Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘I think so. Though the rana is himself a Rajput, there seems no love lost between him and Maldeo. Last year, Maldeo’s men raided caravans from Umarkot as they crossed the Rajasthani desert. As the merchants were formally under the rana’s protection he took it as a great insult. Of course, Maldeo is far too powerful for the rana to think of revenge, but he has no wish for any dealings with him. He will not betray us to Maldeo, I am certain of it, though we cannot linger here too long. Inaccessible though Umarkot is, we will eventually be pursued here. As soon as we can – as soon as you are strong enough – we will leave.’

  ‘But where to?’

  ‘The only direction it makes sense to go is northwest to Kabul. Until I have retaken it and punished Kamran and Askari for their treachery I have no chance of dislodging Sher Shah from Hindustan . . . ’ Humayun hesitated. ‘It will be a hard, dangerous journey. Should I find some safe place to leave you and Akbar until it is safe for you to join me . . . ?’

  ‘No. You already know I can endure harsh conditions as long as we are together. I told you I’d learned much from Khanzada. She would never have agreed to be left behind and neither will I . . . ’

  The walls of dusty Umarkot faded into the pale apricot haze as Humayun led his men once more out into the desert a week later. Their destination was the fortress of Bhakkar, an outpost belonging to his cousin Mirza Husain, the ruler of Sind, two hundred miles away on the northern borders of Sind on the banks of the Indus. Since the two of them had parted on ostensibly cordial terms Humayun hoped to find temporary shelter there. And at Bhakkar, remote though it was, he might also finally learn what had been happening in the outside world.

  Knowing that each mile was taking them further from the risk of being overtaken, Humayun pushed the pace. Every morning the column set out as the first rays of the sun seeped over the horizon and, apart from a brief break at midday to rest the animals and to eat a simple meal of bread, dried meat and a few raisins, did not halt until dusk. Within just two weeks, they were entering a land of villages and fields so startlingly fresh and green after their long desert journey that it was obvious the Indus could not be far. Soon Bhakkar’s sturdy sandstone walls rose before them while westward, across the Indus, Humayun saw distant purple shadows – the mountains of Baluchistan. They were so like the mountains of Kabul, he felt his heart contract.

  ‘Jauhar, ride to Bhakkar.Ask entry in the name of Humayun, Moghul Emperor of Hindustan and blood-kin of Mirza Husain of Sind.’

  An hour later Humayun led his column into the fortress where the officer in command was waiting to receive him. ‘Greetings, Majesty, on behalf of my master you are welcome. My name is Sayyid Ali.’ As the commander touched his hand to his breast, Humayun saw that he was quite elderly with thin grey hair and a white scar on his left temple.

  That night, Humayun sat with Kasim and Zahid Beg by Sayyid Ali’s side around a brazier of smouldering applewood whose warmth was just enough to take the chill off the air rising from the river. ‘I have had little news since a messenger brought word that Kabul had fallen to my half-brothers, Kamran and Askari. Can you tell me any more?’

  Sayyid Ali cast him what seemed a slightly puzzled look. ‘Indeed, Majesty, there is much more that you should know, even if the knowledge will displease you. Travellers from Kandahar who passed by on their way downriver told us that your half-brother Hindal had seized their city.’

  Humayun stood up so abruptly that the wooden stool he’d been sitting on tipped over, falling against the brazier. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘I heard that it fell to him without a struggle. The governor believed he was still your ally and admitted him and his forces.’

  So that was what Hindal had been doing. Not heading for Kabul and an alliance with Kamran and Askari as Humayun had suspected but veering westward to set up his own kingdom in Kandahar. Humayun stared into the glowing embers of the fire as he remembered the last time he’d seen Hindal, blood-spattered and spitting defiance because Humayun wanted Hamida and would not be denied.

  ‘So Hindal rules in Kandahar . . . ’ he said at last.

  ‘No, Majesty.’

