Brothers at War eotm-2

by Alex Rutherford

  So many horses had been killed or scattered that most of the men were on foot, Humayun amongst them. Much of their equipment including many muskets had also been destroyed or buried. Even if it hadn’t, without carts and with only a few pack animals left — ten mules and six camels — they would have had to abandon most of it anyway. As it was, they’d loaded what they could on to the few beasts they had. Humayun’s one remaining treasure chest had survived intact but had now been emptied and the contents transferred into saddlebags. The Koh-i-Nur was still safely in its pouch around his neck.

  Humayun was trudging by the side of a moth-eaten camel that spat balls of malodorous phlegm into the sand and groaned as it made its splay-footed way. Hardly a suitable conveyance for his empress, Humayun thought, glancing up at Hamida who was riding in a pannier suspended against one of the camel’s bony sides, balanced by Gulbadan in another pannier on the other side. Hamida’s eyes were closed and she seemed to be dozing. With luck they should reach Umarkot by nightfall, Humayun thought, then he could find Hamida somewhere better to rest.

  But Umarkot must have been farther away than he’d reckoned. Distance could be deceptive in the desert. When the western skies turned blood-red as the disc of the sun slipped below the horizon, the low outline of the oasis still looked to be several miles off. With night falling, it might be unwise to go on. Humayun shouted the command for the column to halt and was looking around for Anil to ask his advice when suddenly he heard Hamida give a sharp cry, then another.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The baby. . I think it’s coming.’

  Tapping the camel on its legs so that it collapsed grunting on to its knees, Humayun lifted Hamida out of the pannier and carried her over to a clump of low, spiny-leaved bushes where he gently laid her down. By now Gulbadan had climbed out of her pannier and was squatting down on the other side of Hamida, stroking her hot face and smoothing back her hair.

  ‘Stay with her, Gulbadan. I will send Zainab and the other women to you. I must try to get help from Umarkot.’

  As he ran towards where his men had halted, Humayun’s heart was pounding. Never had he known fear quite like this — not even during the worst, most bloody battle. The baby should not be coming now. Hamida had been certain there was at least another month to go. . what if something went wrong, if she should die out here in this hostile wilderness which had already claimed Khanzada?

  ‘Jauhar,’ he shouted as soon as he was within earshot. ‘The empress is in labour. Take the best of the horses we have left and ride for Umarkot as hard as you can. Tell the people there who I am and that I ask for shelter for my wife. Under the customs of hospitality they cannot refuse. Even if the people fear me and my soldiers they will surely help Hamida — there will be hakims and midwives there. Hurry!’

  Jauhar rode off into the gathering gloom on a small roan mare which still had a little life in its wasted legs. Hurrying back to Hamida, Humayun found her surrounded by a small huddle of women who parted as he approached. She was lying on her back, eyes closed and breathing heavily. Her face was slippery with sweat.

  ‘Her waters have broken, Majesty,’ said Zainab. ‘I know — I watched my sisters give birth many times. And her pains are becoming more frequent. . it won’t be long. . ’ As if to bear out Zainab’s words, Hamida moaned and tears welled from beneath her eyelids, mingling with the sweat that was pouring off her now. As another spasm racked her, she arched her back then drew her knees up and rolled over on to her side.

  Humayun could hardly bear to watch. As the hours passed and Hamida’s groans grew louder and more frequent, he paced helplessly about, returning to Hamida’s side every few minutes or so only to go off again. The sounds of the night — the occasional rasping shriek of a peacock, the bark of a jackal — increased his sense of powerlessness. Where was Jauhar? Perhaps he should have gone himself — or sent Timur’s ring with Jauhar as proof of who he was. .

  Another half-smothered cry from Hamida made him wince as if he was feeling the pain as well. That she should be giving birth in this desperate, desolate place beneath a bush. .

  ‘Majesty.’ Humayun had been so lost in his private agony that he had not seen or heard Jauhar approaching out of the darkness at the head of a small group of riders who were leading some spare horses, between two of which was suspended a litter.

