Brothers at War

Chapter 12

‘Majesty, my scouts have seized a lone traveller in the bazaar of a small mud-walled town a few miles to the south. Clearly a stranger from his dress and his accent, he had been asking the stallholders and anyone else who would listen whether you and your column had passed this way. I had him brought straight to me in case he was a spy,’ said Ahmed Khan.

‘If he is a spy, he’s not a very good one. He wasn’t apparently making much attempt to keep his mission secret.’

Ahmed Khan did not share Humayun’s smile. ‘He claims to have come from Kabul, Majesty, and says he must see you. If his purpose is genuine, I fear from his face he has no good news to relate.’

‘Fetch him here at once.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

A shadow of foreboding crept over Humayun. A few minutes later, through the neat rows of tents, he saw Ahmed Khan returning and, behind him, two of his scouts escorting a tall young man. As they drew nearer, Humayun saw how travel-stained the new arrival’s clothes were. He was gaunt and the purple shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his exhaustion.

‘Majesty.’ He prostrated himself on the ground in the formal salute of the korunush.

‘Rise. Who are you and what is it you wish to tell me?’

The newcomer got slowly to his feet. ‘I am Darya, the son of Nasir, one of the commanders of your garrison in Kabul.’

Humayun remembered Nasir — a tough old Tajik chieftain who had served him loyally for many years. He had been well known in the camp for his voracious sexual appetite and for the number of children he had had by his four wives — eighteen sons and sixteen daughters — and many others by his numerous concubines. Humayun had not seen Nasir for many years and the only children of his he had met had been just that.

‘So that I may know you are who you claim to be, tell me how many children your father has.’

Darya smiled a slightly melancholy smile. ‘No one knows, but he had thirty-four of us by his first four wives and after one of them — not my mother, I give thanks — died last year, he married a fifth who bore him a thirty-fifth. However, as a token of my identity I have here in a pouch beneath my garments the wolf-tooth necklace my father wore.’ He made to delve beneath his dusty garments.

‘No need. I believe you are Nasir’s son. What is the news from Kabul? Speak. . ’

‘Bad, Majesty, the worst I could bring. Soon after your grandfather reached Kabul he had a sudden seizure. He lost much of the power of speech and could scarcely use his limbs. He appeared to be slowly regaining his strength but. . ’

‘What happened?’ Humayun broke in, though in his heart he knew.

‘He died in his sleep, Majesty, nearly four months ago. His attendants found him in the morning, a peaceful expression on his face.’

Humayun looked down, trying to take in that Baisanghar had gone.

‘There is more, Majesty. . Your half-brothers Kamran and Askari, who had established themselves in Peshawar at the foot of the Khyber Pass, learned of your grandfather’s illness and hoped to take advantage of it.They brought troops up through the pass to Kabul. By the time they reached it your grandfather was dead. Without warning, they attacked the citadel and despite all my father and others could do quickly overran it.’

For a moment Humayun forgot his grief for Baisanghar. ‘Kabul has fallen to Kamran and Askari?’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

‘Impossible! How could my half-brothers have raised an army sufficient for such a task so quickly?’

‘They had gold, Majesty, from raiding the caravans. We heard that they captured a group of wealthy Persian merchants and used their gold to bribe some of the mountain clans. Pashais, Barakis and Hazaras and members of other lawless breeds came in great numbers to fight for them. But in the event there was little fighting in Kabul. Your half-brothers bribed one of our captains to open the gates of the citadel to them.’

Though the camp was bathed in sunlight, the world seemed suddenly dark and chill to Humayun.

‘My father. . ’ Darya’s voice shook a little, ‘my father was hit between the shoulder blades by a Pashai battleaxe as he tried to run up from the gate to warn the defenders that we had been betrayed and that the enemy had gained entrance. He managed to crawl into a doorway where I found him. His last words to me were that I must escape from Kabul. . that I must take his necklace to establish my identity and find you and tell you what had happened and. . that he was sorry. . he had done his best to defend Kabul but he had failed you. I sought you first at Sarkar but you had already left. Since then I have been searching for you. I thought I would be too late, that you would have already heard. . ’ ‘No, I knew nothing of this.’ Humayun struggled to compose himself. ‘Your father did not fail me — he gave his life for me and I will not forget it. You have made an epic journey. Now you must rest but we will talk more later. I must learn as much as possible about what has happened.’

