Brothers at War

‘Take me to them.’

Humayun’s heart was thumping as, ten minutes later, he galloped out at Ahmed Khan’s side. It was probably nothing — just a few merchants as Ahmed Khan had said — yet he couldn’t prevent a wild hope from welling up inside him. He strained his eyes into the hazy far distance, impatient for any sign of movement out there on the drear, seemingly empty white landscape. At first there was nothing but then he gasped.What looked like a string of black dots was moving slowly but unmistakably towards them from the west — the direction of Kabul.

Bending low over its neck, Humayun urged his horse on and was soon outstripping Ahmed Khan. All the time the dots were becoming bigger and more distinct — starting to take substance. As he drew yet closer — only some four or five hundred yards away now — he thought he could make out about eight or nine riders; a small party to be out alone in such uncertain times.

They had halted and the foremost had risen in his stirrups and, shading his eyes with one hand, was looking in his direction. Even from this distance, there seemed something achingly familiar about that large figure. . He wasn’t deceiving himself, was he? It could be Hindal, couldn’t it? Humayun wheeled his own mount to a halt as he too stared intently ahead. Moments later Ahmed Khan and his guards came galloping up, their horses’ hooves flinging up puffs of powdery snow.

‘Shall I send men to find out who they are, Majesty?’ asked Ahmed Khan.

‘No. . I will go. . Stay here, all of you!’ Ignoring Ahmed Khan’s protests, Humayun kicked his horse on. He must be first to know his son’s fate if the riders carried that news and he could wait no longer. As he galloped over the frozen ground, the sound of hooves echoing in his ears, he saw that the leading rider was still watching him, motionless. Looking beyond him, Humayun discovered that most of the rest of the group — six men and a slightly smaller figure — a woman by the long plait hanging down from beneath a black shaggy lamb’s wool hat — were on mules. The woman was holding the reins of another mule. Drawing nearer he made out that strapped to its back was a wicker basket in which he thought he saw two rolls of bedding — or could it be children, so wrapped in sheepskins they looked almost spherical?

Humayun was just fifty yards away now. For a moment, he felt afraid to go closer in case the people before him on the snowy landscape were just an illusion, conjured by his own hopes and desires. Reining in and not daring to take his eyes from them, Humayun slid from his saddle and made his way on foot over the last few yards, slowly at first but then breaking into a run, feet slipping and sliding.

The leading rider, gazing towards him so intently, was indeed Hindal shrouded in a thick fur cloak. Scarcely aware of what he was doing and with tears of joy already streaming down his face, Humayun ran past Hindal towards the mule carrying the bundles. He heard Maham Anga’s cry of ‘Majesty!’ but then he saw the bundles were indeed children and had thoughts only for Akbar, sitting calmly next to Adham Khan, his milk-brother. As Humayun leaned over him, Akbar gazed at him with friendly interest from within his nest of sheepskins. In the nearly fourteen months since Kamran had taken him he had changed so much, but he was still unmistakably Akbar. As Adham Khan began to wail, Humayun gently lifted Akbar from the basket and held him close against him, breathing in the warm scent of him.

‘My son,’ he whispered, ‘my son.’

An hour later, Humayun rode at the head of the party back into the camp. Reaching the women’s tents, he dismounted then carefully took Akbar from his basket. Lulled by the resumed motion of the mule, the child was fast asleep. With Maham Anga by his side, Humayun entered Hamida’s tent. She had been reading some of her beloved poetry but the volume had fallen from her hands and she too was sleeping, lying back against some red and gold velvet cushions. How young she looked with her silken hair falling about her and her breast gently rising and falling.

‘Hamida,’ he whispered, ‘Hamida. . I have something for you — a gift. . ’

As her eyes opened and she saw Akbar, joy such as he had never witnessed before lit up her face. But as Humayun placed him in her arms, Akbar awoke. Looking up at Hamida, he released a bewildered yell and began struggling to get free. Maham Anga darted forward, and as soon as he saw her Akbar’s distress vanished. Smilingly he stretched out his chubby arms to his wet-nurse.

