Brothers at War

Chapter 24

Majesty, Islam Shah is dead. The throne of Hindustan is vacant.

While the masseur kneaded the muscles of his upper back and rubbed sweet-smelling coconut oil into them, Humayun smiled as he remembered the first time — six weeks ago — that he had heard these words from an excited Ahmed Khan. Over the subsequent days the rumours had grown stronger, brought by travellers making the journey up through the Khyber Pass from Hindustan. Some had said that Islam Shah had died unexpectedly several months ago and that his supporters had been successful for a time in concealing the fact while they tried to agree on a successor. With each passing day and with each piece of news, renewed energy had pulsed through Humayun. He could feel a great opportunity to recover his throne opening up. Free of anxiety about threats to Kabul from his half-brothers if he left the city, he would grasp it and put an end to his long years of disappointment and exile.

Immediately, he had taken measures to prepare his army for action.At this very minute outside the walls of the citadel, his officers were drilling his musketeers to increase the speed and discipline with which they primed, loaded and fired their weapons. His recruiting agents were busy in the remotest valleys of his kingdom and beyond gathering additional recruits. The masseur now pummelling Humayun’s thighs and buttocks was also part of Humayun’s mental and physical preparation. To help plan his campaign he had begun to reread his father’s memoirs of his attack on Hindustan and to compare them with his own recollections of the invasion.

He had tried in conversation with his commanders, particularly Ahmed Khan, to understand where he had made mistakes in his own campaigns against Sher Shah and why he had succeeded elsewhere such as in Gujarat. Sitting alone in his apartments late one evening he had summed it up to himself. ‘Prepare well, think and act fast and decisively. Make your opponent respond to you and not the other way round.’

Over the years he had allowed himself to indulge once more in the wines of Ghazni and, since he had regained Kabul, just occasionally in the care-numbing relief of the opium pipe. Now, to sharpen his mind and toughen his body for the rigours of warfare, he was, after a great internal struggle and an enormous effort of will, abstaining entirely from both alcohol and opium. He had also taken up wrestling again and the masseur was readying him for his daily training contest. With a quick gesture to the man to cease his work, Humayun rolled over on to his back and stood up. He pulled on a pair of long cotton trousers, his only clothing for the fight, and made his way through some fine yellow muslin curtains into the next room. Here his opponent, a tall, heavily muscled Badakhshani, awaited him, similarly clothed and oiled.

‘Don’t hold back, Bayzid Khan.’ Humayun smiled. ‘You have taught me well. There’s a bag of coin in it for you if you can overcome me within ten minutes. Now let’s get on with it.’

The two men circled each other, waiting to see who made the first move. It was Humayun who darted forward to seize Bayzid Khan’s arm and try to throw him. However, Bayzid Khan twisted himself from Humayun’s grip and in turn grabbed Humayun’s shoulders to pull him off balance. Humayun resisted and the two men struggled, arms on each other’s shoulders, testing their strength. Then Bayzid Khan tripped Humayun with a swift kick of his foot to the back of Humayun’s knee. Humayun fell and Bayzid Khan launched himself to pinion him against the mat on the floor and end the contest.

But Humayun was too quick and rolled away. As Bayzid Khan landed on the mat, Humayun leaped on him and putting his knee in his back pulled both his arms out behind him. Hard as Bayzid Khan struggled he could not free himself. ‘Enough, Majesty. You have got the better of me for the second time.’

‘The first, I think. I strongly suspected that previously you let me win, but not on this occasion.’

‘Perhaps, Majesty.’

Humayun returned to his robing room and washed himself clean of the mixture of sweat and oil coating his body in the large copper bath of warm, camphor-scented water that his servants had prepared during the contest. As he dried himself with a rough cotton towel and dusted himself with sandalwood-scented chalk powder, he looked at his naked body in a nearby burnished mirror. His muscles were more toned and prominent than a month ago. His looks belied his forty-six years, he thought, and smiled with satisfaction. The exercise seemed to be helping him focus his mind and think more clearly. Certainly too he was making love more frequently.

