Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (38 page)

‘You seek this only of me, not of my commanders and my men?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Only of you, but of course where an emperor leads, others often wish to follow.’

‘I must think over what you have said.’

‘Do not take too long, my brother. As you yourself said, you wish to campaign before the winter snows become an extra enemy . . . ’ Shah Tahmasp rose from the silk cushions and summoning his guards, who had been waiting at a discreet distance while the two rulers talked, stepped down from the platform and walked away through the garden, pausing to examine the crimson blooms on a rose bush.

Humayun went straight to Hamida. As he entered her apartments, her hopeful, expectant expression made him feel his predicament even more keenly.

‘What did he say? Will he help us?’ she asked, as soon as they were alone.

‘The shah is no friend to Kamran and will give me an army to defeat him, but there is a price . . . ’

‘What price? He has the Koh-i-Nur. What more do we have to give?’

‘He wants me to become a Shia Muslim . . . ’

‘Is that all?’ Hamida came closer and took his face between her hands.

‘It’s a great deal. Shah Ismail tried to force my father Babur to become a Shia – it nearly cost him his life and it certainly cost him Samarkand. Our people hated him for it – they turned to Shaibani Khan, preferring to be ruled by a murderous Sunni Uzbek than a Timurid prince they suspected of converting to Shiism . . . ’

Hamida released him and stared up at him incredulously. ‘But those were different times. We’re not in Samarkand now. Most important, we have lost our son. We must do everything in our power to save him . . . it is our duty . . . our sacred duty above anything else.You must accept this, just as I accepted your arguments not to pursue Kamran when he took Akbar.’

‘But this explains why Shah Tahmasp was so welcoming . . . this is what he really wants . . . to convert the Moghuls to Shiism. I saw it in his face as he spoke to me . . . ’

‘Are you sure he doesn’t just want you to convert as some kind of token recognition of his authority?’

‘I don’t think even his mind is subtle enough for that. And don’t you see? That would be even more repugnant. You don’t understand how it would affect my troops.’

‘No, you are the one who doesn’t understand. Swallow your pride, if not for my sake then for our son’s!’

‘My pride is one of the few things left to me and you ask me to sacrifice it?’

‘You have no choice. Our situation is too perilous to be over-scrupulous. Go through the outward ceremonies. Think what you will in your heart.True pride is internal, not external. Remember how much outward pride it must have cost your father to surrender Khanzada to Shaibani Khan, but he kept his inner spirit strong.’

Humayun said nothing and Hamida continued more softly, ‘In any case, don’t Shias and Sunnis worship the same God? Their divisions are of human not divine manufacture. They stem from quarrels in the Prophet’s family, just like those that have split your own . . . ’

Humayun bowed his head. She was right, he didn’t have a choice if he wanted to regain his throne and recover his son. His decision was made. Whatever his commanders and their men might think, at least temporarily he must don the crimson silk
taj
of the Shia monarch and kneel at Shah Tahmasp’s side in the mosque to call down God’s blessing on his campaign. Sunni or Shia, his cause was just and God – the one God – would still be on his side . . .

They were making good progress, Humayun thought with satisfaction – much swifter than on the journey to Kazvin that had been at the stately pace dictated by the shah. Ahead of Humayun rode the Persian archers and musketeers and directly behind him were Hamida and Gulbadan and their women in their wagons, surrounded by his bodyguard. Next came the rest of his soldiers, then the baggage train including the cannon loaded on bullock carts and finally the Persian cavalry, the tips of their spears – broader-bladed than Moghul ones but no less sharp – catching the early morning sun.

Zahid Beg was to Humayun’s left but at his right shoulder was Rustum Beg, the Persian commander. He was a thin-faced, delicate-boned elderly man, a cousin of the shah’s, fond of quoting from the Persian poets to Humayun’s war council but content to leave the day-to-day command of his force to his deputy, Bairam Khan. The latter was still quite young – no more than about thirty-four or five – but his thick-set build and the scar at the right corner of his mouth made him look older. His eyes were an unusual colour for a Persian – deep, almost indigo blue – and his long dark hair protruded in a plait from beneath a pointed steel helmet hung with chain mail to protect the neck and the sides of the face and surmounted by a peacock feather.

In the first days after leaving Kazvin, Bairam Khan had spoken little, beyond responding to Humayun’s questions. However, as the weeks passed he had become more expansive. Everything he said was well considered and he listened to Humayun’s commanders with courtesy and tact. That was good. Had Rustum Beg pushed himself forward more and had Bairam Khan been over-haughty, it might have caused dissension between Humayun’s men and the far more numerous Persians. As it was, they co-existed well. Humayun was also relieved that his men seemed to have accepted his conversion to Shiism as the pragmatic decision it was. They had watched the public ceremony at which the shah himself had placed the scarlet
taj
on his head without protest, understanding, as he did, that it was necessary to secure the future of them all.

Humayun looked up to see a small group of horsemen galloping towards him, dust dancing in the air around them. It was Ahmed Khan with two of his scouts and two Persian cavalrymen Rustum Beg had sent as guides.

