Brothers at War

just three precise motions he severed the blackened toes, then he cauterised the bleeding wounds and bandaged them tightly.

Now it was Darya’s turn. The hakim looked grave as once again he passed his knife through the flames. ‘This will take much longer, Majesty. I wish I had opium to give him to deaden the pain. . I have seen stronger warriors than him die of shock during such an operation.’

Humayun glanced over his shoulder to where Darya was lying very still, pale face covered with a sheen of sweat.

‘If he were unconscious, would that help?’

The hakim nodded.

Humayun went over to Darya. ‘All will be well,’ he said, kneeling down beside him. ‘Try to sit up a moment, there is something I must tell you. . ’ As a puzzled-looking Darya raised himself on his elbows, without warning Humayun swung his balled fist at him, catching him hard on the point of the chin. The young man instantly fell back. Pulling back his eyelids — as he had done many a time to both friend and foe on the battlefield — Humayun saw he was out cold. His aim had been good. .

‘Hakim, do what you must.’ As Humayun ducked out of the tent into the freezing air, leaving Ahmed Khan to assist the doctor, he caught the rasping sound of metal sawing through bone and his spirits sank yet lower. How was he going to justify his men’s confidence and repay their sacrifices? He looked up into the darkening sky and for a moment longed for a draught of Gulrukh’s opium-laced wine to wash away his cares and responsibilities and waft him through the heavens.Then the image of Khanzada’s face seemed to coalesce in the stars, silently reminding him that it was not his destiny to be carefree and that with it came burdens and obligations. He pulled his cloak tighter about him and determined to do a round of the sentries, warning them to keep moving and stamping their feet to avoid frostbite.

But three days later it seemed that, perhaps, the worst might be over. As they snaked down a narrow winding track the biting wind suddenly abated, and looking down through drifting wisps of cloud Humayun made out a circle of snow-covered houses and smoke rising from what he guessed must be a caravanserai. Muffled figures were grouped in its courtyard and he could see animals wandering about. ‘Is that one of the settlements you spoke of?’ he asked one of the Baluchi guides.

‘Yes, Majesty.We are descending to what we call the gamsir — the mountain meadowlands where farmers and herdsmen have their winter habitations. We will be able to purchase provisions and fuel there. . and even rest for a few days before travelling on.’

The prospect of supplies gladdened Humayun but he wouldn’t delay a moment longer than necessary. The pain in Hamida’s eyes every time he looked at her matched his own at the thought of Akbar so many miles away and in Kamran’s hands. The sooner they reached Persia, the sooner he could begin to make plans again.

‘How far from here to the border?’

‘The Persian province of Seistan lies just over the Helmand river about eighty miles from here, Majesty.’

‘Over what kind of terrain?’

‘Mostly downhill from now on. As we near the Helmand it flattens into desert.’

‘How many days before we reach the river?’

‘No more than ten to twelve to reach the ford I know of.’

That night, after they had reached the settlement and eaten their fill for the first time in many days, Humayun joined Hamida in their tent. ‘Now that we are getting close to his lands, I must write to Shah Tahmasp asking him to receive us. If we approach his territory unannounced, the Persian troops guarding his borders may think our intentions hostile. I will entrust the letter to Jauhar as my envoy. He will carry it over the Helmand river and seek out the governor or some other high-ranking official to explain why we have come and to request to be allowed to carry my letter to the shah without delay.’

As he spoke, Humayun settled himself cross-legged at a low table where, by the light of an oil lamp, he began mixing his ink. He knew how much depended on his choice of words. During the journey he had weighed carefully what he must say and now began to write fluidly and without hesitation, speaking the words out loud to Hamida. It was fortunate that Persian was a familiar language to the Moghuls so that he had no need of a translator.

First came a paragraph of graceful courtesies, including repeated hopes for the shah’s prolonged good health and the success of his reign. Then Humayun reminded Tahmasp that many years earlier his father Shah Ismail had not only assisted Humayun’s father Babur against his enemies but rescued Babur’s sister Khanzada from captivity in the haram of the Moghuls’ implacable enemy, the Uzbek chieftain Shaibani Khan. Humayun did not mention that — as Shah Tahmasp would very well know — the alliance between Babur and Ismail had not lasted long. Instead, he eulogised the fact that these two great rulers had once joined forces to destroy a common enemy.

Next, Humayun decided to make a direct plea: ‘I have suffered many reverses. An impostor from Bengal, Sher Shah, rules in my place in Hindustan while my half-brothers have stolen Kabul and Kandahar from me and hold my infant son hostage. You too are an emperor — a very great one — and you will, I am certain, understand and sympathise with my plight. I ask you to be gracious enough to receive me, my family and my small force into Persia.’

‘What do you think?’ Humayun asked Hamida as, having rounded off the letter with a few last formal courtesies, he laid down his pen.

For a few moments Hamida thought. ‘It is eloquent, open and frank. It should sway the shah, but whether it will who can say. So often we’ve raised our hopes and expectations, only to have them dashed.’

‘Majesty, there is the ford.’

Shading his eyes, Humayun followed the guide’s pointing finger and saw across the flat, grey ground the glint of a watercourse — the Helmand river. A squat tower with a long banner streaming from its roof stood on the opposite bank — presumably a Persian fortress guarding the crossing. It must be three or four days at least since Jauhar had passed through this way, so the commander of the fort should be expecting Humayun’s arrival. All the same, it was as well to be cautious.

‘Ahmed Khan, send scouts closer to the fort to see what they can find out while the rest of us halt here.’

‘I will go myself, Majesty.’ Summoning two of his men, Ahmed Khan cantered off, raising a cloud of powdery grey dust.

Humayun rode slowly back to the covered wooden cart — one of several he had purchased at the settlement to transport the women and the sick — in which Hamida and Gulbadan were travelling. Pushing his head inside the wool hangings, he saw that Hamida was asleep and that Gulbadan was writing — doubtless that diary of hers.They both looked pale and thin.

‘We have reached the river,’ he said quietly so as not to wake Hamida. ‘If Ahmed Khan reports that all is well and the Persians do not object, we will cross and make camp. How is Hamida?’

‘She still says so very little. . She seldom shares her feelings or her thoughts, even with me.’

‘Try to make her understand, as I have, that I won’t rest until we have our son again. Everything I am doing. . will have to do over the months ahead. . will above all be for Akbar.’

‘She knows that she must be strong for you but she worries how the shah will receive us. . and how Kamran is treating Akbar.’

As Hamida stirred, Humayun turned away and pulling back the hangings returned to the front of the column. He didn’t have to wait long for news. Barely an hour after Ahmed Khan and his men had ridden away, Humayun saw them returning. Close behind them were two other riders. As they drew closer Humayun made out that, though one was a stranger, the other was the tall figure of Jauhar. Why wasn’t he on his way to the shah? Had the shah denied them entry to Persia? Had Kamran somehow won his favour? Full of anxiety, he kicked his horse forward to meet them.

‘Majesty.’ Ahmed Khan was smiling. ‘All is well. This,’ he indicated the stranger, ‘is Abbas Beg, the governor of Seistan, who has come to escort you into Persia.’

Abbas Beg, a tall, black-bearded man of about forty, magnificently dressed in dark purple velvet and with a white egret’s feather secured by a jewelled clasp to his tall cap, dismounted and bowed before Humayun. ‘Majesty, I have despatched your letter to the shah. Our swift post riders can cover eighty miles a day. I requested your