Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (4 page)

Courtiers flattened themselves against the damp walls of the crypt while others jammed into the passageway. The heavy air reeked of men’s sweat. Babur’s arms were almost pinned to his sides by the crush. As the mullah began to intone, softly at first but voice then rising and soaring around the chamber, fear prickled along Babur’s spine. He was in a confined place. What if an enemy should choose now to strike? In his mind’s eye bright red blood spurted from his slit throat and spilled on to the jade casket with its delicate tracery of tulips and narcissi. He heard himself trying to scream but managing only a blood-choked, bubbling gasp.

Faintness and nausea gripped him. Babur closed his eyes, struggling to master himself. Despite his lack of years and hairless chin, he must be a man. In a few hours, if he played his part courageously, he would be on the throne of Ferghana.
Timur’s blood is your blood
.
Silently he repeated once more the words his father had spoken so often and with such pride. As they echoed around his brain images formed in his mind of great and glorious battles fought long ago and of even greater conquests to come. Resolve steeled his blood – together with an anger that men should even think to deny him what was his.

Babur felt for the jewelled dagger his mother had pushed into his purple sash before he had set out and, as his fingers curled around the hilt, his breathing steadied. He looked speculatively around him. Wazir Khan’s men were in the crypt. They would surely not allow an assassin to cut down their prince. Or would they? Scanning their faces, he realised how little he knew about any of the guards. Until yesterday he had taken their allegiance to his family for granted. Today all that had changed. His grip on the dagger tightened.

He focused his attention back on the mullah who, in his deep, sonorous voice, was chanting: ‘May Allah be merciful. May the soul of our king, Umar-Shaikh, even now be in the gardens of Paradise. Let we who are left weep pearl drops of sadness but let us also rejoice that our king is drinking a pure draught of the waters of perfect happiness.’ He came to an end and, folding his hands, backed away from the sarcophagus up the passageway, the spectators parting with difficulty to allow him through to the outside.

Babur closed his eyes for a moment and bade a silent farewell to the father he had loved. Then, holding back tears, he followed the mullah to emerge blinking into the sunlight. A whooshing sound, like a bird in flight, so close it almost grazed his left ear, startled him and he leaped backwards. Was someone out hawking? He looked around to see who would dare seek such sport while the King of Ferghana was being laid in his tomb. But there was no bright-eyed bird with jewelled collar and silken tassels dangling from its claws and shreds of prey in its curved beak. Instead an arrow, long-shafted, with blue-black feathers, quivered in the ground at Babur’s feet. A few inches more and it would have pierced his body.

Shouts of alarm rose from the crowd and people were running for cover behind bushes and trees, staring up in alarm as if expecting the late-afternoon skies to darken with a shower of missiles. Chieftains
were yelling for their horses and their men and reaching for their own bows and quivers. Almost instantly Wazir Khan was by Babur’s side, shielding him with his body as his gaze swept the landscape. Out on the plains there were few hiding-places but a large rock or patch of scrubby bushes would be enough for a lone archer with skill in his hands and murder in his heart. With a curt motion of his gauntleted hand, Wazir Khan despatched a detachment of mounted guards in search of the would-be assassin.

‘You must return to the palace at once, Majesty.’

Babur was still staring at the arrow. ‘Look,’ he stooped and wrenched it from the earth, ‘there’s something round the shaft.’ He ripped off the coarse red thread that was securing a sliver of parchment and stared at the writing on it. The language was his own tongue of Turki, but the words leaped and danced before his eyes and for a moment he struggled to take in their meaning.

Wazir Khan took the paper from him and read the message aloud: ‘“The mighty Shaibani Khan, lord of the world, presents his compliments. He wishes it to be known that before three full moons have come and gone he will take possession of the shit-hole that calls itself Ferghana and piss on its throne.” ’

‘Bastard of an Uzbek,’ the soldier said contemptuously, but Babur saw anxiety in his face.

