Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul Page 4

  ‘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  Qambar-Ali, who had withdrawn out of harm’s way to the far end of the hall, was not dismayed.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.

  Chapter 3

  Timur’s Ring

  As 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.”’

  The warriors stirred uneasily, no man daring to catch another’s eye. Tambal, a distant cousin of Babur’s, merely grunted while Ali Mazid Beg, a burly chieftain from Shahrukiyyah in the west of Ferghana, whose lands lay directly in the path of the advancing forces of Samarkand, was poking about in his embroidered sheepskin jerkin as if suddenly afflicted with a plague of fleas. Babur sensed their anxiety. His uncle was the most powerful of all the rulers descended from Timur, and Samarkand, on the great Silk Route between China and Persia, surrounded by fertile fruit orchards and fields of wheat and cotton, the richest of all the Timurid possessions. Its very name meant Fat City while the Zarafshan river, which ran past its walls, was called Gold Bearing.

  ‘Now you understand why I sent my swiftest riders to summon you here. We must plan our response to this despicable threat to Ferghana’s independence. Young as I am, I am your rightful king. The khutba was read in my name and you were present. I have dealt with the internal threat from Qambar-Ali and his crew. Now I call on you to stand behind me against our external enemies, as your honour says you must.’ Babur’s voice was steady and clear, his words resonating pleasingly off the stone walls. With the help of Wazir Khan he had rehearsed what he would say.

  Silence. Babur’s optimism wavered and he felt a lurch in his guts. If necessary he would call on Wazir Khan to speak: his cool reasoning would carry weight with the chiefs, though Babur would prefer to be seen to succeed unaided by the loyal commander of his bodyguard. He must be strong . . . He persisted in as deep a voice as his years would allow: ‘We must act. If we do nothing the armies of Samarkand will be outside our gates before the next full moon.’

  ‘What does Your Majesty suggest?’ Ali Mazid Beg raised his head and looked Babur straight in the eye. He had been among the most faithful of Babur’s father’s chieftains and Babur felt gratitude for the support he read in the man’s almond-eyed gaze.

  ‘The king’s forces will ride eastward from Samarkand along the Zarafshan river. We must circle round and come at them out of the mountains from the north. They will not be expecting such an attack. We will show my uncle that Ferghana is strong enough to defend itself.’ Wazir Khan had suggested the plan to him and, as he outlined it, Babur knew it was a good one.

  Ali Mazid Beg nodded thoughtfully. ‘You are right, Majesty. They will not look for us to come over the northern passes.’

  ‘ We may fend off your uncle. It is possible – at least, for a while. But what will we do when Shaibani Khan comes – as he will?’ Tambal asked quietly. Unlike Ali Mazid Beg, his eyes slid away, unwilling to engage Babur’s.

  Babur sensed the unease caused by Tambal’s words. The Uzbek clans had long preyed on the Timurid kingdoms, riding out from their settlements on the northern steppes to harry and raid. But recently, under their new leader, Shaibani Khan, their ambitions had been growing. They were looking for conquests and little Ferghana might indeed prove tempting. ‘We will deal with the Uzbek and his scum, too, when that time comes,’ Babur said.

  ‘But we will need allies. Neither Ferghana nor any of the kingdoms of the House of Timur can stand alone. The Uzbeks will pick us off one by one, like a fox biting the heads off chickens,’ Tambal continued.

  ‘Of course we need allies but let us seek them as free men, not like fearful slaves craving a good master,’ Babur insisted.

  ‘The slave may live longer than the free man. And when the time is right he can make his bid for freedom. If we accept your uncle’s protection we can piss on the Uzbeks. When Shaibani’s head is lopped from his shoulders and stuffed with straw as an ornament for the harem, that will be the time for us to think once more of Ferghana’s independence.’

  A murmur of agreement spread round the chamber and now, finally, Tambal looked into Babur’s face. His expression was grave but the slight curve of his lips betrayed satisfaction that his words had struck home.