As Ahmed Khan’s men led Darya away, Humayun gestured to Jauhar that he wished to be alone and entered his tent. As he splashed his face with water he scarcely felt the cold drops trickle down his face. Conflicting emotions — some personal, some political, but none pleasant — jostled in his mind. Initially simple grief, the knowledge that he would never see his grandfather again, was uppermost. Humayun closed his eyes as he recalled his father’s vivid stories of Baisanghar in his youth, of how as a young cavalry captain he had brought Babur Timur’s ring, still crusted with the blood of its previous wearer; how Baisanghar had sacrificed his right hand out of loyalty to Babur and opened the gates of Samarkand to him. Humayun’s mother Maham too had had her own fund of stories of her father — less violent but even more fond. Now Baisanghar was dead without ever knowing that Humayun had married. But at least he had died before Kamran and Askari had attacked Kabul.

At the thought, another emotion harsher than grief took over — fury with his half-brothers. If they were brought before him now all Babur’s urgings of mercy wouldn’t deter him from hacking off their traitorous heads and kicking them through the dust. Instinctively, Humayun pulled his dagger from his sash and sent it spinning across the tent to embed itself in a round red cushion that he wished was Kamran’s throat.

Kamran had seen his opportunity for a throne and with Askari as his willing accomplice had taken it. While they held Kabul, it would be almost impossible for Humayun to regain Hindustan. It had long been obvious that family unity, pride in the Moghul dynasty, mattered less to them than the chance to enrich themselves and, so it seemed, above all to damage him.Why could they never see how destructive their vindictive jealousy was, what a risk it was to them all?

Humayun paced about, trying to order his thoughts. He must think and behave rationally not only for his own sake but for his wife and their unborn child. The thought of Hamida for a moment lightened his mood. Despite the dangers surrounding them, these past weeks had been among the happiest he had ever known, especially when, a month ago, Hamida had told him, eyes more luminous than ever, that her dream had been correct. She was indeed pregnant. Perhaps the knowledge that he might soon have an heir was what made Kamran and Askari’s latest betrayal especially hard to bear. By striking at him, they were also striking at his wife and unborn child — those Humayun loved most in the world.

And if Hamida was indeed carrying a boy, as she believed, the loss of Kabul made the child’s future all the more precarious. Even if the baby survived the dangerous times Humayun knew were coming, instead of inheriting a great empire he might be heir to almost nothing — reduced as some of his ancestors had been to the life of a petty warlord constantly feuding with his relations over a few mud-walled villages and a few flocks of sheep while another dynasty ruled Hindustan.

This could not, must not happen. He would not let it. Humayun dropped to his knees and out loud swore an oath.

‘Whatever it takes, however long the struggle, I will regain Hindustan. I am ready to spill every drop of blood to do so. I will bequeath my sons and their sons a greater empire than even my father dreamed of. I, Humayun, swear it.’

The desert heat was growing unbearable as Humayun and his troops drew nearer to Marwar. Every day seemed hotter and the going harder. The sour-breathed camels with their great splayed feet were managing but the horses and pack mules were sinking up to their hocks in the burning drifting sand. Every day, animals collapsed from dehydration and exhaustion, legs feebly twitching and parched tongues lolling through cracked lips. Humayun ordered his men to slit the throats of those too sick to go on and add their meat to the cooking pot, but he also commanded them to collect their blood. In Timur’s day, warriors had survived out on the steppes by drinking the blood of their animals.

Glancing over his shoulder, he watched the enclosed litter bearing Hamida appear out of the silvery, shimmering haze, carried on the shoulders of six of his strongest men. Khanzada, Gulbadan and the other women were on ponies but he was doing everything possible to help the pregnant Hamida travel as smoothly as possible. Grass and aromatic herbs and roots had been stuffed into the sides of the litter’s bamboo frame and every hour or so attendants dampened it with a little of the precious water to provide her with some fragrant relief from the heat. Even so, her face was very thin and the dark circles in the almost translucent skin beneath her eyes showed that pregnancy had not come easily to her. Often she felt nauseous and found it hard to eat.

Watching her litter draw nearer, the fear he might lose her gripped Humayun anew. He was doing all he could to protect her and bring her to safety but hazards were all around. Snakes and scorpions lurked. They were even vulnerable to the bands of brigands who infested the desert, now that he had so few troops left — barely one thousand. At the news of the fall of Kabul, many of his men had simply melted away.

God willing, soon they should reach the outskirts of the kingdom of Marwar and find sanctuary there. Raja Maldeo’s messages of support — brought on the most recent occasion by the same ambassador who had sought Humayun out in Sarkar — were growing ever more fervent the nearer Humayun and his column approached. Nevertheless he wished Maldeo would send practical help — food, water and fresh horses would be more welcome than fine promises. But Humayun hesitated to ask for such things. He was coming to Marwar as the raja’s guest and ally, not as a beggar.

