Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (52 page)

Gathering some of his own troops around him, Humayun pushed his black horse through Kamran’s disintegrating army in search of his brother, striking left and right as he did so. But he could not find Kamran. Once he thought he saw him on his chestnut horse, but as he swerved closer he realised that the rider was in fact a younger man, probably an officer, who quickly kicked his horse to escape but not quickly enough to prevent Humayun’s sword slicing into his helmetless head and splitting it like a ripe watermelon.

Shouts from the north where his main force under Bairam Khan would have engaged Kamran’s fleeing men from behind the barricades showed that the fight had been joined there too. Unable to distinguish clearly enough between friend and foe in the mass of fighters below, and with their sight partially obscured by smoke from their weapons, Humayun’s musketeers in the rocks above dropped their muskets and drew their swords before charging and sliding their way down through the scree into the chaotic battle.

Humayun, still eager above all to capture his brother, broke away and with a dozen riders made for the barricades. Before he had gone half a mile he was confronted by a band of about twenty of Kamran’s men galloping back towards him. Urging his black horse on, Humayun gathered speed. So too did those around him. The two groups met head on. One of Kamran’s men cut at Humayun’s head with his sword but the blow glanced off his helmet. At the same time, Humayun’s sword sliced into his opponent’s upper arm. Not expecting an attack, very few of Kamran’s men had been wearing chain mail so Humayun’s sword bit deep, splintering bone and almost severing the arm.

A second man swung at Humayun with a battle flail. One of the spikes on the ball at the end of its chain nicked Humayun’s nose as it whirled, parting the air in front of his face. His nose felt numb and instantly blood ran into his mouth and down the back of his throat. However, turning his horse tightly, he pursued his assailant who swung his flail once more, this time wildly, missing Humayun by a distance. As he passed, Humayun slashed at the back of the man’s neck. The stroke deflected off his opponent’s helmet, losing some of its force, but still cut into his neck, drawing blood. The man fell forward, losing control of his horse which reared up, throwing him heavily to the ground where he struggled to rise but soon collapsed and lay still.

‘Look out, Majesty, behind you!’ Humayun turned only just in time as another of Kamran’s men rode into the attack with his curved scimitar held high. This time Humayun’s response was instant and instinctive – a sword cut over the head of his assailant’s horse and into his groin. He fell at once.

As he coughed and spat the salty, metallic-tasting blood from his mouth, Humayun saw that he and his men had killed eight of their twenty assailants and that the rest had lost their appetite for the fight and were fleeing. Within moments Humayun was once more riding hard up the stony track towards the barricades, only, almost immediately, to see Bairam Khan leading a detachment of around five hundred of his own horsemen towards him, his scarlet banner flying.

Reining in his snorting, foam-flecked horse, Bairam Khan said, face creased in a triumphant smile, ‘Kamran’s men are fleeing in every direction.’ Looking around him in the now gathering dusk, Humayun saw that victory was his – but was it really a victory? To his intense disappointment he had failed to capture his half-brother – something he must do before he could safely turn to his great enterprise, the recapture of Hindustan.

‘Make sure we pursue and capture as many of Kamran’s men as we can before night falls entirely. I’ll offer a bag of gold coins to anyone who takes my traitorous half-brother alive or dead.’

H
umayun lay back against a red and gold brocade cushion and away from the low gilded table piled with silver plates from which he and Hamida had just eaten their midday meal. Humayun had chosen chicken baked slowly with spices and yoghurt in the tandoor – the clay oven that was essential to any Moghul kitchen and was always taken with them on campaign. He smiled at Hamida who after taking a bite from a sticky orange sweetmeat was daintily rinsing her fingers in a small, engraved copper bowl of rosewater. She smiled back. As he watched a shaft of sunlight fall through the casement on to the small, bubbling marble fountain behind her, Humayun felt content.

