Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (61 page)

As he stood up and prepared to call Jauhar, Humayun recollected his thoughts of the previous evening. As he did so, his eyes happened to fall on one of his volumes of star charts. He smiled. Even if he no longer believed that the stars held all the secrets of life, the study of them, their movements and the reasons underlying them, still stimulated his intellect. Stargazing would never lose its fascination for him.

Two hours later, after he had finished dressing him, Jauhar held up a long, burnished mirror for Humayun to inspect himself in his imperial finery. He saw a tall figure as erect and muscular at forty-seven years of age as he had been when he first had come to the throne, even if the hair at his temples was now flecked with grey and there were lines around his eyes and at the corner of his mouth when he smiled.

He was wearing a white surcoat embroidered with suns and stars in gold thread and hemmed with a border of lustrous pearls over a long cream silk tunic and pantaloons of the same colour. His belt was made from fine gold mesh and from it hung Alamgir in its jewelled scabbard. On his feet were short tawny leather boots with curled, pointed toes and a massive gold star embroidered on each side of the ankles. On his head he wore a turban of gold cloth with a peacock plume set at its peak and a circlet of rubies around its middle which matched his heavy ruby and gold necklace. On the index finger of his right hand he wore Timur’s tiger ring and his other fingers sparkled emeralds and sapphires.

‘Thank you, Jauhar; you have helped me to dress as befits an emperor. I’ve learned that as well as being powerful and possessing authority it is well to appear so to the people. It adds to their confidence and loyalty . . . but enough of that. Where is my son?’

‘Waiting outside.’

‘Ask him to come in.’

Moments later, Akbar appeared through the curtains at the entrance to the tent, which were held open by two bodyguards dressed entirely in green. Even though not yet thirteen, Akbar was almost as tall and broad-shouldered as his father. He too was dressed in royal finery, in purple and lilac, colours which only seemed to accentuate his burgeoning, youthful masculinity.

‘Father,’ said Akbar, for once speaking first and smiling broadly, ‘one of the messengers who relays post from Kabul to Hindustan arrived a quarter of an hour ago. He brought a letter to us both from my mother. By now she will already have set out from Kabul to join us as you suggested after the battle of Sirhind. She should reach Delhi in six to eight weeks if the monsoon does not delay her too much.’

Humayun felt a lightness in his heart. Hamida’s presence would complete his happiness. The sooner he could keep his promise made on their marriage fourteen years ago to offer her the life of an empress in Delhi and Agra the better. ‘This is great news, Akbar. We must send orders immediately for a detachment of troops to meet her and to speed her on her way to us.’

Then Humayun walked slowly with Akbar from the tent towards where two imperial elephants were kneeling about two hundred and fifty yards away. Jauhar and Adham Khan, who were to ride with them, followed a few respectful paces behind. As they walked, attendants held silk canopies over their heads to protect them from the sun since there had been a break in the monsoon. Others waved large peacock-feather fans to cool them and to repel the buzzing mosquitoes which proliferated around the stagnant puddles which still covered the camp.

Once they reached the elephants, Humayun climbed up a small, gilded ladder on to the back of the larger of the two. He was followed by Jauhar and one of the tall green-clad bodyguards, who took their places behind him. The jewels – mostly garnets and amethysts – which encrusted the howdah shone in the sunlight as the first elephant rose to its feet, followed by the second only slightly smaller one which held Akbar, Adham Khan and another bodyguard. Akbar was chatting to his milk-brother as if they were merely going hunting.

Together, the stately elephants plodded slowly over towards a line of their companions. Humayun could see Bairam Khan in one of their howdahs, accoutred in Persian court fashion. Beside him was his
qorchi
who had recovered from his thigh wound, although it had required painful cauterising and he would never walk without a limp again. Zahid Beg was to ride on the elephant immediately following Bairam Khan and Ahmed Khan would ride on the leading elephant on Humayun’s orders. ‘You have deserved this honour – you always led the way when there was no prestige but much danger,’ he had told him.