  ‘But you said . . . ’

  ‘Something else happened, Majesty. Learning that Hindal was in Kandahar, your half-brother Kamran ordered him to acknowledge him as his overlord and to hold Kandahar only as his governor. When he refused, Kamran and Askari rode there with a large army, captured the city and took Hindal prisoner. No one knows what happened to him . . . ’

  Humayun’s heart was beating very fast. Kamran and Askari were so much nearer than he’d believed . . . Kandahar was no more than three hundred miles away, far closer than Kabul. Perhaps fate had guided him to Bhakkar. Though he had so few men – barely two hundred – they were from the Moghul clans, his most trusted warriors – his ichkis. And more would join him if they thought there might be booty.The mountain tribesmen of Baluchistan had a well-deserved reputation for selling their swords for gold. If he was quick he could move on Kandahar, take it and capture his brothers before they had any warning.Yet there was something else he must know before he could contemplate such a move.

  ‘What of Sher Shah, Sayyid Ali? Where is he?’

  ‘In Bengal, where there has been a revolt against him. But more than that I do not know . . . except that they say his rule over Hindustan is like iron – hard and unbending.’

  Excellent, thought Humayun. With Sher Shah far away and preoccupied, he need fear no pursuit by him.

  ‘I am grateful to you, Sayyid Ali, for your hospitality but even more for what you have told me. I wish to take my people across the Indus as soon as possible . . . The currents are swift and treacherous but you will know the safest place for us to cross . . . ’

  Humayun shivered as the cold wind seemed to renew its strength and snowflakes fluttered around him. His head felt frozen solid and he pulled his long sheepskin jacket more tightly around him. Ahead rode the two Baluchi tribesmen Ahmed Khan had hired to guide them, who had just assured him that the party had covered nearly half the journey and were now ascending the snowy Bolan Pass, only a hundred and thirty or so miles from Kandahar. The guides seemed to expect praise but to Humayun progress had grown painfully slow the thicker the ice and snow had become. But at least his goal – the city Babur himself had captured for the Moghuls twenty years before – would soon be in sight.

  Hamida and Gulbadan, wearing fur-lined cloaks with voluminous hoods over their thick woollen robes, were close behind him on ponies. The oxen had been unable to struggle up the narrow, slippery tracks and been killed for food many days ago and their carts chopped up for fuel. Maham Anga – with Akbar and her own son, both well swaddled against the cold – was in a deep pannier hanging on one side of a camel with Zainab in another pannier together with some cooking utensils to balance the weight on the other. The icy path was so treacherous that Humayun had ordered men to walk beside the three animals to lead them. But in these temperatures even the camel seemed subdued, trudging head down, ice crystals forming on the spikes of its thick fur.

  Behind came the bodyguards, then the meagre baggage train – a few camels and mules wheezing beneath their loads – and finally the rest of his men, saddlebags bulging, shields slung across their backs, battleaxes and muskets tied to their saddles. Like his, their faces were half concealed by face cloths and their heads huddled low into their shoulders against the biting, scouring winds. Also like him, tonight they would dine on the flesh of an old mule that had collapsed under its load, which would at least give some variety to their monotonous diet of rice or barley broth and flat-baked bread.

  They looked a motley lot – more like one of his father’s raiding parties than an emperor’s army, reflected Humayun. The spectacle of his small force trudging through this snowy wilderness reminded him sharply how low he had fallen. It was equally sobering that, now he had crossed the Indus to ascend into the mountains of Baluchistan, not one of Babur’s four sons remained in Hindustan. It was as if Babur’s inv
asion had never happened and perhaps, though he’d never acknowledged it before, he – Babur’s favoured and favourite son – must bear some of the blame. He hadn’t understood the extent of the danger posed by the rivalries within his family. In particular, he had underestimated the depths of Kamran’s enmity. Far too late he had begun to understand that Kamran would rather see the Moghuls fail than abandon his own ambitions and allow him, Humayun, to sit on the Moghul throne.

  Humayun’s horse slipped and almost fell, jolting him out of his reverie. He threw his weight back in the saddle, trying to help the animal stay upright, and murmuring encouragement as, snorting in misty spirals, it managed to right itself. He would be glad to get clear of these mountains, he thought, and sank his head deeper into his shoulders as the bitter wind nipped at him. Before long his thoughts returned to his brothers as they so often did during these long days of plodding, this time to Hindal. Now that he had time to reflect, he realised his anger with his youngest half-brother for so guilefully taking Kandahar was less than his concern for his safety at the hands of Kamran and Askari. Though he had reassured an anxious Gulbadan that they would not harm her brother, he was not so sure. Kamran at least might welcome an opportunity to rid himself of a rival.