He smiled again at Hamida and from the quiver in her lips and the twinkle in her eyes he realized that she knew he was contemplating love-making after the meal and she would welcome it. He was about to stretch his arm out to her when her attendant Zainab entered. Even before she spoke, Humayun saw from the anxiety on her face that his afternoon of warm, languorous love would have to be postponed.

‘Majesty. Ahmed Khan begs your urgent presence – they have captured your half-brother Kamran.’ As Zainab spoke the words, Humayun saw Hamida’s expression suddenly change from that of a warm lover to a triumphant, avenging mother. She had never forgiven – never mind forgotten – Kamran’s treatment of her only son and had often rebuked Humayun for the number of times he had spared Kamran’s life. She had frequently quoted to him some lines from her favourite Persian poet:
Bad earth does not produce hyacinths, so don’t waste seeds of hope in it. Doing good to the evil is as bad as doing evil to the good.

Before Humayun could say anything, Hamida burst out, ‘Praise God for his capture. This time I hope there’ll be no talk of mercy. He’s had far more chances than he deserves and each time spurned the opportunity you gave him to reform. His resentment of you runs so deep within him he will never relent. Don’t think twice. Have him executed within the hour, if not for my sake, for that of our son whose life he held so cheap.’

Humayun said nothing as he rose to leave the room, pausing only to grab his father’s sword Alamgir. Nevertheless, he felt some of the same deep anger so clear in Hamida’s words welling up within him. It mingled with an almost ecstatic relief that at last he would be free of Kamran’s threat to his rear while he pressed on with his plans for probing raids beyond the Indus to test the strength of Islam Shah’s grip on Hindustan.

Ahmed Khan was waiting in the sunlit courtyard as Humayun emerged through the silver-lined doors of the women’s quarters.

‘Where did you capture him, Ahmed Khan, and how?’

‘Two days ago we seized a petty tribal chief who had supported Kamran in his last rebellion. We brought him to the citadel and confined him in the dungeons. Early this morning he asked for me and in a bid to reduce his punishment he hinted that he knew where Kamran might be. I told him I could make no deals without reference to you, Majesty, but he should tell me immediately what he knew. He could be sure that if Kamran were found you would not be ungrateful. He said he believed that Kamran was hiding in a poor quarter of Kabul itself – the area around the tanneries. He admitted when I pressed him that his information was old – at least a week – and that his informant, a petty thief who had been among Kamran’s camp followers, was not necessarily reliable. Nevertheless, I thought it worthwhile to send a strong detachment of our men immediately down to the tanneries area to cordon it off and make a house to house search.

‘I’m glad I did, Majesty. When the soldiers came to the house of a tanner whose family is from the south, the tanner seemed panic-stricken and tried to prevent them entering, claiming that his wife’s mother was lying gravely ill with the spotted fever. My men pushed him aside and searched the house, throwing aside piles of skins and even probing with their spears the deep copper vats of dye and urine used for tanning. They found nothing, but still convinced that the tanner was hiding something – or someone – they entered the curtained-off portion of the top floor where the tanner claimed his sick mother-in-law was lying. Here they found a body hunched beneath some dirty blankets. Pulling the blankets off they saw a large figure with big feet and hands – too big for a woman, they thought – curled up like a baby. The so-called “mother-in-law” was wearing rough women’s garments and had a thick black veil of the type worn by Arab women over her face. She was pleading piteously in a high-pitched voice to be left to die in peace. Nevertheless, the officer leading the party reached out to lift up her veil. As he did so, the figure pulled a dagger from the voluminous folds of her grubby brown robe and stabbed him in the forearm. Two of the officer’s men quickly restrained her, and without her veil it was clear she was no woman but your stubble-chinned half-brother.

‘At first he struggled and screamed that you were a worthless ruler and he the rightful king; that our men were lickspittles of a wastrel and should come to their senses and let him go. However, after a little he grew silent, seemingly resigned to whatever fate had in store for him.’

‘Where is my half-brother now?’

‘In the dungeons below the citadel, Majesty.’