Mustapha Ergun and his men would be among the leading squadrons of cavalry which would precede the elephants. For a moment Humayun reflected on some of the other humbler people who had played a part in his story. He would have liked one-armed Wazim Pathan and even Nizam the water-carrier to be present but Wazim Pathan had preferred to stay in his village as headman after Kamran’s defeat and there had been no time to search for Nizam. Then, pulling himself back to the present, Humayun spoke. ‘Let’s get going.’

The order was relayed down the line of elephants through the ranks of cavalry to the riders at the very front of the procession who carried the great fluttering banners of Humayun and the Moghul dynasty as well as that of Timur. As they got underway towards the tall sandstone gateway half a mile ahead of them, the phalanxes of drummers and trumpeters immediately behind the banner bearers began to play, quietly at first and then with increasing vigour as they approached the thronging crowds whom ranks of soldiers had kept back from the camp but who now lined the ceremonial pathway to the gate, which they had strewn with palm branches and even flower petals.

As Humayun’s elephant moved forward, he watched the sunlight glinting off the breastplates and harnesses of the cavalry ahead and the gilded howdah in front of him and listened to the sound of the music and the jangling of harnesses and neighing of animals being all but drowned out by the cheering of the crowds. Then, heart bursting with emotion, he looked upwards into the hot, blue sky and saw – or thought he saw – in the shimmering glare two circling eagles, harbingers of Moghul greatness. Hindustan was his. He had recovered the Moghul throne. From now on their dynasty would only go from strength to strength. He – and Akbar – would ensure it was so.

H
umayun was sitting in his private chambers in the Purana Qila, the red sandstone fortress that early in his reign he had begun building on Delhi’s eastern edge but Sher Shah and his son Islam Shah had completed. The fortress’s thick, well-buttressed walls, pierced by three gatehouses, snaked for over a mile and it made a fine imperial headquarters. Piled on a table before Humayun were the official imperial ledgers recording the administration of the empire under Sher Shah and his son that Jauhar – whom he had made Comptroller of the Household in thanks for his years of selfless service – had just brought him.

Now that the lush ceremonial and festivities of his entry into Delhi had come to an end, Humayun knew he must discipline himself to learn in earnest about how his empire worked and not simply relax and enjoy once more the indulgences his newly regained territories could offer. As he had told his counsellors, ‘Our job is still only half done. Recapturing Hindustan was perhaps the easiest part.We must ensure we keep it and then expand our rule.’ He had already questioned those of Sher Shah’s and Islam Shah’s officials who had remained in Delhi and despatched trusted commanders to inspect and rule the various provinces, among them Ahmed Khan to Agra.

Frowning slightly, he began to read. Despite himself, what the usurpers had achieved impressed him.The ledgers revealed that Sher Shah had been as tough, cunning and effective an organiser as he had been a cold-blooded and calculating warrior. He had reorganised the system of provincial government to prevent any individual governor from becoming too powerful. He had restructured the collection of revenue. Of course, during the recent wars, tax-gathering had been at best spasmodic and chaotic, but Humayun’s own officials had already reported that the foundations of Sher Shah’s system were still in place and robust enough to be revived. And that was all to Humayun’s advantage. What was it his father had written in his diary? . . .
at least this place has plenty of money
. Controlling the wealth of Hindustan would, Humayun knew, be key to retaining and extending his power.

Sher Shah had improved roads, rebuilt the old mud-walled caravanserais along them and constructed new ones so travellers could find shelter every five miles. But the main purpose of the caravanserais was to act as post houses –
dak chauki –
for the messengers and horses that speeded the imperial mail along the new highways and made it possible to know quickly what was happening in the most distant regions of the empire.

To prevent rebellion, Sher Shah had built new forts to control the provinces and stamped hard on lawlessness of any kind. Humayun reread a passage that had particularly caught his eye:
In his infinite wisdom and unbounded goodness, His Imperial Majesty Sher Shah has decreed that every headman shall protect his village lest any vile thief or murderer should attack a traveller and thus become the instrument of his injury or death.
When Sher Shah had said the headman must be responsible he had meant it. If the perpetrator of a crime was not apprehended, the headman himself had been forced to suffer the punishment.

