‘Where are the nearest of my soldiers, Nizam?’
‘As I told you, those on this side of the river have mostly retreated far off. But there remain many on the opposite shore – see.’ Nizam pointed across the steaming, muddy banks and over the main branch of the Ganges. There Humayun made out a large group of horsemen.
‘Are you sure they’re mine?’
‘Yes, Majesty. The detachment over there has been joined by many from this side.’
Nizam must be right, thought Humayun. He had been wise to take the precaution of stationing a force on the opposite bank to prevent Sher Shah from bypassing his army, crossing the river and attacking him from the rear.
‘I must join them.’ As he spoke, Humayun scrambled to his feet but his legs shook under him and he again felt dizzy.
‘Lean on me, Majesty.’
Humayun gratefully put his left arm on Nizam’s bony shoulder. ‘Help me down to the river so that I can swim across.’
‘But you are too weak. You will drown.’
‘I must make the attempt. It would be a great dishonour to be captured.’
Nizam’s eyes glanced around and alighted on his two large goatskin water bottles and he looked up into Humayun’s face. ‘Can you stand for a minute alone, Majesty? I think I have the answer.’
Receiving a nod from Humayun, he ran over to the bottles and pulling out the rough stoppers emptied them. Then, to Humayun’s surprise, he took the larger of them, placed the filling hole to his lips and began to blow, dark eyes bulging and thin cheeks puffing out with effort. After some moments, Humayun saw the skin begin to inflate and soon it became taut and full of air. Nizam inserted the stopper and brought it over to Humayun. Then he swiftly blew up the second and, tapping it playfully, smiled. ‘That should do. We must hurry, Majesty. Soon Sher Shah’s men will be dispersing to look for booty on the corpses of their enemies. I’ve hidden your armour so that it won’t catch the light, but they’re bound to inspect the whole shore.’
‘I know, but first help me to my brave horse. I must check he is dead or else put him out of his misery. He has served me well.’ An inspection quickly satisfied Humayun that the black stallion was indeed dead. Then, leaning on Nizam’s shoulder, he slowly picked his way across the hillocks and flats towards the river. He fell at least twice but on each occasion Nizam – already burdened by the inflated water bottles – hauled him to his feet. After ten minutes’ struggle, the pair reached the Ganges. Nizam passed the water bottles to Humayun.
‘Thank you, Nizam. Now be gone and save yourself.’
‘No, Majesty, I will accompany you or else you will drown.’
‘Help me off with my boots then,’ said Humayun, half sitting, half collapsing on to the bank. Soon Nizam had tugged the heavy boots off and, being all the time barefoot himself, helped Humayun into the water.
‘Swim with your legs and your good arm, Majesty. Try to keep one bottle under your right arm and the second beneath your chin. I will help direct you.’
Slowly they succeeded in reaching what to Humayun seemed the middle of the river. His right arm was stinging intensely from contact with the water but the pain had cleared his mind. He mustn’t die – it wasn’t his destiny – and he kicked harder with his feet. Nizam had clearly been brought up on the water and was pushing and pulling at Humayun to keep him headed for the far shore. A few minutes later, they were only five yards from the south bank when Nizam suddenly became frantic, legs thrashing at the water and arms pulling at Humayun. ‘It’s a crocodile, Majesty – he must have scented your blood. I saw the snout not far off. Hurry!’
Humayun took another two strokes and, as he put his feet down, soft mud oozed beneath his toes. Summoning his last reserves of strength he staggered, dripping and breathless, from the water, Nizam at his side.
‘We must get further up the bank, Majesty.’
With Nizam’s help Humayun stumbled another ten yards. From this place of relative safety, he looked back to see the crocodile’s amber eyes and snout breaking the surface near the shore. As he watched, the reptile turned and slunk sinuously away into deeper water. Perhaps it had been too small to finish him off but he was glad not to have to find out.
