Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul

EMPIRE OF THE MOGHUL

Alex Rutherford

Thomas Dunne Books

St. Martin’s Press

New York

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS
.

An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

RAIDERS FROM THE NORTH
. Copyright © 2009 by Alex Rutherford. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rutherford, Alex, 1948-

Raiders from the north : empire of the Moghul /Alex

Rutherford.—1st U.S. ed.

p. cm.

    ISBN 978-0-312-59700-9

1. Farghona (Uzbekistan)—History—Fiction. 2. Babur, Emperor of Hindustan, 1483-1530—Fiction. 3. Mogul Empire—History-Fiction. 4. Mogul Empire—Kings and rulers—Fiction. I.Title.

PR6118.U92R35 2010

823'.92—dc22

2010002336

First published in Great Britain by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group

First U.S. Edition: May 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Sketch Map of Babur’s World

Samarkand

Babur’s parents, siblings, grandmother and uncle

Ahmed, King of Samarkand, Babur’s uncle

Esan Dawlat, Babur’s maternal grandmother

Jahangir, Babur’s half-brother

Khanzada, Babur’s older sister

Kutlugh Nigar, Babur’s mother

Umar-Shaikh, King of Ferghana, Babur’s father

Babur’s wives

Ayisha, daughter of the chief of the Mangligh clan

Maham, Babur’s favourite wife and mother of Humayun

Gulrukh, mother of Kamran and Askari

Bibi Mubarak, daughter of the chief of the Yusufzai clan

Dildar, mother of Hindal

Babur’s sons

Humayun

Kamran

Askari

Hindal

Babur’s cousins

Azar Khan, nobleman of Ferghana

Mahmud, Prince of Kunduz

Mirza Khan, chieftain of Ferghana

Tambal, nobleman of Ferghana

Babur’s inner circle

Baburi, a former market boy and Babur’s closest friend

Baisanghar, originally an officer of Samarkand, subsequently Babur’s loyal commander and, even later, father-in-law

Kasim, one of Babur’s political advisers, often used by him as an ambassador

Wazir Khan, milk-brother to Babur’s father and Babur’s guide and chief mentor in his childhood and early years as king

Abdul-Malik, a physician

Ferghana

Baba Qashqa, comptroller of the royal household

Baqi Beg, court astrologer

Fatima, chief waiting woman

Qambar-Ali, vizier

Rehana, an old woman whose grandfather rode with Timur to sack Delhi

Roxanna, concubine of Babur’s father and mother of Jahangir

Walid Butt, Esan Dawlat’s steward

Yadgar, Babur’s favourite inhabitant of a Ferghana brothel

Yusuf, keeper of the treasury

Babur’s tribal leaders

Ali-Dost, a chieftain from western Ferghana

Ali Gosht, Babur’s master-of-horse and later chief quartermaster

Ali Mazid Beg, lord of Shahrukiyyah

Baba Yasaval, warrior from near Herat

Hussain Mazid, headman of Sayram and cousin of Ali Mazid Beg

Babur’s chief enemy in Central Asia

Shaibani Khan, powerful leader of the Uzbek clans and blood enemy of Babur’s people and all those descended from Timur

Persia

Shah Ismail of Persia

Mullah Husayn, Shiite mullah serving Shah Ismail

Turkey

Ali-Quli, master-gunner

Kabul

Bahlul Ayyub, grand vizier

Haydar Taqi, keeper of the Royal Seal

Muhammad-Muquim Arghun, chief of the Hazaras

Wali Gul, guardian of the Royal Treasuries

Hindustan

Buwa, mother of Sultan Ibrahim Lodi

Firoz Khan, Hindustani warlord

Gwalior royal family, owners of the Koh-i-Nur diamond, the ‘Mountain of Light’

Rana Sanga, Hindu ruler of the Rajput state of Mewar

Sultan Ibrahim Lodi, ruler of the great Delhi Sultanate and overlord of Hindustan

Roshanna, Buwa’s serving woman

Babur’s ancestors

Genghis Khan

Timur, known in the West as Tamburlaine from a corruption of ‘Timur-i-Lang’, ‘Timur the Lame’

I do not write this to complain; I have written the plain truth. I do not write to praise myself but to set down exactly what happened. In this history I have been determined to write truthfully about everything. As a consequence I have set down all that is good or bad I have seen of father, kinsman or stranger. Reader, pardon this . . .

