four hours of its onset. In the last minutes of her sweating delirium, her staring, unfocused eyes had not recognised him or seen the tears in his eyes as he held her small hand in his own larger one and watched as her last breaths fled from her body. He would miss her so much. Since he had abandoned Gulrukh’s opium-laced wine and even more since his defeats at the hands of Sher Shah, Salima had become ever more important to him, providing an all-consuming physical relief from his mental doubts and daily cares and responsibilities.

But there was no time now for grief or for reflections upon the fragility of human existence. All the time as he rode Humayun kept returning to the same question. Had he done the right thing in abandoning Lahore? The answer, though, was always the same. Faced with an imminent bloodbath — the massacre of so many thousands of innocent citizens — he’d had no choice but to order his forces to retreat across the broad wooden bridge that spanned the Ravi river north of the city. As soon as his men were safely over, he’d had the bridge destroyed to hinder Sher Shah’s troops from pursuing him. The camp followers had had to cross as best they could, scrambling aboard fishing — and ferry-boats.

But Sher Shah had as yet made no attempt to pursue Humayun who, after a day and a half almost constantly in the saddle, was now forty miles clear of Lahore. With each passing mile and hour he became more and more convinced that he would be given time to regroup. It was also good that those cannon he had been able to bring with him — dragged to the Ravi river by bullocks — had been safely loaded on to rafts to be floated downriver under the care of Humayun’s gunnery commander and his men. Their orders were to wait for the rest of the army to catch up at Multan, two hundred miles southwest of Lahore. He was well provided with muskets, powder and shot as well as with treasure in coin and gems which he could use to pay his forces and buy provisions for them as they journeyed to Sind. Perhaps things were not as bleak as they seemed.

But gazing up into the bleached, cloud-streaked skies, Humayun saw two vultures, circling doubtless above some dead or dying creature. At Panipat — just before the Moghuls’ great victory — he had seen eagles wheeling above the battlefield. From noble eagles to filthy, ill-omened devourers of carrion. . Was that a symbol of how his fortunes had declined? Humayun plucked an arrow from the gilded leather case hanging across his back and, unstrapping his double-curved bow from his saddle, sent an arrow hissing through the hot air. It found its mark. Swiftly he drew another arrow but as he looked up, eagerly seeking his second target, all he saw above him was an empty sky.

‘Majesty, my scouts report a small band of riders still some three or four miles off but galloping quickly towards us,’ Ahmed Khan said, reining in his horse.

‘God willing, it’s the messenger I sent to Mirza Husain, returning with an escort. But just in case, halt the column and order the men to take up defensive positions around its perimeter. Post extra guards around the women and the treasure.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

With luck, the arduous six-week trek from Multan, where he had rendezvoused as planned with his gunners and cannon, and then along the Indus would soon be over and he could plan how to regain the initiative against Sher Shah. Humayun strained his eyes towards the western horizon where the great, blood-red sun was sinking rapidly. Soon, he could make out a cloud of dust rising from among the spindly trees and tumbled rocks ahead and then the horsemen themselves — about thirty of them — led by a cavalryman whose steel helmet glinted in the last rays of sunlight. As the horsemen reined in, Humayun saw that the messenger he had despatched with letters to Mirza Husain nearly two weeks ago was indeed among them. The leading rider removed his helmet, dismounted and made obeisance.

‘Greetings, Majesty. Mirza Husain, Sultan of Sind welcomes you to his lands. He awaits you at a camp just ten miles from here. He denied himself the honour of greeting you in person because he wished to assure himself that all was ready for your reception. I — the captain of his bodyguard — and my men will escort you there.’

Dusk had fallen by the time Humayun saw the orange light of camp fires through the dark silhouettes of the trees. The only time he had seen Mirza Husain was many years ago when the sultan had come to Kabul to pay his respects to Babur and he’d no memory of what he looked like. The tall, straight-backed man waiting in the centre of the camp, hand on breast and dressed in magnificent red robes with a tightly wound golden turban on his head, was therefore a stranger to him.

‘Welcome, Majesty. Your arrival honours my kingdom.’

‘Your hospitality is most welcome, cousin. My brother and I thank you.’

Mirza Husain was a good-looking man if a little fleshy, Humayun thought as the ritual exchange of courtesies continued. Before he let himself run to fat he must have been a good fighter. He recalled Babur’s stories of how Mirza Husain had consolidated and enlarged his kingdom, even taking land from his neighbour to the south in Gujarat, Bahadur Shah.While Humayun had been fighting in Gujarat, Mirza Husain had sent messages of support but had offered no troops. Neither had Humayun asked his cousin for any. Confident of victory, he’d had no wish to share Gujarat’s rich booty any more widely than he’d needed to.