In his mind’s eye, Humayun saw the three-year-old Akbar on the battlements of Kabul and again felt a sudden surge of anger against his half-brother. How easily Akbar could have been killed. How many others had died in Kamran’s rebellions? He drew his sword Alamgir from its jewelled scabbard.

‘Ahmed Khan, take me to Kamran.’

Swiftly, Ahmed Khan led the way across the courtyard, through a low door with guards on either side, and down a series of steep steps into the damp lower reaches of the citadel. Humayun struggled to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the interior corridors in which only an occasional oil lamp burned in an alcove. As his vision improved he thought he saw a large rat run close along the wall. At least he could stop his rat of a brother living to infect others with the disease of rebellion, he thought, and tightened his grip on his sword hilt. By now they were approaching the door of Kamran’s cell, which was guarded by four of Ahmed Khan’s men.

‘Let me enter alone,’ said Humayun. ‘I will deal with this obdurate traitor. I alone should spill my family’s blood.’

One of the guards pulled back the heavy iron bolts at the top and bottom of the thick wooden door. Humayun entered the small cell and there was Kamran, whom he had not seen for over five years, slumped on the straw-covered floor, his back against the damp stone wall. He was still dressed in the brown women’s clothes he’d been wearing when he was captured. They were full of holes, and with the heavy black veil thrown back over his head he looked ridiculous not rebellious.

After a moment, Kamran got slowly to his feet. He avoided Humayun’s eye, and it was he who broke the silence first. ‘I’m not going to plead with you for my life. So don’t think I’m about to fall at your feet and beg for mercy. I see our father’s sword in your hand. Use it. Kill me. If I were in your position I wouldn’t hesitate . . . There’s only one thing I want . . . ’ and here he raised his green eyes for the first time and looked deep into Humayun’s. ‘Bury me next to our father.’

Humayun stared unflinchingly back. ‘Why should I when you have dishonoured his memory? Why should I when you have broken every promise you ever made to me, thrown back my offers of peace and reconciliation, and worst of all exposed my son to danger?’

‘To prove you’re better than me, just as you loved to do when we were children. But what do I care about where my body lies. Get it over with. Prove you’re not the weakling everyone, including me, knows you are.’ Kamran pushed his face into Humayun’s and spat a great gob of rancid-smelling spittle into his eye.

But Humayun did not react. Suddenly the real wisdom behind Babur’s dying words,
Do nothing against your brothers, however much you think they may deserve it
, had hit him with a new clarity. Babur had been protecting Humayun as much as his brothers. Could he live with himself if he murdered his own brother in anger? By inciting him to kill him now in this squalid cell, Kamran – who knew him so well – was setting one last trap for him, daring him to set honour aside and descend to his level, and in his anger to prove that all his previous gestures of reconciliation had been acts of weakness, not of mercy.

Humayun lowered his sword and wiped away the spittle. ‘I am pleased you recognise you deserve death but I’ll consult with my counsellors as to your fate. If you die it will be an act of cool justice and not hot vengeance.’ As he turned to leave, Humayun thought he saw a brief half-smile cross Kamran’s lips. Was he laughing at him for what he saw as his weakness or, after all, was he simply relieved that for the moment he would live?

When he turned back to look at Kamran again, his half-brother’s eyes were downcast once more, his face expressionless.

Humayun scrutinised his counsellors, gathered in his sunlit audience chamber. His own mood was dark. He needed to decide the fate of Kamran.To delay would be to appear weak. His counsellors too seemed grave as he began.

‘It is for me to take the decision whether my half-brother Kamran should live or die but I wish to seek your views. Undoubtedly he has been responsible for the death of many men in the rebellions he has raised against me. His opposition has weakened my power, delayed my plans to reconquer Hindustan, as well as exposed my son Akbar to danger. Yet he is my half-brother, my father’s son and of the blood of Timur. If I am to spill that blood I must do so only if I am convinced that there is no other course I can take and that his death is for the sake of justice and the benefit of my realm and its people. Give me your views.’