According to the red leather-bound volume in which Kasim dutifully recorded daily the diminution of their supplies, just as he had done when Babur had been besieged in Samarkand, they still had enough corn, dates and other dried fruit to sustain them. However, it was many days since they’d tasted fresh food other than that from the carcasses of the exhausted or diseased animals, if that could indeed be called fresh. At first they’d bought produce from the villages along the way. It was the mango season and the flesh of the delicate, orange, sweet-scented fruits hanging in clusters among the glossy, dark green leaves was one of the few things Hamida could be tempted to eat. But six days ago they had passed the last settlement — a tangle of mud-brick houses clustered around a well — and the desert had engulfed them. Ahmed Khan’s scouts, riding ahead in the cool of the moonlit nights, had reported no signs of further habitation.

The worst problem, though, was lack of water, which his officers now rationed carefully. Three nights ago, two of his men had drunk strong spirits instead. Then, with their thirsts heightened and their passions unleashed, they had fought for possession of a waterskin containing a few mouthfuls of fetid liquid and one had died, slashed across the throat by the other’s dagger. Humayun had ordered the survivor to be beheaded, but he had seen the sullen challenge in the eyes of the soldiers drawn up to witness the punishment. Indiscipline and insubordination were as dangerous as any attacks from desert raiders. .

His own horse was suffering badly. Its once glossy coat was flecked with dried sweat and sand and it stumbled frequently. Humayun squinted around him. The glare from the orange ball of the sun deadened the landscape, flattening out the rolling dunes and reducing everything to a dispiriting, eye-searing monotony with nothing to catch the mind’s attention or freshen the spirit. To spare his horse for a while, Humayun slipped down, and taking the reins in his left hand, plodded by its side.

Suddenly Humayun heard shouts somewhere up ahead. Shading his eyes, he tried to see what was happening towards the front of the column some three or four hundred yards away but the sun dazzle made it impossible. ‘Find out what’s going on,’ he shouted to Jauhar. But before Jauhar could kick his mount forward, a general stampede began. Pack animals that had been trailing listlessly behind were suddenly rushing frenziedly past, no longer finding the sand an obstacle in their headlong charge. It could only be water, Humayun realised, and his heart soared.

Remounting his own horse which was now whinnying with excitement, he rode forward. He would bring Hamida a cup of cool water with his own hands. But as he drew nearer, chaos met his eyes. At first it was hard to see what was happening in the midst of so many flailing, pushing bodies — human and animal — half hidden by a few squat dusty-looking palm trees. Then he saw the raised mud-brick sides of what looked like a cluster of small wells and to one side, a small spring seeping out in rivulets over pebbles into the sand. Men were already fighting over the hide buckets that they’d hauled out of the wells, spilling the precious water.

The pack animals they should have been tending were also acting half crazed. Camels were spitting and frenziedly lashing out with their feet. One man was kicked so hard in the guts that he fell to the ground and was instantly trampled. Humayun saw his head crushed, brains and blood spilling sickeningly out on to the sand where camp dogs at once began to lick them up. Mules were baring their yellow teeth and biting at one another as they all struggled, regardless of the loads on their backs, to get to the spring.

Humayun was beside himself with fury. What were his officers thinking of. .? But as he kicked his horse forward, determined to restore order, he saw that officers as well as men were in that tangled, heaving melee. He shouted to them but they didn’t hear. Forcing his way further into the crush, waving Alamgir above his head and roaring rebukes, he at last made his presence felt. Shamefaced, his officers gave up their own fight for water and began trying to control their men.

Humayun’s thoughts now were for Hamida and the other women towards the back of the column. Turning his horse, he galloped back over the hot sand but was relieved to find them still quietly making their way, protected by his guards. They had been so far to the back of the line that they had not become caught up in the stampede. Riding up to Hamida’s litter he opened the curtains and peered inside. Her smile, radiant in the shadowy interior, told him all was well and he breathed more easily.

It took over an hour to restore calm but by then half a dozen men were dead, trampled in the crush or slain by others determined to get to the water first. Others were writhing on the ground, clutching bellies swollen with water and screaming for relief. Several were vomiting water and bile and babbling incoherently. It was like a vision from hell and Humayun turned his gaze away. He could only be grateful that his enemy Sher Shah was too far away to know the depths to which he and his little band had fallen.

