Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (44 page)

‘Shall I send men to find out who they are, Majesty?’ asked Ahmed Khan.

‘No . . . I will go . . . Stay here, all of you!’ Ignoring Ahmed Khan’s protests, Humayun kicked his horse on. He must be first to know his son’s fate if the riders carried that news and he could wait no longer. As he galloped over the frozen ground, the sound of hooves echoing in his ears, he saw that the leading rider was still watching him, motionless. Looking beyond him, Humayun discovered that most of the rest of the group – six men and a slightly smaller figure – a woman by the long plait hanging down from beneath a black shaggy lamb’s wool hat – were on mules. The woman was holding the reins of another mule. Drawing nearer he made out that strapped to its back was a wicker basket in which he thought he saw two rolls of bedding – or could it be children, so wrapped in sheepskins they looked almost spherical?

Humayun was just fifty yards away now. For a moment, he felt afraid to go closer in case the people before him on the snowy landscape were just an illusion, conjured by his own hopes and desires. Reining in and not daring to take his eyes from them, Humayun slid from his saddle and made his way on foot over the last few yards, slowly at first but then breaking into a run, feet slipping and sliding.

The leading rider, gazing towards him so intently, was indeed Hindal shrouded in a thick fur cloak. Scarcely aware of what he was doing and with tears of joy already streaming down his face, Humayun ran past Hindal towards the mule carrying the bundles. He heard Maham Anga’s cry of ‘Majesty!’ but then he saw the bundles were indeed children and had thoughts only for Akbar, sitting calmly next to Adham Khan, his milk-brother. As Humayun leaned over him, Akbar gazed at him with friendly interest from within his nest of sheepskins. In the nearly fourteen months since Kamran had taken him he had changed so much, but he was still unmistakably Akbar. As Adham Khan began to wail, Humayun gently lifted Akbar from the basket and held him close against him, breathing in the warm scent of him.

‘My son,’ he whispered, ‘my son.’

An hour later, Humayun rode at the head of the party back into the camp. Reaching the women’s tents, he dismounted then carefully took Akbar from his basket. Lulled by the resumed motion of the mule, the child was fast asleep. With Maham Anga by his side, Humayun entered Hamida’s tent. She had been reading some of her beloved poetry but the volume had fallen from her hands and she too was sleeping, lying back against some red and gold velvet cushions. How young she looked with her silken hair falling about her and her breast gently rising and falling.

‘Hamida,’ he whispered, ‘Hamida . . . I have something for you – a gift . . . ’

As her eyes opened and she saw Akbar, joy such as he had never witnessed before lit up her face. But as Humayun placed him in her arms, Akbar awoke. Looking up at Hamida, he released a bewildered yell and began struggling to get free. Maham Anga darted forward, and as soon as he saw her Akbar’s distress vanished. Smilingly he stretched out his chubby arms to his wet-nurse.

All around him, Humayun’s officers were reclining against the great bolsters carefully arranged around his scarlet command tent, amid the debris of the celebration feast. Earlier that afternoon he had called an assembly of all his men and announced the rescue of Akbar.

‘My loyal men – I present to you my son, the symbol of our future, safely returned to me . . . ’ Standing on a makeshift wooden dais in the centre of his camp, Humayun had lifted Akbar high above his head. A great cheer accompanied by the clashing of swords on shields had thundered around him. Akbar had still been blinking in surprise at the uproar as Humayun had handed him back to Maham Anga, but he hadn’t cried. It was a good omen. Humayun had raised his hands to call for calm.

‘It is time to return to Kabul to finish what we started and eject the impostor who hides behind innocent children. Our cause is just and God is with us. Tonight we feast but our feasting will be nothing compared to our celebrations once Kabul is ours. Tomorrow at dawn we ride for the city.’

The cooks had laboured hard on their preparations, spitting and roasting meat over great fires whose smoke billowed into the sky. Now that his son was safe, Humayun didn’t care from how many miles his camp was visible.

