Babur allowed himself a brief smile. ‘Your belief in our destiny pleases me greatly. I would not wish it otherwise. But the heavens do not foreshadow everything. Did they predict that Buwa would try to poison me? Above all, we need resilience and application to hold on to our new possessions. Leadership and dedication count even more than the stars. . listen to this passage from my diary. .’ Babur took the ivory-bound volume back from his son and quickly found the place: ‘“A ruler must at all times be vigilant, listening to what his courtiers are saying and ready to pounce on any sign of disloyalty.”
‘Remember, Humayun, that there is no bondage like the bondage of kingship. Remember that — as my son — eyes are constantly upon you. Spending so much time alone will be seen as a flaw. Let us be frank. I know what is in your heart and in your mind because I see it in your face all the time. You want to know whether I will name you my heir. My answer is I am not certain enough to do so. . not yet. I don’t doubt your bravery but show me you have also the mental strength, the leadership, the focus, dedication and application. . Prove to me the blood of Timur and Genghis flows with as much fire and purpose through your veins as it does through mine. .’
‘Majesty, the first heat of the riding contest is about to begin.’
From the battlements of the Agra fort Babur could see the yellow and green banners driven into the riverbank marking where the race would start. Six rows of stakes — ten feet apart and extending four hundred yards — marked the course. The riders would gallop their horses in and out of them until they reached the far end where each would try to spear one of the six sheep’s heads placed on the ground eight feet beyond the final stake before turning sharply and zigzagging back through the posts. The turns were tight and to be the swiftest would take skill and nerve.
The race was part of three days of celebrations to mark the fourth anniversary of Babur’s arrival in Hindustan. Later there would be wrestling matches, then a contest between his three eldest sons: the first to shoot a pottery jar off a post using an improved design of musket that Babur had recently purchased for his bodyguard would win an emerald ring. The gem was engraved with the three circles representing the felicitous conjunction of the heavens at Timur’s birth, the design Babur had adopted as the symbol of his new empire.
Humayun, Kamran and Askari gathered around Babur to watch with him. If any of them had been competing they might well have won, but this race was reserved for Babur’s commanders. It was their chance to display their skill to their emperor. The prize was a white stallion with a gilded saddle and a bridle mounted with solid gold.
Baba Yasaval, recently appointed Babur’s master-of-horse, was standing by the starting post, almost obscured by the mass of spectators lining each side of the course, pushing and shoving to get the best view. As he raised his spear, the six riders in the first heat trotted up to the start. After a glance at Babur, who signalled he was ready, Baba Yasaval lowered his spear. The riders shot away, ducking and weaving through the posts, so low in the saddle they were almost horizontal with their horses’ necks. It reminded Babur of his days of playing polo with sheep’s heads and he felt a spasm of nostalgic excitement.
The riders were reaching the end of the stakes and lowering their spears. The foremost horseman — the grey-bearded Tajik, Hassan Hizari — caught the sheep’s head expertly on the tip of his spear and wheeled round neatly. The rider just behind him was not so skilful. His spear tip missed the sheep’s head and caught instead in the mud, lifting him out of the saddle and sending him into a spiralling somersault to land on his backside to roars of laughter. The other four were safely round, all but one having speared the target.
It was nearly an hour before the five remaining heats were completed, the winners had raced each other and one man had emerged the victor — not Hassan Hizari, as Babur had hoped, but a younger warrior from Kabul who had made his bay mare move like lightning. Tonight at the feast Babur would award him his prize. Now the stakes were being pulled up and Babur’s men were hurrying into the fortress to watch the wrestling contest that would shortly begin in the main courtyard where layers of thick carpet had already been laid over the stone slabs.
‘Father, I’d like to wrestle.’ Humayun was an excellent wrestler and knew it. Babur nodded and Humayun left to prepare. Descending to the courtyard with Kamran and Askari, Babur seated himself on the chair placed on a specially erected wooden platform.
