Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (29 page)

His own horse was suffering badly. Its once glossy coat was flecked with dried sweat and sand and it stumbled frequently. Humayun squinted around him. The glare from the orange ball of the sun deadened the landscape, flattening out the rolling dunes and reducing everything to a dispiriting, eye-searing monotony with nothing to catch the mind’s attention or freshen the spirit. To spare his horse for a while, Humayun slipped down, and taking the reins in his left hand, plodded by its side.

Suddenly Humayun heard shouts somewhere up ahead. Shading his eyes, he tried to see what was happening towards the front of the column some three or four hundred yards away but the sun dazzle made it impossible. ‘Find out what’s going on,’ he shouted to Jauhar. But before Jauhar could kick his mount forward, a general stampede began. Pack animals that had been trailing listlessly behind were suddenly rushing frenziedly past, no longer finding the sand an obstacle in their headlong charge. It could only be water, Humayun realised, and his heart soared.

Remounting his own horse which was now whinnying with excitement, he rode forward. He would bring Hamida a cup of cool water with his own hands. But as he drew nearer, chaos met his eyes. At first it was hard to see what was happening in the midst of so many flailing, pushing bodies – human and animal – half hidden by a few squat dusty-looking palm trees. Then he saw the raised mud-brick sides of what looked like a cluster of small wells and to one side, a small spring seeping out in rivulets over pebbles into the sand. Men were already fighting over the hide buckets that they’d hauled out of the wells, spilling the precious water.

The pack animals they should have been tending were also acting half crazed. Camels were spitting and frenziedly lashing out with their feet. One man was kicked so hard in the guts that he fell to the ground and was instantly trampled. Humayun saw his head crushed, brains and blood spilling sickeningly out on to the sand where camp dogs at once began to lick them up. Mules were baring their yellow teeth and biting at one another as they all struggled, regardless of the loads on their backs, to get to the spring.

Humayun was beside himself with fury. What were his officers thinking of . . . ? But as he kicked his horse forward, determined to restore order, he saw that officers as well as men were in that tangled, heaving mêlée. He shouted to them but they didn’t hear. Forcing his way further into the crush, waving Alamgir above his head and roaring rebukes, he at last made his presence felt. Shamefaced, his officers gave up their own fight for water and began trying to control their men.

Humayun’s thoughts now were for Hamida and the other women towards the back of the column. Turning his horse, he galloped back over the hot sand but was relieved to find them still quietly making their way, protected by his guards. They had been so far to the back of the line that they had not become caught up in the stampede. Riding up to Hamida’s litter he opened the curtains and peered inside. Her smile, radiant in the shadowy interior, told him all was well and he breathed more easily.

It took over an hour to restore calm but by then half a dozen men were dead, trampled in the crush or slain by others determined to get to the water first. Others were writhing on the ground, clutching bellies swollen with water and screaming for relief. Several were vomiting water and bile and babbling incoherently. It was like a vision from hell and Humayun turned his gaze away. He could only be grateful that his enemy Sher Shah was too far away to know the depths to which he and his little band had fallen.

His spirits didn’t rise again until three days later when, across the pale orange drifts of sand, the jagged shape of a high, rocky outcrop emerged from the hazy horizon. Atop it, perched like an eagle’s nest, was a fortress – the stronghold of the Raja of Marwar. It must still be some fifteen or twenty miles away, Humayun reckoned, but soon he would be able to bring Hamida, Khanzada and Gulbadan within the safety of its walls. It would be a welcome return to sanity and safety after their precarious desert journey. He despatched a scout at once bearing his greetings to Maldeo.

The distance must have been shorter than Humayun had calculated because the scout returned next day, bringing a detachment of the raja’s special guard in orange robes and steel breastplates, splendidly mounted on matching black stallions. The warriors’ flowing black hair was knotted on the back of their heads almost like women’s, but there was nothing feminine about these lean, hawk-nosed muscular men with their gleaming spears.

With Kasim and Zahid Beg by his side, Humayun rode forward. The Rajput leader dismounted and kneeling before Humayun touched his forehead briefly to the hot sand. ‘Maldeo, Raja of Marwar sends his greetings, Majesty. He has been waiting for you for many days and has sent me and my men to escort you over the last miles of your journey.’

‘I am grateful to the raja for his care. The sooner we reach Marwar the better – my men are weary.’

‘Of course, Majesty. If we ride now, we can reach the fortress by sunset where my master will make you and your entourage comfortable.’

As Humayun watched the Rajput ride back to his men, he wondered what impression his ragged little army had made. Looking at his men through a stranger’s eyes he saw not a proud Moghul army but a small band of grimy men riding broken beasts, the once-bright blades of the weapons slung from their saddles – the swords and double-headed axes – dull from disuse. Many had thrown their round, metal-bound shields away rather than be burdened with them in the heat and their arrow cases were nearly empty. There had been no time or opportunity to find wood and fletch new arrows since they had ridden into the desert. Only Humayun’s musketeers – well drilled by Zahid Beg – looked capable of putting up a fight. But all that would change when he reached Marwar. He still had some money left to re-equip his men and recruit more, and the raja himself would supply him with troops.

That night, beneath a sky flushed a vibrant pinky-orange as the sun went down, Humayun led his small column through the winding streets of Marwar towards Raja Maldeo’s massive fortress on top of the steep promontory rising behind the town. Between the last of the wood and mud-brick houses and the outcrop – which looked perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high – was an area of open land with a small spring over to the right. Beyond the spring were rows of tents and brushwood piled ready for burning.

‘The camp that has been prepared for your men, Majesty,’ said the Rajput commander.