‘Majesty, I will find some of your officers, tell them of your plight and ask them to send people to bring you back to your army. Then I must swim back across the river – I need to find my father. He is one of the cooks in your field kitchens and I haven’t seen him since Sher Shah’s first attack.’
‘But you did not mention him till now?’
‘I knew it was my duty to help you.’
‘You must return to me so I can reward your bravery and your loyalty.’
‘No, Majesty – I must find my father,’ Nizam replied, his small face set.
A strange thought came into Humayun’s head. Impulsively he blurted it out. ‘You have been a prince among water-carriers. When I am back in my capital, come to me and you shall sit on my throne and be a true king, giving orders for an hour or two. Whatever you command shall be done.’
Nizam looked puzzled then smiled hesitantly and stammered, ‘Yes, Majesty,’ before turning and running swiftly over the undulating muddy banks of the Ganges in the direction of Humayun’s remaining forces.
Chapter 7
A Promise Kept
Humayun looked around at those of his officers who had rejoined him in his makeshift headquarters twenty miles up the Ganges from Chausa, the site of the battle two days previously. Suleiman Mirza was of course dead and Humayun had taken part in the mullahs’ solemn prayers for him and the other fallen. Baba Yasaval was there, however, bandaged more heavily than Humayun himself. So too amazingly was Ahmed Khan, his face pale and drawn above his stringy brown beard. His wounded thigh was strapped and he was leaning on a stout wooden crutch.
Only a few minutes after Nizam had left Humayun on the banks of the Ganges a detachment of his cavalry had reached him. The hakims had washed and stitched together the sides of the long, deep wound in his hand and forearm, dressed it with ointments and bound it in fine muslin bandages but he had refused their offer of opium to deaden the pain. He needed more than ever to think clearly. He was pleased to find he could still move his fingers but the wound sometimes felt hot, sometimes numb, and stung unbearably every time it caught against anything. But above all, he was glad to be alive. He had suffered a major defeat but was determined to recover his lost lands just as his father Babur had done when he’d faced adversity.
‘Ahmed Khan, what are Sher Shah’s latest movements?’ he asked.
‘He hasn’t moved beyond Chausa. He and his men are dividing the contents of our treasure chests and attempting to extricate our cannon from the muddy banks of the Ganges before its waters rise so far that they cover them. Like us, they have lost many men. Others will probably slip off home once they have their booty.’
‘You’re sure of all this, Ahmed Khan? You failed to warn previously of the imminence of Sher Shah’s attack.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’ Ahmed Khan lowered his head and paused before continuing. ‘Like many others I was deluded into thinking that Sher Shah wanted peace. Although I sent out scouts, perhaps I did not send out enough. And perhaps they themselves were not vigilant enough . . . and then there was the weather . . . and the speed of movement of Sher Shah’s—’
Humayun held up his hand to halt Ahmed Khan’s self-exculpation. Wittingly or not he had been trying to transfer some of the burden of responsibility for what had happened on to the loyal and badly wounded Ahmed Khan. But that was unfair. He was the emperor, the sole commander, the final arbiter in decisions. He had been tormenting himself as he lay on his bed, kept awake by the pain and itching of his wound, as to how he had let this defeat happen. Had he been too trusting, too ready to hear what he wanted to hear without, as Khanzada always urged, seeking the motive? He had been complacent, that he knew, but had his military strategy also been flawed? However, he must not brood too much on the past but rather put the defeat
behind him and make sure it did not happen again. Of one thing he was certain. His resolve to rule had grown in the face of setbacks.
‘I did not mean to criticise, Ahmed Khan, but make sure we keep as many scouts out as possible on both sides of the river. Have we heard from the troops accompanying my aunt and the other royal women?’
‘At least good news from them. They are making excellent progress despite the monsoon and expect to reach Agra in seven or eight weeks.’
‘Good.’ Turning to Baba Yasaval, Humayun asked, ‘What were our losses?’