‘Majesty, the Helmand river lies only fifteen miles away.’

‘Excellent.’ Humayun smiled. In two days – perhaps even tomorrow – he would again cross the cold waters of the Helmand and this time he would cross it with a great army at his back.

The fortress of Kandahar with its thick stone walls and slit-windowed towers looked grimly impregnable against a backdrop of jagged, purple-brown mountains. Though it was only September, the chill wind made Humayun and his commanders shiver as they looked towards the fortress from their vantage point on the downward slope of a wooded hill about half a mile away.

Where in that fortress was Akbar? Humayun knew that his son’s fate depended on the decisions he was about to take. Kamran was no fool. His spies would have been observing Humayun’s progress and he must know that Humayun – backed as he was by crack Persian troops – had the stronger hand. Eventually, whether by siege or assault, Kandahar would fall. So what would Kamran do? Threaten to harm Akbar if Humayun did not withdraw? Kamran was capable of it. On the other hand, Humayun tried to comfort himself, his half-brother would know that if he killed Akbar he would lose his best bargaining counter . . .

Bairam Khan and Zahid Beg were staring at the fortress and discussing its strengths and potential weak spots. Nadim Khwaja too was gazing at it intently. As a chieftain from the mountains above Kandahar the fortress would be a familiar sight to him but his thoughts, like Humayun’s, would be for his family. His wife Maham Anga and their own son Adham Khan were, like Akbar, prisoners within those walls. Briefly, Humayun put his hand on Nadim Khwaja’s shoulder, and as their eyes met he knew that they shared the same inner emotions. They were both warriors whose natural instinct was to storm into the fortress and rescue their loved ones. But understandable as such hot-blooded impulses were, they were not the way . . .

An idea was beginning to form in Humayun’s mind. He must find a means of opening a dialogue with Kamran. Repugnant though he found the idea of negotiation, he knew it was what his father would have done. Hadn’t Babur swallowed his pride and negotiated with Shaibani Khan to save the dynasty? It was also what Khanzada would have counselled. She above everyone had understood the value of patience, of making short-term sacrifices in order to win the ultimate prize.

But who could speak on his behalf? He couldn’t do it himself. Even if Kamran agreed to see him, if they came face to face there would be blows, not words, such was their mutual hatred. Yet he could not send Kasim or one of his commanders.This was a family matter. Kamran must be made to understand how he had violated every principle of honour and loyalty in the Moghul code, how his ambition had split and weakened Babur’s legacy.

There was only one person travelling with Humayun who could speak to Kamran of such things, who shared both his blood and Akbar’s blood. Gulbadan. Moghul women often played the role of peacemakers between the clans and her sharp intelligence was the equal of any of his counsellors’.

Dishonourable as he had shown himself, not even Kamran would harm his half-sister and he might even listen – if not to her personal pleas at least to the offer she would carry to him from Humayun. If Kamran would return Akbar unharmed, he could depart freely with Askari and their men and their weapons and Humayun’s solemn vow – in the name of their father Babur – not to pursue them.

Only one question remained. Would Gulbadan be willing to undertake such a mission? But as Humayun signalled to his commanders to turn their horses back up the hill to rejoin their forces, he was confident he knew the answer.

‘Majesty, Gulbadan Begam is returning.’

Hearing the shout from outside his command tent, Humayun leaped up from the stool on which he’d been sitting and, pushing aside the tent flaps, ducked out into the swiftly falling dusk. On the floor of the valley that lay between Humayun’s camp and the fortress, a line of flickering lights was drawing slowly nearer – torches borne by the detachment of guards he had sent with Jauhar to escort Gulbadan, who were riding before and behind the wagon in which she was travelling.

It was seven hours since she had set out under a flag of truce. Straining his eyes into the darkness, Humayun allowed himself to hope for just a moment that Akbar might be in Gulbadan’s arms but common sense quickly overcame such wishful thinking. Kamran was not a man to be moved by sentiment. He would not release Akbar until the very last moment, when he was certain Humayun would keep his word.

Nevertheless, unable to contain his impatience, Humayun ran to the roped-off enclosure where his horse was tethered. Without waiting for a saddle and using the halter in place of reins, he urged it to leap the rope and galloped off down to the valley. His heart was jumping so fast that for a moment he imagined the thudding of hooves on the soft turf was the sound it was making. For so much of the time he had to suppress his feelings – to show himself a cool, dispassionate leader to his men, to turn a calm, confident face to Hamida. But out here in the enshrouding darkness he could admit that he was as vulnerable as any man to fears and anxieties, particularly over the fate of those he loved and whom it was his duty to protect.

‘It is the emperor!’ he heard Jauhar cry out. Swerving to a standstill just a few yards from where Gulbadan’s wagon had halted, Humayun slid from his horse. Jauhar had also dismounted and without words led Humayun to Gulbadan’s cart. Taking the torch Jauhar was holding, Humayun drew aside the curtains and peered in at his half-sister.