Brothers at War

Chapter 15

At daybreak, Humayun gathered his men around him in the snow, their breath rising in spirals in the bitterly cold air. None had been seriously injured. They had been pinioned and bound with leather thongs before they realised they were under attack. But their mood was as subdued as his own and he understood why — their warrior code had been violated. In his heart, every man wished he had had the chance to fight. The shame of being taken unawares was a greater hurt than a wound to the flesh. At least a scar was a badge of honour.Where was the glory in being caught asleep in a tent?

‘None of you is responsible for what happened last night. It was I who decided not to post guards.’

‘Should we ride in pursuit?’ asked Zahid Beg.

‘No.’

‘But why, Majesty? They’ve no more than an hour or two’s start on us. . ’

‘I gave my promise, Zahid Beg, and even if Kamran is not, I am a man of my word. Besides, he has taken my son. He threatened to kill Akbar before my very eyes and I believed him.’

‘But the lives of young Timurid princes are sacred. That has always been our way. . ’

‘But it is not my half-brother’s. Ambition possesses him and he won’t let anything stand in the way of his dreams of glory. If I give him the excuse, he will murder my son.’

Humayun grimaced. Hadn’t he just said exactly the same thing to Hamida, weeping in the arms of Gulbadan who, with the other women, he had found tied up and gagged? Though badly shaken, Gulbadan had managed to recover her composure but Hamida remained not just inconsolable but hysterical. ‘Rescue our son!’ she had screamed at him. ‘If you have a man’s blood in your veins, how can you think about doing anything else?’

But for the first time since their marriage he had ignored her. Something dark lurked in his half-brother’s soul. He had seen it as their eyes had met over Akbar’s innocent head. To achieve what he wanted Kamran would do anything. . That was why, Humayun had told Hamida as he held her tightly in his arms, they must not, dare not pursue Kamran. At least Maham Anga was with Akbar, he had said, stroking Hamida’s hair, and, for the moment, they must trust in her. It seemed that confidence was not misplaced. Between her sobs, Hamida had told him what Maham Anga had whispered in those final moments before leaving — that she was carrying a knife whose blade had been treated with poison.Anyone attempting to hurt Akbar would die for it.

Pulling himself back to the present Humayun continued his address. ‘My men, there is something else I must tell you. I also promised my half-brother to leave these lands and go to Persia. I do not think Shah Tahmasp who rules there will deny me sanctuary but the journey will be hard, across hundreds of miles of harsh and icy terrain. Before it is ended we may meet danger and deprivation beyond anything we have yet known. I do not order you to ride with me. . if you wish to return home, do so with honour. . but if you come with me, I pledge in the name of my father Babur and my ancestor Timur that once I have fulfilled my promise to go to Persia our stay there will be short. I will reclaim every inch of my usurped lands and those who ride with me — my ichkis — will share the glory of events that their descendants will speak of with pride a hundred years hence.’

Humayun paused. The expressions on his men’s faces told him that his words — and the steely determination behind them — had found their mark. Few would abandon him, not yet anyway. He must find ways to live up to their trust.

The diamond-bright tips of the mountains all around shone with a brilliant, almost magical beauty — towers of ice from a fable. Yet the sight did not move Humayun as, a month later, he rode at the head of his column as it edged slowly upwards through a narrow pass. On the advice of the Baluchi guides who had agreed to take them to the border with Persia, Humayun had ordered his men to make as little noise as possible.Yet as, shading his eyes, he looked up at the glistening snow and ice fields above, he knew — as they all did — that at any moment an avalanche might roll down and obliterate them.

Danger was all around. Only yesterday — and even though Humayun had sent men ahead to probe the trackless, icy ground with the shafts of their spears to make sure it was solid — he had nearly lost a man down a crevasse concealed by a fall of fresh snow. Though the mule he had been leading had tumbled into the icy void, by an extraordinary stroke of good fortune the man had managed to grip on to a rock ledge some ten feet below. Two of Ahmed Khan’s scouts had hauled him back up on a rope.