With the help of his attendants, Humayun quickly dressed, ready to meet his counsellors. Minutes later, wearing a gold-belted navy tunic and a cream turban with a long peacock’s feather at its peak, he entered the council chamber.

‘What is the latest news from Hindustan, Ahmed Khan? Didn’t another caravan come in this morning?’

‘Yes, Majesty. It brought confirmation of what is for us good news. There can be no doubt that Islam Shah is dead. What is more, a rich merchant in today’s caravan says that fighting has broken out among three contenders for the throne in and around Delhi.With no proper authority dacoits have been robbing with impunity, invading the homes of the wealthy by night, stealing, raping and killing. The merchant concealed some of his treasure and packed the rest and brought his family on the arduous journey north to your realm to be safe until he sees what happens in Hindustan. Other members of the caravan substantiated his news with many circumstantial details of the chaos. One reported that when robbers could not remove valuable rings from the arthritic fingers of a rich old woman, they simply hacked off her fingers and left her to bleed to death.’

‘The fighting and lawlessness will give us the opportunity we have looked for to regain the throne and to bring back justice and order to the citizens of our rightful kingdom. What do we know about these three other contenders?’

‘One is Adil Shah, the brother of Islam Shah’s favourite wife — the mother of his only son, a boy of five years of age. Adil Shah is said to have been so drunk with ambition that oblivious of the ties of blood he entered the haram and cut the child’s throat in front of his mother with as little concern as a butcher slaughtering a beast for the table. Then he had himself proclaimed emperor.’

Humayun blanched. Not even Kamran had stooped so low. ‘And the other two?’

‘The most powerful is a cousin of Islam Shah who has had himself proclaimed emperor as Sekunder Shar. He’s already defeated Adil Shah once but failed to follow up his victory because of the activities of the third pretender, Tartar Khan, the head of the old Lodi clan we supplanted and who fought against us with the Sultan of Gujarat.’

‘We need to obtain as much information as we can about each of them — who their friends and enemies are, their personal strengths and vices, how many men, how much money they have.’

‘We will question the recently arrived travellers further. And of course send out more spies and scouts.’

‘We will resume our discussion tomorrow to plan our campaign in detail. Now is the time for our evening meal.’ Humayun turned to leave the audience chamber. However, as he did so, Ahmed Khan approached him and handed him a small square of paper.

‘One of the travellers brought this sealed message which he told our guards was for your eyes only. He said that a member of his family — a sailor who had just returned from Arabia and heard that he was travelling to Kabul — had asked him to bring it to you. It is probably nothing, Majesty, but I thought I should leave it to you to open.’

‘Thank you, Ahmed Khan. I will read it shortly.’

A quarter of an hour later, Humayun entered the women’s quarters and made his way to Hamida’s apartments. Looking up, she said, ‘I hear there is good news from Hindustan. . ’

Humayun smiled, but the smile and his eyes were clouded by a look of melancholy.‘The news from Hindustan is indeed good, but I’ve received other, sadder news today. It’s about Askari. As you know, I’ve long feared that some accident had befallen him since I’d had no news of him after the message eighteen months ago that he had taken ship from Cambay for the holy lands around Mecca.Today I received confirmation of his fate. . ’

Humayun pulled from his pocket the paper which Ahmed Khan had handed him. It had many creases and folds. ‘It is from Mohamed Azruddin — the commander of the escort I provided for my brother. It tells briefly how the voyage from Cambay was going well with favourable winds when about twenty miles from the port of Salala on the Arab coast a fleet of three fast pirate vessels overhauled their ship. Askari led the fight against the pirates as they boarded but was overwhelmed and killed, sword in hand. Many others died with him. Mohamed Azruddin was badly wounded and captured with the remainder of the escort and the coin they were carrying. On his recovery he was sold in the great slave market of Muscat to work in the quarries outside the town. He escaped his captors six months ago and his first action was to send this message to me in advance of his return.’

