Once they reached the elephants, Humayun climbed up a small, gilded ladder on to the back of the larger of the two. He was followed by Jauhar and one of the tall green-clad bodyguards, who took their places behind him. The jewels – mostly garnets and amethysts – which encrusted the howdah shone in the sunlight as the first elephant rose to its feet, followed by the second only slightly smaller one which held Akbar, Adham Khan and another bodyguard. Akbar was chatting to his milk-brother as if they were merely going hunting.
Together, the stately elephants plodded slowly over towards a line of their companions. Humayun could see Bairam Khan in one of their howdahs, accoutred in Persian court fashion. Beside him was his qorchi who had recovered from his thigh wound, although it had required painful cauterising and he would never walk without a limp again. Zahid Beg was to ride on the elephant immediately following Bairam Khan and Ahmed Khan would ride on the leading elephant on Humayun’s orders. ‘You have deserved this honour – you always led the way when there was no prestige but much danger,’ he had told him.
Mustapha Ergun and his men would be among the leading squadrons of cavalry which would precede the elephants. For a moment Humayun reflected on some of the other humbler people who had played a part in his story. He would have liked one-armed Wazim Pathan and even Nizam the water-carrier to be present but Wazim Pathan had preferred to stay in his village as headman after Kamran’s defeat and there had been no time to search for Nizam. Then, pulling himself back to the present, Humayun spoke. ‘Let’s get going.’
The order was relayed down the line of elephants through the ranks of cavalry to the riders at the very front of the procession who carried the great fluttering banners of Humayun and the Moghul dynasty as well as that of Timur. As they got underway towards the tall sandstone gateway half a mile ahead of them, the phalanxes of drummers and trumpeters immediately behind the banner bearers began to play, quietly at first and then with increasing vigour as they approached the thronging crowds whom ranks of soldiers had kept back from the camp but who now lined the ceremonial pathway to the gate, which they had strewn with palm branches and even flower petals.
As Humayun’s elephant moved forward, he watched the sunlight glinting off the breastplates and harnesses of the cavalry ahead and the gilded howdah in front of him and listened to the sound of the music and the jangling of harnesses and neighing of animals being all but drowned out by the cheering of the crowds. Then, heart bursting with emotion, he looked upwards into the hot, blue sky and saw – or thought he saw – in the shimmering glare two circling eagles, harbingers of Moghul greatness. Hindustan was his. He had recovered the Moghul throne. From now on their dynasty would only go from strength to strength. He – and Akbar – would ensure it was so.
Chapter 27
The Stars Smile Down
Humayun was sitting in his private chambers in the Purana Qila, the red sandstone fortress that early in his reign he had begun building on Delhi’s eastern edge but Sher Shah and his son Islam Shah had completed. The fortress’s thick, well-buttressed walls, pierced by three gatehouses, snaked for over a mile and it made a fine imperial headquarters. Piled on a table before Humayun were the official imperial ledgers recording the administration of the empire under Sher Shah and his son that Jauhar – whom he had made Comptroller of the Household in thanks for his years of selfless service – had just brought him.
Now that the lush ceremonial and festivities of his entry into Delhi had come to an end, Humayun knew he must discipline himself to learn in earnest about how his empire worked and not simply relax and enjoy once more the indulgences his newly regained territories could offer. As he had told his counsellors, ‘Our job is still only half done. Recapturing Hindustan was perhaps the easiest part.We must ensure we keep it and then expand our rule.’ He had already questioned those of Sher Shah’s and Islam Shah’s officials who had remained in Delhi and despatched trusted commanders to inspect and rule the various provinces, among them Ahmed Khan to Agra.
Frowning slightly, he began to read. Despite himself, what the usurpers had achieved impressed him.The ledgers revealed that Sher Shah had been as tough, cunning and effective an organiser as he had been a cold-blooded and calculating warrior. He had reorganised the system of provincial government to prevent any individual governor from becoming too powerful. He had restructured the collection of revenue. Of course, during the recent wars, tax-gathering had been at best spasmodic and chaotic, but Humayun’s own officials had already reported that the foundations of Sher Shah’s system were still in place and robust enough to be revived. And that was all to Humayun’s advantage. What was it his father had written in his diary? . . . at least this place has plenty of money. Controlling the wealth of Hindustan would, Humayun knew, be key to retaining and extending his power.