Nature was not the sole threat to their survival. Travellers only passed through this wild, desolate region from necessity. Brigands — ‘ghouls of the wastes’ the Baluchi guides called them, spitting on the ground — lurked in these high places. Some even said they did not baulk at eating human flesh. More than once Humayun had thought he detected movement among the snow-covered rocks above them but though he had looked hard he had seen nothing. All the same, the sense of watching eyes stayed with him and he knew that Ahmed Khan felt it too. It would be typically devious of Kamran — knowing which way Humayun was likely to go and that he had fewer than two hundred men — to have bribed bandits to attack him. Humayun’s death, if seen to be at the hands of others, would be more than convenient for Kamran. Whatever the weather, Humayun posted sentries every night.

But he knew that the greatest risk of all was their growing physical weakness, because with weakness came carelessness. Almost all their food — the grain, the dried fruit — was gone. The last three nights’ meals had consisted of the fibrous flesh of a horse boiled in a helmet over a small fire. Soon they’d be unable to cook anything — their wood and charcoal were almost exhausted.

As Humayun shivered with cold — his very bones aching with it — he recalled his father Babur’s stories of crossing the Hindu Kush, of men being dashed to pieces by sudden falls of ice, of drifts so deep that he and his men had taken it in turns to be ‘snow tramplers’, beating it down to force a way through. Babur had, by sheer determination, overcome the obstacles and so must he.

Later that afternoon, as they made camp on a saddle of land that seemed safe from avalanches, Humayun had another reason to remember Babur’s tales of survival in the cold. Ahmed Khan, muffled in thick sheepskin robes, a flat-brimmed woollen Baluchi cap pulled low and almost all his face concealed by his face cloth so that only his amber-brown eyes were visible, came stumbling over, leather boots slipping on the icy ground.

‘Majesty, it was so bitterly cold these past nights that two of my men got badly frozen feet on picket duty. The hakim is with them now. . ’

‘What does he say?’

‘That he must amputate — in one case three toes must come off, but in the other the whole foot. . ’

‘I will come.’

The hakim and the two soldiers were inside a small tent where a pitiful little fire burned in a brazier. Humayun saw that one of the men who were lying with their pantaloons slit and bare legs exposed was Darya. The young man was looking very pale as he watched the hakim pass the blade of his knife through the feeble flame to cleanse it. Another broader blade was stuck into the heart of the fire, no doubt being heated to red-hot to cauterise the wounds. Humayun squatted by Darya and examined his right leg. The foot was black, puffy and swollen to well above his ankle while an evil-smelling greenish pus oozed from beneath the few remaining toenails. ‘The hakim has told you what he must do?’ Darya nodded but Humayun could see terror in his eyes. ‘Courage. The hakim is skilled. God willing, this will save your life.’

The other soldier — a Badakhshani — looked even younger than Darya. Three of his toes were swollen and discoloured and he seemed unable to withdraw his gaze from the hakim’s blade, which would soon be cutting through his flesh and bone.

‘Ahmed Khan and I will help you, hakim,’ said Humayun. ‘Which one is first?’

The hakim gestured to the Badakhshani. While Ahmed Khan took the young man by the shoulders to hold him down, Humayun knelt by his leg which he grasped with both hands just above the knee. It took all his strength to hold the leg steady as the hakim went to work and the Badakhshani, trying hard not to cry out, arced in agony. But the hakim was quick. With just three precise motions he severed the blackened toes, then he cauterised the bleeding wounds and bandaged them tightly.

Now it was Darya’s turn. The hakim looked grave as once again he passed his knife through the flames. ‘This will take much longer, Majesty. I wish I had opium to give him to deaden the pain. . I have seen stronger warriors than him die of shock during such an operation.’

Humayun glanced over his shoulder to where Darya was lying very still, pale face covered with a sheen of sweat.

‘If he were unconscious, would that help?’

The hakim nodded.

Humayun went over to Darya. ‘All will be well,’ he said, kneeling down beside him. ‘Try to sit up a moment, there is something I must tell you. . ’ As a puzzled-looking Darya raised himself on his elbows, without warning Humayun swung his balled fist at him, catching him hard on the point of the chin. The young man instantly fell back. Pulling back his eyelids — as he had done many a time to both friend and foe on the battlefield — Humayun saw he was out cold. His aim had been good. .

