Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  From all around Humayun heard gasps. Kasim had turned away and Baisanghar too was averting his gaze. Even Sita was looking shocked, one tightly curled hand raised to her mouth and her eyes round. A few more seconds and it would be over. For one last time, Mirak Beg forced his streaming eyes to open and for a moment they looked directly into Humayun’s, and then his body went still.

  Humayun rose. ‘The punishment has fitted the crime. And so will all who transgress my laws suffer.’ Stepping down from the dais on which his golden throne, his gaddi – draped in red velvet to mark the day of Mars – stood and flanked by his guards, Humayun made his way out of the room. For a few seconds there was silence, then behind him he heard a babble of voices as his courtiers once more found their tongues.

  It was early evening now. Above the darkening Jumna, a sliver of moon was already rising, casting its silver light upon the riverbank where oxen and camels were drinking their fill. He would visit Salima. He had done so less often recently, absorbed in his opium dreams. At the thought of her soft, golden-hued body, he smiled.

  Salima was lying on a silver brocade divan while one of her waiting women traced intricate designs on her slim feet with henna paste. All she was wearing was the jewelled belt Humayun had chosen for her from the plunder he had captured in Gujarat.

  That campaign seemed so long ago now – like something from another life. Into his mind came Mirak Beg’s accusing words ‘You’ve given us no conquests . . . You spend your time eating opium and gazing at the stars.’ Mirak Beg had deserved to die, but perhaps there had been some truth in his accusations. What would his father have said about the way he was governing, even about the amount of opium he was consuming? Perhaps, as Kasim and Khanzada had urged, he should use less of the drug to enable him to devote more time to those around him. But things had changed, hadn’t they? The Moghuls’ wild, nomadic days were over. He was the ruler of an empire and it was no one’s business but his own that he was finding new ways of ruling, new sources of comfort and inspiration. The stars whose radiance was brighter even than the Koh-i-Nur would not let him down.

  Nor would Salima. As her women hurried from the room, she rose from her couch. Slowly, caressingly she began to loosen his red robes, running her fingers over the hard muscle of his arms and shoulders beneath the soft silk. ‘My emperor,’ she was whispering. He wound his hands in the long black hair spilling over her bare breasts and pulled her to him, hungry for the pleasures they would enjoy until – at last – with salty sweat running down their bodies they would collapse exhausted against one another.

  A few hours later, Humayun was lying by Salima’s side. A soft breeze was blowing through the open casement and a pale light was already rising in the eastern sky. Salima murmured something and then, turning her silken hip to his, returned to her dreams. But for some reason, sleep had eluded Humayun. Each time he’d closed his eyes, he saw Mirak Beg’s distorted, choking mouth foaming with yellow spittle and his panic-stricken eyes half bursting from his head. He should have taken some of Gulrukh’s wine to banish these disturbing images but that was in his own apartment. Nevertheless, he could still ease his restless mind. Reaching for the gold locket studded with amethysts hanging from a chain around his neck, he extracted some opium pellets and, pouring water into a cup, swallowed them down. The familiar bitter taste caught at the back of his throat but then the drowsy, languorous warmth began to steal through him. With his eyelids at last growing heavy, Humayun stretched out. The soothing sweetness of the sandalwood oil with which Salima loved to anoint her body filled his nostrils and he began to drift into sleep. But only moments later – or so it felt to Humayun – he heard a female voice urgently calling his name.

  ‘Majesty . . . Majesty . . . a messenger has come.’

  Dazed, Humayun sat up. Where was he? Looking around he saw Salima, sitting up now beside him and pulling on a pink silk robe to conceal her nakedness. But it wasn’t her who’d woken him. It was one of the haram attendants, Barlas – a squat woman with a face wrinkled as a walnut.

  ‘Forgive me, Majesty.’ Barlas was averting her gaze from his naked body. ‘A messenger has come from the east, from your brother Askari, with news he says is urgent. Even though it is early, he requests an immediate audience and Kasim ordered me to wake and tell you.’

  Humayun’s unfocused eyes stared at Barlas as he tried to take in what she was saying, but the opium had made him slow. ‘Very well. I will return to my apartments. Tell Kasim to bring this messenger to me there.’

