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
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
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.