‘Hakim, do what you must.’ As Humayun ducked out of the tent into the freezing air, leaving Ahmed Khan to assist the doctor, he caught the rasping sound of metal sawing through bone and his spirits sank yet lower. How was he going to justify his men’s confidence and repay their sacrifices? He looked up into the darkening sky and for a moment longed for a draught of Gulrukh’s opium-laced wine to wash away his cares and responsibilities and waft him through the heavens.Then the image of Khanzada’s face seemed to coalesce in the stars, silently reminding him that it was not his destiny to be carefree and that with it came burdens and obligations. He pulled his cloak tighter about him and determined to do a round of the sentries, warning them to keep moving and stamping their feet to avoid frostbite.

But three days later it seemed that, perhaps, the worst might be over. As they snaked down a narrow winding track the biting wind suddenly abated, and looking down through drifting wisps of cloud Humayun made out a circle of snow-covered houses and smoke rising from what he guessed must be a caravanserai. Muffled figures were grouped in its courtyard and he could see animals wandering about. ‘Is that one of the settlements you spoke of?’ he asked one of the Baluchi guides.

‘Yes, Majesty.We are descending to what we call the gamsir — the mountain meadowlands where farmers and herdsmen have their winter habitations. We will be able to purchase provisions and fuel there. . and even rest for a few days before travelling on.’

The prospect of supplies gladdened Humayun but he wouldn’t delay a moment longer than necessary. The pain in Hamida’s eyes every time he looked at her matched his own at the thought of Akbar so many miles away and in Kamran’s hands. The sooner they reached Persia, the sooner he could begin to make plans again.

‘How far from here to the border?’

‘The Persian province of Seistan lies just over the Helmand river about eighty miles from here, Majesty.’

‘Over what kind of terrain?’

‘Mostly downhill from now on. As we near the Helmand it flattens into desert.’

‘How many days before we reach the river?’

‘No more than ten to twelve to reach the ford I know of.’

That night, after they had reached the settlement and eaten their fill for the first time in many days, Humayun joined Hamida in their tent. ‘Now that we are getting close to his lands, I must write to Shah Tahmasp asking him to receive us. If we approach his territory unannounced, the Persian troops guarding his borders may think our intentions hostile. I will entrust the letter to Jauhar as my envoy. He will carry it over the Helmand river and seek out the governor or some other high-ranking official to explain why we have come and to request to be allowed to carry my letter to the shah without delay.’

As he spoke, Humayun settled himself cross-legged at a low table where, by the light of an oil lamp, he began mixing his ink. He knew how much depended on his choice of words. During the journey he had weighed carefully what he must say and now began to write fluidly and without hesitation, speaking the words out loud to Hamida. It was fortunate that Persian was a familiar language to the Moghuls so that he had no need of a translator.

First came a paragraph of graceful courtesies, including repeated hopes for the shah’s prolonged good health and the success of his reign. Then Humayun reminded Tahmasp that many years earlier his father Shah Ismail had not only assisted Humayun’s father Babur against his enemies but rescued Babur’s sister Khanzada from captivity in the haram of the Moghuls’ implacable enemy, the Uzbek chieftain Shaibani Khan. Humayun did not mention that — as Shah Tahmasp would very well know — the alliance between Babur and Ismail had not lasted long. Instead, he eulogised the fact that these two great rulers had once joined forces to destroy a common enemy.

Next, Humayun decided to make a direct plea: ‘I have suffered many reverses. An impostor from Bengal, Sher Shah, rules in my place in Hindustan while my half-brothers have stolen Kabul and Kandahar from me and hold my infant son hostage. You too are an emperor — a very great one — and you will, I am certain, understand and sympathise with my plight. I ask you to be gracious enough to receive me, my family and my small force into Persia.’

‘What do you think?’ Humayun asked Hamida as, having rounded off the letter with a few last formal courtesies, he laid down his pen.

For a few moments Hamida thought. ‘It is eloquent, open and frank. It should sway the shah, but whether it will who can say. So often we’ve raised our hopes and expectations, only to have them dashed.’

‘Majesty, there is the ford.’

