Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (17 page)

Although the rain had ceased and the sun was now shining brightly, producing rainbow effects in the bubbling fountains, the courtyard before Humayun’s
durbar
hall, his audience hall, in the Agra fort was still wet and glistening. It was four months since the ill-fated battle at Chausa. Humayun had stationed his main army one hundred and twenty miles south of Agra to block any unexpected advance by Sher Shah while he himself had returned to his capital to rally more allies.

More bad news had greeted him on his arrival in Agra. Bahadur Shah the Sultan of Gujarat and his allies the Lodi pretenders had taken advantage of his preoccupation with Sher Shah in Bengal to re-emerge from their hiding places in the highlands and drive out Humayun’s governors and their few men from Gujarat’s strongholds. Recognising that he could not fight a war on two fronts, Humayun had sent Kasim, his vizier and veteran of so many perilous ambassadorial missions for his father Babur, to Gujarat to negotiate a peace deal. Humayun would return autonomy to Gujarat provided the sultan nominally at least recognised him as his overlord.

A week ago, a tired, dusty but smiling Kasim had dismounted from his horse and told Humayun that the sultan had agreed to his proposals. And there had been other encouraging developments, Humayun reflected as he moved across the courtyard towards the
durbar
hall where his courtiers and commanders were waiting. His half-brothers had sent small contingents of troops from their provinces, together with promises of much larger contributions. There was no sign – as yet at least – of Kamran and his other half-brothers using his misfortunes to attempt a rising against him, rather Sher Shah’s revolt seemed to have brought them together.All would yet be well, Humayun comforted himself, and a half-smile crossed his face.

‘Get back. Do not dare approach His Majesty.’

Humayun turned to look behind him where the shout had come from. A tall, black-turbaned guard was gripping a small, struggling figure firmly by the wrists.

‘He told me to come – that I could sit on his throne for an hour or two.’

‘Have you been touched by the sun? Don’t be disrespectful – you’ll get yourself flogged at best, crushed beneath the elephant’s foot at worst.’

Humayun looked closer at the wriggling figure with the determined voice. It was Nizam, the water-carrier who had saved his life.

‘Release him.’ The guard did so and Nizam dropped to his knees before Humayun, head bowed.

‘You may stand, Nizam. I remember well how you helped me from the battlefield of Chausa and across the Ganges. I also remember how you asked for no reward and – to show my gratitude – I did say that for a short while you could sit on my throne and that any command you gave would be carried out.’ Humayun’s guards and the courtiers including Kasim and Baisanghar who had been escorting him to the
durbar
hall were exchanging surprised glances but he ignored them. ‘Fetch a fitting robe for our temporary emperor,’ he ordered Jauhar, who returned a few minutes later with a red velvet robe and a gold-tasselled sash of the same material.

Nizam himself was gazing round the flower-filled courtyard and fountains bubbling with rosewater. His self-confidence seemed to have deserted him and as Jauhar approached him with the robe he recoiled.

‘Courage, Nizam.’ Humayun patted the youth’s shoulder. ‘To have your dearest wish fulfilled isn’t always easy.’ He took the robe from Jauhar and himself helped Nizam into it, fastening the silver clasps at waist and right shoulder and tying the sash around Nizam’s slight frame. There should have been something comical about the sight of the shock-headed young water-carrier in the velvet robe, but Nizam drew himself up and the carriage of his head had a dignity.

‘Let us proceed.’ Humayun nodded to the two drummers stationed outside the
durbar
hall, who at once began to strike with the flats of their hands the tall ox-hide drums resting on their lapis lazuli inlaid golden stands, announcing the coming of the emperor.

‘Come Nizam, let us go together – you the emperor of the hour, I the emperor born to carry the burden of leadership to the grave.’

Humayun and Nizam led the procession into the
durbar
hall where Humayun’s courtiers and commanders were waiting. As they approached the throne, Humayun stopped and pushed Nizam gently forward. To a huge gasp of surprise, Nizam slowly mounted the throne and, turning, sat down.