  Half an hour later, back in his own quarters, dressed in a simple purple tunic and having splashed his face with cold water, Humayun looked at the man whose arrival had caused him to be roused from his rest. The messenger was a tall, slight man still with the dust of the road on his sweat-stained clothes. In his eagerness to speak to Humayun he almost forgot the ritual obeisance until reminded sharply by Kasim. As soon as he was back on his feet, he began. ‘Majesty, I am Kamal. I serve your brother Askari in Jaunpur. Reports reached us there of a great rebellion led by Sher Shah.Your brother waited until he was certain they were true then sent me to warn you.’

  Humayun stared. Though Sher Shah controlled large lands in Bengal, this grandson of a horse trader would surely never dare to threaten him. He had pledged himself to Babur as a vassal of the Moghuls. Yet ambition often pushed men to rash acts. It might be ominous that he had assumed the name ‘Sher’, which meant ‘tiger’. Perhaps by doing so he intended to throw down a direct challenge to the true dynasty of the tiger – the Moghuls. Humayun glanced down at Timur’s ring, but with eyes still dilated by opium he could not focus on the snarling image of the tiger etched into its surface. After a moment Humayun returned his attention to the messenger. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Sher Shah is claiming large Moghul territories for himself. He has also declared himself leader of all Hindustani resistance to the Moghuls and has vowed to free Hindustan of every prince of the house of Timur. Even the proudest chieftains have become his retainers. Here – I bring you a letter from your brother which tells you everything that has happened – how far Sher Shah has advanced, how many chieftains have declared their support for him . . .’ The man held out a camel-skin pouch.

  ‘Give it to my vizier. I will read it later, when I have rested.’

  The man looked startled but at once handed the pouch to Kasim.

  ‘Kasim – see that this man is given food and water and lodgings in the fort.’ But Kasim too seemed to be looking at him strangely. He didn’t understand that there was no point in rushing to take action. Later – when his mind had cleared – Humayun would think what to do. ‘Go now. Leave me in peace.’

  As the doors closed behind Kasim and the messenger, Humayun glanced out through the casement. The perfect orange disc of the sun was rising into a cloudless sky. The red sandstone of the fort glowed as if it were about to burst into flame. Humayun rubbed his eyes and signalled to his attendants to lower the woven grass tatti screens to block out the relentless brightness that was making his head throb. The news of Sher Shah was bad and he must respond, but first he must sleep and to do that needed something to soothe his mind. He went over to a carved rosewood cabinet, unlocked it and took out a bottle of Gulrukh’s wine. This would help, wouldn’t it? He pulled out the stopper but then remembered that he would need a clear head later in the morning to decide what to do about Sher Shah. But perhaps it wouldn’t really matter if the decision waited until the afternoon. He poured some of Gulrukh’s mixture into an agate cup. A few minutes later he was drifting softly away but almost at once some sort of commotion again intruded into his dreams.

  ‘Raise the tattis and leave me alone with the emperor,’ came an angry female voice. ‘Humayun.’ Now it was shouting his name and seemed to be drawing closer. ‘Humayun!’ He sat up with a gasp as a deluging mass of cold water brought him back to consciousness. Forcing his eyes open he saw Khanzada standing by the side of his bed, an empty brass ewer in her hand and eyes full of anger.

/>   ‘What d’you want?’ Humayun gazed at her stupidly, uncertain whether she was real or some sort of hallucination.

  ‘Get up.You are a warrior – an emperor – but I find you lounging here in the dark in a drugged stupor like a haram eunuch at a time when your empire is in danger . . . I have just learned of the arrival of Askari’s messenger and of the news he brought. Why haven’t you summoned your council immediately?’

  ‘I will when I am ready . . .’

  ‘Look at you!’ Khanzada seized a mirror set with rubies and thrust it before him. Reflected in the burnished surface he saw a pallid face and dark, distant eyes with dilated pupils and deep, almost purple bags beneath them. He continued to stare, fascinated by the features that seemed so familiar, but Khanzada ripped the mirror from his hand and flung it against the wall, causing the metal to buckle and several of the rubies to fall from their mounts. They lay on the floor like drops of blood.