As soon as it had become known that the emperor’s son wished to compete, Humayun had been placed in the first bout. He and his opponent Saqi Muhsin, a broad, sinewy warrior from Herat, whose habitual boast was that he could wrestle four or five men at a time, approached the dais and made their obeisance. Both were barefoot, stripped to the waist and wearing close-fitting, striped breeches that fastened just below the knee. Saqi Muhsin’s much scarred, solidly muscled body looked impressive but Humayun’s even more so. At least four inches taller than his opponent, the taut, perfectly defined muscles in his arms, back, shoulders and torso — gleaming with oil — had the beauty and grace of a thoroughbred horse. His long dark hair was bound back with a scarlet cloth.
At Babur’s nod, the bout commenced. The two men circled one another, Humayun swaying on the balls of his feet, eyes fixed on his opponent’s face. Suddenly, Saqi Muhsin tried to rush him. Humayun stepped quickly aside, hooked his leg around the other man’s knee and brought him crashing to the ground. At once, Humayun was straddling his adversary’s back, one arm round his throat, forcing his head back while, with the other, he grabbed his right arm and twisted it till it was almost touching his shoulder-blade. Sweat was pouring off Saqi Muhsin and his face was contorted with pain. ‘I yield. .’ he gasped.
Humayun won the next three bouts which meant, under the rules, that he could retire from the contest with the title Unvanquished. Babur watched several more bouts but a headache, sharp and persistent, behind his eyes, was troubling him. He decided to return to his apartments to rest for a while. Kamran and Askari accompanied him to the door of the chamber, promising to return for him in three hours’ time so he could witness their shooting contest with Humayun.
Babur ordered his attendants to bring him some opium mixed with milk. He swallowed the pale, sweetish liquid and lay down. As the pain in his head eased, he slipped into sleep. His dreams were vivid and jumbled but pleasing, of Humayun’s strong but graceful body as he hurled assailant after assailant to the ground, of himself, young again, careering through the green and yellow posts to win the riding contest, of Maham as she was when he first saw her, of Khanzada running on bare hennaed feet along the dark passages of the fortress of Akhsi in pursuit of her pet mongoose, of Wazir Khan teaching him patiently how to string a bow, and of Baburi in the meadows below the citadel of Kabul, revealing the mysteries of cannon and matchlock.
When Babur awoke, sunlight was still slanting through the marble fretwork of the windows. The shooting contest wasn’t due to take place until early evening so he still had plenty of time. Stretching, he got up and splashed his face with rosewater from the jade bowl his attendants replenished four times a day. The cool water felt and smelled good and his headache had cleared.
He caught a low murmuring from the small anteroom beyond the brocade hangings that separated it from his bedchamber. It must be his attendants, keeping their voices down so as not to disturb him. Approaching the hangings, he was about to draw them back but stopped. Surely that was Kamran? Even though he was whispering, his deep, emphatic voice was unmistakable.
‘Saqi Muhsin’s an idiot. I’ve told him a hundred times that if he wants to out-wrestle Humayun there’s no point in rushing at him like a mindless bull — Humayun is too quick. He should have waited for Humayun to make the first move. Then we might have had some fun. I’d have given a lot to see Humayun knocked flat on his arse. . or, better still, to hear a rib crack. .’
‘What about the shooting match?’ Askari’s voice, higher-pitched than his brother’s and a little sibilant, sounded anxious.
‘Will he win or does one of us have a chance?’
‘It’s already taken care of, little brother.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘One of my men is responsible for loading the muskets. I’ve told him to adulterate the powder for Humayun’s gun so that it doesn’t flash or discharge properly. Even if it doesn’t wound him, at least he’ll miss the target. The emerald ring will be one thing of Father’s at least that Humayun won’t get his hands on. .’
Babur backed away. For a moment he had hoped he was dreaming but what he had heard had been real enough. Deliberately he dashed the jade bowl with its rosewater to the floor. The sound carried as he had intended. Kamran and Askari drew back the hangings and entered. ‘We didn’t want to disturb you, Father, so we sent away your attendants and have been waiting for you to wake. It’s nearly time for our shooting competition. The target has been set up and the muskets are ready. Humayun is already in the courtyard.’