All around him, Humayun’s officers were reclining against the great bolsters carefully arranged around his scarlet command tent, amid the debris of the celebration feast. Earlier that afternoon he had called an assembly of all his men and announced the rescue of Akbar.

‘My loyal men — I present to you my son, the symbol of our future, safely returned to me. . ’ Standing on a makeshift wooden dais in the centre of his camp, Humayun had lifted Akbar high above his head. A great cheer accompanied by the clashing of swords on shields had thundered around him. Akbar had still been blinking in surprise at the uproar as Humayun had handed him back to Maham Anga, but he hadn’t cried. It was a good omen. Humayun had raised his hands to call for calm.

‘It is time to return to Kabul to finish what we started and eject the impostor who hides behind innocent children. Our cause is just and God is with us. Tonight we feast but our feasting will be nothing compared to our celebrations once Kabul is ours. Tomorrow at dawn we ride for the city.’

The cooks had laboured hard on their preparations, spitting and roasting meat over great fires whose smoke billowed into the sky. Now that his son was safe, Humayun didn’t care from how many miles his camp was visible.

Some of his commanders were starting to sing — heroic songs of deeds on the battlefield, bawdy songs of even greater feats in the haram. Looking around he saw Zahid Beg swaying back and forth, skull-like face glowing with the effects of the strong red wine of Ghazni for which the kingdom of Kabul was famous and which his own father Babur had enjoyed so much. Even Kasim, normally so quiet and reticent, was joining in the singing from the corner of the tent where he had found a comfortable place to rest his old bones.

Humayun had lost no time in telling his inner circle, his ichkis, that the abandonment of the siege had been only a ruse. Most had looked genuinely astonished. Only Bairam Khan had shown little surprise and his intense indigo eyes had seemed knowing as gravely he had congratulated Humayun on the return of his son, making Humayun doubly certain he had known all along. More than ever he was glad to have the Persian at his side.

Humayun glanced at Hindal sitting close beside him. Unlike the rest of the revellers, he had said little and looked withdrawn and uncomfortable to be seated with Humayun and his officers. Since their return to the camp the previous evening, Humayun had seen little of his half-brother. Instead, in his relief to be reunited with his son, he’d spent most of his time with Hamida and Akbar. To Hamida’s sorrow, their son was still clinging to Maham Anga. Every time Hamida tried to pick him up, he struggled and screamed. But that would pass, Humayun had comforted Hamida, who was torn between relief and exultation at her son’s safe return, wonderment at how much he had grown and grief that in the months they had been apart she had become a stranger to him. At least his vigorous wriggling showed that despite his traumatic experiences he was in robust good health, Hamida had said, smiling through her tears.Then she had added,‘Thank Hindal for me, won’t you.’

Looking again at Hindal’s half-averted face, Humayun guessed this might be a harder task than she had realised.

‘Hindal. . ’ He waited until he had his half-brother’s full attention then continued, lowering his voice so that they would not be overheard. ‘I know what you did was not for me, but for Hamida. She asked me to thank you.’

‘Tell her there is no need. It was a matter of family honour. .’

‘You may not wish to hear this, but I too will be for ever in your debt. Your reasons for your actions don’t absolve me of my obligation to you.’

Hindal gave a slight shrug but said nothing.

‘Tell me, did your plan go as you expected? Hamida too is anxious to know what happened. . ’

For the first time a faint smile lightened Hindal’s face. ‘It went better than I’d dared to hope. Several days after my scouts reported your withdrawal from Kabul, I rode down from the mountains with my men and sent messengers to the citadel to tell Kamran I was ready to pledge my support to him as the true head of our family. As I’d thought, conceited and arrogant as he is and already euphoric at your departure, he ordered me to be admitted. He even threw a feast in celebration and gave me gifts. . ’

‘He really had no suspicions?’

‘None. Believing he had defeated you, his confidence blinded him. Even before I’d arrived, he’d ordered the