Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (58 page)

‘You may rise.’ Babur waited until all eyes were upon him. ‘God was magnanimous to us at Panipat. He gave us victory because ours was a just cause. The throne of Hindustan is our birthright. Sultan Ibrahim, who tried to oppose us, is dead. All of us – all of you, my commanders, who came through fire and water with me – are the victors. This is the beginning of a new page of our history, a new destiny for our people, now that we have made ourselves the masters of Hindustan. Still greater glories lie ahead, but tonight let us forget everything but the sweet taste of our victory . . .’ Babur stood, raised his arms above his head and cried, ‘ To our new empire!’ as a great roar of acclamation burst out around him.

Sultan Ibrahim had lived well, Babur thought a little while later as he looked critically about him. With its finely carved red sandstone
columns, central cupola and rose-pink silken hangings this chamber was more magnificent than anything he had seen since Samarkand. Fragrant smoke curled from two tall golden incense burners shaped like peacocks with outspread tails of sapphires and emeralds on either side of the dais. The wall to Babur’s right was a carved sandalwood purdah screen separating the room from the adjoining harem.

In the week since he and his exhausted army had arrived at Agra, the temperature had fallen a little and a breeze had at last begun to blow – perhaps this always happened in the last days before the rains or perhaps it was just good fortune. Babur watched the silk hangings stirring gently.

He and his guests were also being cooled by
punkahs
, huge rectangular pieces of flowered brocade suspended on long silk cords which ran through iron rings in the ceiling before disappearing through small apertures high in the walls to be pulled by
punkah wallahs
– concealed on the other side – so that the brocade swung slowly to and fro above the diners’ heads. At low tables set up along the walls facing Babur, they were feeding on roasted mutton, stewed chickens and flat bread, the food of their homeland, but also the fruits of Hindustan: orange-fleshed mangoes oozing juice, creamy, soft papaya and dates.

Many, like him, traced their descent from the clans of Genghis Khan and Timur. All had served him well. Before the feasting had begun, he had bestowed gifts – robes of honour of scarlet silk, sable jackets faced in blue, jewelled daggers, swords and gilded saddles. Babur could see their satisfaction. Baba Yasaval was examining the emerald-studded hilt of the curved sabre he had given him.

As he ate, Babur glanced towards the purdah screen to his right. Normally during feasts the royal women would have been sitting behind it, observing what was happening through the fretwork as they feasted, too. Could Buwa in her apartments within the harem hear these sounds of celebration coming from her son’s former quarters? Babur hoped not. Her grief and courage, as much as her royal blood, deserved his respect. The venomous words she had spat at Humayun were no reason to punish her. Wouldn’t Esan Dawlat have said exactly same if it was Babur who had been killed and his throne seized? He had decreed that Buwa could keep her
jewels and servants and had granted her a pension. He hoped that in time she would be reconciled by his generosity.

Earlier that day, on the banks of the river, Babur had staged fights between trained male elephants from Sultan Ibrahim’s stables with names like Mountain Destroyer and Ever Bold. Goaded by riders sitting on their necks, the enormous, painted beasts had faced one another across a specially constructed earth rampart, slashing at each other with their great tusks until one lost heart and retreated. Now it was time for something different – the Hindustani acrobats and dancers who had belonged to Ibrahim’s household. Babur clapped his hands.

Two young men, their oiled bodies naked but for orange loincloths, their long black hair knotted on top of their heads, ran lightly in to where space had been cleared before Babur’s dais. Between them they carried an oblong yellow box about three feet long and eighteen inches wide with a mysterious eye painted in red on each side. They put the box down and stepped away from it. Babur’s men gasped as, slowly – as if of its own accord – the lid began to open. One small hand appeared, and then another, and suddenly the lid was thrown back to reveal a boy with his legs hooked back over his shoulders. It seemed incredible that any human – even one as lithe as this youth who must be double-jointed – could contort himself into such a space. Unravelling himself, the boy stepped out of the box and, as the other two acrobats spun brass hoops around their foreheads, knees, hands and feet, somersaulted around the room, slim legs flashing so fast they were a blur.