‘Grievous, Majesty. Over fifty thousand men are dead or severely wounded, or have deserted, and we’ve lost at least that number of horses, elephants and baggage animals. We were able to bring off only a few of the cannon and those were mainly small ones. We lost a good part of the war chest as well as other equipment too.’
‘I feared as much.We need time to re-equip and to recruit. We must send ambassadors to reassure our allies before any unwise seeds of rebellion or defection germinate in their minds. Like Sher Shah, we’re in no position to renew the conflict immediately. Instead, we should continue our march back along the Ganges. There is no shame in such a retreat if it is a prelude to victory, as we must ensure it is.’
Although the rain had ceased and the sun was now shining brightly, producing rainbow effects in the bubbling fountains, the courtyard before Humayun’s durbar hall, his audience hall, in the Agra fort was still wet and glistening. It was four months since the ill-fated battle at Chausa. Humayun had stationed his main army one hundred and twenty miles south of Agra to block any unexpected advance by Sher Shah while he himself had returned to his capital to rally more allies.
More bad news had greeted him on his arrival in Agra. Bahadur Shah the Sultan of Gujarat and his allies the Lodi pretenders had taken advantage of his preoccupation with Sher Shah in Bengal to re-emerge from their hiding places in the highlands and drive out Humayun’s governors and their few men from Gujarat’s strongholds. Recognising that he could not fight a war on two fronts, Humayun had sent Kasim, his vizier and veteran of so many perilous ambassadorial missions for his father Babur, to Gujarat to negotiate a peace deal. Humayun would return autonomy to Gujarat provided the sultan nominally at least recognised him as his overlord.
A week ago, a tired, dusty but smiling Kasim had dismounted from his horse and told Humayun that the sultan had agreed to his proposals. And there had been other encouraging developments, Humayun reflected as he moved across the courtyard towards the durbar hall where his courtiers and commanders were waiting. His half-brothers had sent small contingents of troops from their provinces, together with promises of much larger contributions. There was no sign – as yet at least – of Kamran and his other half-brothers using his misfortunes to attempt a rising against him, rather Sher Shah’s revolt seemed to have brought them together.All would yet be well, Humayun comforted himself, and a half-smile crossed his face.
‘Get back. Do not dare approach His Majesty.’
Humayun turned to look behind him where the shout had come from. A tall, black-turbaned guard was gripping a small, struggling figure firmly by the wrists.
‘He told me to come – that I could sit on his throne for an hour or two.’
‘Have you been touched by the sun? Don’t be disrespectful – you’ll get yourself flogged at best, crushed beneath the elephant’s foot at worst.’
Humayun looked closer at the wriggling figure with the determined voice. It was Nizam, the water-carrier who had saved his life.
‘Release him.’ The guard did so and Nizam dropped to his knees before Humayun, head bowed.
‘You may stand, Nizam. I remember well how you helped me from the battlefield of Chausa and across the Ganges. I also remember how you asked for no reward and – to show my gratitude – I did say that for a short while you could sit on my throne and that any command you gave would be carried out.’ Humayun’s guards and the courtiers including Kasim and Baisanghar who had been escorting him to the durbar hall were exchanging surprised glances but he ignored them. ‘Fetch a fitting robe for our temporary emperor,’ he ordered Jauhar, who returned a few minutes later with a red velvet robe and a gold-tasselled sash of the same material.
Nizam himself was gazing round the flower-filled courtyard and fountains bubbling with rosewater. His self-confidence seemed to have deserted him and as Jauhar approached him with the robe he recoiled.
‘Courage, Nizam.’ Humayun patted the youth’s shoulder. ‘To have your dearest wish fulfilled isn’t always easy.’ He took the robe from Jauhar and himself helped Nizam into it, fastening the silver clasps at waist and right shoulder and tying the sash around Nizam’s slight frame. There should have been something comical about the sight of the shock-headed young water-carrier in the velvet robe, but Nizam drew himself up and the carriage of his head had a dignity.
