Raiders from the North

‘I would do anything to save him.’ Without realising it, Babur had seized the astrologer’s wrist.

‘You must offer up the most precious thing you possess. .’

‘What is that?’

‘Only you can know, Majesty.’

Babur turned and, half running, half stumbling, made for the fort mosque. Flinging himself down on the stone floor before the ornately carved plaster niche of the mihrab he began to pray, rocking back and forth, eyes tight shut, pouring every ounce of himself into the promise he was making to God: ‘Let me be the sacrifice. Let me take on the burden of my son’s pain. Let me, not him, be the one to die. . Take my life. .’

For three long days and nights, Babur had been sitting alone in his chambers, barely eating and drinking and postponing all official business. He knew he should go to Maham but the thought of her anxiety for her son — her only child — on top of his own overwhelmed him. Neither could he write to Kamran and Askari in their distant provinces. What would he say to them? That Humayun had fallen ill and that the hakim held out little hope? Even if he did write, they could never reach Agra in time. And at the back of Babur’s mind was a suspicion he could hardly bring himself to contemplate: that Kamran and Askari might not be sorry to learn that their older half-brother was dying.

Why hadn’t God accepted his sacrifice? Why was he still breathing whilst Humayun’s life ebbed. .? Babur had never known quite such depths of despair as the hours dragged by. Whichever path he tried to turn his mind down, it ended in the blackest darkness. Though the loss of Baburi had felt like the death of part of himself, that had been a personal grief. If Humayun died it would also be an overwhelming personal loss — he had become closer to Humayun than to any of his other sons — but it would be something more too. It would be God’s way of saying that everything Babur had striven for, everything he had achieved, had been for nothing. . that he would never found an empire or a dynasty to prosper in Hindustan. . that he should never have come — or, at the very least, not tried to outdo Timur by staying on. He should have been less proud, less blown up with vanity, and contented himself with his mountainous lands beyond the Khyber Pass.

Babur glanced at his diary, lying open on a low table. What a piece of conceit it had been to think it worth giving to Humayun to guide him one day in ruling, never thinking his son might not live long enough to rule. He was tempted to throw it on to the fire, burning so bright and hot in Humayun’s sick chamber. . But he could no longer bring himself to go there and witness Humayun’s shrieking, agonised delirium.

‘Majesty. .’

Babur turned. One of the hakim’s assistants was before him. The man looked worn out, the skin beneath his eyes so shadowed it looked bruised. ‘My master asks that you should come. .’

Babur ran to Humayun’s chamber.

Abdul-Malik was waiting for him at the entrance, hands folded across his stomach. ‘Majesty. . your son gave a great groan. . and I thought — I truly believed — his end had come. . Then his eyes opened and he looked at me and knew me. . He is very weak but the fever has left him even more suddenly than it came. .’ The hakim shook his head, as much puzzled as he was joyful. ‘I have never seen a case like it, Majesty. . It is a miracle.’

Humayun was cantering along the sunlit riverbank below the Agra fort, his black hawk in its tufted red leather hood on his gauntleted wrist. Later he would join him, Babur decided. It had been a long time since he’d gone hawking. First, though, he’d visit his gardens over the Jumna where he wished to discuss the planting of apricots with his gardeners. Reluctantly he drew his eyes from the sight of Humayun, so vigorous and strong again just four months after his miraculous recovery from his illness.

Babur made for the carved sandstone staircase that descended to a little gate at the base of the fortress wall. A few feet beyond it, further steps — narrow and mottled with lichen — led to the jetty where his gilded barge was waiting to carry him along the river. Suddenly he felt a searing pain in his stomach so severe that he gasped and put out a hand to clutch the balustrade. As the pain started to ease and he began to breathe more deeply, it came again, spreading to engulf his whole body. He swayed dizzily. . ‘Help me. .’

Strong hands took hold of him under his armpits, raising him. Who was it? He looked up gratefully but saw nothing except an enfolding darkness.

‘His bowels have not moved. . he passes no urine. . he doesn’t eat. He’s taken nothing but a little water for thirty-six hours now. . Whether this is a delayed consequence of Buwa’s poison I cannot say. .’

Babur could hear voices, low, strained, anxious. Who were they talking about? His mouth and tongue were so dry. . A few drops of water flowed between his parched lips. He tried to swallow but it was so hard. . His eyes flickered briefly open. The figures hovering over him were shadowy and indistinct. He tasted more water — someone was gently pushing a metal spoon into his mouth. . Now he knew who it was and where he was. . He was lying ill in a cave tucked in a fold in the mountains where his enemies couldn’t find him. Wazir Khan was on his knees beside him, dripping water into his mouth. As soon as he was well they would ride together for Ferghana. .

‘Wazir Khan. .?’ He managed only a croaking rasp. ‘Wazir Khan. .’ He tried again. That was better, his voice sounded louder this time.

‘No, Father. It’s me, Humayun.’

Humayun? Babur struggled to make sense of this and failed.

‘Your son.’

This time it registered. With a tremendous effort Babur brought himself back to the present, opened his green eyes and saw his son’s stricken face. ‘What. . what is happening to me. .?’

‘You’re ill, Father. You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness. . You’ve had another attack — that makes four in all since you were first taken ill, each worse than the last, I’m afraid. . But don’t worry. . Abdul-Malik is hopeful. He is doing what he can.’

After drinking a little more water — it was still all he could do to swallow — Babur lay back again, eyes closed, exhausted by the effort but feeling his faculties return. He must be seriously ill. . perhaps so ill he was going to die. . The prospect sent an involuntary shudder through him. Could it really be? Not when he still had so much to do in his fledgling empire. . so much of life to enjoy. He wanted to see his sons mature and guide them as they did so. Surely God would not deny him that. .

But then another thought washed through his mind. Perhaps God had decided to call in his promise to give his own life for Humayun’s. Perhaps he had been right when, in his euphoria and relief at Humayun’s miraculous recovery, he had believed God had listened to his despairing prayer. . If so, the greatest achievement of his life had been to save his son because it was Humayun whom God intended to secure the future of the empire. Maybe there was a pattern, a meaning to his life after all. That would be a pleasant, comforting thought. Babur lay back, defiance yielding to acceptance, even to a sense of triumph, in his hazy mind. What did his death matter so long as he had laid the foundations for his dynasty?

Then a new thought pierced him with a sudden and absolute clarity. If he really were going to die, either in fulfilment of his vow or by random fate, he must make Humayun’s position secure. Otherwise, the fledgling Moghul empire would disintegrate, just as Timur’s had done, into conflict between his sons and rebellion by his vassals. He must name Humayun his sole heir. . bind his commanders and nobles to him. . give him what guidance he could in the short time he had left. .

Babur was beginning to sweat. His pulse was racing and the pains were returning. It needed all his resolve. . more than in any battle. . for his mind to master his body but — he told himself — he had never lacked courage. He pulled himself into a sitting position. ‘Summon my council. I must speak to them. . Have a scribe present to record my words. But first let me speak to my sister alone. . Bring her quickly.’

While he waited, he tried silently to rehearse his words but his mind kept drifting.

‘Babur. .’ Khanzada’s voice roused him.

‘Sister, it is many years ago that you first looked down on me in my crib. . Since then we have endured much and achieved much. Like most brothers, I’ve never told you how much I’ve loved you. . appreciated you. . I do so now. . now that I feel I am dying. Try not to grieve. . I don’t fear death, only what will happen to our dynasty when I am gone. I wish Humayun to succeed me but I worry his brothers will not accept it. . that they may rebel against him. You are the only blood kin common to all my sons. They respect you. . and what you have suffered for the