Shading his eyes, Humayun followed the guide’s pointing finger and saw across the flat, grey ground the glint of a watercourse — the Helmand river. A squat tower with a long banner streaming from its roof stood on the opposite bank — presumably a Persian fortress guarding the crossing. It must be three or four days at least since Jauhar had passed through this way, so the commander of the fort should be expecting Humayun’s arrival. All the same, it was as well to be cautious.

‘Ahmed Khan, send scouts closer to the fort to see what they can find out while the rest of us halt here.’

‘I will go myself, Majesty.’ Summoning two of his men, Ahmed Khan cantered off, raising a cloud of powdery grey dust.

Humayun rode slowly back to the covered wooden cart — one of several he had purchased at the settlement to transport the women and the sick — in which Hamida and Gulbadan were travelling. Pushing his head inside the wool hangings, he saw that Hamida was asleep and that Gulbadan was writing — doubtless that diary of hers.They both looked pale and thin.

‘We have reached the river,’ he said quietly so as not to wake Hamida. ‘If Ahmed Khan reports that all is well and the Persians do not object, we will cross and make camp. How is Hamida?’

‘She still says so very little. . She seldom shares her feelings or her thoughts, even with me.’

‘Try to make her understand, as I have, that I won’t rest until we have our son again. Everything I am doing. . will have to do over the months ahead. . will above all be for Akbar.’

‘She knows that she must be strong for you but she worries how the shah will receive us. . and how Kamran is treating Akbar.’

As Hamida stirred, Humayun turned away and pulling back the hangings returned to the front of the column. He didn’t have to wait long for news. Barely an hour after Ahmed Khan and his men had ridden away, Humayun saw them returning. Close behind them were two other riders. As they drew closer Humayun made out that, though one was a stranger, the other was the tall figure of Jauhar. Why wasn’t he on his way to the shah? Had the shah denied them entry to Persia? Had Kamran somehow won his favour? Full of anxiety, he kicked his horse forward to meet them.

‘Majesty.’ Ahmed Khan was smiling. ‘All is well. This,’ he indicated the stranger, ‘is Abbas Beg, the governor of Seistan, who has come to escort you into Persia.’

Abbas Beg, a tall, black-bearded man of about forty, magnificently dressed in dark purple velvet and with a white egret’s feather secured by a jewelled clasp to his tall cap, dismounted and bowed before Humayun. ‘Majesty, I have despatched your letter to the shah. Our swift post riders can cover eighty miles a day. I requested your envoy to remain behind to advise me how best to receive you. Everything is ready. You only have to cross the ford.’

A tremendous weight lifted from Humayun. For the first time in months he need not worry where his family and his men were to sleep, whether there was food, whether they were safe from attack. For a moment he closed his eyes and bowed his head in gratitude, then drawing himself up said, ‘I thank you, Abbas Beg. Your words are very welcome.’

‘Then, in the name of Shah Tahmasp, Lord of the World, I welcome you to Persia.’

One hundred attendants were sweeping the road ahead and sprinkling it with rosewater to subdue the dust. Ahead of Humayun and his party trotted one thousand gorgeously caparisoned horsemen whom the shah had sent to escort them to his capital, Kazvin, seven hundred miles to the northwest. Humayun’s own party was no less magnificently mounted on Persian horses — sable black with gold-mounted bridle and saddle for Humayun. Hamida and Gulbadan were in a gilded, velvet-lined wagon drawn by white oxen, horns adorned with ribbons of Moghul green.

Shah Tahmasp’s response to his letter had reached Humayun just three weeks after he had crossed into Persia. Three pages of extravagant compliments had ended with the words: You are my brother, a precious jewel of sovereignty whose bright magnificence makes dim the world-illuminating sun. My days will seem empty until I have the happiness of receiving you at my court in Kazvin.

The shah had issued firmans, written orders, to the governor of every town and province through which Humayun would be passing, giving the most minute instructions for his comfort and pleasure. Humayun knew this because the shah had sent him copies of these firmans — written on thick gold-bordered paper — in an ivory casket so that my brother may know that I have spared no effort to welcome him.