‘May God forgive Askari for his misdeeds and may his soul rest in Paradise,’ said Hamida. After a few moments she continued, ‘Nevertheless, this definite news of his death frees you from any fear that he might have disappeared on purpose to plot in exile against you.’

‘True, but he was never so committed an adversary as Kamran and often, I think, acted only from loyalty to his brother and mother. I believed him when, before he left on the haj, he said he’d renounced all thoughts of rebellion. His death makes me more conscious that I am the only one left to fulfil the destiny my father saw for his family.’

‘For a long time you have been the only one of his sons to be true to his memory.’

‘But I have lost much of his empire and failed to recover it, never mind to expand his dominions. I have let myself and you, as well as my father, down. My intentions have been good but I’ve not been single-minded enough to carry them through.’

‘That is changing. Since Askari’s departure for the haj and that of Kamran too, I have seen a real determination within you. You no longer allow your mind to be distracted by pleasure or idle musing. You’ve always wanted to recover what is yours, but now you give time and concentration to achieving it.’

‘I hope so. I’ve used bitter memories of how I lost my throne, of your face in our bleakest moment when Akbar was taken from us, of how we passed, frozen and half-starving, into Persia as suppliants to the shah, to act as goads to focus all my energies on recovering Hindustan.’

‘You are succeeding. I know you don’t think just one step ahead but about how to plan the whole journey.’

‘I pray that it will take me back to my throne.’

‘Make sure it does, for our son’s sake.’

Humayun had never seen Hamida look so determined. He would not fail her.

In November 1554, Humayun stood straight-backed, a fur-lined robe pulled tight around him against the autumn cold, on the walls of Kabul with the twelve-year-old Akbar at his side as his newly recruited armies marched before him.

‘Our emissaries have done well.They have brought in men from all over our own lands. Those pale-skinned men over there are from Ghazni. The ones with the dark turbans and face cloths are from the mountains north of Kandahar. Our vassals in Badakhshan and the lands of the Tajiks have sent soldiers.They are always amongst the bravest and best fighters, and well equipped too. Look how fine their horses are.’

‘But who are those men over there under the yellow flag, Father?’

‘They are from Ferghana — the land of your grandfather’s birth. Hearing rumours of the death of Islam Shah they had started unbidden on the road to Kabul to offer their services to me, knowing I would be sure to attack Hindustan. . ’ Here Humayun stopped for a moment, his voice choking with emotion, and then continued, ‘I will lead them to victory just as your grandfather did. But see that group of mounted archers? They are from around Samarkand and Bokhara and have fashioned themselves the flag of our great ancestor Timur — see it fluttering now with its orange tiger. . ’

‘How many men do we have?’

‘Twelve thousand.’

‘That’s less than when my grandfather invaded Hindustan.’

‘True, but we’ve more cannon, more muskets and additional recruits are joining every day. We have messages that many of Islam Shah’s vassals will defect to us once we reach their territories in Hindustan.’

‘How can you be sure?’

Humayun smiled wryly. ‘Just as when their fathers deserted me so many years ago, they believe they know who the victor will be.’

‘So their belief in our success will ensure it happens?’

‘Yes — to have the confidence of those around you in your success takes you a great way to victory. Once it abates it is difficult to restore. That is one lesson I have learned. This time we must ensure it does not. Each victory we win will add to the tide of confidence washing away any remaining strength our opponents have.’

‘I understand, Father.’

Looking at his son, Humayun realised that Akbar probably did. He had changed a lot in the past year. He was mature for his age, not only in his muscular physique and stature but also in his power of analysis and in a growing astuteness in his judgement of others. Humayun recalled his discussion with Hamida the previous night when he had told her that he intended to take Akbar with him when he set out on his invasion of Hindustan in a few days. He had reminded her that Babur had only been Akbar’s age when he became king. To take Akbar with him would inspire confidence in the future of the dynasty, he had told her. It would show that, should he himself fall, unlike Islam Shah he would have a worthy successor.

