air. They were affirming their allegiance to him, their king and Timur’s heir. They would not leave him. At least, not yet.
Humayun was waiting in the courtyard, his commanders behind him, when, a few days later, Babur rode up the steep ramp into the mighty Agra fortress. As he dismounted, his son knelt briefly before him but Babur quickly raised and embraced him.
‘Father, the treasuries are secured. In the harem we found Sultan Ibrahim’s mother, Buwa, and his wives and concubines. Buwa called us barbarians — she said she despised us. . I ignored her insults and ordered that she and the other women be well treated. . We had no trouble from the local people — indeed, they were relieved to see order restored. When news first came that you had defeated Sultan Ibrahim, bandits — dacoits — took advantage of the chaos to plunder the villages and steal grain, animals and women. We caught some and executed them publicly, here on the parade-ground, in front of the fort where all could see.’
‘You’ve done well. What did you find in the treasuries?’
Humayun grinned. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it — whole vaults filled with gold and silver. . more gems than I would have believed the mines of the world could produce. Everything has been counted, weighed and noted. .’
‘Good. I must reward my men well and I’ll send money to every man, woman and child in Kabul in celebration of our success. In a few days’ time, we will hold a victory feast, but now there are things I need to discuss with you and something I must ask. On the road from Delhi, I had time to reflect. . I thought of other great warriors drawn, like us, to Hindustan — Alexander of Macedonia, who brought his army over the Indus but turned back, and Timur who raided Delhi but did not stay. . I began to wonder whether we could prosper here. . Some of my men, brave as they are, also began to question it. . They don’t like this place. . We could just pile all this treasure on to the backs of our pack-beasts and go home. If we stay, we face many more difficulties and dangers.
‘Panipat was a great victory but it was just the start. Only a part of this land is ours — in truth no more than a corridor a mere two hundred miles wide, even if it does extend a thousand miles down from the Khyber Pass. We’ve met little resistance since Panipat but only because the other rulers of Hindustan have withdrawn to their strongholds to watch and wait. They think we’re mere barbarian raiders, nomads, whose rule will be as easily blown away as the morning mist. Already they will be plotting to challenge and expel us. We must ask ourselves whether we have the stomach to fight and fight again until we can call ourselves secure here. Have you that strength, that will, as I do?’
‘I have, Father.’ Humayun’s brown eyes looked unflinchingly at Babur.
‘Then we cannot fail, I’m sure of it. I’ve chosen a name for our new dynasty and lands. On the journey from Delhi, a messenger caught up with me bearing an impudent message from the Shah of Persia, written before he’d learned of our victory at Panipat. He said that he had heard of my enterprise — a “brigand’s raid” he called it. He called me a “Moghul” — the Persian word for “Mongol” — in hopes of insulting me as a barbarian pillager. But I wrote back that I take as much pride in my descent from Genghis Khan, greatest of all the Mongols, as I do in my descent from Timur. To be called a “Moghul” is no insult. I told him I will carry that name with pride and so will our new empire which, God willing, might soon eclipse his own.’
Preceded by two guards with drawn ceremonial swords, Babur slowly approached the gilded leather double- doors of what had been Sultan Ibrahim’s private entrance to his apartments where his commanders now awaited him for the victory feast. Their men were already celebrating in the courtyards below and in tents set up along the riverbanks. No one who had helped in his victory must go unrewarded.
In the torchlight the emeralds in Babur’s turban flashed. Round his neck hung a triple string of yet more emeralds intertwined with pearls and on his finger was Timur’s ring. His green brocade tunic was fastened at one side with bunches of pearls and Alamgir hung from a heavy gold chain at his waist. Gazing at his reflection a few minutes earlier he had been satisfied to see a glittering image — the embodiment of power and magnificence.
To a blast of trumpets, attendants threw open the doors and Babur entered. Instantly there was silence as each of his commanders, themselves elaborately dressed, fell to the ground to perform the formal obeisance of the
‘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
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
