Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (32 page)

She was sitting in the shade of a fig tree spinning woollen thread on a wheel she had borrowed from the headman’s wife, with her waiting woman Zainab holding the skein beside her. Seeing Humayun, Hamida smiled but went on with her song, matching her movements to the rhythm of the music.

‘Where are Khanzada and Gulbadan?’ Humayun asked when the song was ended.

‘Gulbadan has found a quiet place to write that diary she’s started keeping but Khanzada is sleeping. The heat tires her.’

‘But it doesn’t tire you?’

Hamida shrugged. ‘I must keep active and cheerful. It is important for our child and when I think of him nothing seems to matter except that he is born healthy. Gulbadan told me something amusing today – that the mountain clans around Kabul have a way of predicting the sex of a child. They take two scraps of paper and on one they write a boy’s name and on the other a girl’s. Next they wrap the papers in thin sheets of clay which they plunge into a basin of water. Then they wait to see which sheet of clay opens first . . . I have no need of such tricks. I know it’s a boy . . . ’

She looked so happy, Humayun thought, despite everything. But he still felt guilty. If he hadn’t chosen her – insisted on her – as his wife she would still be with her father. Now, instead of living as an empress, waited on by hundreds of attendants, dressing in gleaming silks and dining off jewelled plates as he had promised her father, he had reduced her to living like the wife of a poor peasant. And far worse than that he had exposed her to danger. He ran a finger along the curve of Hamida’s cheek. ‘As soon as it grows cooler this evening, I will go hunting with Zahid Beg. We might find some ducks amongst the reeds that would make good eating.’

But as Humayun walked along the riverbank to the camp to find Zahid Beg, a rider came galloping into the settlement. Humayun recognised Darya, who had joined Ahmed Khan’s scouts. His grey horse was foamy with sweat and his own clothes were dark with it. He looked only a little less anxious and exhausted than when he had brought the news of Kabul’s fall.

‘Majesty!’ Darya slid from the saddle.

‘What is it?’

‘A column of Rajput cavalry about fifteen miles from here.’

‘How many?’

‘At least three hundred, well mounted and some armed with muskets. They are travelling light and fast – we saw no baggage train.’

‘From which direction are they coming?’

‘From the northwest.’

‘So they could be soldiers from Marwar . . . ’ Why had he assumed Maldeo had given up the hunt when the prize was so great? ‘Where is Ahmed Khan?’

‘Still trying to discover whose men they are and where they might be heading. He sent me to warn you but promised he would not be far behind.’

Ten minutes later, Humayun addressed his commanders. Darya’s news had ended his uncertainties. He knew with absolute clarity what he must do.

‘Our scouts have sighted a detachment of Rajput cavalry only fifteen miles away. Whether fate has brought them this close to us or whether they know we are here, I don’t know. But what I am certain of is that we cannot fight here.’ He gestured towards the mud-built dwellings outside which women in cotton saris with brass bangles gleaming on their wrists and ankles were squatting, trying to coax fires of cattle dung into life so they could start cooking the evening meal.

‘But where will we go, Majesty?’ asked Zahid Beg.

‘Over the Luni. The ford a mile upriver from here is easy to cross – no more than a couple of feet deep. I was there yesterday. Then we will head due west across the desert. The headman has told me of a remote place called Umarkot where we should be safe.’

Humayun saw his commanders exchange glances. They too had heard of the desert’s dangers. ‘The desert has an evil reputation, I know. But that is why our enemies will hesitate to follow us, even if they discover that is where we have gone. But don’t fear – we will take a guide from here to lead us . . . He will make sure that . . . ’

Distracted by the beat of fast-approaching hooves, Humayun looked round to see Ahmed Khan career into the camp raising plumes of dust and scattering hens.

