Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (21 page)

‘Ahmed Khan’s news confirms what I had already feared. We have no choice but to retreat from Agra,’ Humayun said at last. There was an audible gasp.

‘Abandon Agra, Majesty?’ Kasim looked shocked.

‘Yes. That is the only way.’

‘But where will we go?’

‘Northwest, to Lahore. That will buy us time and I will be able to summon more troops from Kabul – the clans there will welcome a chance for some plunder . . . ’

A long silence followed, then Baisanghar spoke. ‘Many years ago when I was still young and with Babur in Samarkand, we faced an enemy – Shaibani Khan and his numberless Uzbeks whom we knew we could not defeat. The only alternative to retreat was the death of thousands of our people. Babur, with the courage and foresight that made him so great, understood that. Though it grieved his warrior soul to yield Timur’s city to the barbarian Uzbeks, he knew he must . . . Just as we must leave Agra . . . ’

Humayun looked down. Baisanghar’s words were the truth. But what he hadn’t said was that, as part of the bargain, Shaibani Khan had demanded Khanzada as a wife and Babur had been forced to yield her up. For ten years she had endured life in the
haram
of a man with a visceral hatred of Timur’s descendants who had enjoyed trying to break her spirit. He had failed.Whatever happened, he, Humayun, would make sure that no such fate overtook her again.

‘We are retreating, not running away. Though we will ride out tomorrow morning at dawn, everything must be done in an orderly fashion . . . Kasim, assemble the officers of the imperial household and ensure that they and their servants carry out my commands swiftly and without question. The contents of the royal treasuries in Agra must be transferred into strongboxes. Anything else of great value must also be packed to go with us – I will leave Sher Shah nothing that will help him. Zahid Beg, prepare our troops. Tell them that we are riding to Lahore to join our forces coming from Kabul. And make sure all our muskets and all the ammunition are securely loaded on to bullock carts and the cannon made ready for travel. Say nothing, do nothing to suggest defeat or flight or that we are in any way afraid of Sher Shah.’

Humayun paused and looked around. ‘And you, Ahmed Khan, choose your fastest and best young riders to carry letters to my half-brothers with orders to leave sufficient troops to hold their provinces but to join me with the rest at Lahore. I myself will write the letters and mark them with the imperial seal so my brothers are in no doubt it is the emperor who commands them. Now hurry, there is little time . . . ’

Humayun neither slept nor visited the
haram
that night – there was too much to attend to. In any case the hours of darkness were punctuated by the frequent arrival of scouts bringing fresh and ever more disquieting news of the progress of Sher Shah’s advance troops. If they maintained their present pace, their vanguard could reach Agra in as little as three or four days’ time, Humayun calculated.

Even before the sky was lightening to the east, the first detachments of Humayun’s army, pennants streaming in the warm breeze, were moving out, their task to secure the route ahead. Once word spread that he was leaving Agra, the populace might become restive and dacoits might take the chance for some mischief. The task of Humayun’s vanguard – in their burnished steel breastplates and mounted on fresh horses from the imperial stables – was to impress them with a show of power. And he was still powerful, Humayun told himself. He still had nearly eighty thousand men under arms – far more than he and his father had had at Panipat.

Looking down from his apartments into the courtyard below, he saw the royal women and their attendants preparing to climb into the carts and litters that had been prepared for them. They would travel in the heart of the column, with guards positioned around them in a protective cordon, and to the front and rear would be further lines of specially assigned cavalry. But Humayun had ordered that Khanzada and his half-sister Gulbadan should ride close to him on one of the imperial elephants. Salima, still his favourite concubine, would follow behind on another.

Behind the women would come the baggage wagons with all the equipment for the imperial camp – the tents and mobile bathhouses, the cooking pots and other utensils necessary for the four-hundred-mile journey northwest. And, of course, the imperial treasure in the huge iron-bound travelling chests whose intricate locks required four separate silver keys – each in the keeping of a different official – and a fifth golden key that was hanging from a chain around Humayun’s neck. Humayun was glad that before first marching out to face Sher Shah he had had the foresight to order his treasure in Delhi to be sent to Agra for safe keeping. With his own money and gems and what he had captured from Bahadur Shah, he should have more than enough funds to recruit and equip a new army to match Sher Shah’s.

At the very end of the line would come further ranks of cavalry and foot soldiers, including some of his best archers, so skilled they could fire forty arrows a minute. And strung out all around the column and out of sight for much of the time would be Ahmed Khan’s scouts, ever watchful for trouble.

Two hours later, mounted on the long-legged, muscular bay stallion that had carried him so swiftly back to his capital after the disaster at Kanauj, Humayun himself rode slowly down the ramp of the Agra fort. Beneath his jewelled helmet, his eyes looked straight ahead. This was no time for backward glances or nostalgic thoughts. This was only a temporary setback and soon – very soon, if God so willed – he would return to claim what was his. Yet there was still one thing he must do before departing. Riding down to the riverbank, he dismounted and boarded the small boat waiting to carry him across the Jumna to Maham’s grave. Arrived at the simple white marble slab, he knelt and kissed it. ‘Sher Shah is a man of our own faith,’ he whispered. ‘He will not violate your grave and one day I will return to you. Forgive me, Mother, that I cannot observe the forty days of mourning, but the fate of our dynasty is in the balance and I must strain every nerve and sinew to defend it . . . ’

The rains that had fallen almost daily since they had left Agra seemed to be easing and – just as Humayun had hoped – though Sher Shah had seized Agra, he had not pursued him further. According to Humayun’s spies, the
khutba
had been read in Sher Shah’s name in the mosque of the Agra fort, proclaiming him once more
Padishah
of Hindustan, and he was now holding court in the pillared audience chamber. Well, let the usurper enjoy his moment of glory – it would be brief.