  Kneeling before him, Khanzada took Humayun by the shoulders. ‘Opium is destroying your mind . . . You do not even recognise yourself in the mirror, do you? Do I have to remind you who you are . . . do I have to tell you of your bravery and the battles you won on your father’s behalf and of your destiny and duty to the Moghul dynasty? Have you forgotten everything that made you – us – the descendants of Timur – who we are? I’ve tried to warn you before that you are losing your grip on reality but you would not listen. Now I must force you to. The same blood that runs through your veins flows through mine also. I fear nothing except the loss of everything your father – my brother – fought and suffered for.’

  What was she saying? Suddenly she let go of him and, leaning back, hit his face with the full force of her right hand. Again and again she struck – first the right and then the left side of his face. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘Be as you once were. Be the man your father made his heir,’ she was shouting. ‘Abandon this cocoon of ritual and opium that is alienating your nobles and compromising your ability to rule.You are a warrior like your father. Stop worrying about what the stars say and whether you can live up to Babur, just do it!’

  She had stopped striking him but the stinging pain was clearing the fog in his mind. The words that – when she had first begun speaking – had seemed to have no meaning were beginning to make some sense. Round and round in his mind they went and with them images of the past that they conjured – the visceral excitement he had always felt in the heat of battle or wrestling with his nobles or galloping out to the hunt with Babur. That whole, vibrant, physical world to which he had once belonged . . .

  ‘Give up the opium, Humayun . . . it is destroying you. Where are you keeping it?’

  Kasim’s gentle words of warning began to come back to him from many months ago when Kasim and Baisanghar had given advice in his stead to the envoy of his governor in Bengal. If he had talked to the man himself might he have caught some nuance or given some guidance that might have prevented Sher Shah’s rebellion? Or perhaps Sher Shah had somehow come to learn of his lack of interest in what happened in Bengal. Humayun’s hand went slowly to the locket around his neck. Unclasping it, he handed it to Khanzada. Then, equally slowly, he walked over to the still open cabinet where he kept Gulrukh’s opium-infused wine. As he reached inside for the bottle, the dark, almost purple liquid inside glinted. It had brought him so much pleasure, so much knowledge . . . revealed so much to marvel at. Could it really be the destructive force that Kasim and Khanzada claimed?

  ‘My father took opium . . .’ he said slowly, turning the flask.

  ‘Yes, but not like you . . . Babur never let it control him or dictate his actions. He never neglected his trusted band of comrades, his commanders and his courtiers in its favour. But in you it has enslaved an emperor. You have become addicted . . . just like the man who cannot taste a cup of wine without wanting to empty the entire wineskin. You must give it up, Humayun, or it will destroy you. You will lose the empire your father gained. Renounce opium now before it is too late.’

  Still he gazed at the liquid in the bottle with all its hidden secrets and delights. But then he looked up at Khanzada’s face, still wet with tears, and saw how strained she looked and how afraid. And he knew that that fear was for him and for the dynasty of which she was a part and for which she had suffered. Slowly the realisation that she was right, that Kasim was right, that all the others who had expressed concern were right, penetrated the opium fumes in his mind. He must be strong – strong within himself. He had no need of outside props. Suddenly more than anything he wanted to regain Khanzada’s respect, her approval. The thought of how he had treated her and his closest advisers in recent months made him ashamed.

  ‘Give me the bottle, Humayun.’

  ‘No, Aunt.’ Going to the casement, he poured the liquid away to splash on the ground below; then, flinging the bottle after it, he heard the faint, fragile tinkle as it shattered. ‘I will tell Gulrukh that I will accept no more of her drugged wine. I swear to you, on this ring of Timur, that however hard it may be I will take no more opium or wine. I will send her to live with one of her sons. And I will prove anew to myself and to you that I am worthy of my father’s trust.’

  Khanzada took his face between her hands and kissed him. ‘I will help you conquer this addiction. Opium has such a grip that it will not be easy. You are a great man, Humayun, a great leader – I have always known that – and you will become a greater one.’

