Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (35 page)

Humayun’s men tethered their horses and began unloading equipment and erecting the tents beneath the overhang.Though it was still day, the light was getting poorer by the minute as the snow began tumbling in earnest. Keeping their backs bowed against the wind and struggling with numbed fingers to strike sparks from their tinder boxes, two of the men managed to get a fire going with some of the brushwood the mules had been carrying. As soon as it had caught, they made a giant torch from cloths dipped in oil and wound round a tall stick, and drove it into the ground outside Humayun’s tent.

Within they set up a brazier, filled it with some of the precious charcoal brought from Bhakkar and coaxed it alight – not for Humayun and Hamida but for Akbar who would be sharing the tent with them that night. In these wild places Hamida insisted that the baby should sleep close by her. Maham Anga would sleep with her son, as she had on previous nights during the journey, in an adjoining alcove screened by saddle blankets. Inspecting the rest of his camp, Humayun saw that his men had erected fewer tents than usual.They’d be cramming in close, using each other’s body heat to keep warm.

‘Majesty,’ came a deep voice. It was Ahmed Khan, cloaked head mantled with snow. ‘Zahid Beg and I will post guards around the perimeter of the camp. Four of your bodyguards will also be on duty outside your tent.’

Humayun looked around him. Driven by the rising wind, the snow was now whirling so thickly he could barely see his commander’s face. The previous night one of his pickets had suffered frostbite and the
hakim
feared his blackened toes would need to be amputated. Ahmed Khan himself had been coughing all day from a chill he had caught on a midnight tour of the sentries. ‘Thank you, Ahmed Khan, but I don’t think we need to worry in this wild place. The men are tired and the weather’s bitter. Let them rest tonight. You too – it might help that cough of yours.’

Despite the gusting winds howling around the camp and buffeting his tent, sleep came easily to Humayun that night, lying with Hamida in his arms, her fur-lined cloak spread on top of the sheepskins that covered them. A brief wail from Akbar penetrated his dreams but only for a moment. Humayun moved closer to Hamida, drawing her warm body in against his as he sank back into slumber. Then, suddenly, he felt cold, sharp steel against his throat. He looked up into a familiar pair of eyes, glinting in the light of a flaring rag torch that another man was holding. It couldn’t be – he was in Kandahar many miles away beyond the icy passes.Yet there was no mistaking those triumphant eyes – green as their father Babur’s had been – above that narrow, hawk-like nose. Kamran!

Humayun half opened his mouth to shout for help but felt the tip of Kamran’s dagger prick his throat and a trickle of blood run slowly down. In the shadows beyond the bed he could make out other figures, presumably Kamran’s henchmen, watching in silence, weapons drawn.

‘One sound and I will cut your throat,’ Kamran said. ‘You know I mean it.’

Softly as Kamran had spoken, his words woke Hamida, who sleepily pushed her hair back from her face. As she opened her eyes, Humayun gently put a restraining hand on her arm. Taking in what was happening she didn’t scream or cry out but immediately looked to where Akbar lay close by her in his basket.

‘You have been lax, brother. I never thought to slip into your camp so easily,’ Kamran said. ‘My men have been observing your progress towards the pass for some days. The blizzard gave me my opportunity. You must have forgotten what our father taught us in the mountains around Kabul – how snow is the raider’s friend, how it deadens sound. Your men never heard a thing. We found them packed tight in their tents like dumb beasts in a byre.’

‘What have you done with them and the women?’

Kamran smiled but did not answer.

‘How did you know I was coming this way?’

‘I guessed that at some point you would try to come north. I have had all the approaches out of Hindustan watched for months.’

‘Where is Askari?’

‘In Kabul.’

‘And Hindal, what have you done with him?’

‘I haven’t killed him, if that’s what you mean. He’s a captive in Jalalabad for his disrespect to me.’

‘How can you speak of “disrespect” after how you betrayed me – offering alliance to Sher Shah to fight against your own blood? Sneaking like a thief into Kabul?’

‘You are in no position to criticise. This beauty by your side – I heard you stole her from Hindal.’ Kamran leaned closer to Hamida. ‘But I can see she’s worth it. I wouldn’t have let brotherly love, brotherly loyalty, stand in my way either.’