Sher Shah had improved roads, rebuilt the old mud-walled caravanserais along them and constructed new ones so travellers could find shelter every five miles. But the main purpose of the caravanserais was to act as post houses – dak chauki – for the messengers and horses that speeded the imperial mail along the new highways and made it possible to know quickly what was happening in the most distant regions of the empire.
To prevent rebellion, Sher Shah had built new forts to control the provinces and stamped hard on lawlessness of any kind. Humayun reread a passage that had particularly caught his eye: In his infinite wisdom and unbounded goodness, His Imperial Majesty Sher Shah has decreed that every headman shall protect his village lest any vile thief or murderer should attack a traveller and thus become the instrument of his injury or death. When Sher Shah had said the headman must be responsible he had meant it. If the perpetrator of a crime was not apprehended, the headman himself had been forced to suffer the punishment.
Putting down the heavy, leather-bound ledger on the inlaid marble table beside him, Humayun smiled to recollect his own early days on the throne. How bored he would have been even thinking of some of the things that had preoccupied Sher Shah. What was heroic about collecting taxes or reorganising provinces or building roads? But now he could see that such things were essential to maintaining power. Had he focused more on them and less on seeking the answers to good government in the stars and in opium, he might not have lost Hindustan.
What mattered now was not to overturn what Sher Shah and Islam Shah had done but to retain the best elements so he could strengthen his own authority over Hindustan . . . But there was one change he would make. Though Delhi had been Sher Shah’s capital and the Purana Qila was a palace-fortress fit for an emperor, he yearned to be in Agra once more, the city Babur had made his capital. As soon as he could, he would move his court there. Hamida had never seen Agra, and together they would create a place of such beauty that his court poets would require all their skill to capture it in words. But for the time being Delhi was better placed strategically for the tour of all the provinces of his empire he was planning in the next few months to remind the ordinary people of Hindustan, buffeted as they’d been by the winds of war, who their true emperor was – and that he was powerful . . .
‘Majesty, Empress Hamida’s caravan is just five miles from the city.’ An attendant interrupted Humayun’s thoughts and his heart leaped. He knew his wife had been making good progress, but that she was here so soon was a great surprise. He stood, overcome with joy and longing for her. The administration of the empire could wait.‘Bring me my imperial robes. I must look my best for my wife. Even then she will outshine me by far.’
Humayun watched the slow approach of Hamida’s procession from the top of the western gate of the Purana Qila. It was the most magnificent of the entrances, with its tall pointed arch inset with white marble stars and two round flanking towers, and it was through this gate that Hamida, Moghul Empress of Hindustan, was making her entrance. The elephant carrying her was clad in plates of beaten gold and even its tusks were gilded. As it passed beneath the western gate, the trumpeters in the gatehouse sounded their instruments and attendants threw fist
fuls of rose petals and tiny twists of gold leaf from the roof. Humayun hurried down to an inner courtyard where a vast green velvet tent had been erected, with awnings fringed with green ribbons and the entrance curtains tied back with tasselled golden cords. Within the tent Humayun could see the block of pure white marble placed ready for Hamida to dismount in privacy.
Hamida’s elephant was coming into the courtyard now and the mahout, seated on the beast’s neck, carefully guided it towards the great tent and on through the opening. Then, tapping his metal staff gently against first the right and then the left shoulder of the elephant, he caused it to kneel by the marble block. As soon as the animal had lowered itself, the mahout slid down and stood respectfully to one side. Humayun approached the howdah and, stepping on to the block, gently pulled aside the shimmering gold mesh.