Some of his commanders were starting to sing – heroic songs of deeds on the battlefield, bawdy songs of even greater feats in the
haram
. Looking around he saw Zahid Beg swaying back and forth, skull-like face glowing with the effects of the strong red wine of Ghazni for which the kingdom of Kabul was famous and which his own father Babur had enjoyed so much. Even Kasim, normally so quiet and reticent, was joining in the singing from the corner of the tent where he had found a comfortable place to rest his old bones.

Humayun had lost no time in telling his inner circle, his
ichkis
, that the abandonment of the siege had been only a ruse. Most had looked genuinely astonished. Only Bairam Khan had shown little surprise and his intense indigo eyes had seemed knowing as gravely he had congratulated Humayun on the return of his son, making Humayun doubly certain he had known all along. More than ever he was glad to have the Persian at his side.

Humayun glanced at Hindal sitting close beside him. Unlike the rest of the revellers, he had said little and looked withdrawn and uncomfortable to be seated with Humayun and his officers. Since their return to the camp the previous evening, Humayun had seen little of his half-brother. Instead, in his relief to be reunited with his son, he’d spent most of his time with Hamida and Akbar. To Hamida’s sorrow, their son was still clinging to Maham Anga. Every time Hamida tried to pick him up, he struggled and screamed. But that would pass, Humayun had comforted Hamida, who was torn between relief and exultation at her son’s safe return, wonderment at how much he had grown and grief that in the months they had been apart she had become a stranger to him. At least his vigorous wriggling showed that despite his traumatic experiences he was in robust good health, Hamida had said, smiling through her tears.Then she had added,‘Thank Hindal for me, won’t you.’

Looking again at Hindal’s half-averted face, Humayun guessed this might be a harder task than she had realised.

‘Hindal . . . ’ He waited until he had his half-brother’s full attention then continued, lowering his voice so that they would not be overheard. ‘I know what you did was not for me, but for Hamida. She asked me to thank you.’

‘Tell her there is no need. It was a matter of family honour . . .’

‘You may not wish to hear this, but I too will be for ever in your debt. Your reasons for your actions don’t absolve me of my obligation to you.’

Hindal gave a slight shrug but said nothing.

‘Tell me, did your plan go as you expected? Hamida too is anxious to know what happened . . . ’

For the first time a faint smile lightened Hindal’s face. ‘It went better than I’d dared to hope. Several days after my scouts reported your withdrawal from Kabul, I rode down from the mountains with my men and sent messengers to the citadel to tell Kamran I was ready to pledge my support to him as the true head of our family. As I’d thought, conceited and arrogant as he is and already euphoric at your departure, he ordered me to be admitted. He even threw a feast in celebration and gave me gifts . . . ’

‘He really had no suspicions?’

‘None. Believing he had defeated you, his confidence blinded him. Even before I’d arrived, he’d ordered the gates of both the town and the citadel to be kept open once more in the hours of daylight. I’d only been there about a week when he began to speak about going south on a hunting expedition in search of wolves and the great-horned sheep forced down from the mountains by hunger and the winter cold. I encouraged him – even offered to go with him. But, as I suspected and hoped he would, he ordered me to stay behind. He’d already found tasks for me like drilling some of his guards. He joked that he’d be leaving plenty of loyal officers behind just in case I’d any thoughts of grabbing Kabul for myself.

‘After Kamran left, I just carried out my orders, careful to do nothing to excite comment. I also wanted to be sure that he had really gone for a few days.Then, towards late afternoon on the fourth day – with no sign of Kamran returning that night – I made my move. D’you remember from our boyhood that small courtyard over on the eastern side of the citadel with along one side of it a series of vaulted rooms where grain and wine were stored?’

Humayun nodded. Suddenly, the dusty little courtyard with its row of storerooms that he and his brothers had enjoyed exploring, trying to drive their dagger tips into the casks so they could taste the wine, was so vivid in his mind he could almost smell the mingled aromas of wine and grain.