Humayun felt Hamida tauten and he increased his pressure on her arm. ‘What do you want, Kamran? If you intended to kill me I’d be dead already.’

‘True. I don’t share your sentimentality about blood bonds and so-called brotherly love. For me, it’s always been
taktya takhta
– “throne or coffin”.’

‘Then what’s stopping you?’

‘The only reason I haven’t drawn my blade across your jugular – tempted as I am – is that it would stir up blood feuds among the clans. But if I am seen to have defeated you and acted with mercy, chiefs once loyal to you will give me their support. You are more useful to me alive and humiliated than dead.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘Your promise to leave Hindustan and our ancestral homelands and go so far away that I can forget you ever existed.’

‘Go where?’

‘Persia has a pleasant climate and you’ll find the soft living there to your taste – plenty of opium and plenty of beautiful women.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘I will kill you here and now and face the difficulties with the clans. I will enjoy feeling your warm blood on my hands.’

‘I’ve never understood why you hate me. It wasn’t my fault our father chose me.’

‘Wasn’t it? It was your fault he seldom gave me a thought. You played the perfect warrior, the shining emblem of what he hoped to achieve. I’ve despised your vainglorious conceit ever since we were boys and you assumed I was happy to trail admiringly in your wake. When we became men you assumed you could continue to patronise me . . . But my ambition is as great as yours . . . I want the empire our father forged with his blood and sweat and I deserve it more than any of Babur’s sons. Askari already accepts this and will do what I say. Hindal will learn to, if he’s wise.When I am ready I will take on Sher Shah and drive him out. The
khutba
will be read in my name in Delhi and Agra and I and my sons – not yours – will sit on the Moghul throne. You had your chance and you failed.’

‘Our father knew what you were like, that you were devious, self-serving and my enemy . . . that you were a traitor . . . he tried to warn me.’

‘Shut up.’ Kamran’s voice had risen and Akbar began to cry.

‘Your son sounds strong and lusty.’ Kamran’s green eyes flicked across to the basket on Hamida’s side of the bed. ‘Let me see my nephew,’ he ordered Hamida.

She glanced anxiously at Humayun, who nodded. Gathering her robes around her, she slipped from the bed, lifted Akbar from his basket and carried him slowly towards Kamran.

‘Watch my brother. If he moves so much as a muscle, kill him,’ Kamran said to his men, three of whom stepped forward from the shadows towards Humayun. Meanwhile, Kamran withdrew his dagger from Humayun’s throat, slid it into its scabbard and moved towards Hamida.

If only Hamida and Akbar had not been with him, he could have taken Kamran now, Humayun thought, calculating the distance between himself, his brother and his brother’s men. He knew he could leap up and grab Kamran as a shield before one of his men had time to fire an arrow or throw a dagger. But as it was he could do nothing but watch as Kamran pulled back the thick sheepskin in which Akbar was wrapped and inspected the small, bawling face.

‘Give him to me.’

Again Hamida looked across at Humayun and again he nodded.

Kamran took hold of Akbar, who seemed to like the change and suddenly stopped his crying. For a moment Kamran scrutinised his face.‘Well, do you accept my terms, Humayun?’ As he spoke Kamran took one of Akbar’s tiny hands in his, but his eyes as he looked across at Humayun were as unconcerned and cold as if he were handling a piece of meat.

‘I accept, but only because I have no choice. But I tell you this. One day I will make you pay for what you have done.’

‘Remember, I hold your heir in my hands. Provoke me further and I’ll order my men to take him outside and lay him naked in the snow. How long do you think he will last before the cold or the wolves kill him?’

Hamida gasped and Humayun watched helpless as Kamran chucked a laughing Akbar under the chin.

‘No words, my silver-tongued half-brother, not even of farewell? It’s not like you, the great emperor, to be so discourteous.’ Their eyes locked but Humayun remained grimly silent. With a contemptuous shrug, Kamran stepped towards the entrance of the tent, still cradling Akbar.

‘Give me back my child!’ Hamida cried out.