The shah had decreed exactly where the column should halt each night so that, as they rode in, tents of fine embroidered white cloth with awnings of velvet and silk were already erected and waiting. Every night brought another exquisite feast — golden platters of sweet white bread baked with milk and butter and sprinkled with poppy and fennel seeds, five hundred different savoury dishes — duck simmered in a walnut sauce, lamb stewed with quinces and dried limes — nuts of every kind covered in gold and silver leaf, dried apricots stuffed with chopped nuts and honey and pyramids of sweetmeats scented with rosewater and sprinkled with jewel-like pomegranate seeds.

Every day saw the arrival of fresh gifts — jewelled daggers and coats cut from cloth of gold and flowered brocades for Humayun and amber and exquisite perfumes sent by the shah’s sister, Shahzada Sultanam, to Hamida and Gulbadan. The rest of Humayun’s retinue was not forgotten — Shah Tahmasp sent daggers and swords made by the finest armourers for his men. Everyone had new clothes. The ragged, weary band that had crossed the Helmand river had been transformed.

But as the weeks passed and they were drawing nearer to Kazvin, passing through orchards of peach and apricot trees and along riverbanks lined with drooping willows, Humayun had still not found an answer to the question that kept troubling him. Why had Shah Tahmasp gone to such extravagant lengths? Was it simply to impress Humayun? Did it flatter his ego to have the Moghul emperor seeking his protection, or was there something deeper?

Though Humayun shared his unease with Kasim and Zahid Beg, he knew he could not discuss it with Hamida. Every sign of the shah’s goodwill seemed to revive her — in her eyes it spelled hope that Tahmasp would assist Humayun against his half-brothers and help him win back Akbar. Of course, in a way Hamida was right. Whatever the shah’s true motives — and just possibly they might be entirely benevolent — he must make an ally of him. .

At last on an early summer’s day, the moment Humayun had been so keenly anticipating arrived. In a meadow bright with flowers near Kazvin, Shah Tahmasp, accompanied by ten thousand of his cavalrymen, was waiting to greet the Moghul emperor. As Humayun had come to expect of the shah, every last detail had been thought of — the exact spot where Humayun was to dismount, where his men were to wait, the path of thick, dark-red rugs sprinkled with dried rosebuds leading to the centre of the meadow where a vast, circular, golden carpet — silken threads gleaming in the sun — had been spread.

Standing alone in the very centre of the carpet, his troops drawn up some fifty yards behind, was the shah, dressed in crimson velvet and on his head a tall, pointed jewelled cap of crimson silk embroidered with gold thread. Humayun knew what the hat signified. It was the taj — the symbol of the Islamic Shia faith. As Humayun approached the edge of the carpet, Tahmasp stepped towards him and taking him by the shoulders smilingly embraced him. Then he led Humayun to a large bolster and seating Humayun to his right, sat down beside him.

‘You are welcome, my brother.’ Humayun saw that Tahmasp was about his own age, strong-featured, pale-skinned and with luminous black eyes beneath thick brows.

‘I am grateful for your hospitality. I had heard of the glories of Persia and now I have seen them for myself.’

Tahmasp smiled. ‘What little I could provide while you were on the road was, I am sure, poor compared with the magnificence of the Moghuls of which I, in turn, have heard.’

Humayun looked sharply at his host. Tahmasp knew very well there had been nothing magnificent about his flight to Persia. Had there been a barb in those flattering words? Conscious of the thousands of watching eyes — eyes that would see what he was about to do — Humayun made a sudden decision. He must show them that he had not come to Persia a beggar. He would make a gesture so splendid that even in fabulous Persia it would be spoken of down the ages — a gesture so unmatchable that it would place Persia’s ruler in his debt.

‘Shah Tahmasp, I have brought you a gift from Hindustan.’ Reaching inside the neck of his robe, Humayun pulled out the flowered silk pouch in which, through all the hard and hazardous times, he had kept his greatest treasure close to his heart. Slowly, deliberately, Humayun extracted the Koh-i-Nur and raised it high in the air to catch the sunlight. It shone bright as a star and Humayun heard Shah Tahmasp gasp.

‘Had I not been on the road so long, I might have found something yet more worthy of you. But I hope this bauble pleases you. It is named the Koh-i-Nur, the Mountain of Light. May its light shine on you, Shah Tahmasp, and on our enduring friendship.’