  Babur suddenly rose, glad of the little step beneath his throne that gave his youthful frame extra height. ‘Enough! We will turn back my uncle’s men and then, from a position of strength, I – not you – will decide who will be Ferghana’s ally.’

  In turn the chieftains leaped to their feet – it was unthinkable to remain seated once their king was standing, whatever thoughts they might be harbouring. Even a warrior strong enough to rip off another’s arm was steeped in court etiquette.

  ‘We ride in four days’ time. I order you to be here with all your men. Tell them to be ready for battle.’ Instinctively, Babur turned and strode from the chamber followed by his vizier and Wazir Khan.

  ‘You did well, Majesty, to allow no further debate,’ Wazir Khan said, as soon as the door had closed behind them.

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to wait four days to see who answers my call. Perhaps some of them are already sending messengers to my uncle in Samarkand. He can give them richer rewards than I.’ Babur felt weary and his head ached.

  ‘They will come, Majesty.’ Kasim’s quiet voice surprised Babur. The vizier seldom spoke unless spoken to first. ‘The khutba was read in your name just four weeks ago – it would dishonour your chiefs among their people to fail you so soon and without allowing you to prove yourself in battle. And now, Majesty, if you have no orders for me, I will return to my duties.’ He hurried off down the passageway.

  ‘I hope he’s right,’ Babur muttered, and then, in a sudden, furious gesture, kicked the wall with his foot, not once but twice, to release his pent-up emotions. When he saw Wazir Khan’s surprise he allowed himself a brief smile and, for a moment, the blackness lifted from him.

  As Babur approached the women’s quarters, servants rushed ahead to announce the king’s approach. How different it was from the days when, as a carefree boy, he had run down these corridors and burst in on his mother causing her to scold, then caress him. Now there was so much ceremony. As he entered the honeycomb of rooms he caught the flash of a dark eye and the gleam of a golden bangle on smooth, slender ankles, and breathed in the musky scent of sandalwood. He had not yet been with a woman but, young as he still was, the women were already competing to catch his eye – even Farida, the young widow of Qambar-Ali, taken into the harem by his mother out of compassion. Though she was still in mourning, he had seen her watching him. And others had put themselves in his path, their eyes bold and inviting.

  His mother was lying where he had left her, but at least she was sleeping now. His sister Khanzada was sitting hunched up, knees under her chin, in a corner of the room and playing idly with her pet mongoose, pulling gently with her hennaed hands on the golden chain attached to the turquoise-studded collar around its neck. At the sight of her brother she jumped up. ‘Well?’ she asked eagerly,
but in a low voice so she did not wake Kutlugh Nigar.

  ‘We will see. I’ve given orders to march in four days. How’s mother?’

  Khanzada frowned. ‘She won’t listen to reason. She’s convinced our uncle will seize the throne and murder you. She once heard him boast that Ferghana would make a nice addition to his kingdom of Samarkand. She says he has always regarded us both acquisitively and with contempt. That’s why Father used sometimes to raid his borders – from pride, to show he wasn’t afraid.’

  ‘Well I’m not afraid either. If we don’t respond to this threat we’ll lose face among all of Timur’s descendants. I would rather die in battle than give way.’ Babur’s voice shook with a passion that startled him. Glancing round he saw his mother had woken. She must have heard what he had said. Though her eyes were still red her handsome face was alight with pride. ‘My son,’ she said softly, and held out her hand. ‘My youthful warrior.’

  The stars had never seemed so bright, Babur thought, staring up from the battlements into the heavens, or so numerous. The air felt cold and pure, and as he breathed it deep into his lungs he could almost taste the approaching winter when the rivers would freeze and wolves would come howling from the mountains to haunt the villages and prey on the herdsmen’s fat-tailed sheep.

  In just a few hours he would be riding on his first campaign. His father’s eagle-hilted sword, Alamgir, hung from his belt but his father’s armour was still too wide for him. Wazir Khan had found him chain-mail, a jewelled breastplate and a plumed helmet from the royal armoury, which did not fit too badly. Which Timurid prince had they once belonged to, he wondered, running his fingers over the gems, as cold and brilliant as the stars above him, and what had been his fate?