Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (5 page)

Hand on his sword, Wazir Khan gestured to Babur to follow him out into the corridor. As he brushed past her, Khanzada touched her fingers to Babur’s cheek. His sister’s eyes above her veil were wide with apprehension.

Babur felt a mixture of exhilaration and nervousness. His life depended on what happened this evening. The vizier’s guile was not to be underestimated. Wazir Khan, seeming to sense his anxiety, stopped for a second. ‘Courage, Majesty, all will be well.’

‘Courage.’ Babur repeated the word to himself and ran his fingers over the hilt of his sword.

They walked swiftly through dark corridors and up winding, sharp-edged stairs, the light from oil lamps in niches casting grotesque shadows. The mosque was in the most ancient part of the fortress, hewn on the orders of Babur’s ancestors from the rock of the cliff behind. The solid cave-like chambers would last for ever – unlike the fragile mud-baked battlements that had collapsed and carried his father to Paradise.

All was quiet as he followed Wazir Khan into the open and across a small courtyard to the entrance to the mosque. The rain had stopped and the moon was rising between the clouds. By its cool, inconsistent light Babur could make out six of Wazir Khan’s guards stationed outside. Silently they saluted their commander.

Signing to Babur to wait, Wazir Khan stepped through the pointed archway with its verses from the Koran carved above it. A few moments later he reappeared. ‘Majesty,’ he called softly, ‘you may enter.’

Babur peeled off his cloak and stepped inside. Torches burned on either side of the
mihrab
facing towards Mecca where the mullah was already quietly at prayer. In the shadows Babur counted the kneeling forms of some twenty or so chieftains, every man prepared, for reasons of blood loyalty and tribal allegiance, to swear fealty to him.

Conscious of eyes upon him, judging him, Babur felt the weight of the past – all those earlier kings of Ferghana – pressing down on him so heavily that his young shoulders seemed to ache, tensing as if under a great burden. Advancing into the centre of the mosque to the space outlined in black stone where his father the king had always prayed he prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the cool floor. As outside an owl screeched across the star-lit sky, the mullah began to preach the
khutba,
the sermon that would proclaim Babur King of Ferghana before God and the world.

‘And so you see, Excellencies, we have little choice in the matter.’ Qambar-Ali’s expression was one of dignified resignation. ‘Even
today, at the funeral of His Sacred Majesty, the Uzbek devil Shaibani Khan – may he rot in hell – dared to threaten us. We are but a small kingdom. Many covetous eyes are upon us, not just those of the vile Uzbeks. We need a strong, experienced man from among our neighbouring rulers, not a boy of tender years like Prince Babur, to govern and protect the realm. Who that should be we do not yet know . . . Later tonight the royal council will meet to consider the matter.’

Qambar-Ali gazed down at the flagstoned floor, listening to the anxious murmurings from the chieftains seated cross-legged on cushions at the low wooden tables around him. It was a pity his archer had failed to strike Babur down.

The other officers of state, Yusuf, Baba Qashqa and Baqi Beg, also watched and waited, each allowing his mind to dwell pleasurably on a future when his candidate would be regent and he would be rewarded accordingly.

‘No, by God!’ The rough voice of Ali-Dost, a chieftain from the west of Ferghana, broke into Qambar-Ali’s wishful thinking. Ali-Dost slammed his fist down on a wooden trestle bearing a whole roasted lamb stuffed with apricots. His hand was waving the greasybladed dagger with which he had been hacking off lumps of meat. ‘It is true that the prince is too young to rule, but why should we have a stranger? I am of the House of Timur. My father was a blood-cousin to our dead king. I am a proven warrior – did I not kill twenty Uzbeks with my own hands last winter as the first snows fell and they raided our flocks . . . ? I have as much right as any man to the regency.’ Face dark red with passion and smeared with lamb fat, he glared at the assembly.

‘Brothers, please.’ Baqi Beg spread his hands in appeal but no one was listening to him.