Humayun had expected Hamida to resist, mindful of the danger to which Akbar would be exposed, but although tears had wetted her cheeks at first, she had choked them back. ‘It is right that he should go, I know. It is difficult for a mother to see her son ride to war but he will soon be a man. I must remind myself I was only two years older when I left my family to share your life and the many dangers that accompanied it — a thing I have never regretted.’

As she spoke, Humayun had realised why, despite the many other women he had known, Hamida was the one true love of his life. He had embraced her and together they had made love long and tenderly.

Humayun forced himself back to the present. It was time to tell his son of his decision. ‘Akbar, would you wish to accompany me as I go to recover our inheritance?’

Without a moment’s hesitation, Akbar answered simply, ‘Yes, Father.’

‘Aren’t you afraid?’

‘A little bit, but somehow I know inside myself it is right. It’s my destiny. . Besides,’ and a youthful grin lit up his face, ‘it will be a great adventure and no adventure is without danger — that I already know. I will make you and my mother proud of me.’

‘I know you will.’

By now, musketeers were marching below in disciplined ranks, some on horseback with their long weapons tied to their saddles, others on foot with them over their shoulders.

‘How will the men on foot keep up, Father?’

‘They will be able to march as fast as the oxen who pull the cannon. Besides, we’ll gather more horses as we advance. We’ll use rafts on rivers such as the Kabul to speed us on our way and to carry the heavy baggage and cannon. Those on foot can ride on them too. I’ve already given instructions for rafts to be built for the Kabul river with special mountings constructed for the oars and for the steering rudders.’

Two nights later, Humayun lay with his arm across Hamida’s smooth, naked body. They had just made love and Humayun felt that never before had the act made them so truly one. Perhaps it was because of the knowledge they shared that Humayun and Akbar were to set off on their campaign the next morning.

Hamida lifted herself on one elbow and looked fondly into Humayun’s dark eyes. ‘You will protect yourself and our son as best you can, won’t you? It’s more difficult than you realise to be a woman, left behind waiting and watching for the next post runner, scrutinising his face and, if it looks drawn, wondering whether it reflects merely fatigue from the journey or bad news. Sometimes you go to bed and try to sleep, attempting to guess what is happening, knowing that any news that comes, good or bad, will be many weeks old and that the loved one you are thinking about may already be dead and you an unknowing widow.’

Humayun touched her lips with his index finger and then kissed them long and hard. ‘I know Akbar and I will live and — more than that — that we will be victorious and you will be my empress in the palace at Agra. I feel it deep within me. This is my great chance to redeem my past failures and reclaim my father’s throne to make it safe for Akbar, and I will take it.’

Hamida smiled and Humayun pulled her towards him and they began to make love once more, moving slowly at first and then faster and faster in passionate and all-consuming union.

Humayun sat on his black horse on the south bank of the Indus. A chill wind blowing from the Himalayas in the north ruffled his hair. As he watched, on the north shore — already churned into sticky mud by the passage of many men and horses — twenty or so of his gunners pulled and heaved at the yokes of a team of oxen hauling one of his great bronze cannon. They were using their whips as well as shouts of encouragement to persuade the reluctant beasts to set foot on the bobbing bridge of rafts and boats Humayun and his men had constructed over the river, which at this point was nearly two hundred feet wide.

Humayun had learned from his father’s experience and chosen a point just downstream from where a right-angled bend in the river slowed its force. In the six weeks since he had left Kabul, the oared rafts he had had manufactured in advance had speeded him down the Kabul river through the grey, barren mountains even faster than he had anticipated. They had been so useful, in fact, that remembering his father’s difficulty in assembling enough boats to cross the great barrier of the Indus and conscious all the time that he must move fast if he were not to lose his opportunity, Humayun had had half the rafts dismantled and put on the backs of pack animals for the journey into Hindustan so that they could be used again for his Indus bridge. He was glad he had done so since, although he had managed to secure some boats, nearly half his makeshift bridge consisted of his rafts or components from them. They had been lashed together through the ingenuity of his engineers during the past three days since he had reached the shores of the river. Humayun had joined in, standing waist-deep in the cold water, encouraging his men, himself twisting and knotting leather thongs with fingers which soon grew blue and numb with cold.

