we face ruin.’ He scanned the rest quickly, his shock growing as he took in what his grandmother was saying.
‘What is it?’ asked Wazir Khan.
‘I have been betrayed. My bastard half-brother Jahangir sits on the throne of Ferghana — a child puppet put there by my cousin Tambal, who has bribed the tribal leaders with promises of reward. . He is using Jahangir for his own advantage. .’ Babur let the letter slip from his fingers to the ground where the breeze blew it a short distance until it caught on one of the rose bushes. I have lost the throne of my homeland, he thought.
While Wazir Khan retrieved the letter and read it swiftly, another even darker concern gripped Babur. Again he took Walid Butt by the shoulder, this time so firmly that the old man, who had scarcely an ounce of flesh on his frame, winced. ‘My grandmother, my mother and my sister, when did you last see them? Where are they? Are they safe?’
Walid Butt gazed sorrowfully at him. ‘They and your vizier Kasim are prisoners in the castle. Your grandmother managed to smuggle this letter to me and ordered me to bring it to you. But whether they are alive or dead, I do not know. I have been travelling these past two weeks.’ His voice cracked.
Suddenly realising he was hurting him, Babur relaxed his grip. ‘You have done well, steward. You must eat and rest. Thank you for your service.’ As Walid Butt was led away, it seemed to Babur that, if the breeze strengthened only a little, his frail form would be blown away.
Babur’s mind was reeling, his initial disbelief giving way to anger. How dared Tambal take his kingdom and imprison his family. .? But he struggled to master himself. Everything could depend on the decisions he was about to take. He looked up to see his council watching him expectantly and took a deep breath.
‘Wazir Khan, prepare my bodyguard. We will ride at once for Ferghana. Baisanghar, assemble a force. Call up my chiefs and their men — two thousand should be enough to deal with Tambal and his indisciplined tribal levies. I expect most of the citizens of Ferghana to return to my side as their rightful ruler when I arrive at Akhsi. However, leave enough troops here to defend this city should Shaibani Khan return, and follow us within the week. Also, have battering rams, siege engines and catapults made ready in case I send for them. Ali Mazid Beg, you will be regent of Samarkand in my absence. Guard it well.’
The three older men nodded. Babur turned away, already ripping off his jewelled fripperies and calling for his riding clothes and his arms.
As he rode shoulder to shoulder with Wazir Khan, galloping over meadows still baked hard by the summer heat, Babur was in torment. Guilt, fear for his family and fury against those who thought they could supplant him with a nine-year-old battled inside him. What a fool he had been these last weeks, wandering around Samarkand lost in a dream, planning how to show off his fairytale city to his family.
He had neglected what was most important, arrogantly assuming that in Ferghana he would now be a hero whom no one would dare challenge. Instead Tambal and his supporters had bided their time, like wolves waiting until the shepherd’s back was turned to run in among the flock. And they had surely been cunning or Kasim, his grandmother and his mother would have suspected a plot and warned Babur earlier. If anything had happened to the women of his family. . If Roxanna should use her power as mother of Ferghana’s new king to rid herself of enemies and rivals. . He could not bear to think of it.
Each night when, exhausted from long hours in the saddle, they made camp, Babur found it hard to sleep. He grudged every second that he was not riding eastward and became angry with Wazir Khan for insisting he must rest. But on the fourth night, there was no question of sleep. As he lay on the ground, his body began shaking violently and his brow was clammy with sweat. By the time dawn broke, his teeth were chattering so much that he could barely speak. When he tried to stand, his legs gave way and he fell helplessly to the ground. At once Wazir Khan was beside him, feeling his pulse and pulling back his eyelids to check his pupils. ‘Majesty, you cannot ride today.’
For once, Babur lacked the strength to argue. He felt Wazir Khan cover him with thick woollen blankets, but as he tried to look up at him, the world swam before him and grew dark. Then it went black.
