‘They saw no sign of Maldeo or his men?’
‘No.’
‘How many people live there?’
‘Perhaps two hundred, just herdsmen and farmers.’
‘You have done well,Ahmed Khan. Lead us there.’ Humayun finished his meagre meal with greater appetite than he had begun it. If Balotra was indeed what it seemed, they could find refuge there while he planned his next move.
As he and his men approached the settlement later that day, Humayun saw that it was no more than a few dozen mud-brick houses clustered on the flat banks of the river whose orange-brown waters were very low and flowing sluggishly, as was to be expected during the hot season. But there was water enough for the villagers to grow crops whose green shoots poked through the soil in the cultivated strips along the riverbank.
‘Jauhar. Go ahead and find the headman. Tell him we are travellers who mean his people no harm and that we wish to pitch our camp along the riverbank beyond their fields. Also, say that we need food and fuel for which we will pay — and a house where our women can find shade and rest.’
Standing on the roof of a single-storey mud-brick house, Humayun gazed down towards the river. It was September now and the heat was no longer quite so relentless. Balotra had been a good place to halt — a safe place — tucked away in this sparsely inhabited region. According to Simbu, the elderly, almost blind village headman, Balotra and the handful of other settlements sprinkled along the Luni river were of little interest to the regional rulers or warlords, who left them in peace. Only the seasons governed the villagers’ quiet lives.
Humayun had not told Simbu who he was and the headman, filmy eyes turned on him, had not asked. In fact, he’d asked few questions and seemed to have accepted Humayun’s story that he was a commander a long way from his own lands whose column needed rest and water. Nevertheless, Humayun had sensed Simbu’s anxiety that, despite his assurances and his money, he and his soldiers might bring trouble on his people.The old man would clearly be relieved when they rode away.
Humayun was also anxious to be gone — it was too dangerous to stay in one place for long, however remote — but where should he go? He couldn’t afford a false move. All his instincts — now that he seemed to have shaken off Maldeo — were to go northward to the Khyber Pass and on towards Kabul to raise the mountain clans who owed him their loyalty and attempt to take back the city before Kamran and Askari became even more entrenched there. Until he had re-established his authority in Kabul and removed the threat to his rear he could not even think of challenging Sher Shah.
Going north would, of course, take him close to Marwar again but his other options were also risky without the benefit of returning him swiftly to Kabul. If he ventured east, he soon would enter the Rajput kingdoms of Mewar and Amber whose rulers, for all he knew, might have joined forces with Maldeo. Though the Rajputs were notorious for warring with one another they might well unite against a man they believed was their common enemy — or if the bribe from Sher Shah was great enough.
If Humayun went south he would enter Gujarat, now in Sher Shah’s hands, while the way due west also had its hazards. According to Simbu, across the Luni river lay a further desert, stretching nearly three hundred miles westward all the way to Sind — a treacherous place of wild winds and quicksands that could bring death to the unwary. It had been known to swallow up whole caravans making for Umarkot, the ancient oasis at its heart. Several of Balotra’s villagers had made the journey to trade in Umarkot and knew a safe route but, Simbu had cautioned Humayun with a grave shake of his old head, it was not a journey to be undertaken lightly.
Humayun’s ignorance of events in the wider world made it even harder to take a decision. He knew nothing of what Sher Shah was doing or Maldeo or indeed his half-brothers. Where was Hindal now? With Kamran and Askari? And were his elder half-brothers attempting further conquests to add to the lands they had already stolen? Knowing the extent of Kamran’s ambition he would not be surprised. His half-brother must know that at some point Humayun would come after him and he would be strengthening his position as much as he could. Neither wise old Kasim nor his aunt Khanzada with all her experience had anything to suggest and even his elderly astrologer Sharaf seemed baffled. The stars that shone with such clear and piercing beauty in the night skies offered Humayun no illumination. He knew that, just as his father Babur had done when the world turned its back on him, he would have to rely on his own inner resources to find his answers.
The sound of a woman singing distracted Humayun from his thoughts. Low and sweet, it was a voice he knew well — Hamida’s. At least she was healthy, thriving even, belly round as a watermelon. The child would be big, she would tell Humayun, placing his hand on her stomach so that he could feel the vigorous kicks. Descending the narrow, wooden ladder down from the roof he went in search of her.
She was sitting in the shade of a fig tree spinning woollen thread on a wheel she had borrowed from the headman’s wife, with her waiting woman Zainab holding the skein beside her. Seeing Humayun, Hamida smiled but went on with her song, matching her movements to the rhythm of the music.
‘Where are Khanzada and Gulbadan?’ Humayun asked when the song was ended.
‘Gulbadan has found a quiet place to write that diary she’s started keeping but Khanzada is sleeping. The heat tires her.’
‘But it doesn’t tire you?’
Hamida shrugged. ‘I must keep active and cheerful. It is important for our child and when I think of him nothing seems to matter except that he is born healthy. Gulbadan told me something amusing today — that the mountain clans around Kabul have a way of predicting the sex of a child. They take two scraps of paper and on one they write a boy’s name and on the other a girl’s. Next they wrap the papers in thin sheets of clay which they plunge into a basin of water. Then they wait to see which sheet of clay opens first. . I have no need of such tricks. I know it’s a boy. . ’
She looked so happy, Humayun thought, despite everything. But he still felt guilty. If he hadn’t chosen her — insisted on her — as his wife she would still be with her father. Now, instead of living as an empress, waited on by hundreds of attendants, dressing in gleaming silks and dining off jewelled plates as he had promised her father, he had reduced her to living like the wife of a poor peasant. And far worse than that he had exposed her to danger. He ran a finger along the curve of Hamida’s cheek. ‘As soon as it grows cooler this evening, I will go hunting with Zahid Beg. We might find some ducks amongst the reeds that would make good eating.’
But as Humayun walked along the riverbank to the camp to find Zahid Beg, a rider came galloping into the settlement. Humayun recognised Darya, who had joined Ahmed Khan’s scouts. His grey horse was foamy with sweat and his own clothes were dark with it. He looked only a little less anxious and exhausted than when he had brought the news of Kabul’s fall.
‘Majesty!’ Darya slid from the saddle.
‘What is it?’
‘A column of Rajput cavalry about fifteen miles from here.’
‘How many?’
‘At least three hundred, well mounted and some armed with muskets. They are travelling light and fast — we saw no baggage train.’
‘From which direction are they coming?’
‘From the northwest.’
‘So they could be soldiers from Marwar. . ’ Why had he assumed Maldeo had given up the hunt when the prize was so great? ‘Where is Ahmed Khan?’
‘Still trying to discover whose men they are and where they might be heading. He sent me to warn you but promised he would not be far behind.’