Humayun charged forward at the head of his men with Bairam Khan at his side. Both were breathing hard as, sometimes skidding on patches of ice, they ran as best they could up the frozen ramp through the white cannon smoke towards the citadel’s gate. The sound of his own musket and cannon shot was partly deafening him but through a gap in the smoke Humayun saw there was indeed a jagged breach in the right-hand wall by the gate. His spirits soared. Then, to his surprise, he realised there was scarcely any return fire from the walls of the citadel.
Suddenly, as he watched, he saw through another gap in the billowing smoke some sort of activity on the battlements directly above the gateway. Was Kamran preparing to surrender? He could scarcely believe it. He shouted to his gunners and musketeers to cease fire, then moved forward again to get a better look. As the acrid smoke began to clear, he saw that Kamran’s soldiers were erecting what looked like a wooden stake on the battlements. Then more soldiers appeared, pushing in front of them a tall figure with long, flowing hair silhouetted against the grey dawn sky. Humayun ran closer until he could see that the figure was a woman and that she was holding something in her arms. Something that wriggled and writhed — a child.
The blood in Humayun’s veins ceased to flow. He watched like a man in a trance as the soldiers bound the woman to the stake, wrapping what looked like a length of rope or chain around her body but leaving her arms free to continue clutching her living burden. That burden, Humayun knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, was his son, held in the arms of his wet-nurse Maham Anga.
A great cry tore from him. ‘No!’ By now, Zahid Beg and Bairam Khan were by his side, staring as he was at the sight of the woman and child exposed on the walls, living targets of flesh and blood.Wrenching his gaze away at last, Humayun put his head in his hands. Once again he’d underestimated his half-brother. This was what Kamran’s response had meant — continue your attack and you will be your son’s assassin.
‘Bairam Khan, call off the bombardment. I cannot risk my son. . Zahid Beg, post strong enough detachments to keep the city and the citadel under siege but recall the assault troops to the camp.’
As kettledrums and trumpets sounded and his forces began to pull back across the snow-covered plain to their tents, Humayun turned and without a further word to anyone — neither his commanders nor his bodyguard — made his slow way back. Though the sun was breaking through now, thin, pale shafts lightening the sky, his own world had never seemed so lost in shadow. How was he going to bring his campaign to a successful conclusion? What was he going to say to Hamida?
Chapter 18
‘Rustum Beg, I don’t understand.How can you speak of leaving?’
‘Majesty, my cousin Shah Tahmasp, the Lord of the World, gave me explicit orders before we left Kazvin that if your campaign faltered — if after six months it seemed to me unlikely that you would succeed — I must lead his troops home. I have been patient but now that time has come. It’s over six months since we rode from Persia. . two months since we ceased the bombardment and began this fruitless siege of Kabul. My men are suffering in the bitter cold and harsh conditions, and to what end? The town and the citadel are well provisioned — your brother’s soldiers taunt us from the walls, offering us food. . I am sorry, Majesty, but I have no choice. The shah can find better employment for his troops elsewhere. . ’ Rustum Beg raised his hands, palm up, as if he personally regretted a situation that was beyond his control. But during the past half-hour since he had asked for a private audience with Humayun, though courteous as ever, he had conceded nothing.
By now shock and surprise had given way in Humayun to an anger he was struggling to contain. ‘As I’ve told you, Shah Tahmasp said nothing to me about deadlines or timescales. He called himself my brother and offered me his help to reclaim not only my ancestral homelands but also the throne of Hindustan. . He understood it would take time. We spoke of it together. . ’
‘I’m sorry, Majesty. If I don’t take my troops back to Persia I will be disobeying my orders. That I cannot do.’
‘Well, when you reach Kazvin tell your cousin this — that I will continue the fight and however long it takes I will crush my enemies so completely they never rise again. And when I once more sit on my throne in Agra I will have the satisfaction of knowing that the glory of the achievement belongs to the Moghuls and the Moghuls alone.’
Rustum Beg’s face remained impassive.
‘When will you leave?’
‘In three or four days, Majesty, as soon as my men are ready. I will leave you the cannon. They were the shah’s gift to you.’
If Rustum Beg expected his gratitude he would be disappointed, Humayun thought as he rose to his feet to indicate the interview was over. ‘I wish you and your men a safe passage back through the mountains. Tell the shah that I thank him for the assistance he gave me and only regret that it proved so short-lived.’
‘I will, Majesty. And may fortune one day shine on you again.’
After Rustum Beg had left, Humayun sat for a while alone. The Persian commander’s announcement had come without warning. He needed time to think it through and fathom a way forward. At least his own men nearly matched the Persians in numbers now and these were their own lands they were fighting in. They were hardened to the conditions and would not be deterred by snow, ice and the bitter winds that buffeted the encampment, exposed as it was on the plains. Almost as much as the loss of the Persian forces, what galled Humayun was Rustum Beg’s dismissive assessment of his chances. Since the first day of the siege, Humayun had never allowed himself to lose heart, hoping each day to find a way of breaking his enemy. . of detecting some weakness in Kamran’s position. And even if such a breakthrough didn’t come, he need only have patience — inevitably Kamran’s supplies would run out.
Sometimes, of course, it took as much fortitude to be patient as to ride into battle. The memory of his infant son on the battlements was all that was preventing Humayun from assaulting the citadel with everything he had. Perhaps Rustum Beg had interpreted his feelings for his son — his unwillingness to call Kamran’s bluff — as weakness. Well, so be it. If he must, he would — just as he had told Rustum Beg — fight on alone.
Through the tent flap that still hung partially open, Humayun saw the wintry light was fading. Soon he would summon his commanders to tell them what had happened. They might be glad to see the Persians gone.The camaraderie that had existed in the early days when Humayun led his forces out of Persia had ebbed as more and more of the clans around Kabul had come to swell his numbers. Only three days ago, Zahid Beg had told him of a violent incident between his men and the Persians. A Tajik chieftain, believing some Persian soldiers had stolen some of his stores, had called them Shiite dogs. In the ensuing brawl, one of the Tajik’s men had been stabbed in the cheek and a Persian badly burned on one side of his body when he was thrown against a brazier of blazing logs. Perhaps it was better that the Kizilbashi — the ‘Red-heads’, as Humayun’s men called the Persians for their conical red caps with strips of scarlet cloth hanging down behind to proclaim their Shiite faith — should depart. He himself would immediately renounce his token adherence to the Shia sect. That too would hearten his men.
The sound of voices outside his command tent interrupted Humayun’s thoughts. Then the tent flap was pushed back and Jauhar ducked inside. ‘Majesty, Bairam Khan asks to see you.’