Brothers at War

grassy meadows, firing arrows from the saddle at the straw targets Baisanghar had set up and already rehearsing wildly inflated stories of his skill and daring with which to impress Maham.

As he entered his mother’s sickroom, the soothing smell of frankincense filled his nostrils. It came from four tall incense burners set up around her couch in which the golden crystals of resin were smouldering. Maham looked very small beneath the green coverlet, the skin on her face paper thin, but her large, dark eyes still had their beauty and they warmed as they rested on her son. Humayun bent and kissed her forehead. ‘Forgive me — I come to you with the sweat and dust of the journey still upon me.’

‘My beautiful warrior. . Your father was so proud of you. . he always said you were the most worthy of all his sons, the most fit to rule. . Among his last words to me were, “Maham, although I have other sons, I love none as I love your Humayun. He will achieve his heart’s desire. None can equal him.”’ She touched his cheek with her dry hand. ‘How is it with you, my son, my emperor? Have you defeated our enemies?’

So they had kept the news of his reverses from her, Humayun thought with relief. ‘Yes, Mother, all is well. Sleep now. I will come to you in the morning and we will talk again.’ But Maham’s eyes were already closing and Humayun doubted she’d heard him.

Khanzada was waiting for him in the antechamber. She looked drawn — Humayun guessed she had spent many hours by Maham’s bedside — but her face lit at the sight of him. ‘I gave thanks when I heard you had reached Agra in safety,’ she said as he kissed her cheek.

‘I must speak with the hakims. . ’

‘They have done what they can. We even sent messengers to consult Abdul-Malik, knowing how his skill saved your father when he was poisoned. Though he is old and half blind, his mind is still clear. But when told of the symptoms he said nothing could be done except to ease Maham’s pain.’ Khanzada paused. ‘She was waiting for one thing only — to see you again, Humayun. Now she will die happy. . ’

Humayun looked down at Timur’s ring on his battle-scarred hand. ‘I lied to her just now. . I told her I had conquered our enemies. But as she looks down on me from Paradise I will make her proud — I swear it. . ’ Without warning, he felt tears running down his cheeks.

Two days later, Humayun was one of the four men carrying the sandalwood coffin containing his mother’s body, washed in camphor water and wrapped in soft woollen blankets, down to the Jumna where a boat was waiting. A bright, flower-filled garden — one of several planted by his father Babur on the far bank of the river and now coming to maturity — would be her resting place. Humayun glanced at Baisanghar, walking beside him. Despite his age he had insisted on accompanying his daughter on her final journey. How stooped and frail he looked — no longer the warrior who had hazarded his life to help Babur capture Samarkand.

An even deeper melancholy took hold of Humayun — not only grief at Maham’s death but a sense that many of the certainties of his youth were crumbling. All his life he’d been a pampered prince, brought up to expect great things as of right, confident of his place in the world. Never before had he felt so insignificant, so vulnerable to the buffeting of others’ actions. Never before had he felt it so difficult to control his destiny.

As he and the other coffin bearers reached the riverbank, Humayun raised his face to the heavy grey skies. Without warning, the rain began to fall, at first in large, fat drops but soon in a ceaseless sheet that drenched his dark mourning robes. Perhaps the rain was a sign, sent to cleanse him of his doubts, to tell him that though some things must end, there could always be a fresh beginning for a leader who never despaired in the face of grief or adversity but kept his belief in himself and in his ultimate triumph.

Humayun looked around at his counsellors, like him dressed in the mourning that custom demanded they wear for forty days. Maham had been dead for only fourteen of those days but if the alarming reports reaching him were accurate, little time was left for observing the courtesies to the dead.

‘You’re certain, Ahmed Khan. .?’

‘Yes, Majesty’, responded his travel-stained chief scout.‘Sher Shah is advancing fast with an army at least three hundred thousand strong. I saw the vanguard with my own eyes just five days’ ride east from here.’

‘This matches other reports that have been coming in, Majesty,’ said Kasim. ‘Despite the start of the rains, Sher Shah is making good progress.’

At least Sher Shah hadn’t caught up with his retreating army, Humayun thought. The main force had reached Agra safely nearly a week ago though many had deserted along the road. ‘So he means to attack us here in Agra. . How many troops do we have left?’ Humayun turned to Zahid Beg, the tall, thin officer he had made his commander-of-horse in place of Baba Yasaval.

‘Around eighty thousand including the returning forces from Kanauj, Majesty, but the number diminishes every day. . ’

Raising his head, Humayun looked down the length of his audience chamber to the courtyard beyond. The rain had ceased temporarily and in the shafts of sunlight the red sandstone glowed.This fortress had been the Moghuls’ greatest stronghold ever since they had swept down to conquer Hindustan. Last night before retiring into the pleasures of the haram he had stood on the battlements with his astrologer, Sharaf, and together they had gazed into the night sky. But Sharaf had been unable to find any messages written there — or in his charts and tables.Was the silence of the stars God’s way of showing him that he and he alone must find a way of saving his dynasty. .?

‘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