Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (45 page)

‘There was nothing you could have done. It was the only way or he would have murdered us all, right there in front of the walls of Samarkand. My greatest fear was always that you would do something rash, something foolish . . .’

‘I should have. There would have been more honour in it.’

‘No – it was your duty to be prudent . . . to wait . . .’

‘You sound like our grandmother.’

Khanzada’s eyes filled with tears. Her first questions to him had been for news of her mother and grandmother and Babur had had
to tell her the old lady was dead. ‘If I am like her, I’m glad. She understood the world as it is – not as we’d like it to be – and she taught us what was expected of us.’

‘Sometimes I wish we’d not been born who we are . . .’

‘Of course. Yet if you could choose again, you wouldn’t want it otherwise – not in your heart . . .’

As Babur stared at the floor, the red and blue flowers on the carpet seemed to whirl before his eyes. ‘But if you hadn’t been a Timurid princess you wouldn’t have had to endure Shaibani Khan . . .’

A tremor crossed Khanzada’s face.

He reached out to touch the curve of her cheek, then the scar etched on her skin. ‘What happened to you? Can you tell me . . . ?’

‘He was a strange man, always unpredictable, often needlessly cruel . . . He was not . . . gentle and he made me do degrading things . . . to humble me, he said, to make me forget my Timurid blood, to remind me I was only a woman subject to his whims . . . I – I cannot speak of them but they are over now.’ Her voice trembled. ‘But I was only one of many in his harem and I was lucky to be one of his wives. We had a certain status – all his wives were from noble houses . . . However badly he treated us in the bedchamber we had rich clothes, jewels, good food, servants. We were symbols of his power and conquests . . . He didn’t take us with him on campaign but left us where we’d be safe. If we’d been captured and dishonoured, he would have been dishonoured too. That was why the shah’s men found me in Herat . . .

‘His concubines – there were hundreds – were not so fortunate. When he went on expeditions, he’d select some to go with him to dance for him in the camp at night and give to his warriors who’d fought well. If they angered him he had them killed. In one of his camps a girl who stumbled as she danced was buried up to her armpits in sand and left without water under the hot sun. They say she was still alive, skin and lips blackened and peeling, when his army rode on two days later . . . Such things meant nothing to Shaibani Khan.’

Khanzada’s calm, matter-of-fact tone – there was no anger, no bitterness – amazed Babur. From somewhere she had found strength to accept her situation.

‘I don’t understand . . .’ he began, but she hushed him as if he were still her childish small brother and put a finger to his lips.

‘Just as your duty was to be patient, mine was to survive. That was what I did. I hid my thoughts and feelings. I was submissive and unresisting – dutiful, even. Sometimes I even pitied him. There was no happiness, no contentment in him, only a restless hunger for revenge against a world he thought had treated him badly . . .’

‘But you must have been afraid, living in the power of a man who hated our family so much?’

‘Sometimes, of course. His moods were strange, impossible to read. But as time passed, I grew less fearful that my life was at risk, at least not from him . . .’

‘From who, then . . . ?’

Khanzada looked down at her clasped hands with their intricate hennaed patterning. Even as a girl she had loved to decorate her hands and feet. ‘Some of the other women. Though Shaibani Khan was what he was, there was still jealousy. He was handsome, powerful. He could be generous to those who pleased him. Women vied for his attention . . . One in particular was envious of me though she had no reason . . .’

‘Who?’

‘The daughter of the grand vizier of Samarkand – the young woman you sent to be the wife of our cousin Mahmud Khan. After Shaibani Khan had killed him, he took her from Samarkand as a concubine. She wanted to be one of his wives and hated me because I was. But, above all, she hated me because you had her father killed. Six months after Shaibani Khan took me, she tried to stab me . . . She was aiming for my eyes but one of the harem guards saw her in time and dragged her off me, but the blade still caught the side of my face.’ Khanzada put her hand to the scar.