Humayun raised his hands for silence.‘I acknowledge before all my court the bravery and loyalty of this youth, Nizam the water-carrier, in saving my life after Chausa. I promised Nizam that for a short while he should sit on my throne and make whatever pronouncements he wished. He has already shown himself honourable and will not, I know, abuse the power that I have put into his hands. Nizam – what are your wishes?’

Humayun was intrigued. What would Nizam ask for? Money, jewels, land? He must know that his life – and that of his family – need never be the same again. It felt good to be able to grant Nizam’s wishes.

‘Majesty . . .’ Nizam’s voice from high up on the throne sounded reedy and thin. As if he’d realised it, he tried again. ‘Majesty.’ This time his young voice rang out, true and clear. ‘I have just two commands. That I receive a grant of a small parcel of land near the Ganges where I can grow crops and that the tax on all water-sellers be rescinded for a year.’

Humayun heard some open sniggers. Even Kasim’s usually serious, ascetic face seemed in danger of twitching into a smile, but Humayun himself was touched by Nizam’s modest requests. He was not seeking to enrich himself excessively like so many at court.

‘It shall be as you command.’

‘Then I am ready to descend the throne.’ Nizam got up and, relief etched on his small features, stepped lightly down, holding his robes clear of his feet to avoid tripping. Looking at him Humayun realised he had witnessed real courage. What must it have cost Nizam to come to court to ask Humayun to honour his promise? For all he knew, Humayun might have forgotten all about him or been angered by his presumptuousness. Just as the guard had yelled at the struggling boy he might well have paid the price of a flogging or even death for his temerity in calling an emperor to account.

Humayun now mounted the throne. ‘As emperor again I too have orders to give. These are that Nizam the water-carrier also be given five hundred gold coins and that the grant of land should be sufficient to support him and all his family in comfort.’ Humayun watched as the small figure, with one backward glance at him, was escorted from the
durbar
hall.

Later that day, with all business done and the pale moon just beginning to rise and the first cooking fires alight, Humayun climbed to the battlements of the Agra fort. He had dismissed his guards and wished to be alone with his thoughts for a while. His love of solitude which to Babur had seemed such a vice in a ruler had never entirely deserted him. Neither had his fascination with the machinations of the stars. Though he curbed such feelings, as he knew he must, they were still there – far stronger than any longing for Gulrukh’s concoction of wine and opium.

His father had once spoken to him of the tyranny of kingship – and he had been right. In some ways, was being a ruler any better than being a poor man? At least Nizam, dipping his water bottles into the Ganges, was his own man. It wasn’t easy to bear the burden of the future of a dynasty, yet he knew he would never wish to abandon such a sacred charge.

Night had fallen around him while he mused. It was time to return to his apartments where Jauhar and his attendants would be spreading the evening meal – the plates of lamb, buttered rice and root vegetables of the Moghuls’ homelands and the spicy dishes of Hindustan with their saffron and turmeric, intense as the sun which burned by day above the plains of his new empire. By the light of a blazing torch mounted on the wall, Humayun made for the three flights of steep stone steps that led back towards his apartments. Still lost in his thoughts he descended the first flight, then, about to round the corner to descend the second, he paused at the sound of voices.

‘I thought the emperor had cured himself of his madness. We put up with months of his lunacy . . . all that rubbish about days of Mars and days of Jupiter and that stupid carpet with the planets. I’m surprised we were allowed to piss when we wanted . . .’

‘That smelly little peasant should never have got near the
durbar
hall, let alone have sat on the imperial throne,’ said another voice after a pause. ‘If the emperor had wanted to reward him, a copper coin and a goodbye kick would’ve done. I hope this isn’t the start of some fresh insanity. With Sher Shah’s armies pressing nearer we need a warrior, not a dreamer.’

‘The emperor is a fighter – no one is braver in the field . . .’ said a third man. His voice was deep and sounded older but – as with the others – Humayun didn’t recognise it.