As she smiled back at him, Hamida seemed more beautiful than ever in gold-embroidered robes, her long, black, sandalwood-scented hair spilling over her shoulders and, rising and falling on her breast, the necklace of rubies and emeralds that had been his wedding gift to her and they had preserved through so many misfortunes.
‘Leave us,’ Humayun ordered the mahouts. As soon as they were alone, he lifted Hamida from the howdah and held her against him. ‘My queen,’ he whispered, ‘my empress . . . ’
That night they made love in the apartments he had had prepared for Hamida overlooking the Jumna river. They had once formed a part of Islam Shah’s haram and the carved alcoves, set with tiny pieces of mirror glass, sparkled like diamonds in the candlelight. Frankincense glowed in slender-legged golden burners at each corner of the room and scented water bubbled from a marble fountain carved to resemble the petals of a rosebud.
Hamida was naked except for her necklace and Humayun stroked the satin skin of her hip. ‘At last I can give you what I promised you. During our flight across the Rajasthan desert sometimes at night when I couldn’t sleep I’d watch the stars, wondering what messages they held and finding some comfort there. But you were my greatest solace – so brave, so resolute, so patient, even when all we had to eat was mule flesh boiled in a soldier’s helmet over a dung fire . . . ’
Hamida smiled.‘I still remember how shocked I was when my father told me you wanted to marry me . . . I’d only seen you from far off . . . you seemed like a god . . . On our wedding night I was still nervous, but when you came to me I saw your love for me burning so bright that I knew you would become a part of me . . . you have . . . you are my life . . . ’
‘And you are mine . . . but let me prove to you once again that I am indeed a man, not a god.’ As Humayun pulled Hamida to him, he saw the answering gleam in her brown eyes.
‘Majesty, a post-rider has arrived with a message from Bairam Khan.’
‘Bring him to me immediately.’ Humayun paced his apartments as he waited. At last . . . but what news did the man bring? It was nearly three months since Bairam Khan had ridden out at the head of twenty thousand troops to deal with a sudden and serious threat to Humayun’s supremacy. Though in the aftermath of the battle at Sirhind Sekunder Shah had fled into the foothills of the Himalayas, he had reappeared on the plains of the Punjab where he had been seeking to rally support. Bairam Khan’s early reports had been encouraging, suggesting that he might soon be upon Sekunder Shah and his forces, but then Sekunder Shah had retreated back into the mountains. Bairam Khan’s last despatch, received nearly a month ago, reported his plan to pursue him there. Since then there had been silence.
Humayun’s greatest fears, as day followed day, had been for Akbar. His son had begged to be allowed to accompany Bairam Khan and Humayun had reluctantly agreed, ordering that Akbar be kept back from the fighting and placing him in the special care of Nadim Khwaja, father of Akbar’s milk-brother Adham Khan who was also to go. Though it had filled him with pride, it had been hard to watch his only son ride off cheerfully to war. It had been even more difficult for Hamida and though they had resolutely avoided discussing it he knew how many restless nights she had endured. But now, with luck, the waiting would soon be over.
As he was ushered into Humayun’s presence, the post-rider’s dusty clothes and stiff-legged gait spoke of many hours in the saddle. Bowing before Humayun, he reached into his leather satchel and extracted a folded letter. ‘My orders were to hand this to no one but you, Majesty.’ Humayun took the letter eagerly but then felt a sudden reluctance to know its contents. But that was foolish thinking. Slowly he unfolded the letter and saw the lines of Persian written in Bairam Khan’s neat, elegant hand.
Rejoice, Majesty. Your armies have defeated the traitor Sekunder Shah who has fled like a coward eastward to Bengal, leaving his men to their fate. We have taken five thousand prisoners and great booty. Within a month, God willing, I hope to lead your troops back into Delhi and have the joy of reporting in detail the story of our campaign. Your son is in good health and begs to send his respects to you and Her Imperial Majesty.
For a moment Humayun bowed his head in silent joy. Then he shouted to his attendants, ‘Order the drums to be beaten above the gates of the fortress and on the city walls. We have won a great victory and the world must know.’