Riding on, Humayun approached an arched gatehouse close to the foot of the outcrop. Drums of welcome beaten by unseen hands boomed as, with his bodyguards, senior commanders and courtiers and the women, he passed through. On the other side of the gate, a steep but wide ramp-like road twisted sharply to the left and, following the rock’s natural contours, ascended the outcrop. Slowly Humayun’s tired horse plodded up the ramp, snorting with the effort, emerging at the top on to a wide stone plateau. Ahead was a girdle of crenellated walls that enclosed much of the top of the outcrop. The only entrance was through a two-storey gatehouse beyond which Humayun could see further walls.

The gatehouse, with a carving of a Rajput warrior on a rearing horse above the lintel, looked ancient – far older than the Agra fort or even the citadel of Kabul, Humayun thought as he rode beneath the raised metal grille. How many generations of Rajput warriors had swept though it and down the steep ramp to do battle in furtherance of their warrior code? Of all the peoples in Hindustan, these Rajputs were surely closest to the Moghuls themselves – a warrior breed for whom fighting, honour, glory, conquest were as natural as the warm milk they had sucked at their mothers’ breasts. But then his curious eyes fell on something he didn’t understand. Along each side of the gatehouse’s deep inner walls was a series of small blood-red handprints.

‘What are those?’

The Rajput commander replied with what seemed to Humayun a deep pride. ‘Those are the handprints of the royal women of Marwar made by them on their way to their deaths. When a Rajput woman’s husband dies or is killed in battle it is her duty to renounce life and join him on his funeral pyre. These marks that you see here are the last living acts of these women on their way to be consumed in the flames.’

Humayun had heard similar stories before. Babur had told him that his Hindu subjects called this practice
sati
and that the women were not always willing. Babur had witnessed a young widow – barely more than sixteen – struggling and being drenched in oil and thrown bodily into the flames. Her screams had been terrible and she had died before Babur’s men could intervene.

As if he could read Humayun’s mind, the Rajput continued, ‘It is a point of honour for our women . . . And if ever we suffer such terrible defeat in battle that it seems our women might be seized by our enemy, the most senior Rajput princess leads the other noblewomen – dressed in their finery and best jewels as if for a wedding – in the ceremony of
jauhar
. A great fire is lit and the women leap joyfully into the flames rather than face dishonour.’ The man was smiling as if at a vision of something wonderful.

Humayun turned his eyes from those red imprints, whether made in ecstasy or despair. Instinctively, he felt that however devoted to her husband, however dire the circumstances, a woman had her own existence to think of, her own obligations – to herself, to her children if she was a mother, and to those around her. Khanzada’s experiences had shown that an indomitable spirit could endure and emerge, not unscathed, but stronger.The thought of Hamida being burned alive if he died chilled his blood. Perhaps the difference was that the Rajputs as Hindus believed in reincarnation and that to die with honour meant being reborn with greater status, whereas he believed that one must make the most of the single life one had on earth.

Directly ahead, in the centre of a fresh curtain of walls was a passageway about six foot wide with a near right-angled bend at its centre – no doubt designed to prevent an enemy storming through in great numbers. It gave on to a large parade ground where a group of war elephants were being drilled. Opposite was yet another set of walls, again with only one narrow gateway. These concentric walls, so different from the design of a Moghul fortress, reminded Humayun of the intricate boxes within boxes that the slant-eyed merchants from Kashgar sold in the markets of Kabul.

But this third set of walls was the last. Passing through, Humayun entered a large rectangular courtyard – the heart of Maldeo’s fortress. In the centre stood an imposing building more solid than beautiful. It was impossible to tell how many storeys it had – small arched windows pierced its walls seemingly at random. Attached to one side was a wide, sturdily built tower with, on the very top, an elegant stone pavilion.

Humayun reined in his horse and looked critically around him. His host should have been there to welcome him. But just then came a blast from an unseen trumpeter and a procession of orange-clad Rajput warriors filed out of the palace’s carved central doorway and formed up in two lines on either side of Humayun. Raja Maldeo followed, a tall, powerfully built man in belted orange robes that swept the ground, dark hair tightly bound beneath a turban of cloth of gold flashing with diamonds. Hand on breast, he advanced towards Humayun and bowed his head.

‘Greetings, Majesty. Welcome to Marwar.’

‘I thank you for your hospitality, Raja Maldeo.’

‘Your ladies will be given apartments near those of the royal women of my house as is our Rajput custom. Rooms for yourself and your courtiers and commanders have been prepared in the
Hawa Mahal
– the Palace of the Winds.’ Maldeo gestured towards the tower. ‘Yours will be in the pavilion at the very top where the breezes blow through.’

‘Again, I thank you. And tomorrow we will talk, Maldeo.’

‘Of course.’

Humayun woke next day to feel a warm breeze stirring the gauze curtains around the soft bed on which, exhausted, he had collapsed into a long dreamless sleep. For a few moments he just lay there, giving himself up to relief and satisfaction that he had brought his family and his men to a safe haven. For a while at least they could all rest, and most important of all Hamida would have the care and comfort she needed. Humayun got up and stepping out on to the wide balcony found himself gazing down the sweep of cliff that fell sheer to the sandy plain below. The sun, already high in the sky, seemed tinged with crimson around the edges, like the flesh of the blood orange.

After the hardships of the past few weeks’ journey, the desert held no charms for Humayun. Turning away, he summoned Jauhar to fetch Kasim, Zahid Beg and his other commanders.Word of this must have reached Maldeo because even before Humayun’s men arrived, the raja’s servants brought great brass trays piled with fruit, nuts and gilded sweetmeats, and golden ewers of chilled sherbet. They were still eating and drinking when Maldeo himself appeared. He was more soberly dressed today in pantaloons and tunic of dark purple and a curved dagger hanging in a plain leather scabbard from the thin metal chain around his lean waist.