‘What is it?’ The court astrologer came hurrying over and twitched the paper from Wazir Khan’s fingers. Baqi Beg glanced at its contents and Babur heard his sharp intake of breath. The little man began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands clenched, his reedy voice rising in a wail: ‘Shaibani Khan is coming, that
alachi
, that killer . . . I see it . . . He rides a black horse that smashes men’s skulls to dust beneath its hoofs.’ His wail turned to a shriek: ‘Shaibani Khan is coming! Death and disaster ride behind him!’

Qambar-Ali, too, appeared by Babur’s side, the treasurer and the comptroller close behind. All three were shaking their heads. ‘The royal council must meet tonight after the funeral feast. Shaibani Khan does not make idle threats,’ the vizier said. Yusuf and Baba Qashqa nodded vigorous assent. So, too, did Baqi Beg.

Wazir Khan made no such gesture of agreement. Instead he was
staring at the vizier in a way that Qambar-Ali did not seem to relish. ‘Vizier, perhaps you would do well to use your undoubted authority to calm the people. My guards are at your disposal should you require them to restore order.’

‘You are right, Wazir Khan, I thank you.’ Qambar-Ali inclined his turbaned head and hurried off, the other royal councillors in his wake. Babur could hear Baqi Beg still muttering about the apocalypse to come and felt a surge of irritation. Once he was crowned he would have a better man than that spineless worm as his astrologer. It was a mystery why his father had put up with him – indeed why he had ever chosen him. Perhaps Baqi Beg’s family had done him some service he had felt he must reward.

Now that no further attack seemed imminent, men were emerging slightly sheepishly from their hiding-places, dusting themselves down. As the name of Shaibani Khan passed from mouth to mouth, Babur could hear some beginning to lament and moan as if they thought their doom already sealed. He glanced up at the sky to find it suddenly bloated with black clouds that had sailed in unnoticed over the plains and across the sun. Drops of rain splashed on his upturned face.

‘Majesty.’ Wazir Khan shook him again, so roughly this time that he thought his shoulder would jump from its socket. The soldier lowered his voice to an urgent whisper: ‘This message from Shaibani Khan. How can it possibly be him? How could he have learned of your father’s death so soon when he and his hordes are the far side of the mountains? No, it is a device, probably planned by that traitor Qambar-Ali. Perhaps he hoped to kill you. At the very least, he wished to strike panic into the hearts of the people so that they will less readily accept a youth as their king. But we must not be deflected from our plan. Ride for the fortress – stop for nothing and no one. As soon as I can, I will follow.’

The urgency in Wazir Khan’s voice burned into Babur. He shouted for his horse and leaped into the saddle. For a second Wazir Khan gripped his bridle. ‘Just a few hours more, Majesty, and all will be well,’ he said. Then, signalling to a detachment of guards to escort Babur, he slapped the horse’s creamy rump and it shot forward.

As he galloped over the tussocky grass and the rain fell more
heavily, Babur glanced back over his shoulder. He could make out Qambar-Ali moving through the agitated people, arms raised. What was he really trying to do? Calm them or spread panic? Every instinct told him Wazir Khan was right: the malevolent hand that had guided the arrow had not been an Uzbek one.

Digging into the deep pocket of his quilted overtunic Babur found the arrow he had stuffed into it. Taking his reins between his teeth for a moment, he pulled it out, snapped it in two and tossed it contemptuously to the ground. The pieces landed in a dark mound of sheep droppings.

‘How goes it with my son?’ Kutlugh Nigar’s face was drawn, her eyes pink with crying. From deeper within the harem, Babur caught the sound of muted weeping. All the women were observing the rituals of mourning for the dead king. Their gasps of sorrow sounded strangely in unison as if no woman dared to be first to stop.

‘It goes well.’ He had decided not to tell his mother about the arrow – at least, not yet. It was the first time in his life that he had kept something from her but the knowledge that he could have lost his life might frighten her.

‘And your father. He is at peace?’

‘Yes, Mother. We prayed for him and he sleeps in Paradise.’