He and his column were making good progress, Humayun reflected – usually twelve or thirteen miles a day, perhaps more, as they travelled northwest over the flat, featureless terrain. If they could continue at this pace they should reach Lahore within a month. So far they had suffered no serious attacks. As the Moghul column passed by villages, the people seemed afraid to come close, watching the passing ranks of soldiers and wagons from the safety of the sodden fields or peeping from their thatched, mud-brick houses.All that moved were hollow-ribbed dogs and scrawny, yellow-feathered chickens.

There had been only one attack on his column. One evening in a rapidly falling dusk made darker by a veil of drizzle, a band of dacoits had fallen on a baggage cart carrying spare tents and cooking equipment that had become bogged down and separated from the main column. It had been some hours before its absence had been spotted and Ahmed Khan sent scouts to search for it. They had found the drivers’ sodden bodies lying with arrows in their backs and the wagon gone. But even in the darkness, the thieves and the stolen wagon had not been hard to track. By the time the first fires of the day were flickering into life, Ahmed Khan’s men had brought the dacoits, trussed like fowl for market, into the camp. Humayun had immediately ordered their heads to be cut off and cemented into a pyramid of stones as a sign that he would permit no lawlessness among his subjects.

Neither would he tolerate it amongst his troops. Though not of his blood, these Hindustanis were his people – his subjects – and he would not have it said that he allowed his men to pillage them at will. He’d given strict orders that there was to be no looting and had already had six soldiers flogged, spread-eagled across wooden frames in front of their comrades, for stealing a sheep and a seventh executed for raping a village girl.

All the same, as he passed the village temples with their carved stone bulls garlanded with marigolds, and their statues of bizarre gods – some multi-armed, some part man, part elephant – he couldn’t help wondering whether he’d ever understand fully the land to which fate and a hunger for empire had brought the Moghuls. His own god was single, indivisible and all-powerful and it was sacrilege to attempt to create his image. The Hindu gods seemed legion and in their voluptuous bodies and sinuous limbs more suggestive of earthly delight than eternal salvation.

Sometimes as he rode, Humayun discussed his thoughts with Khanzada and Gulbadan, speaking with them through the pale pink silk that covered their swaying howdah, fastened with gold chains to the back of one of his best elephants. The practical Khanzada didn’t share his curiosity about the religious practices of his Hindu subjects – why they venerated stone
yoni
and
lingams
– representations of the female and male sexual organs – why their priests daubed their foreheads with ashes and why they wore a long cotton thread suspended over their right shoulder.

Yet Gulbadan seemed not only fascinated by these infidel practices but also knowledgeable about them. Of course, Humayun reminded himself, she’d been just a very young child when brought from Kabul to Babur’s capital of Agra. She’d grown up in Hindustan and had few if any memories of the Moghuls’ mountainous homelands beyond the Khyber Pass. Among her nurses would have been Hindustani women –
ayahs
they called them – who would have explained their religious rituals to her. When times were calmer, he might do well to spend time with Gulbadan, to try to understand more about his subjects.

Humayun’s column continued to pass on through a seemingly quiescent land until Lahore at last rose before them. Though the city had no surrounding walls to protect it, the ancient royal palace, built centuries ago by Hindu rulers in the heart of the city, looked solid and strong as Humayun dismounted in front of it. Still better was the news that his half-brothers had already arrived and were awaiting him within. In his darker moments he’d wondered whether they would obey his order but they had . . . even Kamran.

He was surprised how eager he felt to be with them.What would they be like now? He’d not seen any of them since that bleak time after Babur’s death when they had plotted against him. Now, more than ever, he was glad he’d been merciful to them – not only because with his dying breaths Babur had asked him to show them compassion but because he needed his half-brothers and they surely needed him. Sher Shah was a threat to them all as Moghul princes. If Babur’s sons could unite, they could drive Sher Shah back into the festering marshes of Bengal whence he’d come. But more than that, it might also be an opportunity for them to start again, re-forging the bonds not only of blood but of affection that should never have been broken. Was it foolish to hope that they also might wish to heal the wounds of the past?

As soon as it was growing light next morning, Humayun summoned his half-brothers to his apartments. Kasim, Zahid Beg and a weary-looking Baisanghar were present as Kamran, Askari and Hindal entered and Humayun embraced them one by one, appraising each with a frank curiosity that matched their own as they stared back at him. When he’d last seen them over six years ago, Askari and Hindal had been youths and Kamran, just five months younger than himself, little more. Now they were all men.

Kamran’s eyes – that vivid green just like their father’s – flickered above a nose that was still hawk-like, indeed even more so. It had clearly been broken – perhaps in a fall from his horse or in a skirmish – and the
hakims
had failed to set it properly. That was not the only change – Kamran had broadened out. His sinewy shoulders and thick biceps bulged beneath his yellow tunic. Askari had altered less. Though his face looked longer and narrower than Humayun remembered and he now wore a clipped black beard, he was still slight. He was also at least half a head shorter than Humayun or Kamran. As for Hindal, Humayun would not have recognised him at all. Dildar’s son – Gulbadan’s brother – had grown so much. Taller than any of his brothers by at least four inches and thickly muscled, he looked far older than his eighteen years, an impression reinforced by a scar across his right eyebrow beneath his unruly brown hair and by his deep, resonating voice as he greeted Humayun.