Ali-Dost was heaving himself to his feet, his men clustering round him, murmuring like angry bees. In a moment chieftain after chieftain was rising, each roaring his own candidature, his own demands. Ali-Dost swung his great fist at a man he believed had insulted him and, as the man crumpled, put the tip of his dagger to his throat. Tables that, just a few minutes earlier, had been laden with dishes
of buttered rice, meat and dried fruits, were pushed over as men fought to get at one another, wrestling among the cushions.

Qambar-Ali, who had withdrawn out of harm’s way to the far end of the hall, was not dismayed. They were such children, these so-called warriors who would kill for a sheep – or even just a woman. This wine-fuelled brawl would soon fizzle out and only bolster his case. He watched one grizzled chief take another by the throat and shake him like a rat till his victim, over-filled with lamb, spewed it up in his face.

‘Stop in the name of the King of Ferghana!’

Qambar-Ali whirled round. Wazir Khan was standing in the great doorway, his mail-clad guards at his heels. The vizier’s derisive smirk was short-lived as he was pushed to the floor by Wazir Khan’s men rushing past to take up positions around the walls of the large chamber.

At first the noisy brawlers did not realise what was happening. Only when the guards clashed their swords on their leather shields did the heaving, flailing, swearing mass of bodies pull apart and fall silent.

‘Prepare to greet your new king.’ Wazir Khan’s voice was stern.

‘Sadly, it is Allah’s will that, for the moment, we have no king,’ the vizier said, hauling himself up from the ground and flicking dust from his robes.

Wazir Khan seized Qambar-Ali’s thin shoulder. ‘We have. The
khutba
has been read in the mosque. All of you, on your faces, now.’ The men, fuddled with drink, gazed stupidly at him. His guards began moving among them, pushing them to their knees and striking those who resisted with the flat of their swords.

‘All hail, Babur Mirza, rightful King of Ferghana,’ Wazir Khan’s voice rang out, and he prostrated himself as Babur, in his oversized yellow robes and tall, velvet cap, slowly entered the room. The chieftains who had endorsed his kingship towered behind him, eyes watchful, hands on their swords in case of trouble.

Babur doubted they felt any special allegiance to him. They had simply taken a gamble. But now they would want to make sure they had backed the winning side and could claim their reward.

To Babur the scene seemed almost comical as he surveyed the
chaos – heavy-breathing men lying among strewn meat, cushions and rice, their dogs snuffling and snarling as they fought over the unexpected feast that had come their way. Qambar-Ali’s expression was no more friendly than those of the drooling hounds as, slowly, he knelt before Babur and touched his forehead to the floor.

‘Vizier, all of you, you may rise.’ As Babur gave his first order an almost visceral thrill went through him.

Qambar-Ali scrambled up, features clearly betraying a futile attempt to master his consternation. ‘We, the members of your council, are at your command, Majesty.’

‘Then how do you explain this – your letter of invitation to the Khan of Moghulistan?’ Babur flung out his hand and Wazir Khan handed him a leather box. Inside was a scroll which Babur extracted and held out to the vizier who did not even bother to take it.

‘It was for the good of the country.’ The vizier was breathing rapidly and heavily.

‘It was for your own good—’ Wazir Khan began, but Babur gestured to him to be quiet. This was his first test as ruler and he must prove himself worthy or next week, next month, next year, but inevitably at some time, there would be other plotters seeking to strip him of his birthright.

Qambar-Ali’s face was working with agitation and Babur caught the sour odours of sweat and fear. But he felt no pity for the man who had enjoyed such favour from his father, only anger and a desire for revenge.

The treasurer, the astrologer and the comptroller of the household were bunched in a tight little gaggle, eyes and mouths round with dismay. ‘Take them away,’ Babur ordered the guards. ‘I will deal with them later.’ He glanced up to a small grille set high in the wall and thought he detected movement behind it. This was where the royal women sat and watched, modest and unseen, during feasts and festivals. He knew instinctively who was there – his mother and grandmother were watching his first acts as king and urging him on.

It was strange to think that now he had the power of life and death. Babur had seen his father send men to their death many times. In the last year or two he had even witnessed the executions
– beheading, flaying, ripping apart by wild stallions. The screams and stench had caught in his throat but he had never felt it was wrong, as long as justice was done.