His spirits didn’t rise again until three days later when, across the pale orange drifts of sand, the jagged shape of a high, rocky outcrop emerged from the hazy horizon. Atop it, perched like an eagle’s nest, was a fortress — the stronghold of the Raja of Marwar. It must still be some fifteen or twenty miles away, Humayun reckoned, but soon he would be able to bring Hamida, Khanzada and Gulbadan within the safety of its walls. It would be a welcome return to sanity and safety after their precarious desert journey. He despatched a scout at once bearing his greetings to Maldeo.

The distance must have been shorter than Humayun had calculated because the scout returned next day, bringing a detachment of the raja’s special guard in orange robes and steel breastplates, splendidly mounted on matching black stallions. The warriors’ flowing black hair was knotted on the back of their heads almost like women’s, but there was nothing feminine about these lean, hawk-nosed muscular men with their gleaming spears.

With Kasim and Zahid Beg by his side, Humayun rode forward. The Rajput leader dismounted and kneeling before Humayun touched his forehead briefly to the hot sand. ‘Maldeo, Raja of Marwar sends his greetings, Majesty. He has been waiting for you for many days and has sent me and my men to escort you over the last miles of your journey.’

‘I am grateful to the raja for his care. The sooner we reach Marwar the better — my men are weary.’

‘Of course, Majesty. If we ride now, we can reach the fortress by sunset where my master will make you and your entourage comfortable.’

As Humayun watched the Rajput ride back to his men, he wondered what impression his ragged little army had made. Looking at his men through a stranger’s eyes he saw not a proud Moghul army but a small band of grimy men riding broken beasts, the once-bright blades of the weapons slung from their saddles — the swords and double-headed axes — dull from disuse. Many had thrown their round, metal-bound shields away rather than be burdened with them in the heat and their arrow cases were nearly empty. There had been no time or opportunity to find wood and fletch new arrows since they had ridden into the desert. Only Humayun’s musketeers — well drilled by Zahid Beg — looked capable of putting up a fight. But all that would change when he reached Marwar. He still had some money left to re-equip his men and recruit more, and the raja himself would supply him with troops.

That night, beneath a sky flushed a vibrant pinky-orange as the sun went down, Humayun led his small column through the winding streets of Marwar towards Raja Maldeo’s massive fortress on top of the steep promontory rising behind the town. Between the last of the wood and mud-brick houses and the outcrop — which looked perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high — was an area of open land with a small spring over to the right. Beyond the spring were rows of tents and brushwood piled ready for burning.

‘The camp that has been prepared for your men, Majesty,’ said the Rajput commander.

Riding on, Humayun approached an arched gatehouse close to the foot of the outcrop. Drums of welcome beaten by unseen hands boomed as, with his bodyguards, senior commanders and courtiers and the women, he passed through. On the other side of the gate, a steep but wide ramp-like road twisted sharply to the left and, following the rock’s natural contours, ascended the outcrop. Slowly Humayun’s tired horse plodded up the ramp, snorting with the effort, emerging at the top on to a wide stone plateau. Ahead was a girdle of crenellated walls that enclosed much of the top of the outcrop. The only entrance was through a two-storey gatehouse beyond which Humayun could see further walls.

The gatehouse, with a carving of a Rajput warrior on a rearing horse above the lintel, looked ancient — far older than the Agra fort or even the citadel of Kabul, Humayun thought as he rode beneath the raised metal grille. How many generations of Rajput warriors had swept though it and down the steep ramp to do battle in furtherance of their warrior code? Of all the peoples in Hindustan, these Rajputs were surely closest to the Moghuls themselves — a warrior breed for whom fighting, honour, glory, conquest were as natural as the warm milk they had sucked at their mothers’ breasts. But then his curious eyes fell on something he didn’t understand. Along each side of the gatehouse’s deep inner walls was a series of small blood-red handprints.

‘What are those?’

The Rajput commander replied with what seemed to Humayun a deep pride. ‘Those are the handprints of the royal women of Marwar made by them on their way to their deaths. When a Rajput woman’s husband dies or is killed in battle it is her duty to renounce life and join him on his funeral pyre. These marks that you see here are the last living acts of these women on their way to be consumed in the flames.’

Humayun had heard similar stories before. Babur had told him that his Hindu subjects called this practice sati and that the women were not always willing. Babur had witnessed a young widow — barely more than sixteen — struggling and being drenched in oil and thrown bodily into the flames. Her screams had been terrible and she had died before Babur’s men could intervene.

As if he could read Humayun’s mind, the Rajput continued, ‘It is a point of honour for our women. . And if ever we suffer such terrible defeat in battle that it seems our women might be seized by our enemy, the most senior Rajput princess leads the other noblewomen — dressed in their finery and best jewels as if for a wedding — in the ceremony of jauhar. A great fire is lit and the women leap joyfully into the flames rather than face dishonour.’ The man was smiling as if at a vision of something wonderful.