‘There will be no contest, Kamran. I’ve changed my mind.’
‘But why, Father. .?’
‘Do you dare to question me?’
‘Of course not, Father.’
‘Leave me, both of you, and send my attendants to me. I will see you later at the feast.’
As his servants dressed him for the evening’s festivities, Babur barely noticed the dark blue, gold-edged tunic they were fastening at his right shoulder with turquoise catches or the gold brocade trousers that tucked into high kid boots. Mechanically he went through the motions of choosing the necklaces and turban ornaments he would wear. Timur’s heavy gold ring, which never left his finger, gleamed. Usually the sight pleased him, but not tonight.
He had been in Hindustan for four years. Tonight he and his men would eat and drink. Later, the sky above the Jumna would explode with stars as the magicians he had brought to his court from far away Kashgar let off the devices they called fireworks. He’d already had a private demonstration and the glittering sprays shooting across the velvet depths of the night sky had made him catch his breath.
But now everything seemed tainted, tarnished. It was less what his sons had said — immature, spiteful and stupid — but the venom in their voices. What he had taken for normal sibling rivalry was something more and it was his fault. Preoccupied with his new possessions he hadn’t paid enough attention to what was happening around him.
A ruler must at all times be vigilant.
Wasn’t that what he himself had written in his diary and what he had propounded to Humayun? And all the time he’d been failing to take his own advice.
Babur’s jaw tightened. Immediately after the celebrations he would appoint Askari and Kamran governors of provinces in Hindustan. He would find plenty of tasks to keep them busy and he would have them watched. As for Humayun, he would make him governor of the province around Agra where he would keep a close eye on him. He would discourage those tiresome mystical and solitary tendencies and involve him more in the business of government. If Humayun proved up to it, he would declare him his successor before all the court. Kamran and Askari would have to accept the appointment and with it the futility of feuding with their brother. Hindustan offered many opportunities. Much was still unconquered and they could carve their own place in it — even if that meant being Humayun’s vassals.
It was lucky, Babur thought, examining his appearance in a mirror of burnished bronze, that he was still relatively young. Inshallah, God willing, he would have plenty of time to correct the faults in all of his sons and to find ways to satisfy their competing ambitions.
Chapter 27
The Dying of the Light
Babur’s head was throbbing with the persistent ache that dogged him during the monsoon. The warm rain had been falling for three days now but the still, heavy air held no promise of relief. The rains would go on for weeks, even months. Lying back against silken bolsters in his bedchamber in the Agra fort, he tried to imagine the chill, thin rains of Ferghana blowing in over the jagged summit of Mount Beshtor and failed. The punkah above his head hardly disturbed the air. It was hard even to remember what it was like not to feel hot. There was little pleasure just now even in visiting his garden — the sodden flowers, soggy ground and overflowing water channels only depressed him.
Babur got up and tried to concentrate on writing an entry in his diary but the words wouldn’t come and he pushed his jewel-studded inkwell impatiently aside. Maybe he would go to the women’s apartments. He could ask Maham to sing. Sometimes she accompanied herself on the round-bellied, slender-necked lute that had once belonged to Esan Dawlat. Maham lacked his grandmother’s gift but the lute still made a sweet sound in her hands.
Or he might play a game of chess with Humayun. His son had a shrewd, subtle mind — but so, he prided himself, did he and he could usually beat him. It amused him to see Humayun’s startled look as he clamed victory with the traditional cry shah mat — ‘check-mate’, ‘the king is at a loss’. Later, they would discuss Babur’s plans to launch a campaign when the rains eased against the rulers of Bengal. In their steamy jungles in the Ganges delta, they thought they could defy Moghul authority and deny Babur’s overlordship.
