Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (24 page)

‘Majesty, my scouts report a small band of riders still some three or four miles off but galloping quickly towards us,’ Ahmed Khan said, reining in his horse.

‘God willing, it’s the messenger I sent to Mirza Husain, returning with an escort. But just in case, halt the column and order the men to take up defensive positions around its perimeter. Post extra guards around the women and the treasure.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

With luck, the arduous six-week trek from Multan, where he had rendezvoused as planned with his gunners and cannon, and then along the Indus would soon be over and he could plan how to regain the initiative against Sher Shah. Humayun strained his eyes towards the western horizon where the great, blood-red sun was sinking rapidly. Soon, he could make out a cloud of dust rising from among the spindly trees and tumbled rocks ahead and then the horsemen themselves – about thirty of them – led by a cavalryman whose steel helmet glinted in the last rays of sunlight. As the horsemen reined in, Humayun saw that the messenger he had despatched with letters to Mirza Husain nearly two weeks ago was indeed among them. The leading rider removed his helmet, dismounted and made obeisance.

‘Greetings, Majesty. Mirza Husain, Sultan of Sind welcomes you to his lands. He awaits you at a camp just ten miles from here. He denied himself the honour of greeting you in person because he wished to assure himself that all was ready for your reception. I – the captain of his bodyguard – and my men will escort you there.’

Dusk had fallen by the time Humayun saw the orange light of camp fires through the dark silhouettes of the trees. The only time he had seen Mirza Husain was many years ago when the sultan had come to Kabul to pay his respects to Babur and he’d no memory of what he looked like. The tall, straight-backed man waiting in the centre of the camp, hand on breast and dressed in magnificent red robes with a tightly wound golden turban on his head, was therefore a stranger to him.

‘Welcome, Majesty. Your arrival honours my kingdom.’

‘Your hospitality is most welcome, cousin. My brother and I thank you.’

Mirza Husain was a good-looking man if a little fleshy, Humayun thought as the ritual exchange of courtesies continued. Before he let himself run to fat he must have been a good fighter. He recalled Babur’s stories of how Mirza Husain had consolidated and enlarged his kingdom, even taking land from his neighbour to the south in Gujarat, Bahadur Shah.While Humayun had been fighting in Gujarat, Mirza Husain had sent messages of support but had offered no troops. Neither had Humayun asked his cousin for any. Confident of victory, he’d had no wish to share Gujarat’s rich booty any more widely than he’d needed to.

‘Everything is ready for your reception, Majesty. Special quarters have been prepared for the women, near your own, and rows of tents erected for your soldiers. Tonight you must rest. I have ordered food to be brought to you. Three days from now, when we reach my palace at Sarkar, we can talk of former times.’

And of future ones, Humayun thought to himself. He needed Mirza Husain’s help if he could be persuaded to give it. But of course the courtesies must be observed . . .

That evening, lying back on a brocade-covered bed in his own tent, Humayun felt himself begin to relax for the first time since leaving Lahore. He had brought his family and his remaining forces to safety. God willing, soon he would be riding to battle again.

Sixty hours later under a blazing sun, with Mirza Husain on one side and Hindal on the other, Humayun rode into the fortress palace of Sarkar, set within thick walls on a high rocky promontory overlooking the sea. Above the gatehouse, two banners fluttered in the clear air – the scarlet red of Sind and by its side the brilliant green of the Moghuls. The palace, approached up a short, steep ramp leading up from the gatehouse, was a golden-stoned building constructed around three sides of a courtyard.

Installed in opulent apartments covering almost the entire middle floor of the palace’s west wing, Humayun summoned Hindal and Kasim. He wished to confer with them alone without the listening ears of his own attendants, apart from Jauhar whom he trusted with his life and who was standing on guard by the door.

Humayun gestured Hindal and Kasim to be seated. The vizier lowered himself with difficulty. The hardships of recent weeks had taken their toll. Kasim looked even thinner and more stooped than before. Humayun waited while his old counsellor settled himself before speaking. ‘Though for courtesy’s sake I’ve not yet said anything, Mirza Husain knows very well why I have come – that I want his help against Sher Shah. Soon, though, I must raise the matter and wish to be prepared. Have you yet managed to glean anything of his thoughts or intentions from those around him, Kasim?’

‘I may have learned something of what is in his mind . . . ’ Kasim said cautiously. ‘People reveal more than they realise if you are a good listener . . . I’ve been told that when Mirza Husain first read your letter asking him to receive you, he was thrown into great consternation. He has no desire for his kingdom with its prosperous merchants and harbours crammed with cargo dhows from Arabia to be drawn into a conflict. He even fears you mean to take his kingdom from him . . . ’

‘Then why did he welcome us here? He could have made excuses,’ asked Hindal.

Humayun grunted. ‘He had little choice. He is our cousin and I think that means something to him. Also, despite my reverses I am an emperor intending to recover my lands and, when I do, well placed to reward him and to further his ambitions. Mirza Husain knows this. And unless he wished for an open breach he could not bar his doors against me. But whatever is in his heart and mind, I must plan our next steps. Has any further news reached us of Sher Shah’s movements these past three days?’

‘None, Majesty,’ said Kasim. ‘From what little we can glean from travellers and others, he has still not moved beyond Lahore.’

‘And what news of Kamran and Askari?’

‘No one knows where they are at present, Majesty. According to some rumours they have withdrawn northwards up the Kabul river to Badakhshan – but as I say, Majesty, those are only rumours . . . ’

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.