Now he saw with relief that the first pair of grey oxen was moving on to the bridge and that the rest of the team were following. More of his gunners were pushing and heaving at the four large wooden wheels of the cannon’s limber to help the oxen propel it through the mud on to the bridge. As they did so, the bridge sank much lower into the water beneath the weight. However, within less than a minute, cannon, men and beasts were across and the next team of oxen was being encouraged down the north bank to begin the whole procedure over again.

All of a sudden Humayun heard a trumpet sound out from one of the circle of pickets he had placed on the low hills bordering the southern banks to warn of anyone drawing near during the crossing. The first call was followed by a second and then a third — the signal he and Ahmed Khan had agreed would warn of the approach of a large body of men.

‘Stop any more cannon being transported across the bridge while we investigate what the pickets have seen. Throw out a further screen of horsemen and have our musketeers load and prime their weapons.’

Gesturing to his bodyguard to follow, Humayun urged his black horse into a gallop and soon he was on the low hill from which the trumpeter had sounded the alarm. Humayun immediately saw why he had done so. About three-quarters of a mile away, riding up from the south — the direction of Hindustan — was a large party of mounted men. Even at this distance Humayun could make out the tops of their lances glistening in the sunlight and flags fluttering as the horsemen advanced. The riders, who probably numbered around a hundred, seemed to be cantering rather than galloping as they would if they intended to attack. Humayun, however, was taking no chances.

‘Make sure we get musketeers and archers into firing positions quickly,’ he shouted to one of his officers. As the horsemen came nearer Humayun could see that they were unhelmeted and that their weapons remained sheathed.When they were about three hundred yards away they halted and after a minute or so one man rode slowly forward alone on his grey horse. He was clearly an ambassador or herald of some kind and Humayun ordered two of his bodyguards to ride out in front of his line to bring the man to him.

Within five minutes, the rider — a tall, slim youth dressed in cream robes and wearing a heavy gold chain round his neck — was brought before Humayun. Seemingly oblivious of the dirt and stones he prostrated himself face down, arms widespread, before Humayun, who was still mounted on his black horse which was restlessly pawing at the stony ground with its front hooves.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘I am Murad Beg, the eldest son of Uzad Beg, the Sultan of Multan. I come from my father who waits with his bodyguard over there. He seeks your permission to approach and offer you, his overlord, his obeisance. He wishes to pledge his troops to you to assist in the recapture of your rightful throne of Hindustan.’

Hearing the name of Uzad Beg, Humayun smiled. During his descent of the Kabul river and the Khyber Pass, many tribal chieftains had come to submit to him. Some had even followed the old tradition of appearing before Akbar and himself with grass in their mouths to show that they were Humayun’s beasts of burden, his oxen, to do with whatever he would. In each case, Humayun had welcomed them and their men as useful additions to his army.

However, Uzad Beg was different. He was no small tribal chieftain but a sophisticated and wily ruler. Fifteen years previously, after the battle of Chausa, Humayun had sent emissaries to him asking for troops to help halt Sher Shah’s advance, but Uzad Beg had been one of the most assiduous prevaricators. His repertoire of excuses had varied from personal illnesses through the need to suppress rebellions to a fire in his fortress-palace. Later Humayun had heard he’d been one of the first to recognise Sher Shah as his overlord. That he was now rushing to offer his submission to Humayun once more was a real indication that victory was expected to be his and that soon he would again sit on the imperial throne. Humayun realised that this was no time to settle old scores but rather to conciliate his former vassals and subjects to be sure that peace ruled in his rear as he advanced on Delhi and Agra. Besides, if he recalled correctly, Uzad Beg’s men were doughty, well-equipped fighters when their ruler could be persuaded to commit them to battle rather than to sit on the sidelines until the outcome was clear. Nevertheless, thought Humayun, he would make Uzad Beg sweat just a little. .