Next, one of the young men jumped up on the shoulders of the other and the boy then shinned up the two of them as easily as if he were climbing an apple tree. Balancing on the head of the topmost man, he threw back his own head and a rush of flame came from his mouth. Babur’s commanders yelled their approval. Quick as a flash the boy was on the floor again. Coiling up his limbs, he fitted himself back into his box and, with a farewell flourish of his hand, snapped the lid shut. The other two acrobats bowed before Babur, who threw them gold coins. Then they picked up the box and to thunderous applause bore it away.

A rhythmic stamping and jingling announced a line of eight barefoot dancing girls who entered the chamber one by one through a small servants’ door. At the same time, musicians came in by another entrance. The girls formed a circle before Babur. Their thick, dark hair was plaited with sweet-smelling white flowers. Above red and purple many-layered skirts their midriffs were bare. Tight-fitting silk bodices revealed more than they concealed of their breasts, and rows of tiny bells were twined round their wrists and ankles. Six drummers in baggy white trousers and with chests naked beneath open gold-cloth waistcoats began to beat with their palms on the long, thin drums suspended from around their necks, jumping and swaying in time to the beat. The dancers’ bodies began to undulate rhythmically. Soon they were whirling faster and faster, skirts flying up around them revealing their long, slender legs and hands pressed together above their thrown-back heads. As they danced they sang, their high-pitched, honey-sweet voices rising and falling.

The other musicians joined in, playing instruments Babur had never seen before – a sort of lute but with a neck over a metre long that he was told was a
tanpura
, another stringed instrument with two bowls, a
rudra-vina
, and a wind instrument like a compressed trumpet, a
shahnai
. Babur felt the whole performance with its fluid, lithe young bodies, pulsing drums, plangent strings and cascading voices was of an overwhelming, compelling sensuality unique to his new kingdom.

It was late but Babur realised that his men, pulses raised by the dancers, were just getting started. Some were singing, in deep bass voices, the songs of the steppes and mountains they’d left behind. Others were getting up, arm in arm, to dance wild, martial dances, stamping and shouting, sharing this great moment of joy and triumph. Humayun left his stool to join them.

Babur, though, was lost in his thoughts. He was celebrating more than a victory. Tonight was the start of a new phase in his life when he would bring everything he had done, everything he had learned, to glorious fruition. But the elation was bitter-sweet. Another face should have been at the feast, sharing in it all, but wasn’t – that of his truest friend and wisest commander. Babur picked up his goblet and drank a silent tribute to Baburi.

A
s Babur looked out one Friday evening from a covered watch-tower on the battlements of the Agra fort, the sky was piled with deep grey, almost purple, stormclouds that were releasing sheet after sheet of rain. The raindrops were bouncing off the flagstones of the courtyard and rainwater was pouring from the drainage channels out through the holes cut in the sandstone walls. On the northern and eastern sides of the fort, it fell fountain-like into the muddy waters of the river Jumna in full spate below. On the southern and western sides, it cascaded down into the already large pools that had formed on the parade-ground. Occasionally flashes of lightning lit the low, misty horizon, accompanied by the distant rumble and growl of thunder.

To the watching Babur the air felt cloyingly warm and humid, so different from the intense dry summer heat at this time of year in Central Asia. Here in Hindustan, the rains the native people called the monsoon had already lasted three months. Damp got into everything, mildewing furnishings and clothes if given a chance. He had even had to have his precious diaries dried before a fire to get rid of the moisture that had penetrated the metal casket in which he kept them.

Still, he reflected, shortly he was to dine quietly in his apartments with Humayun which was good – he wasn’t in the mood for wider
company. He had commanded his chief cook to make one of his favourite dishes: a stew of tender young rabbit cooked slowly in a sauce of cumin and raisins into which curd was stirred just before serving. He had also asked that the four chefs he had retained from Sultan Ibrahim’s household to introduce him to the tastes of his new kingdom should produce some of their heavily spiced, garlicky dishes of which he was becoming increasingly fond. The thought of the food awaiting him banished the incipient headache which the monsoon so often produced in him. Turning, he made his way down from the tower to his own apartments.

