Humayun frowned. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether Kamran wasn’t playing an even deeper game than I realised, and Sher Shah also. What if the whole business of Kamran’s offer to betray me and Sher Shah’s rejection of it was a subterfuge by the pair of them to draw me out of Lahore so their forces could fall on mine and destroy them?’
‘It’s possible, Majesty,’ said Kasim. ‘We cannot discount it.’
‘I also keep wondering how much Askari knew of Kamran’s plans. Did they scheme together to betray me to Sher Shah or did Askari flee with Kamran because he thought I would never believe he hadn’t been implicated?’
This time Hindal answered. ‘I’m sure Askari did know. He always follows where Kamran leads. I do not speak from malice but because I have reason to know – I was once the same.’
‘I suspect you are right. Unlike Kamran, Askari’s weak and he stands in awe of his elder brother,’ said Humayun. ‘Consequently, his treachery hurts me less. In my boyhood it was Kamran – almost my equal in age – that I played and hunted and sparred with.Though we often argued – sometimes even fought – for a while we were close . . . almost like full brothers. That he should desire my death brings me almost as much grief as anger . . . ’
A knock on the door interrupted him and he fell silent as Jauhar swung the well-oiled rosewood doors open to see who was there. Humayun heard low voices conversing outside, then Jauhar reappeared.
‘Forgive me, Majesty, but Mirza Husain has sent his vizier with a message.’
‘Admit him.’
The vizier, slight and fine-boned with a direct, intelligent gaze, made an elaborate obeisance. ‘Pardon me, Majesty, for disturbing you but Mirza Husain begs that you and your brother will honour him with your presence at a feast tonight.’
‘Of course.’ Humayun nodded graciously. ‘We would be pleased to attend and thank Mirza Husain for his hospitality.’
The vizier bowed and withdrew.
As soon as the doors were closed again, Hindal smiled. ‘A good sign, don’t you think? Mirza Husain can’t do enough for us . . . ’
‘You may be right, but he may be trying to placate us with small things while seeking to deny us what we really want . . . let us see . . . ’
That evening, as a hazy, pink dusk was falling, drums began to beat softly. Humayun and Hindal followed the attendants sent by Mirza Husain into the palace’s central wing and up a long, shallow staircase strewn with jasmine petals and lit by wicks burning in diyas filled with scented oil. At the top of the stairs, Humayun and Hindal passed through a carved marble doorway into an octagonal chamber ablaze with light from giant silver candelabras and torches burning in gilded sconces on the walls. Rugs gleaming with gold thread covered the floor while the walls were hung with richly coloured brocades decorated with strings of pearls and coloured glass globes. Directly ahead was a dais draped in silver cloth and piled with cushions.
As Humayun and his brother entered, musicians struck up. A smiling Mirza Husain advanced towards his cousins. Hanging necklaces of frangipani blossoms around their necks after the Hindustani custom, he led them to the places of honour on the dais. Once they were comfortably seated, he clapped his hands and a succession of bearers entered through a side entrance, each carrying a golden dish upon his shoulder piled with food – pomfret fish steamed in banana leaves or simmered in creamy coconut sauce, sides of roast deer, haunches of spiced lamb, aubergines delicately smoked and pureed, fluffy rice cooked with split peas and hot bread stuffed with sultanas and dried apricots.
‘Eat, Majesty, eat, and you, Prince Hindal. Eat, my cousins, you are my honoured guests. See, the food is good . . . Tell me what dishes tempt you and I myself will be your food taster. You have no reason to fear while under my roof. . .’
‘I thank you, cousin. And I have no fear.’ To secure his cousin’s help, Humayun knew he must indeed demonstrate trust. Without hesitating, he took a piece of hot bread and wrapping it around a chunk of fish began to eat. ‘The food is indeed good.’
Later, as Humayun lay against his cushions, Mirza Husain clapped his hands and three girls entered the room through a side entrance and bowed low before him, eyes downcast. Then, simultaneously striking their tambourines with their palms and stamping their feet on the floor causing the bronze bells around their ankles to clash, they began to dance. One was tall and slender, the other two shorter and more voluptuous. Their short, tight bodices left their midriffs bare. The swell of their hips and buttocks was emphasised by the diaphanous pale pink silk of their voluminous trousers, which fastened round their waists with gold cord that ended in pearl tassels.Watching the girls whirl before him, for a moment Humayun imagined he was back in the Agra fort, his empire intact and nothing to concern him but the quest for yet greater glory and which concubine to choose for his night’s pleasure.