‘Then it is time to look to the living.’ She clapped her hands and her waiting woman, Fatima, stepped forward from the shadows. In her arms were what looked like robes of yellow silk embroidered with flowers in gold and silver thread and a velvet cap of the same yellow, topped with a nodding peacock feather. Kutlugh Nigar took the garments from her, handling them reverently. ‘These are the coronation clothes of the kings of Ferghana. Feel them, they are yours.’

Babur reached out to touch the gleaming folds and felt a quiver of pride. A king’s robes – his robes. The silk was cool beneath his fingertips.

His reverie was broken by the clatter of hoofs. From the casement, Babur glanced down into the wet courtyard. Evening was already approaching and torches were being lit in readiness for nightfall. He saw Wazir Khan and the mullah ride in, their horses snorting
and steaming. Soon the rest of the mourners would return to the fortress and it would be time to enact the plan that would give him the right to wear these robes. Babur looked at his mother. Her expression was anxious but her eyes were determined. ‘Quickly,’ Kutlugh Nigar said. ‘ We have little time. The robes will be too large for you but we must do the best we can.’ With Fatima’s help she wrapped Babur in them, tying the sash tightly to hold the voluminous folds together, then placed the cap on his long dark hair. ‘See, my son? At this moment you are a prince but by the time the moon rises you will be a king.’ She held up a mirror of burnished bronze, and Babur saw the shining reflection of a stern, slightly startled young face.

‘Khanzada!’ his mother called. She had clearly given thought to how Babur’s introduction to the trappings of kingship should be managed. His sister had been waiting and listening in the corridor for her mother’s call. Now she stepped quickly into the chamber. She was carrying a long, thin object wrapped in green velvet. Carefully she laid down her burden, threw back the velvet with a somewhat exaggerated flourish and pulled a curved sword from its scabbard.

Kutlugh Nigar took it and held it out to Babur. ‘The sword of justice, the symbol of Ferghana – “Alamgir”.’

He recognised the hilt, cunningly ornamented with white jade to resemble an eagle and studded with gems. The bird’s spread wings formed the hand-hold and the head, with its glittering ruby eyes, protruded over the top of the hilt, glaring defiance at any would-be attacker. His father had shown it to Babur several times but had never permitted him to hold it. ‘It feels good to have it in my hands for the first time.’ He gripped the hilt and made a few tentative passes through the air.

‘It was one of your father’s greatest treasures. They say that the rubies were once Timur’s and that he brought them back from Delhi. It is yours as Ferghana’s new king.’ Kutlugh Nigar knelt to fasten the jewelled scabbard at his waist, adjusting the steel chain on which it hung.

‘Where’s my grandmother?’ There was no sign of Esan Dawlat and Babur would have been glad of her strength at such a moment.
He would also have liked her to see him – to tell him he looked every inch a king.

‘She is praying. She says she will greet you when you are ruler of Ferghana.’

A servant entered and knelt. ‘Wazir Khan begs leave to enter, Mistress.’

Kutlugh Nigar nodded. She and Khanzada had barely pulled their gauze veils over the lower half of their faces before he was in the room. Babur noticed that, for once, he did not prostrate himself – the business in hand was too urgent for such niceties. The tall soldier’s gaze swept over Babur in his robes of state and he nodded his approval. ‘Majesties, the mullah is ready and my men are prepared. But, even as we speak, Qambar-Ali is preparing to address the mourners at the funeral feast. He will tell them that the kingdom is in peril and that the prince is too young to rule. He will urge that another prince of the House of Timur be appointed regent. Last night one of my patrols intercepted a treasonous message he sent to the Khan of Moghulistan, offering him the throne, and I have other evidence of the vizier’s murderous deceit.’

‘But we have time?’ Kutlugh Nigar gripped Wazir Khan’s arm tightly in a breach of the harem protocol.

‘We have time, but the prince must come with me now, before Qambar-Ali suspects what we are about. He believes that the prince has returned to the harem to grieve with you.’ He turned to Babur. ‘Majesty, you must cover yourself.’ He held out his dark, duststained riding cloak to Babur who hastily threw it around himself, his mother’s deft fingers helping to fasten the metal clasps and pull the hood over the coronation cap with its waving plume.