Humayun turned his eyes from those red imprints, whether made in ecstasy or despair. Instinctively, he felt that however devoted to her husband, however dire the circumstances, a woman had her own existence to think of, her own obligations — to herself, to her children if she was a mother, and to those around her. Khanzada’s experiences had shown that an indomitable spirit could endure and emerge, not unscathed, but stronger.The thought of Hamida being burned alive if he died chilled his blood. Perhaps the difference was that the Rajputs as Hindus believed in reincarnation and that to die with honour meant being reborn with greater status, whereas he believed that one must make the most of the single life one had on earth.

Directly ahead, in the centre of a fresh curtain of walls was a passageway about six foot wide with a near right-angled bend at its centre — no doubt designed to prevent an enemy storming through in great numbers. It gave on to a large parade ground where a group of war elephants were being drilled. Opposite was yet another set of walls, again with only one narrow gateway. These concentric walls, so different from the design of a Moghul fortress, reminded Humayun of the intricate boxes within boxes that the slant-eyed merchants from Kashgar sold in the markets of Kabul.

But this third set of walls was the last. Passing through, Humayun entered a large rectangular courtyard — the heart of Maldeo’s fortress. In the centre stood an imposing building more solid than beautiful. It was impossible to tell how many storeys it had — small arched windows pierced its walls seemingly at random. Attached to one side was a wide, sturdily built tower with, on the very top, an elegant stone pavilion.

Humayun reined in his horse and looked critically around him. His host should have been there to welcome him. But just then came a blast from an unseen trumpeter and a procession of orange-clad Rajput warriors filed out of the palace’s carved central doorway and formed up in two lines on either side of Humayun. Raja Maldeo followed, a tall, powerfully built man in belted orange robes that swept the ground, dark hair tightly bound beneath a turban of cloth of gold flashing with diamonds. Hand on breast, he advanced towards Humayun and bowed his head.

‘Greetings, Majesty. Welcome to Marwar.’

‘I thank you for your hospitality, Raja Maldeo.’

‘Your ladies will be given apartments near those of the royal women of my house as is our Rajput custom. Rooms for yourself and your courtiers and commanders have been prepared in the Hawa Mahal — the Palace of the Winds.’ Maldeo gestured towards the tower. ‘Yours will be in the pavilion at the very top where the breezes blow through.’

‘Again, I thank you. And tomorrow we will talk, Maldeo.’

‘Of course.’

Humayun woke next day to feel a warm breeze stirring the gauze curtains around the soft bed on which, exhausted, he had collapsed into a long dreamless sleep. For a few moments he just lay there, giving himself up to relief and satisfaction that he had brought his family and his men to a safe haven. For a while at least they could all rest, and most important of all Hamida would have the care and comfort she needed. Humayun got up and stepping out on to the wide balcony found himself gazing down the sweep of cliff that fell sheer to the sandy plain below. The sun, already high in the sky, seemed tinged with crimson around the edges, like the flesh of the blood orange.

After the hardships of the past few weeks’ journey, the desert held no charms for Humayun. Turning away, he summoned Jauhar to fetch Kasim, Zahid Beg and his other commanders.Word of this must have reached Maldeo because even before Humayun’s men arrived, the raja’s servants brought great brass trays piled with fruit, nuts and gilded sweetmeats, and golden ewers of chilled sherbet. They were still eating and drinking when Maldeo himself appeared. He was more soberly dressed today in pantaloons and tunic of dark purple and a curved dagger hanging in a plain leather scabbard from the thin metal chain around his lean waist.

‘I trust you slept well, Majesty.’

‘Better than for many weeks. Join us, please.’ Humayun gestured to the orange silk cushion next to him.

Maldeo made himself comfortable and helped himself to a gilded almond. For the sake of politeness, Humayun decided he must wait a while before raising the subject of Sher Shah, but his host was less squeamish.

‘You have not made this long and arduous journey simply to drink sherbet with me.’ Maldeo leaned forward. ‘Let us be frank. We face a common enemy. If left unchecked Sher Shah could destroy us both. He must be defeated.You already know that he has insulted me by threatening to invade Marwar, but in recent weeks he has given me yet further cause to wish to see his head in the dust.’

‘How so?’

‘He has dared to ask for my daughter in marriage. The blood of thirty kings of Rajasthan runs in her veins — I’ll not give her to the thieving offspring of a common horse trader.’ Maldeo’s eyes were narrow slits and his tone was laced with venom.