  ‘Majesty,’ Jauhar said again.‘The ruler of Umarkot welcomes you. He has sent a hakim and a midwife and soldiers to bring you, the empress and your personal entourage to his dwelling.’

  Humayun bowed his head in relief.

  Pale moonlight silvered the crude mud walls of Umarkot as Humayun and his small party, including half a dozen of his bodyguards, rode in, leaving the rest of the column to make its way under Zahid Beg. The midwife had already given Hamida a potion of herbs which seemed to have eased her pains.

  In the torchlight it was hard for Humayun to take in his surroundings and his eyes were anyway on Hamida as the soldiers gently detached her litter from the horses and bore it through the doorway of a large building lit on either side by torches burning in sconces. He followed the litter down a corridor at the end of which he saw a pair of carved wooden doors with attendants stationed by them. As the party drew near, the attendants swung the doors open. Hamida, with the hakim and the midwife close behind, was carried in. Humayun was about to follow when a man he hadn’t noticed in long dark green robes stepped forward and bowed.

  ‘Majesty, I am the Rana of Umarkot’s vizier, whom he has sent to welcome you. This is the way to the women’s apartments.The only man apart from the rana who is allowed to enter is the hakim. But you will have apartments close by and news will be brought to you at once.’

  What could he could do but agree, Humayun thought, and nodded. The hours passed very slowly that night, or so it seemed to him. Just as dawn was breaking — he had been watching the slow lightening to the east through the casement — he must have drifted into a light sleep. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he immediately leaped up, feeling instinctively for his dagger, then saw that it was full daylight and that it was Gulbadan who had roused him. She was smiling in a way he had not seen for many days.

  ‘Humayun, you have a son, lusty and sturdy and already bawling his head off. The midwife will bring him to you in a few minutes, as soon as she has cleaned him.’

  ‘And Hamida?’

  ‘The labour was very hard for her. She needed all the midwife’s skill. But she is well and is sleeping now.’

  For a moment Humayun bowed his head, as joy and relief flooded through him in equal measure. Then from his pocket he drew a pod of precious musk that he had been saving for this moment and handed it to Gulbadan. ‘Take it to the birth chamber. Break it open in celebration and let the fragrance fill the room — let it be one of the first things my son smells on this earth. Tell Hamida that though it is all I can give her just now it carries not only my love but the scent of our family’s greatness to come.’

  Chapter 14

  Akbar

  ‘I name you Akbar — it means “great” and great you will Ibe.’ As he spoke Humayun picked up a cream-coloured jade dish — a gift from the Rana of Umarkot — and gently showered Akbar’s head with the contents, shahrukhys — tiny golden coins — to symbolise his future prosperity. Akbar, lying naked on a velvet cushion in Kasim’s arms, flailed his arms and legs in surprise but did not cry. Taking him gently from the cushion, Humayun lifted him high so that all his assembled commanders could see him and cried out, ‘I present to you my son, seventh in descent from the great Timur. Be as loyal to him as you have been to me.’ Clashing their swords on their shields, Humayun’s men roared the traditional greeting to a new prince of the blood of Timur, ‘Mirza Akbar! Mirza Akbar!’ until Humayun raised his arms for calm.

  Now it was time for Hamida’s part in the ceremony. Propped on a divan she still looked exhausted — skin pale as ivory and deep shadows under her dark, luminous eyes. Though Humayun had suggested waiting until she felt str
onger, she had said no. ‘Your men have been through so much for you. You owe it to them to show them your heir as soon as possible. It will bind them to you even more strongly.’ Carrying the squirming Akbar over to her, Humayun placed him in her arms. Simulating putting the child to her breast, she recited the words that had come down to the Moghuls from before even Timur, from the days of the Oceanic Ruler himself, Genghis Khan: ‘Drink, my son. Put your honeyed lips to my benign breasts and sweeten your mouth with the life-giving fluid.’

  Discovering that he was not, after all, about to be fed, Akbar began to yell.As Hamida tried to quiet him, Humayun addressed his men once more. ‘With my astrologer Sharaf, I have cast my son’s horoscope. The date of his birth — 15 October 1542, with the moon in Leo — could not be more auspicious. A child so born will be fortunate and long-lived. We have suffered hardship and reverses. There are perhaps more dark times to come before we can reclaim what is ours but a glorious future beckons to Akbar and to us. Tonight we will feast and celebrate the victories to come.’ Again his men clashed their weapons. This time their chant was ‘Mirza Humayun’ but he turned away, heart too full for any more words.