‘Majesty, they are soldiers of the Raja of Jaisalmer. He has allied himself with Maldeo. I learned this from a herdsman who’d sold them some sheep. They boasted to him that they were hunting an emperor, that the scent was warm and that soon they’d be moving in for the kill. But their conceit is greater than their skill. I don’t think they’ve yet discovered exactly where we are . . . I watched them ride off to the south . . . ’

‘Even so, we have little time. Ahmed Khan, we must quickly strike camp, cross the river and head westward. Summon the headman and ask him to provide us with a guide to lead us through the desert to Umarkot. Tell him I will reward him well – that he will have gold.’

As – watched by startled villagers – his men rushed to douse fires, collapse tents, collect their weapons and fill saddlebags, Humayun returned to Hamida. She had put her spinning aside. Gulbadan was with her now and they were laughing about something, but seeing Humayun’s expression both fell silent.

‘Ahmed Khan reports Rajput soldiers not far from here.’

Gulbadan gasped and Hamida instinctively put her hand on her stomach. Humayun took her face in his hands, feeling the warm smoothness of her skin. Bending his head, he kissed her lips. ‘Courage. No one will harm you, I promise. Pack up what you can. We leave within the hour. Gulbadan – find Khanzada and tell her what has happened.’

‘What’s that?’ Humayun stared at the cloud swirling and dancing along the distant horizon. Surely it hadn’t been there a few moments ago. The sky too had changed – no longer a bright almost turquoise blue but a lowering, steely grey. Humayun’s horse whinnied and tossed its head uneasily. Anil – Simbu’s eighteen-year-old grandson who was acting as guide and was walking by the side of Humayun’s horse – was also peering hard at the rolling billowing shape that even as they watched seemed to grow larger.

‘I saw it only once before, when I was a child. Desert travellers call it “the Demon of the Sands” . . . it is terrible . . . It’s a great sandstorm with whirlwinds in its midst.’Anil rubbed a hand over his eyes as if, by that gesture, he might make the terrible sight bearing down on them disappear. But as Humayun looked, the great tawny cloud was rushing towards them, blotting out the sun. Suddenly he saw one of the whirlwinds at its centre. It looked as if it was sucking up the guts of the earth and spewing them out.

‘Quickly . . . Tell us what to do.’ Humayun leaned down and shook Anil’s thin shoulder.

‘We must make hollows for ourselves and the animals in the sand and lie in them with our backs to the storm until it has passed over.’

‘How long have we got?’

The youth stared again at the advancing turmoil. ‘Only a few minutes . . . ’

‘Tell the men to dig themselves into the sand and pull their horses down behind them as extra protection,’ yelled Humayun to Jauhar and Zahid Beg, who had overheard his conversation with Anil. Dismounting and leading his own nervous, skittering horse by the reins, Humayun stumbled across to the bullock carts containing Hamida, Gulbadan, Khanzada and their retainers.

‘Dig places in the sand for the women to shelter in – they must help you – and for yourselves,’ Humayun shouted to the bodyguards who’d been escorting them. ‘Quickly! Make your horses lie down by you but unyoke the bullocks – they must fend for themselves.’

Even before he had finished speaking, Humayun saw that despite her many years Khanzada was out of her bullock cart and bending to tear at the ground with her hands. Gulbadan was close beside her. ‘Aunt, when the storm breaks over us, you and Gulbadan must lie down together, backs towards it, and hold on to each other, do you understand?’

Without stopping her digging, Khanzada nodded but his half-sister looked ashen and he saw she was shaking. ‘Dig!’ Khanzada shouted at her.

With figures frantically burrowing all around, Humayun hobbled his horse then lifted Hamida from the bullock cart and carried her a few yards away to where the sand looked softer and easier to dig.

‘Let me help . . . ’ Despite her bulk, Hamida knelt beside him and began clawing at the ground.They worked frantically, hollowing out a place as best they could with bare hands. Hamida’s nails were soon bleeding. Glancing over his shoulder Humayun saw the storm was much closer now, the sand and dirt within it darkening the sky. A roaring filled the air and though he could see Hamida was saying something he couldn’t hear her. Frantically he redoubled his efforts and, as the wind and sand overwhelmed them, grabbed Hamida and pulled her down into the space they’d dug. Her face was against his chest as he held her tightly to him, arms wrapped around her, trying to shield her with his body.

