Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (41 page)

‘I know what you are feeling.’

‘No, you cannot,’ sobbed Hamida. ‘Only a mother can.’ Twisting herself away she ran into the snow-covered women’s tent. Humayun watched her go, then, shaking with anger and disappointment, he walked over to Gulbadan and led her into the tent. Once inside he dismissed all their attendants. ‘What did he say? he asked when they were alone.

‘Very little. Kamran kept me waiting for a long time . . . When he did finally admit me he was alone, seated on our father Babur’s gilded throne – the throne of Kabul. He made no effort to rise to greet me. I passed him your letter and he scanned it briefly. Then, smiling to himself, he scribbled this.’ She handed Humayun a folded piece of paper. ‘He tossed it to me, saying simply, “Give him this and tell him to be off.” I persisted and begged him to release Akbar, if not for your sake then for mine and his mother’s. His only response was, “What kind of fool do you think I am? If you’ve nothing worthwhile to say, go.” I turned and left. I would not give him the satisfaction of humiliating myself further by begging more or by weeping.’

‘You did right,’ said Hamida, embracing Gulbadan who in turn succumbed to tears. ‘I will weep no more, and no more must you. Humayun, what does Kamran’s letter say? We must be sure it contains no new treachery.’

Humayun unfolded the note and read out the contents, written in the impatient spiky hand that Humayun remembered from their boyhood.

‘“You gave me your word to leave these lands for Persia but you have broken it and returned with a foreign army at your back to threaten me.You dare to offer me safe conduct out of a kingdom I have made my own – you, who failed to hold the lands our father won beyond the Khyber Pass, you, who have lost everything our father created. I sit on his throne now.You are the interloper here, not me. Get on your way back to Persia and exile.”’

Hamida broke the silence first. ‘He will not listen to soft women’s pleas or to your merciful and reasoned offer. Make him pay in blood for his callousness and cruelty.’

‘I will,’ replied Humayun and strode to the entrance of the tent. Pulling back one of the flaps he called to Jauhar who was warming his hands over a brazier of glowing coals. ‘Jauhar, we have our answer from my brother. It is war. Summon my council. We attack at dawn.’

The snow that had been falling through most of the previous day and night and had helped shield Humayun’s Persian gunners as they had manoeuvred their cannon into position was easing as they fired their first shots. From his command position sheltered behind another rocky outcrop about fifty yards behind the gunners, Humayun watched the teams of men – five per gun – in their leather jerkins, trousers and pointed steel helmets as they went to work, grunting with effort as they heaved linen bags filled with gunpowder and then the stone shot into the bronze barrels, ramming them down hard. Next they inserted the sharp metal spikes of their awls into the touch-holes to puncture the powder bags and carefully sprinkled a little extra loose powder around the holes. Finally, as the rest stood well back, one man from each team approached his gun. In his hands was a long forked staff to which was attached a taper of oil-soaked cord, the tip lit and smouldering orange-red, which he applied to the touch-hole before leaping back.

Though physically gruelling – Humayun could see sweat rising from them in the cold air like steam – the men made the process look smooth and quick, from the thuds as the powder and shot were loaded to the brilliant flash as the charge ignited. Humayun watched as they fired shot after shot. The first few fell several yards short and a little too far to the west, but Bairam Khan’s men quickly made the necessary adjustments to the angle of the barrels – by driving wedges under the cannon’s front wheels – and to the amount of powder they were using. Now the majority of shots were finding their mark, pounding the gates and the mud-brick walls from which a plume of red-brown dust was soon rising steadily.

Several of Kamran’s musketeers were firing at the artillerymen from the walls of the citadel, but to avoid hitting the rocks protecting the cannon they had to bend over the wall and show themselves fully. Although they had at first had some success in wounding a few of Humayun’s gunners, his own musketeers had now managed to get into advanced positions where they were, in turn, firing at any of Kamran’s men who exposed themselves over the battlements. They hit two of them who, dropping their weapons, toppled from the walls clawing at the air to smash themselves on the rocks below. The rest were now keeping under cover and any shots they fired were hasty, wild and wide.

Humayun saw Zahid Beg galloping up on a broad-chested white horse. ‘All seems quiet in the city, Majesty,’ he yelled above the booming of the guns. ‘Soldiers are watching our bombardment of the citadel from the walls but none has fired on our troops encircling the city or made any attempt to ride out to attack us in the rear. It is as you predicted – they’ve no stomach for a fight against such odds. But the city walls behind which they are hiding and in particular the citadel walls are strong. We will need time and persistence to conquer.’

‘Majesty, they’ve made a breach in the citadel wall.’ Zainab shook Humayun awake as he lay next to Hamida. ‘Bairam Khan is outside.’ As he struggled to consciousness, Humayun could not help feeling a sudden rush of joy. Now surely Kabul would be his and Akbar would be rescued. He dressed himself quickly and carelessly and stumbled outside into the night cold. ‘Where is the breach, Bairam Khan?’

‘To the right of the gate where you suggested that the wall was weakest.’

‘How big?’

‘Not large but big enough, I think, if we act now. I’ve given orders already to our musketeers and archers as well as to our artillerymen to keep up a heavy fire to dissuade the defenders from attempting to repair it. Dawn is in an hour and a half and I can have a force ready to attack then if you give the order.’

‘Do it.’

Low dark clouds obscured the winter sun and a bitter wind was blowing as the day dawned and Humayun, now dressed for battle, spoke to the assault force gathered around him at the bottom of the ramp leading up to the citadel.