Putting down the heavy, leather-bound ledger on the inlaid marble table beside him, Humayun smiled to recollect his own early days on the throne. How bored he would have been even thinking of some of the things that had preoccupied Sher Shah. What was heroic about collecting taxes or reorganising provinces or building roads? But now he could see that such things were essential to maintaining power. Had he focused more on them and less on seeking the answers to good government in the stars and in opium, he might not have lost Hindustan.

What mattered now was not to overturn what Sher Shah and Islam Shah had done but to retain the best elements so he could strengthen his own authority over Hindustan . . . But there was one change he would make. Though Delhi had been Sher Shah’s capital and the Purana Qila was a palace-fortress fit for an emperor, he yearned to be in Agra once more, the city Babur had made his capital. As soon as he could, he would move his court there. Hamida had never seen Agra, and together they would create a place of such beauty that his court poets would require all their skill to capture it in words. But for the time being Delhi was better placed strategically for the tour of all the provinces of his empire he was planning in the next few months to remind the ordinary people of Hindustan, buffeted as they’d been by the winds of war, who their true emperor was – and that he was powerful . . .

‘Majesty, Empress Hamida’s caravan is just five miles from the city.’ An attendant interrupted Humayun’s thoughts and his heart leaped. He knew his wife had been making good progress, but that she was here so soon was a great surprise. He stood, overcome with joy and longing for her. The administration of the empire could wait.‘Bring me my imperial robes. I must look my best for my wife. Even then she will outshine me by far.’

Humayun watched the slow approach of Hamida’s procession from the top of the western gate of the Purana Qila. It was the most magnificent of the entrances, with its tall pointed arch inset with white marble stars and two round flanking towers, and it was through this gate that Hamida, Moghul Empress of Hindustan, was making her entrance. The elephant carrying her was clad in plates of beaten gold and even its tusks were gilded. As it passed beneath the western gate, the trumpeters in the gatehouse sounded their instruments and attendants threw fistfuls of rose petals and tiny twists of gold leaf from the roof. Humayun hurried down to an inner courtyard where a vast green velvet tent had been erected, with awnings fringed with green ribbons and the entrance curtains tied back with tasselled golden cords. Within the tent Humayun could see the block of pure white marble placed ready for Hamida to dismount in privacy.

Hamida’s elephant was coming into the courtyard now and the
mahout
, seated on the beast’s neck, carefully guided it towards the great tent and on through the opening. Then, tapping his metal staff gently against first the right and then the left shoulder of the elephant, he caused it to kneel by the marble block. As soon as the animal had lowered itself, the
mahout
slid down and stood respectfully to one side. Humayun approached the howdah and, stepping on to the block, gently pulled aside the shimmering gold mesh.

As she smiled back at him, Hamida seemed more beautiful than ever in gold-embroidered robes, her long, black, sandalwood-scented hair spilling over her shoulders and, rising and falling on her breast, the necklace of rubies and emeralds that had been his wedding gift to her and they had preserved through so many misfortunes.

‘Leave us,’ Humayun ordered the
mahouts.
As soon as they were alone, he lifted Hamida from the howdah and held her against him. ‘My queen,’ he whispered, ‘my empress . . . ’

That night they made love in the apartments he had had prepared for Hamida overlooking the Jumna river. They had once formed a part of Islam Shah’s
haram
and the carved alcoves, set with tiny pieces of mirror glass, sparkled like diamonds in the candlelight. Frankincense glowed in slender-legged golden burners at each corner of the room and scented water bubbled from a marble fountain carved to resemble the petals of a rosebud.

Hamida was naked except for her necklace and Humayun stroked the satin skin of her hip. ‘At last I can give you what I promised you. During our flight across the Rajasthan desert sometimes at night when I couldn’t sleep I’d watch the stars, wondering what messages they held and finding some comfort there. But you were my greatest solace – so brave, so resolute, so patient, even when all we had to eat was mule flesh boiled in a soldier’s helmet over a dung fire . . . ’