At a wave of Mirza Husain’s bejewelled hand, the girls ran off. Attendants cleared the dishes and others brought new ones – platters of ripe fruits stuffed with marzipan, delicate almonds covered in silver leaf. But something else was shining amongst them. Looking more closely, Humayun saw that the sweetmeats rested on a bed of gems – rubies, carnelians, emeralds, turquoises, pearls of many shapes and hues and glowing golden cat’s-eyes.
‘These are my gift to you, cousin.’ Mirza Husain selected a ruby and held it out to Humayun. ‘See the quality of this gem.’
Humayun took the stone from him and examined it. ‘You are gracious and generous.’
‘I have sent other gifts to your commanders – jewelled scimitars, daggers, bridles and gilded quivers, paltry compared with the glories of the Moghul court of which I have heard so much, I know, but none the less acceptable, I hope. And now, I have another favour to ask. Will you permit me to present my youngest daughter to you?’
‘Of course.’
Mirza Husain whispered something to an attendant. A few minutes later, a short, slight young woman appeared in the great doorway through which two hours earlier Humayun and Hindal had entered. Head erect, she walked slowly towards the dais. Humayun saw dark eyes and a wide-cheekboned, almost feline face. Reaching the dais, she knelt before it, eyes to the ground.
‘This is Khanam.’
At Mirza Husain’s words, Khanam raised her head and looked straight into Humayun’s eyes.
‘My daughter is a skilled musician. Will you allow her to play for you?’
‘Of course. It would be a pleasure to hear her.’
At a signal from her father, Khanam stepped back a few paces and taking a round-bellied, long-necked stringed instrument from an attendant sat down on a wooden stool another brought for her. Mirza Husain had not exaggerated his daughter’s talent. As she plucked the strings, haunting, soaring notes filled the chamber. Closing his eyes for a moment, Humayun saw his mother Maham, head bent over the lute that had once belonged to his great-grandmother Esan Dawlat, who had preserved it throughout his family’s dangerous, often desperate days in search of a throne.
‘Khanam’s a beauty, isn’t she? The pick of all my daughters. Her mother was Persian.’ Mirza Husain’s voice cut into his thoughts.
‘Your daughter is very beautiful,’ Humayun replied dutifully though for his taste she was a little too thin and certainly nothing to compare with Salima’s voluptuous charms. Her death – the cruel and sudden extinction of so much beauty and vitality – still haunted him. It seemed a symbol of how much he had lost these past months.
Mirza Husain bent nearer, reducing his voice to a whisper that only Humayun could hear. ‘And she is ripe for marriage. I am wealthy. Her dowry will be considerable . . . almost imperial . . . ’ He smiled, the implication of his words unmistakable.
Humayun looked at Khanam, long hair reddened with henna falling round her as she continued to play. Why not? he thought. Babur had made several dynastic marriages to secure his position.Though Khanam didn’t stir him particularly, her looks were well enough. She shared his blood and her father would be a useful friend in the struggle against Sher Sha
h.Why not form an alliance to be consummated one day in the marriage bed? It seemed that for once Kasim’s information had been wrong – Mirza Husain was willing to help him. But of one thing Humayun was certain. Before he could think of taking a wife he must defeat his enemies and be sure of his throne. The time had come for plain speaking.
‘Mirza Husain, I would be glad one day to consider Khanam as a wife. She is a fine-looking, accomplished young woman. First, though, my thoughts must be on war and the recovery of my lost lands, not on marriage, and I want your help.You have been generous with your hospitality and your gifts but I need your armies. Let us proclaim our alliance to the world.’
Humayun sat back against the cushions, expecting Mirza Husain’s gratitude, even joy. The prospect of marriage with the Moghul emperor was beyond anything the sultan could have hoped for his daughter. But he saw that his host’s smile was no longer so good-natured.The curve of his lips seemed to harden and his eyes to grow cold. ‘Khanam, enough! Leave us now.’ His tone was sharp.