In his mind’s eye Babur saw the slender, fiery-eyed girl begging him for the life of her despicable cur of a father. ‘What happened to her?’

‘Shaibani Khan had her walled up alive in an underground chamber in the Kok Saray in Samarkand. He said he was the only arbiter of who lived and died. He said he was punishing her for her presumption . . .’

As the hours of the night passed and his sister continued to speak of her ordeal, Babur began to understand how she had managed to survive and to stay sane. It was as if she had distanced herself from everything, convincing herself that the traumatic things happening around her – to her – were happening to someone else. A little like Ayisha, but with far more reason than she had ever had, she had longed to be elsewhere and, in her mind, had persuaded herself she was.

It moved him almost unbearably to see her smile but he was also filled with pride by her strength. Whatever had been done to her body she’d refused to allow her mind to be cowed and dominated. If Esan Dawlat had been a true daughter of Genghis, then so was Khanzada . . . Her experiences, horrific as they must have been, had not destroyed her. She was thirty-one years old and had spent nearly a third of her life subject to the whims of a brutal tyrant, but the girl who’d played with her pet mongoose had somehow, inexplicably, survived. Tears pricked his eyelids but he forced them back. From now on, his sister would know nothing but happiness . . .

‘The Lord of the World has a proposition that he hopes you will find acceptable.’ The Persian envoy was clad even more gorgeously today in robes of bright orange and his beard was perfectly combed and perfumed. There was no sign of the aching head Babur had been sure he’d be suffering from. The man’s self-possessed, rather patronising expression suggested the ‘proposition’ was something Babur would grab as a starving man would seize a hunk of bread.

Babur waited, eyes a little narrowed. At last he was about to find out why the shah had gone to so much trouble to please him.

‘Shah Ismail has shattered the power of the Uzbek marauder. He wishes the legitimate rulers to return to their kingdoms so that the lands bordering his great empire are tranquil once more. As
the last surviving prince of the House of Timur he offers you Samarkand . . .’

Babur felt his stomach contract. Samarkand, city of his dreams, Timur’s capital. ‘Your master is gracious,’ he replied cautiously, then waited. If he had learned anything in the years since his father’s death it was patience. Let others fill silences . . .

The envoy cleared his throat. Here it comes, Babur thought.

‘Though Shaibani Khan has been defeated, Uzbek tribes still hold Samarkand. My lord will give you Persian troops to fight side by side with your own to drive them out.’

‘And then?’

‘My master admires you. He knows that the blood of conquerors runs in your veins. He believes you would make a worthy vassal.’

‘A vassal?’ Babur stared at the man.

The envoy seemed to read his mind. ‘You need pay no tribute and you alone would govern in Samarkand. All my master asks is that you acknowledge him as your overlord.’

‘And as soon as we have taken Samarkand the Persian troops will withdraw?’

‘Of course.’

‘And there are no other conditions?’

‘No, Majesty.’

‘I will consider what you have said and give you an answer when I am ready.’

The envoy bowed and withdrew. No wonder the man had asked for a private audience. His proposition was unprecedented. No Timurid prince had ever been subject to Persia . . . yet the suggestion offered security for the shah and himself. The shah’s borders would be protected by the friendly buffer of Babur’s lands, and Babur would regain Samarkand. Established there, he could bide his time, build up his forces, seek opportunities for further conquests and perhaps, when the moment was right, throw off the vassalship.

He heard voices outside and one of his guards ducked into the tent. ‘The quartermaster wishes to see you.’

Babur nodded. It would be good to talk this over with Baburi before he summoned his war council.

‘Well, what did he want?’ Baburi perched on a low wooden stool next to Babur.

‘The gift of the stallion and the return of my sister were to sweeten me. The Shah of Persia has made me an offer. He will give me troops to chase the remaining Uzbeks out of Samarkand and establish my rule there on the single condition that I acknowledge him as my overlord.’