‘I remember your father well. I am glad that his health, which he used to write to me was such a trouble to him, has improved so much over the years that he is able to visit me in person. You may tell him that I will be delighted to receive him in an hour’s time, just before sunset, when my camp will be better equipped for the reception of such an important vassal as he.’

‘Majesty, I will tell him so.’

Just over an hour later, Humayun, dressed as befitted an emperor, was sitting beneath the scarlet awning of his command tent on a gilded throne with Akbar seated at his side on a low stool. Humayun’s commanders were arranged on either side of his throne, behind which stood two green-turbaned bodyguards with shining steel breastplates. The sunset was colouring the sky pink and purple as Uzad Beg approached, accompanied by his son and flanked by an escort of Humayun’s guards. As soon as they reached him, Uzad Beg and his son prostrated themselves full-length. He allowed them to remain face down on the cold, damp ground for just a little longer than he thought they might have anticipated. Then he spoke.

‘Rise, both of you.’

As Uzad Beg did so, Humayun saw that his vassal’s hair and beard were now white and his shoulders a little stooped, and that a pot belly strained the ties of his green silk under-tunic. Almost unconsciously Humayun pulled in his own already much flatter stomach and began.

‘I am glad to see you again after all these years. What brings you before me?’

‘I thank God he has preserved Your Majesty and that I have kept my own worthless life long enough to greet you on your journey to recover your rightful throne. I come to offer you, my overlord, my humble submission and that of my people.’ Uzad Beg paused and gestured to one of his attendants who had followed him at a distance. ‘If I may, Majesty, let this man approach.’

Humayun nodded his assent and the servant came forward to Uzad Beg with a large ivory casket on a gold cushion. Uzad Beg extracted from it a golden drinking cup set with rubies which he held out to Humayun.

‘I bring you this gift, Majesty, as a small token of my loyalty.’

‘I thank you. I am also pleased that you have come to recognise me as your overlord once more. You were not always so ready to answer my call.’

Uzad Beg flushed. ‘Majesty, circumstances alone prevented me for a while, and after that you had left Hindustan.’

‘You could have followed me into exile.’

‘I had my throne and family to protect,’ Uzad Beg stammered.

Humayun decided that enough was enough.‘Circumstances have conspired against us all over the last years. Bygones must be bygones. I am glad that you offer your submission once more and I accept it in the spirit in which it is rendered. How many men can you contribute to my forces?’

‘Eight hundred well-equipped cavalry can join you within days on your march south.’

‘I would like your son here to come as their commander,’ Humayun said, conscious that the presence of Murad Beg with his army would be an effective guarantee of his father’s good behaviour.

‘I was going to suggest it myself, Majesty.’

The early April sun had only been up for three hours when Humayun with Akbar and Bairam Khan at his side breasted the crest of the last of a series of high ridges in the Punjab and saw before him the massive sandstone fortress of Rohtas. It sat on the top of a low rocky outcrop on the plain below, overlooking the junction of roads leading south from the north and east. As he had pushed further into Hindustan, Humayun had still faced no significant opposition. Instead, Uzad Beg had been followed by many other defecting vassals of Islam Shah. So vehement had they been in their denunciation of their former overlord and in their vows of loyalty and support that Humayun had subsequently advised young Akbar never to take such protestations at face value. After all, several had previously shifted their loyalty to Sher Shah from Humayun and, as Akbar had observed to his father, these had been particularly unctuous in their present praise and professions of loyalty. Humayun’s army when it crossed the Indus had already nearly doubled in size to twenty thousand since leaving Kabul. Now it numbered nearly thirty-five thousand men with more recruits arriving every day.

‘Father, the fortress gates are closed. There are armed men on the walls and I see the smoke from cooking fires. Do we need to take the fortress or can we bypass it?’ asked Akbar.