Hamida was almost torn from his arms but he clung tightly on to her, his face feeling as if it was being skinned and his hair as if it was being ripped from his scalp. Sand clogged his nostrils and mouth and as he struggled for breath his burning lungs felt ready to burst. He was choking and as he fought for life felt his grip on Hamida slacken.

With an enormous effort he willed himself to keep hold of her. What mattered above all was that she and their child should survive. He understood now how his father must have felt when, believing Humayun was dying, he had run into the mosque of the Agra fort to offer God his life for his son’s. Let her live, he prayed, and let our child live. Take my life for theirs if that is your will . . .

As he continued to pray he realised that the dust and tumult were receding. He felt his tortured lungs expand as, at last, he managed to take in air. Every gasp hurt – lips, mouth, throat, windpipe felt raw and his nostrils were still full of sand. As for his eyes, sand had got under the lids and he felt as if red-hot needles had pricked his eyeballs. He tried to force them open and through streaming tears to look down at Hamida but everything seemed blurred and he closed them again.

He could feel her lying very still in his arms. Gently releasing her, he pulled himself up into a half-sitting position. ‘My love . . . ’ he tried to say but no words came. ‘Hamida,’ he managed at last and reaching forward tried to pull her up too. Finding her shoulders, he ran his hands up her neck to take her face between his palms. She felt so limp. It was like holding a dead bird in his hands . . .

Stifled groans were rising from all around but Humayun had no thought for anyone but Hamida. Gently he pulled her face against his chest once more and began to stroke the hair that was once so silken and soft but was now gritty and tangled. He began rocking gently back and forward, as if he were holding a child. The motion comforted him, delaying the moment when he must face the pain of losing the person he loved above all others.

But after what seemed an age but could only have been a few moments, he felt Hamida move. Then she started to cough, spitting out a dirty orange-coloured mixture of saliva and sand. Joy that she was alive surged through Humayun. Helping her to sit up, he heard her taking in great, greedy gulps of air, just as he had done.

‘It’s all right,’ he said gruffly, ‘everything’s all right . . . ’

After a moment he felt Hamida take his hand and place it on her domed belly. As he felt the child within kicking strongly, fresh tears ran down his sand-covered face but this time they were of joy not pain.

Slowly, people and animals were hauling themselves to their feet, though some lay ominously still. Standing up, Humayun saw the feebly twitching body of a horse lying nearby beneath a thick layer of sand. Staggering over, he knelt beside it and brushing the sand from its face recognised his stallion. In the last terrifying moments before the whirlwind ripped over them he’d forgotten the animal completely. It must have tried to gallop off but hobbled had crashed to the ground. Running his hands over its fetlocks, Humayun felt the fracture in the bone. Whispering softly into its ear and stroking its neck with one hand, with the other he drew his dagger and swiftly severed the jugular, warm blood spurting over him and staining the sandy ground.

Looking round he saw that Zainab had brought Hamida some water to drink. But another female figure was stumbling towards him – Gulbadan, hair wild, clothes crusted with sand and glistening tracks on her filthy face from the tears she was crying. He tried to take her in his arms to comfort her but she pulled away from him.

‘It’s Khanzada . . . ’ Gulbadan led him over to where a body was lying and Humayun looked down on his aunt’s sand-streaked face. Her eyes were closed and from the angle of her head, he – who had seen so many dead bodies on the battlefield – knew she was dead. Mechanically, he put a hand against her neck but there was no pulse. She must have suffocated – her nostrils and mouth looked choked with sand and her hands were clenched as if she’d engaged in a mighty struggle with death, fighting until the last.

‘She behaved like the mother she had become to me since the death of my own. She shielded me with her body. She knew how afraid I was . . . ’ Gulbadan whispered.