Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (28 page)

They woke, bodies intertwined, as in the half-light of the tent their attendants came to rouse them, bringing ewers of warmed water. It was Hamida who waved them away but once they were alone again, she sat silent and still.

‘What is it, Hamida? Have I offended you . . . ?’

She looked at him a little shyly and shook her head.

‘What then?’

‘These past days I was afraid . . . ’

‘Of what?’

‘That you wanted me for your wife shocked me. I feared I might displease you . . . disappoint you. But last night your tenderness, the joy you brought me, soothed away my anxieties . . . ’ She was looking at him now with shining eyes. He began to speak but she placed a fingertip on his mouth. ‘You know that a seer’s blood runs in my veins. But there is something you don’t know. Sometimes, I too have the gift to see into the future. Last night, I dreamed that very soon I will conceive a child . . . a son. Do not ask me how I know, only believe me that it is so.’

Humayun took her in his arms again. ‘I will rebuild the Moghul empire and we will be great, you and I and our son,’ he whispered as slowly, tenderly he began to make love to her again.

‘M
ajesty, my scouts have seized a lone traveller in the bazaar of a small mud-walled town a few miles to the south. Clearly a stranger from his dress and his accent, he had been asking the stallholders and anyone else who would listen whether you and your column had passed this way. I had him brought straight to me in case he was a spy,’ said Ahmed Khan.

‘If he is a spy, he’s not a very good one. He wasn’t apparently making much attempt to keep his mission secret.’

Ahmed Khan did not share Humayun’s smile. ‘He claims to have come from Kabul, Majesty, and says he must see you. If his purpose is genuine, I fear from his face he has no good news to relate.’

‘Fetch him here at once.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

A shadow of foreboding crept over Humayun. A few minutes later, through the neat rows of tents, he saw Ahmed Khan returning and, behind him, two of his scouts escorting a tall young man. As they drew nearer, Humayun saw how travel-stained the new arrival’s clothes were. He was gaunt and the purple shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his exhaustion.

‘Majesty.’ He prostrated himself on the ground in the formal salute of the
korunush
.

‘Rise. Who are you and what is it you wish to tell me?’

The newcomer got slowly to his feet. ‘I am Darya, the son of Nasir, one of the commanders of your garrison in Kabul.’

Humayun remembered Nasir – a tough old Tajik chieftain who had served him loyally for many years. He had been well known in the camp for his voracious sexual appetite and for the number of children he had had by his four wives – eighteen sons and sixteen daughters – and many others by his numerous concubines. Humayun had not seen Nasir for many years and the only children of his he had met had been just that.

‘So that I may know you are who you claim to be, tell me how many children your father has.’

Darya smiled a slightly melancholy smile. ‘No one knows, but he had thirty-four of us by his first four wives and after one of them – not my mother, I give thanks – died last year, he married a fifth who bore him a thirty-fifth. However, as a token of my identity I have here in a pouch beneath my garments the wolf-tooth necklace my father wore.’ He made to delve beneath his dusty garments.

‘No need. I believe you are Nasir’s son. What is the news from Kabul? Speak . . . ’

‘Bad, Majesty, the worst I could bring. Soon after your grandfather reached Kabul he had a sudden seizure. He lost much of the power of speech and could scarcely use his limbs. He appeared to be slowly regaining his strength but . . . ’

‘What happened?’ Humayun broke in, though in his heart he knew.

‘He died in his sleep, Majesty, nearly four months ago. His attendants found him in the morning, a peaceful expression on his face.’

Humayun looked down, trying to take in that Baisanghar had gone.

‘There is more, Majesty . . . Your half-brothers Kamran and Askari, who had established themselves in Peshawar at the foot of the Khyber Pass, learned of your grandfather’s illness and hoped to take advantage of it.They brought troops up through the pass to Kabul. By the time they reached it your grandfather was dead. Without warning, they attacked the citadel and despite all my father and others could do quickly overran it.’

For a moment Humayun forgot his grief for Baisanghar. ‘Kabul has fallen to Kamran and Askari?’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

‘Impossible! How could my half-brothers have raised an army sufficient for such a task so quickly?’

‘They had gold, Majesty, from raiding the caravans. We heard that they captured a group of wealthy Persian merchants and used their gold to bribe some of the mountain clans. Pashais, Barakis and Hazaras and members of other lawless breeds came in great numbers to fight for them. But in the event there was little fighting in Kabul. Your half-brothers bribed one of our captains to open the gates of the citadel to them.’

Though the camp was bathed in sunlight, the world seemed suddenly dark and chill to Humayun.

‘My father . . . ’ Darya’s voice shook a little, ‘my father was hit between the shoulder blades by a Pashai battleaxe as he tried to run up from the gate to warn the defenders that we had been betrayed and that the enemy had gained entrance. He managed to crawl into a doorway where I found him. His last words to me were that I must escape from Kabul . . . that I must take his necklace to establish my identity and find you and tell you what had happened and . . . that he was sorry . . . he had done his best to defend Kabul but he had failed you. I sought you first at Sarkar but you had already left. Since then I have been searching for you. I thought I would be too late, that you would have already heard . . . ’ ‘No, I knew nothing of this.’ Humayun struggled to compose himself. ‘Your father did not fail me – he gave his life for me and I will not forget it. You have made an epic journey. Now you must rest but we will talk more later. I must learn as much as possible about what has happened.’