‘Well, I had found out that Kamran had modified some of those storerooms to make apartments where Akbar, together with Maham Anga and her son, was being held under guard. I made my way there quietly with four of my most loyal men. When we reached the courtyard, my men concealed themselves behind some large grain storage jars. Through the spy-hole that had been made in the door, I told the two guards on duty inside that as the boy’s uncle, I wished to visit him. Recognising me, they opened the door.As I engaged them in conversation, my men rushed out, overcame them, then bound and gagged them.

‘My greatest difficulty was with Maham Anga – she tried to draw a dagger on me and started screaming. I easily took the weapon from her – it was only later that she told me it was poisoned – but it was far harder to quieten her shrieks. I had to place my hand over her mouth and tell her again and again that I meant Akbar no harm . . . that I had come with your knowledge and approval to rescue them all.

‘Finally she calmed down, but they were anxious minutes. Though we were in a remote part of the citadel, I knew that at any moment we might easily be discovered. Luckily, no one came, but by now time was running out – I knew that in another half-hour, the gates of the citadel would be closed for the night. We had to get out quickly and in a way that would not attract attention. I’d noticed that towards dusk many of the traders who came each day to transact business in the citadel – there was much reprovisioning to be done now the siege was over – usually left to return to the city. I’d therefore ordered my men to bring robes and turbans so that all of us – including Maham Anga – could disguise ourselves as merchants. We had also brought thick sheepskins in which to wrap the boys to conceal them and a phial of rosewater mixed with opium to make them drowsy so they didn’t cry out. I ordered Maham Anga to give a little to each child. When she hesitated, I drank some myself to prove to her it wasn’t poison.

‘The opium did its work quickly and the children were docile as we wrapped the sheepskins around them. Then, leaving the guards securely locked in the storeroom to conceal Akbar’s disappearance for as long as possible, and after quickly pulling on our traders’ garb, we hurried through the citadel towards the gates to join the throng of people and beasts pouring down the ramp. No one challenged us. We made our way with the rest towards the town where, just outside the gates, more of my men were waiting with my horse and mules for the rest of the group. I hoped using mules would add to the impression that we were merchants not warriors. As darkness fell, we mounted up and headed north at first to conceal our true direction, just in case we were followed or spotted as we left the city. After riding through the freezing cold of the night, towards dawn we circled round to the east and with the sun rising in our faces began our journey to find you.’

As Hindal had been telling his story, his eyes had shone with an almost boyish excitement and exhilaration at succeeding in a difficult and dangerous task. Now that he had finished, Humayun felt a new and profound respect for his youngest half-brother – for his resourcefulness and coolness, his meticulous planning. Above all, what impressed him was how completely Hindal understood Kamran, exploiting his vanity to slip in under his defences. Hadn’t Babur always cautioned them, even as boys, to know their enemy? Hindal had plainly listened, but how well had he himself really understood the need to empathise with others – not just enemies but friends – even family? Had he always striven enough to understand Hindal and to see things from his perspective?

For a brief time the two of them had become close. Perhaps they might yet be so again . . . The red wine he had drunk made his next words easier to say. ‘Hindal, you spoke just now of our boyhood in Kabul. We share so much, you and I, not just our blood and our heritage but so much of our past. My mother loved you as her own. Of all my half-brothers, you are the one I feel closest to and would wish to make my friend. I know that unwittingly – selfishly even – I injured you. For that I am truly sorry and ask your forgiveness . . . ’ ‘Humayun . . . ’

But determined not to let Hindal speak until he had finished, Humayun pressed on. ‘Can’t we put our past troubles behind us? Be my ally again and ride by my side to capture Kabul. The future holds so much for us if we are ready to seize it – one day Hindustan will be Moghul again and I will give you a position of power and honour there, I swear it. Hindal . . . won’t you forgive me? Won’t you share that destiny with me?’