  A distant howling, eerie and desolate, chilling as the wind which carried it, made Humayun’s horse skitter in fright. Wolves infested these wild, lonely mountains. At night they sometimes came so close to the camp that Humayun had seen their narrow yellow eyes gleaming out of the darkness and in the morning the ground around their tents had been patterned with paw prints.The snow was falling more heavily now and whirling flakes veiled the steep path ahead.

  ‘Ahmed Khan,’ Humayun called over his shoulder.

  ‘Majesty?’

  ‘A blizzard’s coming. We’ll camp here for the night. That overhanging rock shelf over there should provide some shelter.’ Humayun pointed to a great slab of grey rock facing away from the prevailing wind which should keep off the worst of the wind and snow, and there looked to be enough space beneath it for their tents.

  Humayun’s men tethered their horses and began unloading equipment and erecting the tents beneath the overhang.Though it was still day, the light was getting poorer by the minute as the snow began tumbling in earnest. Keeping their backs bowed against the wind and struggling with numbed fingers to strike sparks from their tinder boxes, two of the men managed to get a fire going with some of the brushwood the mules had been carrying. As soon as it had caught, they made a giant torch from cloths dipped in oil and wound round a tall stick, and drove it into the ground outside Humayun’s tent.

  Within they set up a brazier, filled it with some of the precious charcoal brought from Bhakkar and coaxed it alight – not for Humayun and Hamida but for Akbar who would be sharing the tent with them that night. In these wild places Hamida insisted that the baby should sleep close by her. Maham Anga would sleep with her son, as she had on previous nights during the journey, in an adjoining alcove screened by saddle blankets. Inspecting the rest of his camp, Humayun saw that his men had erected fewer tents than usual.They’d be cramming in close, using each other’s body heat to keep warm.

  ‘Majesty,’ came a deep voice. It was Ahmed Khan, cloaked head mantled with snow. ‘Zahid Beg and I will post guards around the perimeter of the camp. Four of your bodyguards will also be on duty outside your tent.’

  Humayun looked around him. Driven by the rising wind, the snow was now whirling so thickly he could barely see his commander’s face. The previous night one of his pickets had suffered frostbite and the hakim feared his blackened toes would need to be amputated. Ahmed Khan himself had been coughing all day from a chill he had caught on a midnight tour of the sentries. ‘Thank you, Ahmed Khan, but I don’t think we need to worry in this wild place. The men are tired and the weather’s bitter. Let them rest tonight. You too – it might help that cough of yours.’

  Despite the gusting winds howling around the camp and buffeting his tent, sleep came easily to Humayun that night, lying with Hamida in his arms, her fur-lined cloak spread on top of the sheepskins that covered them. A brief wail from Akbar penetrated his dreams but only for a moment. Humayun moved closer to Hamida, drawing her warm body in against his as he sank back into slumber. Then, suddenly, he felt cold, sharp steel against his throat. He looked up into a familiar pair of eyes, glinting in the light of a flaring rag torch that another man was holding. It couldn’t be – he was in Kandahar many miles away beyond the icy passes.Yet there was no mistaking those triumphant eyes – green as their father Babur’s had been – above that narrow, hawk-like nose. Kamran!

  Humayun half opened his mouth to shout for help but felt the tip of Kamran’s dagger prick his throat and a trickle of blood run slowly down. In the shadows beyond the bed he could make out other figures, presumably Kamran’s henchmen, watching in silence, weapons drawn.

  ‘One sound and I will cut your throat,’ Kamran said. ‘You know I mean it.’

  Softly as Kamran had spoken, his words woke Hamida, who sleepily pushed her hair back from her face. As she opened her eyes, Humayun gently put a restraining hand on her arm. Taking in what was happening she didn’t scream or cry out but immediately looked to where Akbar lay close by her in his basket.

