‘What of Sher Shah, Sayyid Ali? Where is he?’
‘In Bengal, where there has been a revolt against him. But more than that I do not know. . except that they say his rule over Hindustan is like iron — hard and unbending.’
Excellent, thought Humayun. With Sher Shah far away and preoccupied, he need fear no pursuit by him.
‘I am grateful to you, Sayyid Ali, for your hospitality but even more for what you have told me. I wish to take my people across the Indus as soon as possible. . The currents are swift and treacherous but you will know the safest place for us to cross. . ’
Humayun shivered as the cold wind seemed to renew its strength and snowflakes fluttered around him. His head felt frozen solid and he pulled his long sheepskin jacket more tightly around him. Ahead rode the two Baluchi tribesmen Ahmed Khan had hired to guide them, who had just assured him that the party had covered nearly half the journey and were now ascending the snowy Bolan Pass, only a hundred and thirty or so miles from Kandahar. The guides seemed to expect praise but to Humayun progress had grown painfully slow the thicker the ice and snow had become. But at least his goal — the city Babur himself had captured for the Moghuls twenty years before — would soon be in sight.
Hamida and Gulbadan, wearing fur-lined cloaks with voluminous hoods over their thick woollen robes, were close behind him on ponies. The oxen had been unable to struggle up the narrow, slippery tracks and been killed for food many days ago and their carts chopped up for fuel. Maham Anga — with Akbar and her own son, both well swaddled against the cold — was in a deep pannier hanging on one side of a camel with Zainab in another pannier together with some cooking utensils to balance the weight on the other. The icy path was so treacherous that Humayun had ordered men to walk beside the three animals to lead them. But in these temperatures even the camel seemed subdued, trudging head down, ice crystals forming on the spikes of its thick fur.
Behind came the bodyguards, then the meagre baggage train — a few camels and mules wheezing beneath their loads — and finally the rest of his men, saddlebags bulging, shields slung across their backs, battleaxes and muskets tied to their saddles. Like his, their faces were half concealed by face cloths and their heads huddled low into their shoulders against the biting, scouring winds. Also like him, tonight they would dine on the flesh of an old mule that had collapsed under its load, which would at least give some variety to their monotonous diet of rice or barley broth and flat-baked bread.
They looked a motley lot — more like one of his father’s raiding parties than an emperor’s army, reflected Humayun. The spectacle of his small force trudging through this snowy wilderness reminded him sharply how low he had fallen. It was equally sobering that, now he had crossed the Indus to ascend into the mountains of Baluchistan, not one of Babur’s four sons remained in Hindustan. It was as if Babur’s invasion had never happened and perhaps, though he’d never acknowledged it before, he — Babur’s favoured and favourite son — must bear some of the blame. He hadn’t understood the extent of the danger posed by the rivalries within his family. In particular, he had underestimated the depths of Kamran’s enmity. Far too late he had begun to understand that Kamran would rather see the Moghuls fail than abandon his own ambitions and allow him, Humayun, to sit on the Moghul throne.
Humayun’s horse slipped and almost fell, jolting him out of his reverie. He threw his weight back in the saddle, trying to help the animal stay upright, and murmuring encouragement as, snorting in misty spirals, it managed to right itself. He would be glad to get clear of these mountains, he thought, and sank his head deeper into his shoulders as the bitter wind nipped at him. Before long his thoughts returned to his brothers as they so often did during these long days of plodding, this time to Hindal. Now that he had time to reflect, he realised his anger with his youngest half-brother for so guilefully taking Kandahar was less than his concern for his safety at the hands of Kamran and Askari. Though he had reassured an anxious Gulbadan that they would not harm her brother, he was not so sure. Kamran at least might welcome an opportunity to rid himself of a rival.
A distant howling, eerie and desolate, chilling as the wind which carried it, made Humayun’s horse skitter in fright. Wolves infested these wild, lonely mountains. At night they sometimes came so close to the camp that Humayun had seen their narrow yellow eyes gleaming out of the darkness and in the morning the ground around their tents had been patterned with paw prints.The snow was falling more heavily now and whirling flakes veiled the steep path ahead.
‘Ahmed Khan,’ Humayun called over his shoulder.
‘Majesty?’
‘A blizzard’s coming. We’ll camp here for the night. That overhanging rock shelf over there should provide some shelter.’ Humayun pointed to a great slab of grey rock facing away from the prevailing wind which should keep off the worst of the wind and snow, and there looked to be enough space beneath it for their tents.
Humayun’s men tethered their horses and began unloading equipment and erecting the tents beneath the overhang.Though it was still day, the light was getting poorer by the minute as the snow began tumbling in earnest. Keeping their backs bowed against the wind and struggling with numbed fingers to strike sparks from their tinder boxes, two of the men managed to get a fire going with some of the brushwood the mules had been carrying. As soon as it had caught, they made a giant torch from cloths dipped in oil and wound round a tall stick, and drove it into the ground outside Humayun’s tent.
Within they set up a brazier, filled it with some of the precious charcoal brought from Bhakkar and coaxed it alight — not for Humayun and Hamida but for Akbar who would be sharing the tent with them that night. In these wild places Hamida insisted that the baby should sleep close by her. Maham Anga would sleep with her son, as she had on previous nights during the journey, in an adjoining alcove screened by saddle blankets. Inspecting the rest of his camp, Humayun saw that his men had erected fewer tents than usual.They’d be cramming in close, using each other’s body heat to keep warm.
‘Majesty,’ came a deep voice. It was Ahmed Khan, cloaked head mantled with snow. ‘Zahid Beg and I will post guards around the perimeter of the camp. Four of your bodyguards will also be on duty outside your tent.’
Humayun looked around him. Driven by the rising wind, the snow was now whirling so thickly he could barely see his commander’s face. The previous night one of his pickets had suffered frostbite and the
Despite the gusting winds howling around the camp and buffeting his tent, sleep came easily to Humayun that night, lying with Hamida in his arms, her fur-lined cloak spread on top of the sheepskins that covered them. A brief wail from Akbar penetrated his dreams but only for a moment. Humayun moved closer to Hamida, drawing her warm body in against his as he sank back into slumber. Then, suddenly, he felt cold, sharp steel against his throat. He looked up into a familiar pair of eyes, glinting in the light of a flaring rag torch that another man was holding. It couldn’t be — he was in Kandahar many miles away beyond the icy passes.Yet there was no mistaking those triumphant eyes — green as their father Babur’s had been — above that narrow, hawk-like nose. Kamran!
Humayun half opened his mouth to shout for help but felt the tip of Kamran’s dagger prick his throat and a trickle of blood run slowly down. In the shadows beyond the bed he could make out other figures, presumably Kamran’s henchmen, watching in silence, weapons drawn.
‘One sound and I will cut your throat,’ Kamran said. ‘You know I mean it.’
Softly as Kamran had spoken, his words woke Hamida, who sleepily pushed her hair back from her face. As she opened her eyes, Humayun gently put a restraining hand on her arm. Taking in what was happening she didn’t scream or cry out but immediately looked to where Akbar lay close by her in his basket.
‘You have been lax, brother. I never thought to slip into your camp so easily,’ Kamran said. ‘My men have been observing your progress towards the pass for some days. The blizzard gave me my opportunity. You must have forgotten what our father taught us in the mountains around Kabul — how snow is the raider’s friend, how it deadens sound. Your men never heard a thing. We found them packed tight in their tents like dumb beasts in a byre.’
‘What have you done with them and the women?’
Kamran smiled but did not answer.
‘How did you know I was coming this way?’
‘I guessed that at some point you would try to come north. I have had all the approaches out of Hindustan watched for months.’