  Later, when they were alone again, Humayun watched Hamida pull down the neck of her robe and give Akbar her breast, looking tenderly down on his head with its soft fuzz of black hair as he sucked vigorously. The knowledge that he had a son filled him with unspeakable pride. In the days before Hamida, none of his concubines had, as far as he knew, borne him a child. Now, at thirty-four years old, he realised how much a son would satisfy his craving for some deeper purpose to his life.

  ‘Hamida. . ’ He paused, searching for words to express his feelings. ‘For the first time I feel I truly understand the depth of a father’s love. . how far it exceeds even that of a child for its parent. I have tried to be true to my own father’s love and trust in bestowing my inheritance on me but now, as a father myself, I promise you I will recapture and enlarge my empire so that I leave a worthy legacy to our son.’

  Hamida nodded but said nothing. But there was something he had to talk to her about — something important for Akbar’s future. He must tell her that soon another woman would feed her son. They must appoint a wet-nurse. It was the most important position that could be given to a woman at the Moghul court. She became his ‘milk-mother’, establishing a bond that would endure her whole life through. Any son of her own automatically became the prince’s kukaldash, his ‘milk-brother’, bound to protect him and in turn to receive favour. Her husband, too, enjoyed great status. Senior courtiers and commanders coveted the position for their wives as keenly as any political or military rank for themselves. If handled badly, the choice would provoke jealousy and envy.

  ‘Hamida, there is something we must decide. In these difficult times, I have few ways to reward my commanders but I do have one thing to give. As is the Timurid way, we must choose a wet-nurse for Akbar, a woman who is worthy and whom we can trust but also a woman whose husband deserves my favour and will consider himself honoured by our choice.’

  Hamida raised her head and looked at him. She had not been brought up as a member of the royal house, of course. She could not know all the old royal customs. Though noblewomen often employed nurses to suckle their children, they were only servants who could easily be dispensed with and had no lasting role in the child’s life. He was asking something very different of Hamida — to share her child with another woman.

  For a while she was silent, then she spoke. ‘Don’t look so anxious. I’ve known about the custom for a long time — Khanzada told me. I think she wanted to help prepare me, not just for becoming a mother but for being the mother of a future emperor. At first I was upset. But since Khanzada’s death, I’ve reflected on her words — that by choosing the right wet-nurse I would not be giving up my child but helping to protect him. Though it still makes me sad, I can see that she was right. . Let us be practical. Whom should we choose? There are so few women with us now, even fewer with babies.’

  ‘Zahid Beg’s wife is too old to have milk in her breasts or I would have chosen her in recognition of his loyalty and bravery. But there is another commander I would like to reward — Nadim Khwaja, a chieftain from near Kandahar whose wife is with him. Shortly after we fled from Marwar she bore him a son.’

  ‘I know her, of course. A tall, handsome woman called Maham Anga. Her son’s name is Adham Khan.’

  ‘You would accept Maham Anga? If there is another you would prefer. . ’

  ‘I am content. Maham Anga is strong and healthy, as well as honest and full of good common sense. Her son is a sturdy vigorous baby. She is the one I would have chosen.’ Gently detaching Akbar from one breast, Hamida moved him across to the other. How beautiful she looked, Humayun thought, despite all the recent hardships and the ordeal of childbirth. And though still so young, nearly twenty years his junior, how strong. It must be hard for her to think of Akbar in another woman’s arms yet she hid her pain as courageously as a warrior concealed his fear. He had chosen her out of love but even here in this remote, mud-walled oasis, far from home and safety, she had the bearing of an empress. Approaching the divan, he bent and kissed Hamida’s lips and then the downy crown of his son’s head.

  ‘What came of your meeting with the rana? Do you believe we are safe here?’ Hamida asked.

  ‘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 c
ommander 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. . ’