Khanam looked up in surprise and at once stopped playing. Rising, with a swish of her long, dark blue robes she hurried from the chamber.
‘Cousin, let us understand one another.’ Mirza Husain spoke quietly. ‘I did not invite you here. You came. I received you out of duty. Sher Shah is in Lahore, barely six hundred miles away – perhaps nearer for all we know – with armies far outnumbering yours and mine combined. For the present I dare not antagonise him. I can give you money and I will willingly give you my daughter if you will promise to protect and honour her but no more than that. Take Khanam with my blessing, as my gift to absolve me with honour of further obligations to you in your present troubles, but leave my lands before you bring disaster upon me and my people.’
Mirza Husain’s voice had risen so all could hear and Humayun saw Hindal looking at him with astonishment. Hot anger flooded through him. Kasim had been right after all. ‘Mirza Husain, the blood of Timur – of the amirzada – runs through your veins yet you speak like a merchant not a warrior . . . ’
Mirza Husain flushed.The taunt had bitten home, Humayun saw with satisfaction. No man liked to hear such words – even less to hear them under his own roof.
‘Your ambition is dangerous,’ said Mirza Husain. ‘Accept your setback. Leave Hindustan. Go back to Kabul, to your homelands there. They are a sufficient kingdom. You cannot flourish where you do not belong.’
‘You forget yourself. My father conquered Hindustan and founded an empire which he bequeathed to me. I do belong there.You should not be trying to buy me off with a bag of gold and your daughter . . . Instead, you and I should be planning how to recapture my lands. Immediately we have won our first victories, others will rally once more to my banner. Yet you refuse to recognise this. You have grown so fat on trade you seem to have forgotten our warrior code and the obligations and ambitions it carries with it . . . ’
In his anger, Humayun had forgotten that others as well as his brother were close by. Several of Mirza Husain’s nobles were seated round low tables beneath the dais and suddenly he became aware of the silence that had fallen and of their startled glances. This was no time to provoke a fight or even an open breach. Humayun forced a smile to his lips though he felt like taking his host’s plump throat in his hands. ‘But I forget myself. I am your guest. I speak my mind too plainly. This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion, Mirza Husain. Forgive me. We will talk again tomorrow when we can be alone and when we have both had a chance to reflect.’
But the look on Mirza Husain’s face told Humayun that he had little to hope for from the ruler of Sind.
Chapter 11
Hamida
Four hours after Humayun had led his column out through the gatehouse on which the green Moghul banners no longer fluttered, the fortress palace of Sarkar finally faded from view. As he rode slowly northeastwards, Humayun was locked in his thoughts. Though Mirza Husain’s hospitality had remained ostentatiously lavish, there had been no point staying any longer in Sind. With so few men to back him, Humayun had no power to coerce Mirza Husain to help him and every day that passed had seemed a humiliation to him.
It felt good to be on the move again and at least he had exacted a high price from Mirza Husain for the four cannon he had decided to leave behind in case they slowed his progress. Eager to be rid of his unwanted guest, the sultan had paid handsomely. He had also given Humayun grain and other supplies to feed his men and fresh pack animals to carry them. If all went well, in two months’ time Humayun would be entering the desert kingdom of Marwar whose Rajput ruler, Raja Maldeo, seemed more ready to assist him than his cousin. The raja’s ambassador, a tall, thin man in brightly coloured robes with his long hair bound in the Rajput fashion, had reached Sarkar two weeks before. He had spoken eloquently to Humayun of Raja Maldeo’s contempt for Sher Shah and his enmity towards him.
‘The interloper Sher Shah has demanded the raja’s allegiance in his fight against the Moghuls. He has insulted my master’s honour by daring to threaten the kingdom of Marwar if he refuses to join him. But my master will never unite with a mongrel dog from the marshes of Bengal. Instead, he extends his hand to you, Majesty. He invites you to Marwar as his honoured guest so that you and he may discuss how to combine against the interloper. With your approval he will also summon other Rajput rulers who, like him, have been affronted by Sher Shah’s impudence.’