‘I have few men left but if you will give me an army and ride with me, others will take heart and follow. Like the Moghuls, your people are of warrior blood. Together we can sweep Sher Shah and his dregs into the gutters.And I promise you this, Maldeo — when I am again on my throne in Agra, you will be the first I shall recompense.’

‘Whatever is in my power I will do — not for reward but from respect and honour, both for my own heritage and for yours.’

‘I know, Maldeo.’ Humayun took the raja by the shoulders and embraced him.

Eight weeks later, Humayun watched the raja and his escort ride out of the fortress, disappearing across the dry plains in the direction of the desert city of Jaisalmer where Maldeo planned to raise more troops for the campaign against Sher Shah. In the gathering dusk, the shrill cries of the raja’s pet peacocks pierced the cooling air as they sought a roost for the night on the battlements. As he contemplated the future Humayun felt more relaxed than for many months. Maldeo was an attentive host. A day seldom passed without either some entertainment — camel races, elephant fights or displays of fire-eating and martial Rajput dances — or the presentation of a gift. Only yesterday, Maldeo had sent him a jewelled bridle and Hamida a necklace of translucent amber beads. Pleasing though this was as a sign of Maldeo’s friendship, far more important was that he and the raja had nearly finished planning their campaign against Sher Shah. Soon Humayun would be riding at the head of an army again.

‘Majesty. . ’ He turned to see one of Hamida’s attendants, Zainab, kneeling before him. The girl was badly disfigured by a birthmark that covered the right half of her thin little face and when her mother had died of a fever during the harsh journey to Marwar, her father, a foot soldier with other children to feed, had left her to fend for herself. Touched by her misfortunes, Hamida had taken her as her attendant.

‘What is it?’

Still kneeling, Zainab spoke rapidly. ‘Majesty, her imperial highness asks you to come to her as soon as possible.’

Humayun smiled. He had been planning to visit Hamida tonight. Now that they were in comfort and safety and Hamida was feeling well again, his mind turned frequently to the joys of love-making, although with Hamida’s rapidly swelling belly he must soon learn to curb his passion for her. Nothing must damage the child. But when, finally, Zainab lifted her eyes to his, they looked troubled and he knew something was wrong.

Without stopping to question Zainab, Humayun swiftly descended two floors to the passage connecting the Hawa Mahal to where Hamida and her women had been given apartments adjoining those of Maldeo’s women. Ignoring the members of his bodyguard posted by the sandalwood doors leading to Hamida’s rooms, Humayun himself pushed them open and strode in.

‘Humayun. . ’ Hamida ran to him and putting her arms round his neck clung to him. Her body was trembling and he could feel her hectic, shuddering heartbeat beneath her thin silk tunic.

‘What is it? The child. . ’

Hamida said nothing but waited until the doors had closed and they were alone. Stepping back from Humayun, she folded her hands protectively over her belly. ‘Our son is safe inside me. . for the moment at least. But if we’re not careful we may all soon be dead.’ Her voice was low and as she spoke she glanced around as if eavesdroppers might be concealed behind the fluttering hangings.

‘What do you mean?’

Hamida came close to Humayun again. ‘I have learned that the raja has never been our friend. He has always planned to betray us. Even now he is riding to a secret meeting with envoys sent by Sher Shah from Agra at a fortress deep in the desert. His story about going to raise troops in Jaisalmer was just a blind to conceal his true purpose.’

‘But he is my ally and my host and has treated us with honour. We’ve been in his power these past two months. He could have killed us a hundred times. . ’ Humayun stared at Hamida, worried that her pregnancy had addled her wits.

‘All that has saved us so far is the raja’s greed — he has been negotiating his price. Now he has gone in person to question Sher Shah’s envoys to satisfy himself that all his demands will be met. As soon as he returns. . sooner if he sends a messenger ahead of him. . he will have us murdered.’

Hamida’s face was taut with fear though her voice was calm. He took her hand, feeling its marble coldness.

‘How do you know all this?’

‘A woman — her name is Sultana — came to me from the raja’s haram. She is one of our people — an Afridi from the mountains of Kabul. After her father was killed at Panipat, she and her mother joined a caravan returning to Kabul but as they were attempting to cross the Indus brigands attacked them. Sultana and the other young women were taken to be sold in the bazaars. She was a great beauty. One of the raja’s nobles bought her and sent her to Maldeo as a gift.’

‘What else did this woman tell you?’