  ‘And I have always known that you are my most trusted confidante.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Stay with me while I send for the messenger and question him again. I want you to hear what he says. If it is true, I must prepare immediately for war.’

  Later that day, Humayun sat on his throne. Before him were his courtiers and commanders. As he had ordered they were no longer dressed in clothing matching the planet governing the day – neither was he. Khanzada was right. The rituals he had imposed had brought neither harmony nor strength to his court. He must win the respect and allegiance of his nobles in other ways. And one of those would be by victory in the field.

  ‘You have all heard the news brought by the messenger Kamal. Sher Shah’s invasion of Moghul territories is an affront to our honour that I will not tolerate. As soon as the army is ready, we will ride against this upstart. And when I have finished with Sher Shah I will trade him into slavery, just as Sher Shah’s ancestors used to trade a worn-out horse to the knacker’s men.’

  As Humayun finished speaking, a great roar went up around the audience chamber that in recent months had fallen so silent. Humayun’s commanders were clashing their swords on their shields in the age-old tradition of their people and their deep voices were taking up the chant, ‘Mirza Humayun, Mirza Humayun’, that proclaimed him of Timur’s blood. Humayun glanced up at the grille in the wall to one side of his throne behind which he knew Khanzada would be watching and listening, and smiled. All would be well. The Moghul emperor was leading his armies to war once more. However lacking in the arts of peace he might have proved, he had demonstrated his skills as a general, hadn’t he?

  Part II

  In the Eye of the Tiger

  Chapter 6

  The Water-Carrier

  An hour after dawn, Humayun made his way from his private chambers out through the courtyards of the red sandstone Agra fort with their marble pools and splashing fountains, through the high gateway and on to the parade ground where his army was drawn up. He was dressed for war with an etched silver breastplate set with rubies on his chest over a coat of silver chain mail. His father Babur’s eagle-hilted sword, Alamgir, was in its sapphire-encrusted scabbard at his side. On his head was a domed helmet, again decorated with rubies and with a tall peacock feather set in gold waving from its peak.

  As he emerged from the iron-studded gate and progressed towards the stand at the centre of the parade ground where his imperial elephant – the usual conveyance for emperors and generals on ceremonial journeys – was waiting, h
e saw that the vanguard of his troops had already raised so much pink-grey dust as they marched out that the sun was only a pale, beige disc, all the intensity of its glare lost. The large grey elephant was on its knees with its great gilded redcanopied howdah securely positioned on its back and its two drivers or mahouts standing by its head. His senior officers were grouped in order of rank on either side of the elephant. After accepting low bows of greetings from each of his commanders Humayun paused to address them.

  ‘Bear this message to your men from me. Our cause is just. We go to recover what is ours from this ill-bred, upstart usurper. How can anyone who has seen our army doubt that it is the greatest in history and invincible? Bid the men be of good cheer. Victory and its comrades, fame and reward, will accompany us.’

  The officers bowed once more and placing one foot on the crouching elephant’s knee Humayun climbed into the howdah and sat on a small gilded throne. He was followed immediately by two of his bodyguards and by Jauhar. At a sign from Humayun to the mahouts they too mounted and, positioning themselves one behind the other on the elephant’s neck, whispered instructions into its large ears. The obedient great beast rose slowly and gently to its feet and Humayun gave orders for the trumpets to sound the signal for his elephant and those bearing his generals to move off. As they advanced to take their place in the column they passed the artillery – large cannon with bronze barrels nearly twenty feet long mounted on four wheels, some pulled by teams of up to fifty oxen, others by six or eight elephants. Smaller cannon were on carts also drawn by oxen.

  Next Humayun moved along the serried ranks of his cavalry – first the mounted warriors from his father’s homelands, Tajiks, Badakhshanis, men from the Kyrgyz mountains and Ferghana Valley, as well as those of Afghanistan. Theirs were the strongest horses, still bred from those they had brought from the steppes. Theirs too, he believed, was the strongest loyalty to the Moghul dynasty. After them he saw the orange garb of some of his Rajput vassals. Eager as all Rajputs were said to be for battle, these imposing, black-bearded men beat their swords on their small, round, studded shields in martial greeting as Humayun passed.