‘It’s one of the keys to the control of northern Hindustan. We cannot leave it in the hands of an enemy who might sally forth at any time to attack our rear, so take it we must. However, the defenders are rumoured to be only few in number. They have no prospect of any relieving force and will not relish dying in a hopeless cause. I intend to see what an initial show of strength will do. Bairam Khan, have our cannon deployed in front of the fortress just out of musket range but where they can do some damage to the lower walls and the main gateway. Have our horsemen encircle the outcrop and have our musketeers and archers form up behind the cannon so that the defenders may see their number.’

Within two hours, teams of straining oxen had pulled the Moghul cannon into place and the encirclement of Rohtas had been completed by Humayun’s horsemen, their green pennants fluttering in the spring breeze. During this time, although there had been much movement on the walls, the defenders made no attempt to make a sortie to disrupt their besiegers. When he saw everything was in place Humayun commanded Bairam Khan, ‘Order the cannon to fire at the gates. Once there is enough smoke billowing around, have some of our musketeers advance under its cover to within range and attempt to pick off any who show themselves above those crenellated battlements. In the meantime have our scribes write messages offering the defenders safe passage if they leave within an hour. After we’ve shown them a little of what we’re capable of, we’ll have our best archers fire the surrender offers into the city.’

Almost immediately a loud boom echoed across the plains as the gunners pressed their lighted tapers to the firing holes of the bronze cannon. Some of the first shots were too low, crashing into the lower slopes of the outcrop and sending showers of earth and shards of rock into the air rather than damaging the walls and gates. Sweating and stripped to the waist as the day began to warm, the gunners rushed to change the cannons’ elevation by packing stones beneath the wheels or manhandling smaller weapons up mounds of earth. As they did so, a few musket shots rang from the towering battlements but the range was, as Humayun had planned, too great for them.

However, some of the arrows the defenders fired from bows pointed high into the air to increase their range did reach the cannon. As they dropped from the cloudless sky, most thudded harmlessly into the ground but several oxen were hit, blood staining their dun-coloured coats, and Humayun saw one of his gunners being helped away, two black-shafted arrows stuck into his back where he had been hit while straining to push a cannon into place. Soon, the cannon were firing again and regularly hitting the stone walls flanking the gate. A pall of white smoke hung over the cannon like the early morning mist that formed in the valleys near Kabul.

Humayun continued to watch as a band of his musketeers ran forward into the smoke, their weapons and firing tripods at the ready. They were followed by some of his archers with their double bows in their hands and full quivers on their backs. A minute or two later, a body fell, arms flailing, from the battlements to crash on to the rocks below. It was followed by another clawing at the air, this time with an arrow clearly visible protruding from its neck. No more puffs of smoke came from the muskets of the defenders on the walls and the number of arrows dwindled while the gates of Rohtas remained firmly shut.

‘The defenders clearly have little stomach for the fight, as we suspected. Have those archers with the message offering surrender terms attached to their arrows advance and fire them into the city,’ Humayun commanded. Within a few minutes he saw the arrows fly into the air, most of them overtopping the walls and landing within the fort.

Scarcely two hours later, with Akbar at his side, Humayun rode through the tall, iron-studded gates of Rohtas and into the silent, deserted courtyard of the fortress, which was strewn with abandoned weapons and items of heavy equipment. Having seen the strength of Humayun’s army, the defenders had immediately appreciated the generosity of the surrender offer. Within a few minutes the great thick wooden gates had creaked open and the garrison had begun to stream through them, some on foot and some on horseback, carrying what valuables they could and all heading south, leaving Humayun master of this gateway to Hindustan.

Humayun ordered some of the officers of his bodyguard to check that all the garrison had indeed departed and that none lurked in ambush. Receiving their swift confirmation, Humayun walked towards the open doors of the fortress’s great hall. As he did so, he glanced to his right where he saw that charcoal fires were still glowing beneath some clay tandoor ovens. Looking inside one, he found several loaves of warm, unleavened bread. He took one, bit a small portion from it and then handed it to Akbar.

‘Enjoy it. It tastes of victory.’