‘That in his heart he despises the Moghuls. He thinks us barbarian raiders with no right to Hindustan.The story about Sher Shah wishing to marry the raja’s daughter is a lie. As soon as Maldeo knew we were definitely on our way here, he wrote to Sher Shah gloating that he would soon have us in his power and asking what Sher Shah would give him in return for us. For some time there was silence. But finally — two days ago according to Sultana — envoys from Sher Shah reached the outskirts of the kingdom of Marwar and sent a message to Maldeo telling him of Sher Shah’s response.What Sher Shah said. . it was terrible. . ’ For the first time her voice seemed to fail her.

Humayun caught her against him and held her close. ‘Hamida, go on. You must tell me everything. . ’

After a moment Hamida continued, face against his chest, voice muffled. ‘Sher Shah has promised Maldeo that if the raja sends him your head. . and the unborn child I am carrying. . he will reward him not only with money and jewels but with new lands and cities that he will hold independent of Sher Shah. When Sultana told me this I was sick. . for a while I couldn’t think, but I knew I must be strong. . for us and for the son I carry. . ’

As he thought of Maldeo’s smiling face, of all his smooth-tongued lies, such anger and disgust took hold of Humayun that he felt he might choke with rage. ‘Does Maldeo mean to accept Sher Shah’s offer?’ he managed to ask.

‘Sultana says the raja is cautious. That is why he has summoned the envoys to meet him in the fortress in the desert — so he can question them himself. But if he believes Sher Shah means what he says, Maldeo will not hesitate to have us killed. That is why as soon as he left this evening, Sultana found a way to come to me. . ’

‘Are you sure this Sultana is to be trusted? Why should she run such a risk for us?’

‘She hates Maldeo for his callous treatment of her. . He calls her his savage from the steppes. But her reasons go deeper than that. I saw her distress as she laid her hand on my belly. . She told me that when she bore Maldeo a son, he said the child was not worthy to be reared in the palace and he sent it away. She does not even know if he is alive. She came to me for the sake of our unborn child and for mine as a mother, I’m sure of it. She called herself my blood-sister and I believed her.’

Humayun gently released Hamida. With her anxious eyes upon him, a cold determination was replacing the heat of his rage at Maldeo’s treachery and violation of all the rules of honour and hospitality at the heart of the Rajput code. If he was to save the lives of his family and his men he must push emotion aside and focus his mind on one thing only — survival.

‘I promise you this — no harm will come to you or our child. I married you to make you my empress and that is what you will be. And our son will be emperor after me. Maldeo’s wickedness will not alter this.’

At Humayun’s words, Hamida drew herself up. ‘What must we do?’

‘Have you talked about this to anyone? Khanzada or Gulbadan?’

‘Not to anyone.’

‘What does your waiting woman Zainab know?’

‘Only that my meeting with Sultana had upset me. . ’

‘Can you summon Sultana again?’

‘Yes. Her rooms are close by and she is free to move about the palace.’

‘I must leave you for a while for appearance’s sake. Some of Maldeo’s commanders are to eat with me and my officers to discuss the campaign against Sher Shah. I must do nothing to arouse suspicion. But summon Sultana two hours from now and I will join you as soon as I can. I must see this woman for myself.’ Bending, he kissed Hamida’s full soft lips. ‘Courage,’ he whispered, ‘all will be well. . ’

As soon as he was able but a little later than he’d hoped, Humayun hurried again to his wife’s apartments. The light from hundreds of wicks burning in brass diyas and the torches in sconces on the walls softened the harsh stone outlines of the place Humayun had thought of as a refuge but — if Sultana was speaking the truth — was not only a prison but a place of execution. All during the meal — though appearing polite and attentive to Maldeo’s men — he had been turning over and over in his mind what he should do and he had formed a plan, bold and desperate. .

‘Majesty.’ The woman knelt before him as he entered Hamida’s chamber.

‘Rise.’ Humayun appraised her closely as she stood up and waited, hands folded, before him. Sultana was about thirty years old but — with her pale, high-cheekboned face, typical of the Afridi people — still beautiful and her black hair was untouched by silver. Her clear, hazel eyes were fixed anxiously on his face as if wondering whether she was standing up to his scrutiny.

‘The empress has told me your story. If it is true we owe you a great debt. . ’

‘It is true, Majesty. I swear it.’

‘Why should the raja have confided his plans in you?’

‘He has spoken openly of them in the haram — out of conceit and a desire to gloat. Even as you were approaching over the desert, Majesty, when he knew you had little food or water left, he said he was tempted to attack you. But it pleased him better to lure you on with soft words and fine promises. He is a master of deceit and enjoys spinning a complex web. . he wanted to make sure he had you fully in his power.’ Sultana’s voice trembled, ‘Truly, Majesty, he is a monster. . ’

The horror and revulsion that he read in Sultana’s eyes told Humayun that she was no liar.

