Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (13 page)

‘My father took opium . . .’ he said slowly, turning the flask.

‘Yes, but not like you . . . Babur never let it control him or dictate his actions. He never neglected his trusted band of comrades, his commanders and his courtiers in its favour. But in you it has enslaved an emperor. You have become addicted . . . just like the man who cannot taste a cup of wine without wanting to empty the entire wineskin. You must give it up, Humayun, or it will destroy you. You will lose the empire your father gained. Renounce opium now before it is too late.’

Still he gazed at the liquid in the bottle with all its hidden secrets and delights. But then he looked up at Khanzada’s face, still wet with tears, and saw how strained she looked and how afraid. And he knew that that fear was for him and for the dynasty of which she was a part and for which she had suffered. Slowly the realisation that she was right, that Kasim was right, that all the others who had expressed concern were right, penetrated the opium fumes in his mind. He must be strong – strong within himself. He had no need of outside props. Suddenly more than anything he wanted to regain Khanzada’s respect, her approval. The thought of how he had treated her and his closest advisers in recent months made him ashamed.

‘Give me the bottle, Humayun.’

‘No, Aunt.’ Going to the casement, he poured the liquid away to splash on the ground below; then, flinging the bottle after it, he heard the faint, fragile tinkle as it shattered. ‘I will tell Gulrukh that I will accept no more of her drugged wine. I swear to you, on this ring of Timur, that however hard it may be I will take no more opium or wine. I will send her to live with one of her sons. And I will prove anew to myself and to you that I am worthy of my father’s trust.’

Khanzada took his face between her hands and kissed him. ‘I will help you conquer this addiction. Opium has such a grip that it will not be easy. You are a great man, Humayun, a great leader – I have always known that – and you will become a greater one.’

‘And I have always known that you are my most trusted confidante.’

‘And now?’

‘Stay with me while I send for the messenger and question him again. I want you to hear what he says. If it is true, I must prepare immediately for war.’

Later that day, Humayun sat on his throne. Before him were his courtiers and commanders. As he had ordered they were no longer dressed in clothing matching the planet governing the day – neither was he. Khanzada was right. The rituals he had imposed had brought neither harmony nor strength to his court. He must win the respect and allegiance of his nobles in other ways. And one of those would be by victory in the field.

‘You have all heard the news brought by the messenger Kamal. Sher Shah’s invasion of Moghul territories is an affront to our honour that I will not tolerate. As soon as the army is ready, we will ride against this upstart. And when I have finished with Sher Shah I will trade him into slavery, just as Sher Shah’s ancestors used to trade a worn-out horse to the knacker’s men.’

As Humayun finished speaking, a great roar went up around the audience chamber that in recent months had fallen so silent. Humayun’s commanders were clashing their swords on their shields in the age-old tradition of their people and their deep voices were taking up the chant, ‘Mirza Humayun, Mirza Humayun’, that proclaimed him of Timur’s blood. Humayun glanced up at the grille in the wall to one side of his throne behind which he knew Khanzada would be watching and listening, and smiled. All would be well. The Moghul emperor was leading his armies to war once more. However lacking in the arts of peace he might have proved, he had demonstrated his skills as a general, hadn’t he?

A
n hour after dawn, Humayun made his way from his private chambers out through the courtyards of the red sandstone Agra fort with their marble pools and splashing fountains, through the high gateway and on to the parade ground where his army was drawn up. He was dressed for war with an etched silver breastplate set with rubies on his chest over a coat of silver chain mail. His father Babur’s eagle-hilted sword, Alamgir, was in its sapphire-encrusted scabbard at his side. On his head was a domed helmet, again decorated with rubies and with a tall peacock feather set in gold waving from its peak.

As he emerged from the iron-studded gate and progressed towards the stand at the centre of the parade ground where his imperial elephant – the usual conveyance for emperors and generals on ceremonial journeys – was waiting, he saw that the vanguard of his troops had already raised so much pink-grey dust as they marched out that the sun was only a pale, beige disc, all the intensity of its glare lost. The large grey elephant was on its knees with its great gilded redcanopied howdah securely positioned on its back and its two drivers or
mahouts
standing by its head. His senior officers were grouped in order of rank on either side of the elephant. After accepting low bows of greetings from each of his commanders Humayun paused to address them.

‘Bear this message to your men from me. Our cause is just. We go to recover what is ours from this ill-bred, upstart usurper. How can anyone who has seen our army doubt that it is the greatest in history and invincible? Bid the men be of good cheer. Victory and its comrades, fame and reward, will accompany us.’

The officers bowed once more and placing one foot on the crouching elephant’s knee Humayun climbed into the howdah and sat on a small gilded throne. He was followed immediately by two of his bodyguards and by Jauhar. At a sign from Humayun to the
mahouts
they too mounted and, positioning themselves one behind the other on the elephant’s neck, whispered instructions into its large ears. The obedient great beast rose slowly and gently to its feet and Humayun gave orders for the trumpets to sound the signal for his elephant and those bearing his generals to move off. As they advanced to take their place in the column they passed the artillery – large cannon with bronze barrels nearly twenty feet long mounted on four wheels, some pulled by teams of up to fifty oxen, others by six or eight elephants. Smaller cannon were on carts also drawn by oxen.

Next Humayun moved along the serried ranks of his cavalry – first the mounted warriors from his father’s homelands, Tajiks, Badakhshanis, men from the Kyrgyz mountains and Ferghana Valley, as well as those of Afghanistan. Theirs were the strongest horses, still bred from those they had brought from the steppes. Theirs too, he believed, was the strongest loyalty to the Moghul dynasty. After them he saw the orange garb of some of his Rajput vassals. Eager as all Rajputs were said to be for battle, these imposing, black-bearded men beat their swords on their small, round, studded shields in martial greeting as Humayun passed.