‘Send for my son Humayun and fetch my chessmen,’ Babur ordered a servant. Trying to shake off his lethargy he got up and went to a casement projecting over the riverbank to watch the swollen, muddy waters of the Jumna rushing by. A farmer was leading his bony bullocks along the oozing bank.
Hearing footsteps Babur turned, expecting to see his son, but it was only the white-tunicked servant.
‘Majesty, your son begs your forgiveness but he is unwell and cannot leave his chamber.’
‘What is the matter with him?’
‘I do not know, Majesty.’
Humayun was never ill. Perhaps he, too, was suffering from the torpor that came with the monsoon, sapping the energy and spirit of even the most vigorous.
‘I will go to him.’ Babur wrapped a yellow silk robe round himself and thrust his feet into pointed kidskin slippers. Then he hurried from his apartments to Humayun’s on the opposite side of a galleried courtyard, where water was not shooting, as it should, in sparkling arcs from the lotus-shaped marble basins of the fountains but pouring over the inundated rims.
Humayun was lying on his bed, arms thrown back, eyes closed, forehead beaded with sweat, shivering. When he heard his father’s voice he opened his eyes but they were bloodshot, the pupils dilated. Babur could hear his heavy wheezing breathing. Every scratchy intake of air seemed an effort which hurt him.
‘When did this illness begin?’
‘Early this morning, Father.’
‘Why wasn’t I told?’ Babur looked angrily at his son’s attendants. ‘Send for my hakim immediately!’ Then he dipped his own silk handkerchief into some water and wiped Humayun’s brow. The sweat returned at once — in fact, it was almost running down his face and he seemed to be shivering even more violently now and his teeth had begun to chatter.
‘Majesty, the hakim is here.’
Abdul-Malik went immediately to Humayun’s bedside, laid a hand on his forehead, pulled back his eyelids and felt his pulse. Then, with increasing concern, he pulled open Humayun’s robe and, bending, turned his neatly turbaned head to listen to Humayun’s heart.
‘What is wrong with him?’
Abdul-Malik paused. ‘It is hard to say, Majesty. I need to examine him further.’
‘Whatever you require you only have to say. .’
‘I will send for my assistants. If I may be frank, it would be best if you were to leave the chamber, Majesty. I will report to you when I have examined the prince thoroughly — but it looks serious, perhaps even grave. His pulse and heartbeat are weak and rapid.’ Without waiting for Babur’s reply, Abdul-Malik turned back to his patient. Babur hesitated and, after a glance at his son’s waxen trembling face, left the room. As attendants closed the doors behind him he found that he, too, was trembling.
A chill closed round his heart. So many times he
had feared for Humayun. At Panipat he could have fallen beneath the feet of one of Sultan Ibrahim’s war elephants. At Khanua he might have been felled by the slash of a Rajput sword. But he had never thought that Humayun — so healthy and strong — might succumb to sickness. How could he face life without his beloved eldest son? Hindustan and all its riches would be worthless if Humayun died. He would never have come to this sweltering, festering land with its endless hot rains and whining, blood-sucking mosquitoes if he had known this would be the price.
Babur spent the next half-hour pacing round the dripping courtyard and resisting the desire to send at once to the hakim to demand news. But at last Abdul-Malik appeared. Babur tried unsuccessfully to read his face.
‘The prince has a very high fever and is becoming delirious. .’
‘What is it? Not poison?’
‘No, Majesty, there has been no vomiting. I cannot say what the cause is. We can only try to sweat the infection out. I have ordered fires to be lit in his room and I will prepare a cordial of spices to heat his blood. .’
‘Is there nothing else to be done? Nothing I can send for?’
‘No, Majesty. We must wait. God alone will decide his fate as he does for us all.’
All through the night, Abdul-Malik and his assistants tended Humayun. In the almost suffocating heat of the room, Babur sat close by the bed as his son heaved and tossed, struggling to throw off the thick wool blankets that the hakim had ordered to be piled on him. All the time Humayun was muttering, sometimes shouting. The words were incomprehensible to Babur.
Raiders from the North eotm-1 Page 44