Baburi’s indigo eyes flashed in surprise. ‘Samarkand is not the shah’s to dispose of . . . What right has he to it? And what right has he to expect you to be his vassal?’

‘He is one of the most powerful rulers on earth. He disposed of Shaibani Khan . . . a task that might have taken us years . . . that we might never have accomplished . . .’ Babur said slowly.

‘You don’t mean to accept?’

‘Why not? I’ve always wanted Samarkand – desired it above everything else. And once I’ve regained it, I can retake Ferghana. With the kingdom of Kabul, I’ll have the makings of an empire of my own . . . something to leave to my sons . . .’

‘That primping Persian arsehole has bewitched you with his oh so soft words, his unctuous smoothness and “pwetty pwetty” promises. Is that what it’s all been for? Our treks over frozen mountains, our days of hunger when a lump of mouldy meat seemed like Paradise, our shared battles . . . our mingled blood . . . our victories?’

‘Isn’t it time to enjoy some reward? The past years have been like living under a whirlwind. Whenever I tried to put down my roots, they were ripped out. But I am still here – unlike my cousin Mahmud Khan, whose flayed skin was stretched to make a drum, or my male kin in Herat, all slaughtered, or my murdered half-brother in Ferghana . . . I feel my time is coming at last . . .’

‘Then don’t be a fool by throwing everything away. Don’t let understandable gratitude for your sister’s return cloud your judgement. You have an army – a good one. Let the Persians stay in Persia. We’re strong enough to take Samarkand on our own. Ride through the Turquoise Gate again as your own man, not as another’s hireling.’

‘You don’t understand . . .’ Babur’s anger was rising. Baburi was always so obstinate.

‘I do understand. Your mindless obsession with becoming another Timur is blinding you – pushing you into contemplating stupid short-cuts.’

‘What would you know about that?’

‘Because I come from the streets? Is that what you mean?’ Baburi was on his feet now, his stool lying on its side where he’d kicked it. ‘That’s precisely why I can see more clearly than you – you idiot. If you take the shah’s offer, it is as if I’d gone down an alley with some scumbag to suck his cock in return for a meal . . . you’ll be like a brood mare to that stud stallion the shah sent you – to be mounted, dominated, and compelled to satisfy your master’s every desire . . . I was never that desperate. Neither should you be . . . Once you succumb he’ll be back for more . . .’

‘You’re being ridiculous. Leave me.’ Babur got up and turned away. Why couldn’t Baburi acquiesce gracefully in his schemes as others did?

Baburi didn’t obey. Instead he gripped Babur’s shoulder, yanking him round to face him, eyes blazing. ‘What would that father of yours that you’re always going on about have said? Or your old battle-axe of a grandmother? They’d have been ashamed you could be bought so easily, become any man’s vassal – ready to take it up the arse whenever your master feels like it . . .’

Overwhelmed by anger that Baburi dared speak to him like this, Babur pulled himself free, stepped back and swung his fist at Baburi’s sneering face with all his strength. He heard a dull crunch as his friend’s nose broke and blood spurted.

For a second, Baburi’s hand was on his dagger and Babur instinctively reached for his. But instead Baburi raised his right hand to cover his nose and – eyes never leaving Babur’s – felt with his left hand around the waist of his now blood-soaked tunic for the end of his sash. Grabbing it, he tried to staunch the flow.

‘Baburi . . .’

Pulling the sash from his face for a second, Baburi spat at Babur’s feet. Then ducking through the tent flap he was gone, leaving a trail of ruby-bright droplets of blood on the sheepskins on the floor.

Babur resisted the impulse to go after him. He was a king, and Baburi should remember that. He shouldn’t have hit him but Baburi had had it coming . . . He was hot-headed, arrogant. When he thought about it coolly, rationally – as he would – he’d realise that the decision Babur was about to make was the right one . . . Babur would ride through the Turquoise Gate and he’d do it without shame, head high.

‘Guard!’ Babur shouted. A man’s head poked through the entrance flap. ‘Summon my war council.’