Just as the sky was pinkening in the west, Humayun heard the strident blast of trumpets that announced that Bairam Khan was riding in through the western gate. Moments later, one of Humayun’s personal attendants came to help him dress in a coat of dark green brocade with emerald fastenings.
‘You have the gift I wish to present to Bairam Khan?’
‘Yes, Majesty.’
‘Then let us proceed.’ Followed by six bodyguards, Humayun made his way to the audience chamber and entered through the arched door to the right of his gilded throne. His courtiers, commanders and officials – Jauhar among them – were already grouped in a semicircle facing the throne. Their robes and tunics of every hue from saffron yellow and red to purple and blue were as brilliant as the rich carpet from Tabriz on which they were standing. Jewels sparkled in their turbans, around their necks and on their fingers. At the sight of Humayun, all bowed low.
His impulse was to stride right past them and on through the open double doors of polished mulberry into the antechamber beyond, where he could see Bairam Khan and Akbar waiting. But he had summoned his courtiers to witness the homecoming of a victorious general and must give them a dignified spectacle. Seating himself on his throne, Humayun raised his hand. ‘Let Bairam Khan approach.’ He watched as his commander entered the chamber and made his way slowly towards the throne, then halted and bowed.
‘Bairam Khan, you are welcome,’ said Humayun, then gestured to his attendant who stepped forward with a bag of turquoise velvet. Loosening the cord of twisted silver thread at its neck, Humayun tipped the contents into his left hand and extended it towards Bairam Khan. Those closest to the throne gasped as they saw the dark red glitter of rubies.
‘Bairam Khan, you are a soldier to whom such fripperies as this gift of gems mean little. But I have something else to give. You will become my khan-i-khanan, commander-in-chief of the imperial Moghul armies.’
‘Majesty.’ Bairam Khan bowed low once more, but not before Humayun had seen his dark blue eyes flash with surprise. It was a good way to reward the general who had left his Persian homeland for him and served with such distinction. Zahid Beg might also have expected the honour and had certainly deserved it, but he had recently asked leave to return to his ancestral lands near Kabul. He was growing old and stiff, he had told Humayun. His days as a warrior were nearly done, but if ever Humayun had need of him he would come.
Humayun looked over Bairam Khan’s head to address his courtiers. ‘On the night of the next full moon, we will illuminate the Purana Qila with so many lamps and candles that its radiance will rival the moon itself and we will feast to celebrate this victory.’ Humayun turned again to his attendant. ‘Now summon my beloved son before me.’
As Akbar entered Humayun saw with love and pride how much he had altered in the months he had been away. He
looked even taller and his broad, muscular shoulders strained against the green cloth of his tunic. He was also, Humayun noted, looking more than a little pleased with himself. But as his son drew nearer and touched his right hand to his breast in salute, he saw it was bandaged. Before Humayun could ask the cause, Bairam Khan, who had seen the direction of his glance, spoke.
‘Majesty, as you instructed I ensured that during major actions the prince was well protected by bodyguards. But late one afternoon, not many days after we had crushed Sekunder Shah, my scouts reported that they had spotted a band of his men in the foothills. I decided to lead a party of a thousand cavalry, together with a few small baggage wagons carrying weapons and supplies, in pursuit and to take Akbar with me to gain experience of such operations. I thought there would be little danger. But as we were riding up a narrow ravine, there was a sudden rockslide and amid the shower of pebbles and scree several heavy boulders came crashing down, killing three of my men and blocking the way.
‘Most of the column had already passed beyond that point but the last hundred or so riders and our few wagons were now cut off from the main party. With darkness falling and the risk of further rockslides, I shouted to those who had been separated from us to retreat back the way they’d come. I then moved the rest of the column quickly out of the ravine and returned with some of our strongest men to attempt to clear the debris. But it quickly became obvious we could not complete the task until the light returned . . . My greatest anxiety was for the prince who with his milk-brother was among those we could not reach, but . . . ’ here Bairam Khan paused, ‘I should let him tell his own story . . . ’
Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War Page 44