Diary of Babur, Founder of the Moghul Empire

I
n a small dusty fortress in Central Asia in the summer of 1494, the baked-mud battlements, grey as elephant’s hide in daytime, were pinkening before Babur’s eyes with the sunset. Far beneath, the Jaxartes river gleamed a dull red as it flowed westward across the darkening plains. Babur shifted his weight on the stone step and returned his attention to his father, the king, who was pacing the fortress walls, hands clasped against the turquoise fastenings of his robes. His face was working excitedly as he launched into the story his twelve-year-old son had heard so many times before. But it was worth the retelling, Babur reflected. He listened carefully, alert for the new embellishments that always crept in. His lips moved with his father’s when the king reached the climax – the one part that never changed, each of its grandiose phrases sacrosanct.

‘And so it happened that our ancestor the great Timur – Timur the Warrior, whose name meant “Iron” and whose horses sweated blood as he galloped through the world – won a vast empire. Though he was so cruelly injured in his youth that one leg was longer than the other and he walked with a limp, he conquered from Delhi to the Mediterranean, from wealthy Persia to the wildernesses along the Volga. But was that enough for Timur? Of course not! Even when many years were upon him, he was still strong and robust in body, hard like a rock, his ambition boundless.

His final enterprise was ninety years ago against China. He rode out with the thunder of two hundred thousand horsemen in his ears and victory would have been his, had Allah not summoned him to rest with him in Paradise. But how did Timur, this greatest of warriors – greater even than your other ancestor Genghis Khan – do all this? I see the question in your eyes, my son, and you are right to ask it.’

The king patted Babur’s head approvingly, seeing that he held his complete attention. Then he resumed, voice rising and falling with poetic fervour.

‘Timur was clever and brave but, above all, he was a great leader of men. My grandfather told me that his eyes were like candles without brilliance. Once men looked into those slits of muted light they could not turn away. And as Timur gazed into their souls he spoke of glory that would echo through the centuries and stir the lifeless dust that would be all that was left of their bones on earth. He spoke of gleaming gold and shimmering gems. He spoke of fine-boned women whose black hair hung like curtains of silk such as they had seen in the slave markets of his capital of Samarkand. Above all he spoke of their birthright, their right to be the possessors of the earth. And as Timur’s deep voice flowed over and around them, visions filled their minds of what was theirs for the taking until they would have followed him through the burning gates of hell.

‘Not that Timur was a barbarian, my son.’ The king shook his head vigorously so that the fringe he liked to leave hanging from his maroon silk turban swung from side to side. ‘No. He was a cultured man. His great city of Samarkand was a place of grace and beauty, of scholarship and learning. But Timur knew that a conqueror must let nothing – no one – stand in his way. Ruthlessness ruled his soul until the job was done and the more who knew it the better.’ He closed his eyes, picturing the glory days of his magnificent ancestor. He had worked himself into such a lather of pride and excitement that beads of sweat were bursting out on his forehead. He took a yellow silk scarf and mopped it.

Exhilarated as usual by the images his father had conjured, Babur smiled up at him to show he shared the same joyous pride. But even as he watched, his father’s face changed. The fervent light in his dark eyes faded and his expression grew despondent, even brooding. Babur’s smile faltered. His father’s story usually finished with this paean to Timur, but today the king continued, his tone bleak, the vibrancy gone.

‘But I – descendant of the great Timur though I am – what have I? Just Ferghana, a kingdom not two hundred miles long or one hundred wide. Look at it – a place of sheep and goats grazing in valleys ringed on three sides by mountains.’ He flung out an arm towards the soaring, cloud-circled peaks of Mount Beshtor. ‘Meanwhile three hundred miles to the west my brother rules golden Samarkand, while south across the Hindu Kush my cousin holds wealthy Kabul. I am their poor relation to be snubbed and despised. Yet my blood – your blood – is as good as theirs.’