Kamran turned back to her. ‘I don’t trust Humayun, even though he’s so fond of boasting about how honourable he is. I need a guarantee that he will do what he has promised and go to Persia. My nephew is that guarantee . . . ’

Before he’d finished speaking, Hamida flew at him, trying to pull Akbar away. As Akbar started screaming again, Kamran pushed Hamida hard. As she fell back, catching her head against the edge of a wooden chest, Kamran handed Akbar to one of his men. ‘Take the child outside,’ he ordered.

But Hamida hadn’t finished with Kamran. Though dazed, she struggled up and launched herself at him again, raking his face with her nails and drawing blood. Kamran took her by the shoulders and pushed her off him. ‘It’s a shame. With so much fighting spirit you would have made a better empress than your husband has been an emperor.’

At that moment there was a movement behind the curtained-off alcove and the tall figure of Maham Anga appeared. In the shock and confusion Humayun had forgotten all about her. Similarly taken by surprise, Kamran released Hamida and drew his dagger. ‘Who are you?’ Blood was running down his cheek where Hamida had scratched him.

Maham Anga ignored Kamran but addressed herself to Hamida.‘Majesty, I heard everything. As Akbar’s milk-mother, I should go with him. I swear to you that I will protect him with my life.’ The expression on her handsome, high-cheekboned face was stubborn.

Hamida’s eyes were shining with tears but she controlled herself as she turned to Kamran. ‘This is Maham Anga, my son’s wet-nurse. I ask that you take her with you to care for my son.’

‘She may come.’ Kamran looked again at Humayun. ‘Your women are braver than your warriors.We captured your men as they slept – they are tied up in their tents like chickens for market. The only blood shed tonight was drawn by your wife. Make haste, Maham Anga. We ride in five minutes.’ Turning, he ducked out of the tent.

As the two women embraced, Humayun saw Maham Anga whisper something in Hamida’s ear. Then, under the watchful eye of Kamran’s soldiers, the wet-nurse hurriedly collected her own son and a few of his and Akbar’s things as well as her own and was escorted from the tent. Moments later, Hamida and Humayun heard the muffled sound of hooves on snow and then all went quiet. Leaping up, Humayun rushed outside. The blizzard was over and the snow that had fallen had softened the harsh landscape. So pure and still, it was a scene of almost perfect beauty.

A
t daybreak, Humayun gathered his men around him in the snow, their breath rising in spirals in the bitterly cold air. None had been seriously injured. They had been pinioned and bound with leather thongs before they realised they were under attack. But their mood was as subdued as his own and he understood why – their warrior code had been violated. In his heart, every man wished he had had the chance to fight. The shame of being taken unawares was a greater hurt than a wound to the flesh. At least a scar was a badge of honour.Where was the glory in being caught asleep in a tent?

‘None of you is responsible for what happened last night. It was I who decided not to post guards.’

‘Should we ride in pursuit?’ asked Zahid Beg.

‘No.’

‘But why, Majesty? They’ve no more than an hour or two’s start on us . . . ’

‘I gave my promise, Zahid Beg, and even if Kamran is not, I am a man of my word. Besides, he has taken my son. He threatened to kill Akbar before my very eyes and I believed him.’

‘But the lives of young Timurid princes are sacred. That has always been our way . . . ’

‘But it is not my half-brother’s. Ambition possesses him and he won’t let anything stand in the way of his dreams of glory. If I give him the excuse, he will murder my son.’

Humayun grimaced. Hadn’t he just said exactly the same thing to Hamida, weeping in the arms of Gulbadan who, with the other women, he had found tied up and gagged? Though badly shaken, Gulbadan had managed to recover her composure but Hamida remained not just inconsolable but hysterical. ‘Rescue our son!’ she had screamed at him. ‘If you have a man’s blood in your veins, how can you think about doing anything else?’

But for the first time since their marriage he had ignored her. Something dark lurked in his half-brother’s soul. He had seen it as their eyes had met over Akbar’s innocent head. To achieve what he wanted Kamran would do anything . . . That was why, Humayun had told Hamida as he held her tightly in his arms, they must not, dare not pursue Kamran. At least Maham Anga was with Akbar, he had said, stroking Hamida’s hair, and, for the moment, they must trust in her. It seemed that confidence was not misplaced. Between her sobs, Hamida had told him what Maham Anga had whispered in those final moments before leaving – that she was carrying a knife whose blade had been treated with poison.Anyone attempting to hurt Akbar would die for it.