‘Everything is ready for your reception, Majesty. Special quarters have been prepared for the women, near your own, and rows of tents erected for your soldiers. Tonight you must rest. I have ordered food to be brought to you. Three days from now, when we reach my palace at Sarkar, we can talk of former times.’

And of future ones, Humayun thought to himself. He needed Mirza Husain’s help if he could be persuaded to give it. But of course the courtesies must be observed. .

That evening, lying back on a brocade-covered bed in his own tent, Humayun felt himself begin to relax for the first time since leaving Lahore. He had brought his family and his remaining forces to safety. God willing, soon he would be riding to battle again.

Sixty hours later under a blazing sun, with Mirza Husain on one side and Hindal on the other, Humayun rode into the fortress palace of Sarkar, set within thick walls on a high rocky promontory overlooking the sea. Above the gatehouse, two banners fluttered in the clear air — the scarlet red of Sind and by its side the brilliant green of the Moghuls. The palace, approached up a short, steep ramp leading up from the gatehouse, was a golden-stoned building constructed around three sides of a courtyard.

Installed in opulent apartments covering almost the entire middle floor of the palace’s west wing, Humayun summoned Hindal and Kasim. He wished to confer with them alone without the listening ears of his own attendants, apart from Jauhar whom he trusted with his life and who was standing on guard by the door.

Humayun gestured Hindal and Kasim to be seated. The vizier lowered himself with difficulty. The hardships of recent weeks had taken their toll. Kasim looked even thinner and more stooped than before. Humayun waited while his old counsellor settled himself before speaking. ‘Though for courtesy’s sake I’ve not yet said anything, Mirza Husain knows very well why I have come — that I want his help against Sher Shah. Soon, though, I must raise the matter and wish to be prepared. Have you yet managed to glean anything of his thoughts or intentions from those around him, Kasim?’

‘I may have learned something of what is in his mind. . ’ Kasim said cautiously. ‘People reveal more than they realise if you are a good listener. . I’ve been told that when Mirza Husain first read your letter asking him to receive you, he was thrown into great consternation. He has no desire for his kingdom with its prosperous merchants and harbours crammed with cargo dhows from Arabia to be drawn into a conflict. He even fears you mean to take his kingdom from him. . ’

‘Then why did he welcome us here? He could have made excuses,’ asked Hindal.

Humayun grunted. ‘He had little choice. He is our cousin and I think that means something to him. Also, despite my reverses I am an emperor intending to recover my lands and, when I do, well placed to reward him and to further his ambitions. Mirza Husain knows this. And unless he wished for an open breach he could not bar his doors against me. But whatever is in his heart and mind, I must plan our next steps. Has any further news reached us of Sher Shah’s movements these past three days?’

‘None, Majesty,’ said Kasim. ‘From what little we can glean from travellers and others, he has still not moved beyond Lahore.’

‘And what news of Kamran and Askari?’

‘No one knows where they are at present, Majesty. According to some rumours they have withdrawn northwards up the Kabul river to Badakhshan — but as I say, Majesty, those are only rumours. . ’

Humayun frowned. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether Kamran wasn’t playing an even deeper game than I realised, and Sher Shah also. What if the whole business of Kamran’s offer to betray me and Sher Shah’s rejection of it was a subterfuge by the pair of them to draw me out of Lahore so their forces could fall on mine and destroy them?’

‘It’s possible, Majesty,’ said Kasim. ‘We cannot discount it.’

‘I also keep wondering how much Askari knew of Kamran’s plans. Did they scheme together to betray me to Sher Shah or did Askari flee with Kamran because he thought I would never believe he hadn’t been implicated?’

This time Hindal answered. ‘I’m sure Askari did know. He always follows where Kamran leads. I do not speak from malice but because I have reason to know — I was once the same.’

‘I suspect you are right. Unlike Kamran, Askari’s weak and he stands in awe of his elder brother,’ said Humayun. ‘Consequently, his treachery hurts me less. In my boyhood it was Kamran — almost my equal in age — that I played and hunted and sparred with.Though we often argued — sometimes even fought — for a while we were close. . almost like full brothers. That he should desire my death brings me almost as much grief as anger. . ’

A knock on the door interrupted him and he fell silent as Jauhar swung the well-oiled rosewood doors open to see who was there. Humayun heard low voices conversing outside, then Jauhar reappeared.

‘Forgive me, Majesty, but Mirza Husain has sent his vizier with a message.’

‘Admit him.’