As Ahmed Khan’s men led Darya away, Humayun gestured to Jauhar that he wished to be alone and entered his tent. As he splashed his face with water he scarcely felt the cold drops trickle down his face. Conflicting emotions – some personal, some political, but none pleasant – jostled in his mind. Initially simple grief, the knowledge that he would never see his grandfather again, was uppermost. Humayun closed his eyes as he recalled his father’s vivid stories of Baisanghar in his youth, of how as a young cavalry captain he had brought Babur Timur’s ring, still crusted with the blood of its previous wearer; how Baisanghar had sacrificed his right hand out of loyalty to Babur and opened the gates of Samarkand to him. Humayun’s mother Maham too had had her own fund of stories of her father – less violent but even more fond. Now Baisanghar was dead without ever knowing that Humayun had married. But at least he had died before Kamran and Askari had attacked Kabul.

At the thought, another emotion harsher than grief took over – fury with his half-brothers. If they were brought before him now all Babur’s urgings of mercy wouldn’t deter him from hacking off their traitorous heads and kicking them through the dust. Instinctively, Humayun pulled his dagger from his sash and sent it spinning across the tent to embed itself in a round red cushion that he wished was Kamran’s throat.

Kamran had seen his opportunity for a throne and with Askari as his willing accomplice had taken it. While they held Kabul, it would be almost impossible for Humayun to regain Hindustan. It had long been obvious that family unity, pride in the Moghul dynasty, mattered less to them than the chance to enrich themselves and, so it seemed, above all to damage him.Why could they never see how destructive their vindictive jealousy was, what a risk it was to them all?

Humayun paced about, trying to order his thoughts. He must think and behave rationally not only for his own sake but for his wife and their unborn child. The thought of Hamida for a moment lightened his mood. Despite the dangers surrounding them, these past weeks had been among the happiest he had ever known, especially when, a month ago, Hamida had told him, eyes more luminous than ever, that her dream had been correct. She was indeed pregnant. Perhaps the knowledge that he might soon have an heir was what made Kamran and Askari’s latest betrayal especially hard to bear. By striking at him, they were also striking at his wife and unborn child – those Humayun loved most in the world.

And if Hamida was indeed carrying a boy, as she believed, the loss of Kabul made the child’s future all the more precarious. Even if the baby survived the dangerous times Humayun knew were coming, instead of inheriting a great empire he might be heir to almost nothing – reduced as some of his ancestors had been to the life of a petty warlord constantly feuding with his relations over a few mud-walled villages and a few flocks of sheep while another dynasty ruled Hindustan.

This could not, must not happen. He would not let it. Humayun dropped to his knees and out loud swore an oath.

‘Whatever it takes, however long the struggle, I will regain Hindustan. I am ready to spill every drop of blood to do so. I will bequeath my sons and their sons a greater empire than even my father dreamed of. I, Humayun, swear it.’

The desert heat was growing unbearable as Humayun and his troops drew nearer to Marwar. Every day seemed hotter and the going harder. The sour-breathed camels with their great splayed feet were managing but the horses and pack mules were sinking up to their hocks in the burning drifting sand. Every day, animals collapsed from dehydration and exhaustion, legs feebly twitching and parched tongues lolling through cracked lips. Humayun ordered his men to slit the throats of those too sick to go on and add their meat to the cooking pot, but he also commanded them to collect their blood. In Timur’s day, warriors had survived out on the steppes by drinking the blood of their animals.

Glancing over his shoulder, he watched the enclosed litter bearing Hamida appear out of the silvery, shimmering haze, carried on the shoulders of six of his strongest men. Khanzada, Gulbadan and the other women were on ponies but he was doing everything possible to help the pregnant Hamida travel as smoothly as possible. Grass and aromatic herbs and roots had been stuffed into the sides of the litter’s bamboo frame and every hour or so attendants dampened it with a little of the precious water to provide her with some fragrant relief from the heat. Even so, her face was very thin and the dark circles in the almost translucent skin beneath her eyes showed that pregnancy had not come easily to her. Often she felt nauseous and found it hard to eat.

Watching her litter draw nearer, the fear he might lose her gripped Humayun anew. He was doing all he could to protect her and bring her to safety but hazards were all around. Snakes and scorpions lurked. They were even vulnerable to the bands of brigands who infested the desert, now that he had so few troops left – barely one thousand. At the news of the fall of Kabul, many of his men had simply melted away.

God willing, soon they should reach the outskirts of the kingdom of Marwar and find sanctuary there. Raja Maldeo’s messages of support – brought on the most recent occasion by the same ambassador who had sought Humayun out in Sarkar – were growing ever more fervent the nearer Humayun and his column approached. Nevertheless he wished Maldeo would send practical help – food, water and fresh horses would be more welcome than fine promises. But Humayun hesitated to ask for such things. He was coming to Marwar as the raja’s guest and ally, not as a beggar.

According to the red leather-bound volume in which Kasim dutifully recorded daily the diminution of their supplies, just as he had done when Babur had been besieged in Samarkand, they still had enough corn, dates and other dried fruit to sustain them. However, it was many days since they’d tasted fresh food other than that from the carcasses of the exhausted or diseased animals, if that could indeed be called fresh. At first they’d bought produce from the villages along the way. It was the mango season and the flesh of the delicate, orange, sweet-scented fruits hanging in clusters among the glossy, dark green leaves was one of the few things Hamida could be tempted to eat. But six days ago they had passed the last settlement – a tangle of mud-brick houses clustered around a well – and the desert had engulfed them. Ahmed Khan’s scouts, riding ahead in the cool of the moonlit nights, had reported no signs of further habitation.

The worst problem, though, was lack of water, which his officers now rationed carefully. Three nights ago, two of his men had drunk strong spirits instead. Then, with their thirsts heightened and their passions unleashed, they had fought for possession of a waterskin containing a few mouthfuls of fetid liquid and one had died, slashed across the throat by the other’s dagger. Humayun had ordered the survivor to be beheaded, but he had seen the sullen challenge in the eyes of the soldiers drawn up to witness the punishment. Indiscipline and insubordination were as dangerous as any attacks from desert raiders . . .