As he saluted each contingent in turn, Humayun reflected that victory would indeed surely be his. He had a quarter of a million soldiers – far more than Sher Shah. He had at least ten times more cannon and – as he had proved during his campaign in Gujarat – he himself was an able general blessed by fortune. Therefore he had granted the request from his aunt Khanzada to accompany the army on the march and to bring with her his bright-eyed, quick-witted half-sister Gulbadan. Amid such a protecting host they would face no more danger than at Agra, which he was leaving in the loyal and capable hands of Kasim and his grandfather Baisanghar. He would be glad of his aunt’s experienced advice but also of her support should he ever feel the temptation to lose himself in opium once more. She would not permit it.

He had also allowed himself the luxury of taking with him Salima and three of his other favourite concubines. His renunciation of wine and opium had only served to increase his appetite for the soft, sensual pleasures of the
haram
. The three young women he had chosen – Melita of the flexible, wanton body from Gujarat, the voluptuous full-lipped, full-breasted Mehrunissa from Lahore and witty, puckish and inventive Meera from Agra itself – were each, like Salima with her supple body, soft mouth and agile tongue, in their different ways experts in the arts of love. What relaxation amid the stress of preparation for battle they would bring him, what pleasures in his victory. The women would ride in curtained howdahs on sedate elephants and be guarded by the most trusted of his bodyguards.

Just after the time of the midday meal six weeks later, Humayun’s chief scout Ahmed Khan approached his scarlet command tent, erected as usual in the very centre of the camp. Here Humayun was relaxing on a gold brocade mattress topped with maroon cushions, a cooling sherbet in his hands as he listened to the soft cadences of Jauhar’s flute. As Ahmed Khan entered, Humayun signalled to Jauhar to cease playing.

‘What is it, Ahmed Khan?’

‘Majesty, despite exploring for fifty miles around our camp we were unable to detect any sign of Sher Shah’s armies. However, we came upon a small landowner in his mud fortress about forty-five or so miles to the southeast of here. He claimed to be a vassal of Sher Shah but one who feared that his master had overreached himself in rebelling against you. He had not therefore hurried to join Sher Shah’s army. He told us that to his knowledge Sher Shah was at least another fifty miles away beyond the point at Allahbad where the Jumna and the Ganges meet. He said he would be happy to accompany us here to tell you what he knew. We took him at his word and brought him, blindfolded of course to prevent his seeing anything of the direction of our camp or the strength of our army. We arrived just an hour ago and I have arranged that he should be given food while I discovered whether you wished to speak to him.’

‘You’ve done well. Bring him to me in half an hour.’

Exactly thirty minutes later, Ahmed Khan – well aware of Humayun’s penchant for precision – was back. Behind him, between two well-armed guards, was a short, slightly stout, dark-skinned man of about forty, dressed all in dark green with a turban of the same colour. Unprompted, he bowed low before Humayun.

‘Who are you?’

‘Tariq Khan,
takhaldar
of Ferozepur.’

‘And you’re a vassal of Sher Shah?’

‘Yes – and he has always been a good master to me . . . but above all I am a loyal subject of yourself, my ultimate overlord, Majesty. Sher Shah has been foolish to rebel.’

‘Insolent and disrespectful, insulting the rightful order, you mean to say . . . But what do you know of his whereabouts and intentions?’

‘His armies did not pass directly through my own territories but they did traverse those of my cousin twenty miles to the north of mine. He said Sher Shah’s army was small – no more than eighty thousand men. My cousin paid his respects to him in his camp. He told me Sher Shah seemed shocked that he had provoked you to action with such a vast army. He told my cousin he would not fight if he could negotiate a peace with you under which he retained his lands as your vassal once more.’

‘Did your cousin learn anything of his future movements?’

‘One of Sher Shah’s scouts indiscreetly told my cousin’s vizier that they were heading for the low-lying jungles and marshes of Bengal where – if they had to fight – they might be better able to withstand your might.’

‘Before I discuss what you have said with my council, have you anything else to add?’

‘Only that should Your Majesty wish to test Sher Shah’s resolution by offers of peace, I am prepared to accompany any emissary you send and undertake to bring him safely to Sher Shah’s camp and into his presence.’

‘I will consider this. Now, Ahmed Khan, blindfold him once more and keep him in close but comfortable confinement in your headquarters. Jauhar, summon my council to meet me here an hour before sunset. In the meantime ask Salima to join me.’ In the heat his lust rose quickly, Humayun thought, and twice as often as in the cool. She would know how to slake it and clear his mind to concentrate on the discussions ahead.

Salima, as always, did her work well. When his council assembled, Humayun felt relaxed, almost ready to purr like some great tiger, as he addressed his advisers. ‘You have heard about Tariq Khan and his reports that Sher Shah is headed deep into the jungles of Bengal to avoid confronting us and that – regretting his presumption – he may be amenable to negotiations for peace. What do you think?’

‘There’s no question we have the stronger army. Let us simply find and destroy him,’ said Baba Yasaval, his lock of grey hair swinging from his shaved head as he looked around at his fellow commanders.

‘But wait,’ said Humayun’s cousin Suleiman Mirza. ‘If we have the stronger army and we trust in our men’s loyalty, what do we lose by delaying long enough to send an ambassador? They’ll be back in plenty of time for us – if needed – to advance again before the monsoon arrives in two months.’

‘It’s still better to crush him now.’ BabaYasaval was adamant. ‘Making an example of him will deter other rebels.’