‘God sent you here to save us,’ he said as Sultana fell silent.

‘I hope so, Majesty. I will do all I can to help you.’

‘Then let me tell you my plan. . Since I have been Maldeo’s guest I have been out hawking several times. What could be more natural than that I should wish to do so again? Tomorrow, just as dawn is breaking, I and my courtiers and commanders lodged here in the palace will dress as if for a day’s chase. I will order litters prepared for our women, saying that I wish them too to enjoy a day’s sport. They have accompanied me before so there should be nothing strange in this. Once we have descended from the fortress we will head east into the desert.

‘But of course, I also need to get my forces away. Tonight I will send my attendant Jauhar to Zahid Beg, who commands our camp outside the town below. Jauhar often carries messages from me to Zahid Beg, so again there should be nothing to rouse suspicion. He will tell Zahid Beg to say nothing to the men at present but that early tomorrow morning he must lead them out westward, making it look as if they are going on a military exercise. They will have to leave much of the camp equipment — including our cannon — behind but that cannot be helped. Once out of sight of Marwar, they are to circle round and rejoin the rest of us.’ Humayun paused. ‘What do you think, Sultana? Will the guards permit me and my entourage to ride from the fortress in Maldeo’s absence?’

‘If it looks as if you are going hunting, they can have no reason to prevent you. As far as I know, Maldeo has given no orders for you to be kept within the fortress — he would not wish to do anything to make you suspect.’

‘But you, Sultana?’ Hamida touched the woman’s arm. ‘You must come with us. . it would be dangerous for you to remain. Maldeo will guess what you have done. . ’

To Humayun’s surprise, Sultana shook her head.

‘But this is your chance to rejoin your own people. . ’

‘After what has happened to me here at the hands of Maldeo, I can never go back. . That part of my life is over. But when I see his ambition, his greed thwarted, that will be my reward. . ’ A sad but also triumphant smile briefly lit her face. ‘And I doubt he will suspect me. . he does not think I have the brains or the courage to do what I have done. . ’

‘I will never forget you, my blood-sister. And when I am empress in Agra, I will send for you. . and if you wish to come you will be treated with the greatest honour.’ Hamida kissed Sultana’s cheek. ‘May God protect you.’

The sky was only just paling to the east when Humayun, dressed in hunting clothes like those around him, rode slowly through the concentric walls towards the gatehouse that was the only exit from the fortress. A fine black hawk given him by Maldeo was on his wrist, bright eyes concealed beneath a jewelled and tufted cap of yellow leather. Behind him, surrounded by Kasim and his other courtiers and commanders, were the litters carrying Hamida, Khanzada, Gulbadan and the rest of the women. After leaving Hamida last night he had gone straight to his aunt and his sister to tell them of the peril and of what they must do. True Moghul princesses, they had at once grasped the situation and obeyed him calmly and unquestioningly.

Humayun’s blood was pumping as hard as if he was riding into battle as he led his party nearer to the gatehouse. In the soft morning light he could see that the metal grille was still lowered. His eyes flicked left and right, seeking any sign of an ambush. Though he had believed every word Sultana had said, he had been deceived before in this place. Also, Sultana herself might have been betrayed, perhaps by an enemy within the haram curious about her meetings with the Moghul empress. But all seemed as it should be. No arrow tip, no musket protruding from a slit in the gatehouse. Just the usual guards.With seeming casualness, Humayun gestured to Jauhar who called out in ringing tones, ‘Raise the gate. His Imperial Majesty wishes to go hawking.’ The captain of the guard, a tall man in orange tunic and turban, hesitated. Humayun felt sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades and glanced down at Alamgir, hanging at his side. Across his back was a full arrow case. But there was no need for force. After barely a second or two, the Rajput captain shouted, ‘Raise the grille.’

The men above the gate began turning the windlass to draw up the thick black chains from which the grille was suspended. Agonisingly slowly — or so it seemed to Humayun — creaking and shuddering the heavy iron grille rose. With every foot, so too did Humayun’s hopes, though he kept his expression distant and slightly bored.

Even when the grille was fully up, Humayun did not hurry but spent a moment or two adjusting the hawk’s leather hood. Then, with a wave of his hand, he and his little entourage trotted forward. Slowly, so as still not to rouse suspicion, they rode down the steep ramp curving along the side of the outcrop that only a few weeks ago they had ridden up with such high hopes, out of the ceremonial arched gatehouse at its foot and then through the quiet streets of the town where the people still slept. Soon they were heading eastward, the seeping golden light of the rising sun before them, and into the sandy wastes that though so hostile were their best protection.