‘Well let’s hope he remembers that’s what he’s there for. Babur was a real man – that’s why I rode from Kabul with his invasion force. I didn’t leave everything behind for a fanciful star-gazer I can’t trust . . .’

‘But he’s already won great victories . . . remember Gujarat and how we . . .’ the deeper voice went on, but as the men began to move off Humayun couldn’t catch the rest.

Their words had angered him. He’d been tempted to leap out and confront them but there’d been justice in some of what they’d said. Doped with opium and living in a twilight world he had lost touch with his commanders and courtiers and let his people down. But they were wrong about Nizam. He had given Nizam his word and had kept it. That was the action of an honourable man. To do otherwise would have damned him in the next life, if not in this . . .

‘First, what do we know of our enemy, Ahmed Khan?’

Humayun was seated once more in his scarlet command tent with his military council around him. He had arrived at his army’s camp, a hundred and twenty miles south of Agra, the previous evening to renew the war against Sher Shah.

‘The news, Majesty, is not good. After burying his dead, Sher Shah returned slowly to Kakori, the town he had used as his forward command centre. Here, ten weeks ago, he held a great parade to celebrate his victory. To the beating of drums a detachment of his elite cavalry riding beneath their purple pennants led the way. They waved to the crowd who cheered them at the tops of their voices. Sher Shah had succeeded in getting most of the bronze cannon he captured from us out of the Ganges mud and back into working order. These came next in the parade, pulled through the streets by some of our elephants which he’d rounded up.They were followed by ranks of our prisoners, forced to march in chains. According to one of our spies who got close disguised as a sweetmeat-seller, some were limping or had their wounds bandaged with dirty cloths. Others had raw, weeping sores where the chains bit into their flesh. All were gaunt and hungry-looking and held their eyes on the floor. The spy said the crowd yelled obscenities at them, jostled and pelted them with rotting rubbish and even lashed out at them with sticks.

‘They in turn were followed by further detachments of Sher Shah’s rejoicing troops and at last by Sher Shah himself riding high in a gilded howdah atop a tall elephant which had its tusks painted with gold leaf and its large saddle cloth, which reached down to the ground, embroidered with pearls and jewels. When the procession reached the main square of the city, Sher Shah dismounted to take his place on a great dais covered in purple cloth.

‘Here he distributed further gifts of our captured treasure to his chief supporters and granted assignments of our captured lands to them, and even gave them groups of our wretched prisoners to serve as slaves in their fields and quarries. Then, further shame to say, many of our former allies and vassal rulers came forward dressed in their ceremonial finery. They happily prostrated themselves in the dirt before Sher Shah to be pardoned and rewarded with positions in his army and promises of further bounty when you were defeated. They were followed by ambassadors from the rulers of the Deccan states such as diamond-rich Golconda who, seeing the opportunity to enrich themselves further from our weakness, promised aid to Sher Shah and were in turn gratified by grandiose assurances about portions of our land to be ceded to them.

‘Finally, to another loud blaring of trumpets, one of the most important of your former vassals – the Raja of Golpur – came forward and joined by many of Sher Shah’s commanders fell to his knees before Sher Shah. Together they begged him to accept the title of emperor –
padishah
– obsequiously and traitorously assuring him he was much better suited to hold it than ever you were. Twice Sher Shah refused with self-deprecating statements that all he sought was to help those suffering your oppression. He sought neither power nor reward for himself. However on the third occasion, beseeched in ever more flattering and vainglorious terms – the hyperbole of their words knew no limits – he accepted, saying, “If it is your settled wish, I can but agree. I promise to rule wisely and give justice to all.” Then a crown of gold set with rubies – held ready all the time; the whole thing was stage-managed, his initial refusals merely for show – was placed on his head by the Raja of Golpur and three of Sher Shah’s officers. All present prostrated themselves before him, traitorous noses pressed to the earth.