‘I know the bravery and loyalty of each man here and am proud to go into battle with you. It is a bitter thing to have to fight against one’s own blood, but not content with usurping my throne my treacherous half-brother Kamran has betrayed every code of kinship and honour by stealing my son, an innocent child. In doing so he sullies the proud honour of the Moghuls. But together we can wipe clean the insult and punish the usurper. No more words – to battle!’

Humayun charged forward at the head of his men with Bairam Khan at his side. Both were breathing hard as, sometimes skidding on patches of ice, they ran as best they could up the frozen ramp through the white cannon smoke towards the citadel’s gate. The sound of his own musket and cannon shot was partly deafening him but through a gap in the smoke Humayun saw there was indeed a jagged breach in the right-hand wall by the gate. His spirits soared. Then, to his surprise, he realised there was scarcely any return fire from the walls of the citadel.

Suddenly, as he watched, he saw through another gap in the billowing smoke some sort of activity on the battlements directly above the gateway. Was Kamran preparing to surrender? He could scarcely believe it. He shouted to his gunners and musketeers to cease fire, then moved forward again to get a better look. As the acrid smoke began to clear, he saw that Kamran’s soldiers were erecting what looked like a wooden stake on the battlements. Then more soldiers appeared, pushing in front of them a tall figure with long, flowing hair silhouetted against the grey dawn sky. Humayun ran closer until he could see that the figure was a woman and that she was holding something in her arms. Something that wriggled and writhed – a child.

The blood in Humayun’s veins ceased to flow. He watched like a man in a trance as the soldiers bound the woman to the stake, wrapping what looked like a length of rope or chain around her body but leaving her arms free to continue clutching her living burden. That burden, Humayun knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, was his son, held in the arms of his wet-nurse Maham Anga.

A great cry tore from him. ‘No!’ By now, Zahid Beg and Bairam Khan were by his side, staring as he was at the sight of the woman and child exposed on the walls, living targets of flesh and blood.Wrenching his gaze away at last, Humayun put his head in his hands. Once again he’d underestimated his half-brother. This was what Kamran’s response had meant – continue your attack and you will be your son’s assassin.

‘Bairam Khan, call off the bombardment. I cannot risk my son . . . Zahid Beg, post strong enough detachments to keep the city and the citadel under siege but recall the assault troops to the camp.’

As kettledrums and trumpets sounded and his forces began to pull back across the snow-covered plain to their tents, Humayun turned and without a further word to anyone – neither his commanders nor his bodyguard – made his slow way back. Though the sun was breaking through now, thin, pale shafts lightening the sky, his own world had never seemed so lost in shadow. How was he going to bring his campaign to a successful conclusion? What was he going to say to Hamida?

‘Rustum Beg, I don’t understand.Howcan you speak of leaving?’

‘Majesty, my cousin Shah Tahmasp, the Lord of the World, gave me explicit orders before we left Kazvin that if your campaign faltered – if after six months it seemed to me unlikely that you would succeed – I must lead his troops home. I have been patient but now that time has come. It’s over six months since we rode from Persia . . . two months since we ceased the bombardment and began this fruitless siege of Kabul. My men are suffering in the bitter cold and harsh conditions, and to what end? The town and the citadel are well provisioned – your brother’s soldiers taunt us from the walls, offering us food . . . I am sorry, Majesty, but I have no choice. The shah can find better employment for his troops elsewhere . . . ’ Rustum Beg raised his hands, palm up, as if he personally regretted a situation that was beyond his control. But during the past half-hour since he had asked for a private audience with Humayun, though courteous as ever, he had conceded nothing.

By now shock and surprise had given way in Humayun to an anger he was struggling to contain. ‘As I’ve told you, Shah Tahmasp said nothing to me about deadlines or timescales. He called himself my brother and offered me his help to reclaim not only my ancestral homelands but also the throne of Hindustan . . . He understood it would take time. We spoke of it together . . . ’

‘I’m sorry, Majesty. If I don’t take my troops back to Persia I will be disobeying my orders. That I cannot do.’

‘Well, when you reach Kazvin tell your cousin this – that I will continue the fight and however long it takes I will crush my enemies so completely they never rise again. And when I once more sit on my throne in Agra I will have the satisfaction of knowing that the glory of the achievement belongs to the Moghuls and the Moghuls alone.’

Rustum Beg’s face remained impassive.

‘When will you leave?’

‘In three or four days, Majesty, as soon as my men are ready. I will leave you the cannon. They were the shah’s gift to you.’

If Rustum Beg expected his gratitude he would be disappointed, Humayun thought as he rose to his feet to indicate the interview was over. ‘I wish you and your men a safe passage back through the mountains. Tell the shah that I thank him for the assistance he gave me and only regret that it proved so short-lived.’

‘I will, Majesty. And may fortune one day shine on you again.’

After Rustum Beg had left, Humayun sat for a while alone. The Persian commander’s announcement had come without warning. He needed time to think it through and fathom a way forward. At least his own men nearly matched the Persians in numbers now and these were their own lands they were fighting in. They were hardened to the conditions and would not be deterred by snow, ice and the bitter winds that buffeted the encampment, exposed as it was on the plains. Almost as much as the loss of the Persian forces, what galled Humayun was Rustum Beg’s dismissive assessment of his chances. Since the first day of the siege, Humayun had never allowed himself to lose heart, hoping each day to find a way of breaking his enemy . . . of detecting some weakness in Kamran’s position. And even if such a breakthrough didn’t come, he need only have patience – inevitably Kamran’s supplies would run out.