But after what seemed an age but could only have been a few moments, he felt Hamida move. Then she started to cough, spitting out a dirty orange-coloured mixture of saliva and sand. Joy that she was alive surged through Humayun. Helping her to sit up, he heard her taking in great, greedy gulps of air, just as he had done.
‘It’s all right,’ he said gruffly, ‘everything’s all right. . ’
After a moment he felt Hamida take his hand and place it on her domed belly. As he felt the child within kicking strongly, fresh tears ran down his sand-covered face but this time they were of joy not pain.
Slowly, people and animals were hauling themselves to their feet, though some lay ominously still. Standing up, Humayun saw the feebly twitching body of a horse lying nearby beneath a thick layer of sand. Staggering over, he knelt beside it and brushing the sand from its face recognised his stallion. In the last terrifying moments before the whirlwind ripped over them he’d forgotten the animal completely. It must have tried to gallop off but hobbled had crashed to the ground. Running his hands over its fetlocks, Humayun felt the fracture in the bone. Whispering softly into its ear and stroking its neck with one hand, with the other he drew his dagger and swiftly severed the jugular, warm blood spurting over him and staining the sandy ground.
Looking round he saw that Zainab had brought Hamida some water to drink. But another female figure was stumbling towards him — Gulbadan, hair wild, clothes crusted with sand and glistening tracks on her filthy face from the tears she was crying. He tried to take her in his arms to comfort her but she pulled away from him.
‘It’s Khanzada. . ’ Gulbadan led him over to where a body was lying and Humayun looked down on his aunt’s sand-streaked face. Her eyes were closed and from the angle of her head, he — who had seen so many dead bodies on the battlefield — knew she was dead. Mechanically, he put a hand against her neck but there was no pulse. She must have suffocated — her nostrils and mouth looked choked with sand and her hands were clenched as if she’d engaged in a mighty struggle with death, fighting until the last.
‘She behaved like the mother she had become to me since the death of my own. She shielded me with her body. She knew how afraid I was. . ’ Gulbadan whispered.
Humayun was silent, unable to conjure any words even to comfort Gulbadan. Khanzada — the woman who had shared Babur’s tragedies and triumphs and guided his own first steps as emperor, forcing him to fight opium and face his destiny — was gone. That she should die like this, snuffed out in a sandstorm, after all that she had seen and endured in her lifetime seemed cruel and terrible. Never would he forget her courage or her selfless love for him and unflinching devotion to their dynasty. A deep sadness crept over him, extinguishing the joy of a few moments ago. Khanzada’s final resting place should have been a flower-filled garden on the banks of the Jumna in Agra, or on the hillside above Kabul next to her brother Babur. But that couldn’t be. He bent and lifted his aunt’s body and cradling her tenderly in his arms spoke. ‘Though this is a wild and desolate place, we must bury her here. I myself will dig her grave.’
At last, ten long hot days later, the walls of Umarkot appeared on the horizon before Humayun’s exhausted column. He saw Kasim and Zahid Beg exchange glances of relief. Ten of Humayun’s men had been killed in the storm — two struck by pieces of flying timber from bullock carts that had been smashed by one of the whirlwinds. Many, like Jauhar, had been badly grazed and cut, some had broken bones and one of his best musketeers had lost the sight of an eye to a piece of sharp stone.
So many horses had been killed or scattered that most of the men were on foot, Humayun amongst them. Much of their equipment including many muskets had also been destroyed or buried. Even if it hadn’t, without carts and with only a few pack animals left — ten mules and six camels — they would have had to abandon most of it anyway. As it was, they’d loaded what they could on to the few beasts they had. Humayun’s one remaining treasure chest had survived intact but had now been emptied and the contents transferred into saddlebags. The Koh-i-Nur was still safely in its pouch around his neck.
Humayun was trudging by the side of a moth-eaten camel that spat balls of malodorous phlegm into the sand and groaned as it made its splay-footed way. Hardly a suitable conveyance for his empress, Humayun thought, glancing up at Hamida who was riding in a pannier suspended against one of the camel’s bony sides, balanced by Gulbadan in another pannier on the other side. Hamida’s eyes were closed and she seemed to be dozing. With luck they should reach Umarkot by nightfall, Humayun thought, then he could find Hamida somewhere better to rest.
But Umarkot must have been farther away than he’d reckoned. Distance could be deceptive in the desert. When the western skies turned blood-red as the disc of the sun slipped below the horizon, the low outline of the oasis still looked to be several miles off. With night falling, it might be unwise to go on. Humayun shouted the command for the column to halt and was looking around for Anil to ask his advice when suddenly he heard Hamida give a sharp cry, then another.
‘What is it?’
‘The baby. . I think it’s coming.’
Tapping the camel on its legs so that it collapsed grunting on to its knees, Humayun lifted Hamida out of the pannier and carried her over to a clump of low, spiny-leaved bushes where he gently laid her down. By now Gulbadan had climbed out of her pannier and was squatting down on the other side of Hamida, stroking her hot face and smoothing back her hair.
‘Stay with her, Gulbadan. I will send Zainab and the other women to you. I must try to get help from Umarkot.’
As he ran towards where his men had halted, Humayun’s heart was pounding. Never had he known fear quite like this — not even during the worst, most bloody battle. The baby should not be coming now. Hamida had been certain there was at least another month to go. . what if something went wrong, if she should die out here in this hostile wilderness which had already claimed Khanzada?
‘Jauhar,’ he shouted as soon as he was within earshot. ‘The empress is in labour. Take the best of the horses we have left and ride for Umarkot as hard as you can. Tell the people there who I am and that I ask for shelter for my wife. Under the customs of hospitality they cannot refuse. Even if the people fear me and my soldiers they will surely help Hamida — there will be hakims and midwives there. Hurry!’
Jauhar rode off into the gathering gloom on a small roan mare which still had a little life in its wasted legs. Hurrying back to Hamida, Humayun found her surrounded by a small huddle of women who parted as he approached. She was lying on her back, eyes closed and breathing heavily. Her face was slippery with sweat.
‘Her waters have broken, Majesty,’ said Zainab. ‘I know — I watched my sisters give birth many times. And her pains are becoming more frequent. . it won’t be long. . ’ As if to bear out Zainab’s words, Hamida moaned and tears welled from beneath her eyelids, mingling with the sweat that was pouring off her now. As another spasm racked her, she arched her back then drew her knees up and rolled over on to her side.
Humayun could hardly bear to watch. As the hours passed and Hamida’s groans grew louder and more frequent, he paced helplessly about, returning to Hamida’s side every few minutes or so only to go off again. The sounds of the night — the occasional rasping shriek of a peacock, the bark of a jackal — increased his sense of powerlessness. Where was Jauhar? Perhaps he should have gone himself — or sent Timur’s ring with Jauhar as proof of who he was. .
Another half-smothered cry from Hamida made him wince as if he was feeling the pain as well. That she should be giving birth in this desperate, desolate place beneath a bush. .