The screeching of a flock of green parakeets flying low overhead recalled Humayun to the present. He glanced at Hindal, riding by his side on the long-necked, powerfully built chestnut stallion he had purchased from an Arab horse-dealer in Sind.
‘In another ten miles we’ll make camp for the night,’ Humayun said.
‘We should. The women will be tired . . . ’
‘I’ll order some sheep to be killed and roasted. Tonight you and I and the women of our households will feast in my tent together with our chief commanders and courtiers. And I will have tables set up outside for our soldiers. It will raise the spirits of us all . . . ’
‘Do you really think the Raja of Marwar will help us?’
‘Why not? I often heard our father speak of Rajput pride. If Maldeo truly believes Sher Shah has insulted him, he’ll not rest until he has avenged the slight and what better way than to ride at our side with his Rajput warriors to destroy Sher Shah? Of course the raja will expect favours in return but the courage of the Rajputs is legendary. Maldeo will be a worthy ally and when I sit on my throne in Agra once more I will reward him.’
‘You still have faith in our dynasty and its destiny, after all that has happened . . . ?’
‘Yes. Even in my bleakest moments when I think of all the blood that has been shed and of Kamran’s and Askari’s treachery, I don’t doubt it. I believe that fate summoned the Moghuls to Hindustan. Don’t you feel it too?’
Hindal, though, said nothing.
‘Our father endured many setbacks and he never gave up,’ Humayun persisted. ‘If you doubt me, read his diaries or talk to our aunt. Khanzada is growing old but our father’s passion, the passion of our ancestors, lives on undimmed in her. She was the one who tore me from my opium dreams and made me see that a sense of greatness isn’t enough – that we must be prepared to fight and struggle and sweat blood for what is ours.’
‘Ours?’
‘Of course. Though our father named me emperor, we are all Babur’s sons, all part of the Moghul destiny – you, me and even Kamran and Askari. We bear the same responsibilities. Our dynasty is young, the roots barely finding a purchase in this alien soil, but we can – we will – be great so long as we do not lose our self-belief or tear our dynasty apart by fighting one another.’
‘Perhaps you are right. Sometimes, though, it all seems such a burden that I wish I were back in Kabul, that our father had never heard of Hindustan . . . ’ The expression in Hindal’s tawny eyes was unconvinced and his tall, thick-set body seemed to slump despondently in the saddle.
Humayun reached o
ut and touched his brother’s muscular shoulder. ‘I understand,’ he said quietly, ‘but it was not our choice to be born who we are.’
Three hours later, the camp fires were being lit in the lee of a low, stony hill that Ahmed Khan – riding ahead with his scouts – had found. Humayun’s large scarlet tent was pitched in the centre with Hindal’s next to it. Fifty yards away were tents for Khanzada and Gulbadan and their attendants and for the small group of women in Hindal’s entourage, all enclosed by baggage wagons drawn up around them in a protective circle with their traces knotted.
Men squatted on the ground, slapping a mixture of flour and water into flat loaves to bake on hot clay tiles in the fire. Soon the aroma of lamb was mingling with the smell of wood smoke as the cooks’ boys slowly rotated the sharpened stakes on which chunks of new-slain sheep, salted and rubbed with herbs, had been spitted. The fires hissed as the fat ran into the leaping flames. Humayun’s stomach growled as, inside his tent, he drew off his gauntlets and Jauhar unclipped his sword belt.
‘Jauhar, this is the first feast I’ve held since we left Lahore. Though it will be poor compared with the celebrations I once held in my palaces, we must put on a good display. All must eat and drink their fill . . . For those eating in my tent, have the silver and gold dishes unpacked . . . and I wish you to play your flute for us. It is a long time since I have heard you.’
Later that night, dressed in a dark green tunic over buckskin trousers and jewelled dagger tucked into his yellow sash, Humayun looked around him with satisfaction. To his left, Hindal and the senior officers were sitting in a semicircle on the ground, laughing and talking. Zahid Beg was gnawing on a lamb bone. Despite his leanness, he could easily out-eat any of Humayun’s other commanders and took pride in his gigantic appetite. Humayun smiled to see him discard the bone and hack off a fresh hunk of roasted flesh with his dagger.
Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War Page 18