The vizier, slight and fine-boned with a direct, intelligent gaze, made an elaborate obeisance. ‘Pardon me, Majesty, for disturbing you but Mirza Husain begs that you and your brother will honour him with your presence at a feast tonight.’

‘Of course.’ Humayun nodded graciously. ‘We would be pleased to attend and thank Mirza Husain for his hospitality.’

The vizier bowed and withdrew.

As soon as the doors were closed again, Hindal smiled. ‘A good sign, don’t you think? Mirza Husain can’t do enough for us. . ’

‘You may be right, but he may be trying to placate us with small things while seeking to deny us what we really want. . let us see. . ’

That evening, as a hazy, pink dusk was falling, drums began to beat softly. Humayun and Hindal followed the attendants sent by Mirza Husain into the palace’s central wing and up a long, shallow staircase strewn with jasmine petals and lit by wicks burning in diyas filled with scented oil. At the top of the stairs, Humayun and Hindal passed through a carved marble doorway into an octagonal chamber ablaze with light from giant silver candelabras and torches burning in gilded sconces on the walls. Rugs gleaming with gold thread covered the floor while the walls were hung with richly coloured brocades decorated with strings of pearls and coloured glass globes. Directly ahead was a dais draped in silver cloth and piled with cushions.

As Humayun and his brother entered, musicians struck up. A smiling Mirza Husain advanced towards his cousins. Hanging necklaces of frangipani blossoms around their necks after the Hindustani custom, he led them to the places of honour on the dais. Once they were comfortably seated, he clapped his hands and a succession of bearers entered through a side entrance, each carrying a golden dish upon his shoulder piled with food — pomfret fish steamed in banana leaves or simmered in creamy coconut sauce, sides of roast deer, haunches of spiced lamb, aubergines delicately smoked and pureed, fluffy rice cooked with split peas and hot bread stuffed with sultanas and dried apricots.

‘Eat, Majesty, eat, and you, Prince Hindal. Eat, my cousins, you are my honoured guests. See, the food is good. . Tell me what dishes tempt you and I myself will be your food taster. You have no reason to fear while under my roof. .’

‘I thank you, cousin. And I have no fear.’ To secure his cousin’s help, Humayun knew he must indeed demonstrate trust. Without hesitating, he took a piece of hot bread and wrapping it around a chunk of fish began to eat. ‘The food is indeed good.’

Later, as Humayun lay against his cushions, Mirza Husain clapped his hands and three girls entered the room through a side entrance and bowed low before him, eyes downcast. Then, simultaneously striking their tambourines with their palms and stamping their feet on the floor causing the bronze bells around their ankles to clash, they began to dance. One was tall and slender, the other two shorter and more voluptuous. Their short, tight bodices left their midriffs bare. The swell of their hips and buttocks was emphasised by the diaphanous pale pink silk of their voluminous trousers, which fastened round their waists with gold cord that ended in pearl tassels.Watching the girls whirl before him, for a moment Humayun imagined he was back in the Agra fort, his empire intact and nothing to concern him but the quest for yet greater glory and which concubine to choose for his night’s pleasure.

At a wave of Mirza Husain’s bejewelled hand, the girls ran off. Attendants cleared the dishes and others brought new ones — platters of ripe fruits stuffed with marzipan, delicate almonds covered in silver leaf. But something else was shining amongst them. Looking more closely, Humayun saw that the sweetmeats rested on a bed of gems — rubies, carnelians, emeralds, turquoises, pearls of many shapes and hues and glowing golden cat’s-eyes.

‘These are my gift to you, cousin.’ Mirza Husain selected a ruby and held it out to Humayun. ‘See the quality of this gem.’

Humayun took the stone from him and examined it. ‘You are gracious and generous.’

‘I have sent other gifts to your commanders — jewelled scimitars, daggers, bridles and gilded quivers, paltry compared with the glories of the Moghul court of which I have heard so much, I know, but none the less acceptable, I hope. And now, I have another favour to ask. Will you permit me to present my youngest daughter to you?’

‘Of course.’

Mirza Husain whispered something to an attendant. A few minutes later, a short, slight young woman appeared in the great doorway through which two hours earlier Humayun and Hindal had entered. Head erect, she walked slowly towards the dais. Humayun saw dark eyes and a wide-cheekboned, almost feline face. Reaching the dais, she knelt before it, eyes to the ground.

‘This is Khanam.’

At Mirza Husain’s words, Khanam raised her head and looked straight into Humayun’s eyes.

‘My daughter is a skilled musician. Will you allow her to play for you?’

‘Of course. It would be a pleasure to hear her.’