  ‘You have been lax, brother. I never thought to slip into your camp so easily,’ Kamran said. ‘My men have been observing your progress towards the pass for some days. The blizzard gave me my opportunity. You must have forgotten what our father taught us in the mountains around Kabul – how snow is the raider’s friend, how it deadens sound. Your men never heard a thing. We found them packed tight in their tents like dumb beasts in a byre.’

  ‘What have you done with them and the women?’

  Kamran smiled but did not answer.

  ‘How did you know I was coming this way?’

  ‘I guessed that at some point you would try to come north. I have had all the approaches out of Hindustan watched for months.’

  ‘Where is Askari?’

  ‘In Kabul.’

  ‘And Hindal, what have you done with him?’

  ‘I haven’t killed him, if that’s what you mean. He’s a captive in Jalalabad for his disrespect to me.’

  ‘How can you speak of “disrespect” after how you betrayed me – offering alliance to Sher Shah to fight against your own blood? Sneaking like a thief into Kabul?’

  ‘You are in no position to criticise. This beauty by your side – I heard you stole her from Hindal.’ Kamran leaned closer to Hamida. ‘But I can see she’s worth it. I wouldn’t have let brotherly love, brotherly loyalty, stand in my way either.’

  Humayun felt Hamida tauten and he increased his pressure on her arm. ‘What do you want, Kamran? If you intended to kill me I’d be dead already.’

  ‘True. I don’t share your sentimentality about blood bonds and so-called brotherly love. For me, it’s always been taktya takhta – “throne or coffin”.’

  ‘Then what’s stopping you?’

  ‘The only reason I haven’t drawn my blade across your jugular – tempted as I am – is that it would stir up blood feuds among the clans. But if I am seen to have defeated you and acted with mercy, chiefs once loyal to you will give me their support. You are more useful to me alive and humiliated than dead.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘Your promise to leave Hindustan and our ancestral homelands and go so far away that I can forget you ever existed.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘Persia has a pleasant climate and you’ll find the soft living there to your taste – plenty of opium and plenty of beautiful women.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘I will kill you here and now and face the difficulties with the clans. I will enjoy feeling your warm blood on my hands.’

  ‘I’ve never understood why you hate me. It wasn’t my fault our father chose me.’

  ‘Wasn’t it? It was your fault he seldom gave me a thought. You played the perfect warr
ior, the shining emblem of what he hoped to achieve. I’ve despised your vainglorious conceit ever since we were boys and you assumed I was happy to trail admiringly in your wake. When we became men you assumed you could continue to patronise me . . . But my ambition is as great as yours . . . I want the empire our father forged with his blood and sweat and I deserve it more than any of Babur’s sons. Askari already accepts this and will do what I say. Hindal will learn to, if he’s wise.When I am ready I will take on Sher Shah and drive him out. The khutba will be read in my name in Delhi and Agra and I and my sons – not yours – will sit on the Moghul throne. You had your chance and you failed.’

  ‘Our father knew what you were like, that you were devious, self-serving and my enemy . . . that you were a traitor . . . he tried to warn me.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Kamran’s voice had risen and Akbar began to cry.

  ‘Your son sounds strong and lusty.’ Kamran’s green eyes flicked across to the basket on Hamida’s side of the bed. ‘Let me see my nephew,’ he ordered Hamida.

  She glanced anxiously at Humayun, who nodded. Gathering her robes around her, she slipped from the bed, lifted Akbar from his basket and carried him slowly towards Kamran.

  ‘Watch my brother. If he moves so much as a muscle, kill him,’ Kamran said to his men, three of whom stepped forward from the shadows towards Humayun. Meanwhile, Kamran withdrew his dagger from Humayun’s throat, slid it into its scabbard and moved towards Hamida.

  If only Hamida and Akbar had not been with him, he could have taken Kamran now, Humayun thought, calculating the distance between himself, his brother and his brother’s men. He knew he could leap up and grab Kamran as a shield before one of his men had time to fire an arrow or throw a dagger. But as it was he could do nothing but watch as Kamran pulled back the thick sheepskin in which Akbar was wrapped and inspected the small, bawling face.

  ‘Give him to me.’