Water was trickling between his parched lips. Babur’s tongue, half stuck to the roof of his mouth, loosened, seeking the drops eagerly. He had no idea where he was. All that mattered was getting some of that precious moisture. At last his eyes jerked open. The familiar figure of Wazir Khan was leaning over him, a long strip of cotton cloth in one hand and a water bottle in the other. When he saw that Babur was conscious, he put them down and knelt back.
Babur was still burning with thirst. ‘More water,’ he wanted to say, but managed only a dry-lipped croak. Wazir Khan understood. He placed the end of the cloth between Babur’s lips and continued what he had been doing, unknown to Babur, for the past hour: pouring a thin stream of water down the cloth so that it flowed a few drops at a time into Babur’s mouth.
After a long while, Babur choked, spluttered and managed to sit up. Wazir Khan put the cloth and the water bottle to one side and felt his forehead. ‘Your temperature is falling at last, Majesty.’
Looking around him, Babur saw they were inside a small cave with a fire at the centre. His head spun and he closed his eyes. ‘How long have I been ill?’
‘Four days, Majesty. It is now midday on the fifth.’
‘What was it? Not poison, surely. .?’
Wazir Khan shook his head. ‘No. Just a high fever — probably the result of a sheep-tick bite.’
Babur almost smiled — a tick bite at a time like this.
‘Fetch some broth,’ Wazir Khan called to one of his men. When the bowl of millet-flour soup was brought he knelt beside Babur, holding it to his lips with one hand and supporting his head with the other. The warm liquid tasted good but Babur could only manage a little before his stomach clenched and he waved the bowl aside.
‘Has there been news from Samarkand? Baisanghar must be almost ready to bring the army after us.’
‘No, Majesty. There has been nothing.’
‘Or from Ferghana?’ Silently Babur cursed the ill luck that had struck him down. By now, riding hard and light, the mountains of Ferghana should have been in sight.
Wazir Khan shook his head. ‘I did not look for any news. I sent out no scouts. My concern was to keep you hidden until you had recovered. There will be many spies between here and Ferghana. If reports reached Ferghana that you were ill — or dead. .’
He left the words unspoken but Babur understood. If the traitors pulling the strings of their little puppet king thought he was dead, his womenfolk might not see another sunrise.
‘Thank you, Wazir Khan. As always, you think of things I fail to.’ Wazir Khan’s words reminded him chillingly of his predicament. Babur lay back, willing the strength to flow back into his limbs but miserably conscious of how weak he was. ‘I will rest for the remainder of today, but tomorrow, we will ride.’
‘Yes, Majesty, if you are able to.’
‘I will be.’ Babur closed his eyes again, praying that he was right.
He slept most of that day and night but woke as soon as the dim light of the following morning crept into the cave. Sitting up cautiously he found that his head was clearer and that, though he still felt a little unsteady, he could stand unaided. With one hand against the lichen-covered wall, he walked stiffly towards the cave opening and ducked outside. Wazir Khan and some of his guards were squatting around a small fire of sheep’s droppings that was burning brightly. A copper kettle was suspended above it from a makeshift frame.
Wazir Khan handed him a clay cup of hot water that tasted of smoke and a piece of dry bread that he began to chew. He noticed that the horses, tethered by a clump of gorse bushes, were already saddled and loaded. Wazir Khan had, as always, done well. Within half an hour they had kicked earth over the remains of their fire, filled their leather water bottles from a stream and were mounting.
Babur pulled himself into his saddle with none of his usual spring, feeling the eyes not only of Wazir Khan but of the rest of his men upon him. For a moment he swayed, but then he kicked his horse on in the direction of the sunrise and Ferghana.
Babur’s heart quickened as, in the distance, he made out the Jaxartes river and his home. The robust little castle of Akhsi, half built into the cliff above the river, was the place of his earliest and fondest memories. At this moment, the glories of Samarkand could not compete and he felt tears rising.
‘Majesty, it is dangerous to go further tonight.’ Wazir Khan’s eyes, too, were bright with tears. ‘They’ll be