And he knew exactly what his mother and grandmother would expect of him now. His name meant ‘Tiger’ and he must act with the great cat’s deadly speed. ‘You plotted treason and you wished me dead, did you not?’ he said coldly. Qambar-Ali did not meet his eyes. Slowly Babur drew his sword from its scabbard. ‘Guards!’ He nodded at two of Wazir Khan’s men, who seized the vizier and pushed him to the ground, pulling his arms tightly behind him. Then they pulled his turban from his head and ripped back his robes, exposing the nape of his neck.

‘Stretch your neck, Vizier, and thank the celestial stars that I am merciful enough to give you a quick death despite your treachery.’ Babur pulled himself up to his full height and swung the sword through the air in a practice stroke, just as he had in his mother’s chamber a few hours earlier. God give me strength to do this, he was praying. Let the cut be clean.

The vizier twisted in the soldiers’ grasp and there was venom in his eyes. Babur hesitated no longer and, sweeping the sword high, brought the blade down hard. It sliced through the vizier’s thin, gristly neck as easily as if it had been a ripe melon. The head, yellow teeth bared, rolled away across the flagstones, leaking red blood like liquid rubies.

Babur allowed his gaze to pass slowly over the awed crowd. ‘I may be young but I am of the blood of Timur and your rightful king. Does any man present challenge my right to rule?’

There was complete silence. Then, slowly, chanting began: ‘Babur Mirza, Babur Mirza.’ The sound swelled and rolled around the chamber and as if the noise was not enough, men beat their swords on their round hide shields or pounded their fists on walls and tables until the very chamber seemed to shake with their passion.

A
s Babur entered the chamber his chiefs put their hands to their breasts and bowed their heads. Only eighteen, Babur thought, and some, as his grandmother had warned him, of doubtful loyalty. His eyes narrowed as he gauged each man. Only a month ago, while his father was still alive, his thoughts would have been very different. He would have been wondering which of these warriors might invite him to train with them in swordplay or to gallop with them in a game of polo on the banks of the Jaxartes. Not now. His childhood was over. This was no game but a council of war.

Babur sat on his velvet-draped throne and signalled that the chiefs, too, might sit. He raised a hand. ‘Kasim, the letter.’

The tall, slim man in dark robes who had entered the room behind him stepped forward and, bowing low, handed him the letter that an exhausted messenger had delivered the day before. Babur’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the document that had destroyed his peace of mind. Even now his mother was weeping in her apartments, head slumped on her breast, refusing to listen to words of comfort from his sister Khanzada or even the sharp common sense of her own mother, Babur’s grandmother, Esan Dawlat. His mother’s collapse had shaken him. Kutlugh Nigar had been so strong after his father’s accident but now she was allowing despair to overwhelm her.

‘Vizier, read out the letter so that every man present can hear of the perfidy of my uncle, Ahmed, King of Samarkand.’

Kasim took the letter again and slowly unfolded it. He had been a good choice as vizier, Babur thought. A poor man of no family but considerable learning – not an ambitious intriguer like his predecessor, Qambar-Ali, whose decaying head now reposed on a spike over the fortress gate.

Kasim cleared his throat. ‘“May the manifold blessings of God be upon my nephew in the hour of his grief. God has seen fit to spare his father, my brother, from the burden of earthly existence and to send his soul winging to the gardens of Paradise. It is we who are left who have cause to mourn, and to remember our duty to the living. The territory of Ferghana – I cannot in all conscience call such a small, impoverished pimple a ‘kingdom’ – is alone and unprotected. Enemies of the House of Timur are circling. My brother’s son, a mere boy, has been left naked and vulnerable. I would be failing in the love I bear my family if I did not intervene for his protection. As you read these words, beloved nephew, my armies are already marching through the Turquoise Gate of Samarkand. I will annex Ferghana for its own security. Your thanks are unnecessary. I grudge neither the trouble nor the expense, and little Ferghana will at least make a pleasant hunting ground. As for you, dear nephew, soon I will enfold you in my arms and you will again know a father’s love. And when you come of age, I will find you a small fief where you may live in peace and content.”’