‘Let us proceed.’ Humayun nodded to the two drummers stationed outside the durbar hall, who at once began to strike with the flats of their hands the tall ox-hide drums resting on their lapis lazuli inlaid golden stands, announcing the coming of the emperor.
‘Come Nizam, let us go together – you the emperor of the hour, I the emperor born to carry the burden of leadership to the grave.’
Humayun and Nizam led the procession into the durbar hall where Humayun’s courtiers and commanders were waiting. As they approached the throne, Humayun stopped and pushed Nizam gently forward. To a huge gasp of surprise, Nizam slowly mounted the throne and, turning, sat down.
Humayun raised his hands for silence.‘I acknowledge before all my court the bravery and loyalty of this youth, Nizam the water-carrier, in saving my life after Chausa. I promised Nizam that for a short while he should sit on my throne and make whatever pronouncements he wished. He has already shown himself honourable and will not, I know, abuse the power that I have put into his hands. Nizam – what are your wishes?’
Humayun was intrigued. What would Nizam ask for? Money, jewels, land? He must know that his life – and that of his family – need never be the same again. It felt good to be able to grant Nizam’s wishes.
‘Majesty . . .’ Nizam’s voice from high up on the throne sounded reedy and thin. As if he’d realised it, he tried again. ‘Majesty.’ This time his young voice rang out, true and clear. ‘I have just two commands. That I receive a grant of a small parcel of land near the Ganges where I can grow crops and that the tax on all water-sellers be rescinded for a year.’
Humayun heard some open sniggers. Even Kasim’s usually serious, ascetic face seemed in danger of twitching into a smile, but Humayun himself was touched by Nizam’s modest requests. He was not seeking to enrich himself excessively like so many at court.
‘It shall be as you command.’
‘Then I am ready to descend the throne.’ Nizam got up and, relief etched on his small features, stepped lightly down, holding his robes clear of his feet to avoid tripping. Looking at him Humayun realised he had witnessed real courage. What must it have cost Nizam to come to court to ask Humayun to honour his promise? For all he knew, Humayun might have forgotten all about him or been angered by his presumptuousness. Just as the guard had yelled at the struggling boy he might well have paid the price of a flogging or even death for his temerity in calling an emperor to account.
Humayun now mounted the throne. ‘As emperor again I too have orders to give. These are that Nizam the water-carrier also be given five hundred gold coins and that the grant of land should be sufficient to support him and all his family in comfort.’ Humayun watched as the small figure, with one backward glance at him, was escorted from the durbar hall.
Later that day, with all business done and the pale moon just beginning to rise and the first cooking fires alight, Humayun climbed to the battlements of the Agra fort. He had dismissed his guards and wished to be alone with his thoughts for a while. His love of solitude which to Babur had seemed such a vice in a ruler had never entirely deserted him. Neither had his fascin
ation with the machinations of the stars. Though he curbed such feelings, as he knew he must, they were still there – far stronger than any longing for Gulrukh’s concoction of wine and opium.
His father had once spoken to him of the tyranny of kingship – and he had been right. In some ways, was being a ruler any better than being a poor man? At least Nizam, dipping his water bottles into the Ganges, was his own man. It wasn’t easy to bear the burden of the future of a dynasty, yet he knew he would never wish to abandon such a sacred charge.
Night had fallen around him while he mused. It was time to return to his apartments where Jauhar and his attendants would be spreading the evening meal – the plates of lamb, buttered rice and root vegetables of the Moghuls’ homelands and the spicy dishes of Hindustan with their saffron and turmeric, intense as the sun which burned by day above the plains of his new empire. By the light of a blazing torch mounted on the wall, Humayun made for the three flights of steep stone steps that led back towards his apartments. Still lost in his thoughts he descended the first flight, then, about to round the corner to descend the second, he paused at the sound of voices.
‘I thought the emperor had cured himself of his madness. We put up with months of his lunacy . . . all that rubbish about days of Mars and days of Jupiter and that stupid carpet with the planets. I’m surprised we were allowed to piss when we wanted . . .’
Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War Page 12