Humayun was already sitting cross-legged at a large, low table covered with a turquoise linen cloth and set with silver plates. In the middle, a large platter was piled with buttered rice into which pistachios, almonds and other nuts had been stirred. As Babur entered, Humayun rose to embrace him. A little taller than his father, he was broad and muscled – the expedition to Hindustan had brought him to manhood. Babur smiled and motioned to his son to sit. Then, with a clap of his hands, he indicated to the two attendants, both dressed entirely in white, that they should bring in the rest of the food. Within minutes they were back, accompanied by four others, all carrying large metal dishes covered with cloths. As they removed them, a delicious smell of spices filled the room.

‘Majesty, this is one of the Hindustani chefs’ dishes – chicken simmered in a rich stock with crushed mustard and coriander seeds, ginger, cardamom and cinnamon. This is lamb cooked with butter, bright yellow turmeric, onions and lentils. Then there is another dish of chicken, with spinach – saag as the people here call it – garlic and fenugreek seeds baked in a pot over a fire to give it a smoky flavour. Then there are vegetable stews with okra and aubergine – each excellent tasting.’

‘All very well and very good, I am sure, but where is my rabbit with raisins?’

‘Your steward is bringing it.’ As the attendant spoke, the steward – a tall, grey-haired man – brought in the dish and removing the lid showed it to Babur.

‘It looks as good as ever, Ahmed.’

‘Thank you, Majesty.’

‘Let my son try some of the Hindustani dishes so he can advise me on which to taste, but first give me some rabbit.’

The two men began to eat. ‘Tell me what arrangements you’ve made for the embassy to the Sultan of Gujarat.’ Babur spoke through a mouthful of rabbit stew.

‘I’ve asked that it be ready to leave as soon as the roads are passable following the rains. They tell me this should be early October. Is that soon enough?’

‘I’m sorry – repeat the last bit. I had a sudden cramp in my stomach which took my mind entirely away from Gujarat.’

‘Father – are you alright?’

Babur was not. His face was covered with a cold, clammy sweat and he felt another cramp convulse his stomach like a red-hot iron hand had squeezed it. He doubled up in pain, motioning to Humayun and an attendant to help him to his feet. As they did so, yet another cramp seized him and sour vomit rose into his mouth. He tried to swallow it back once, then again, as his gullet heaved once more. He had not gone more than three paces from the table when he vomited, retching from the pit of his stomach. Undigested rabbit mixed with the red wine and sweetmeats he had eaten earlier splashed on to the exquisite rich pink and purple carpet.

Babur retched again as yet another spasm gripped him. This time, mucus and bile were mixed with the food as well as what looked like flecks of blood. He clutched his stomach in agony. ‘Forgive me. I don’t know what’s the matter. I am never sick – not even when I’ve taken too much wine. Lay me over there on that divan.’

Humayun and the attendant eased Babur on to the cushions and Humayun ordered the
hakim
to be sent for. ‘Drink this water, Father.’ Babur obediently sipped from the goblet Humayun held out but as soon as the water contacted his stomach, it convulsed again and Babur vomited in a projectile stream.

‘Take me to the latrines – my bowels are about to give way too.’ Babur tried to rise. Humayun half-carried, half-supported his father to the latrines where he voided his bowels liquidly, noisily and noisomely.

As he emerged after five painful minutes, Babur was standing slightly more upright than he had been before but his face was still pale and sweating. ‘Humayun – do not let them dispose of the vomit – I suspect I’ve been poisoned – have the vomit scraped from the carpet and given to one of the dogs. Have some of the remains of the rabbit stew given to another. Keep the cook, the tasters and the other servants under guard. I must lie down. I feel very weak.’