At a signal from her father, Khanam stepped back a few paces and taking a round-bellied, long-necked stringed instrument from an attendant sat down on a wooden stool another brought for her. Mirza Husain had not exaggerated his daughter’s talent. As she plucked the strings, haunting, soaring notes filled the chamber. Closing his eyes for a moment, Humayun saw his mother Maham, head bent over the lute that had once belonged to his great-grandmother Esan Dawlat, who had preserved it throughout his family’s dangerous, often desperate days in search of a throne.

‘Khanam’s a beauty, isn’t she? The pick of all my daughters. Her mother was Persian.’ Mirza Husain’s voice cut into his thoughts.

‘Your daughter is very beautiful,’ Humayun replied dutifully though for his taste she was a little too thin and certainly nothing to compare with Salima’s voluptuous charms. Her death — the cruel and sudden extinction of so much beauty and vitality — still haunted him. It seemed a symbol of how much he had lost these past months.

Mirza Husain bent nearer, reducing his voice to a whisper that only Humayun could hear. ‘And she is ripe for marriage. I am wealthy. Her dowry will be considerable. . almost imperial. . ’ He smiled, the implication of his words unmistakable.

Humayun looked at Khanam, long hair reddened with henna falling round her as she continued to play. Why not? he thought. Babur had made several dynastic marriages to secure his position.Though Khanam didn’t stir him particularly, her looks were well enough. She shared his blood and her father would be a useful friend in the struggle against Sher Shah.Why not form an alliance to be consummated one day in the marriage bed? It seemed that for once Kasim’s information had been wrong — Mirza Husain was willing to help him. But of one thing Humayun was certain. Before he could think of taking a wife he must defeat his enemies and be sure of his throne. The time had come for plain speaking.

‘Mirza Husain, I would be glad one day to consider Khanam as a wife. She is a fine-looking, accomplished young woman. First, though, my thoughts must be on war and the recovery of my lost lands, not on marriage, and I want your help.You have been generous with your hospitality and your gifts but I need your armies. Let us proclaim our alliance to the world.’

Humayun sat back against the cushions, expecting Mirza Husain’s gratitude, even joy. The prospect of marriage with the Moghul emperor was beyond anything the sultan could have hoped for his daughter. But he saw that his host’s smile was no longer so good-natured.The curve of his lips seemed to harden and his eyes to grow cold. ‘Khanam, enough! Leave us now.’ His tone was sharp.

Khanam looked up in surprise and at once stopped playing. Rising, with a swish of her long, dark blue robes she hurried from the chamber.

‘Cousin, let us understand one another.’ Mirza Husain spoke quietly. ‘I did not invite you here. You came. I received you out of duty. Sher Shah is in Lahore, barely six hundred miles away — perhaps nearer for all we know — with armies far outnumbering yours and mine combined. For the present I dare not antagonise him. I can give you money and I will willingly give you my daughter if you will promise to protect and honour her but no more than that. Take Khanam with my blessing, as my gift to absolve me with honour of further obligations to you in your present troubles, but leave my lands before you bring disaster upon me and my people.’

Mirza Husain’s voice had risen so all could hear and Humayun saw Hindal looking at him with astonishment. Hot anger flooded through him. Kasim had been right after all. ‘Mirza Husain, the blood of Timur — of the amirzada — runs through your veins yet you speak like a merchant not a warrior. . ’

Mirza Husain flushed.The taunt had bitten home, Humayun saw with satisfaction. No man liked to hear such words — even less to hear them under his own roof.

‘Your ambition is dangerous,’ said Mirza Husain. ‘Accept your setback. Leave Hindustan. Go back to Kabul, to your homelands there. They are a sufficient kingdom. You cannot flourish where you do not belong.’

‘You forget yourself. My father conquered Hindustan and founded an empire which he bequeathed to me. I do belong there.You should not be trying to buy me off with a bag of gold and your daughter. . Instead, you and I should be planning how to recapture my lands. Immediately we have won our first victories, others will rally once more to my banner. Yet you refuse to recognise this. You have grown so fat on trade you seem to have forgotten our warrior code and the obligations and ambitions it carries with it. . ’

In his anger, Humayun had forgotten that others as well as his brother were close by. Several of Mirza Husain’s nobles were seated round low tables beneath the dais and suddenly he became aware of the silence that had fallen and of their startled glances. This was no time to provoke a fight or even an open breach. Humayun forced a smile to his lips though he felt like taking his host’s plump throat in his hands. ‘But I forget myself. I am your guest. I speak my mind too plainly. This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion, Mirza Husain. Forgive me. We will talk again tomorrow when we can be alone and when we have both had a chance to reflect.’

But the look on Mirza Husain’s face told Humayun that he had little to hope for from the ruler of Sind.