Raiders from the North

Chapter 16

The summer heat had scorched the grass in the meadows beneath the citadel of Kabul to a golden brown and the ground beneath his weary horse’s hoofs was baked hard. The level of the lake had fallen, leaving a crust of cracked mud streaked with dried green slime around the edge; the water smelled fetid. After an absence of nearly five months, though, his first thoughts were of his mother and grandmother, and the stories he wanted to tell them of his expedition to the borders of Hindustan. Ordering his commanders to pitch camp, unload the lines of pack-animals and post guards around the piles of plunder until it could be distributed, Babur cantered up the ramp into the citadel.

As he emerged through the shadowy gatehouse into the bright courtyard, the drummers on the battlements beat out the customary welcome to the returning king. Babur eased his feet out of the stirrups and grunted in satisfaction. It was good to be back. Then he saw Baisanghar hurrying to greet him. His face told Babur immediately that something was wrong. ‘What is it, Baisanghar? What’s happened?’

‘Majesty, your mother is ill. She has what the people here call the spotted fever, brought by merchants from the east. It caused an epidemic in the town, which spread here to the citadel to the women’s quarters. The hakim has bled her but without result. Now he is treating her with the juice of watermelons to cool her blood, but he fears for her life. . Two of her attendants have already died, one only a few hours ago.’

‘When did the sickness start?’

‘Nearly a week ago. She speaks of you constantly. I sent scouts to watch for your return but I had no idea from which direction you’d come — or when. God has been good to bring you home. .’

A chilling numbness crept through Babur that seemed to paralyse his body and brain. Dazed, he slid from his horse, handed his reins to a groom and walked slowly across the courtyard and up the steps to the women’s quarters. As he approached the tall silver-lined double doors, inlaid with dark blue lapis-lazuli, that led into his mother’s apartments, his whole body was trembling and he felt sick.

Scenes from his boyhood flickered through his brain. Khanzada slapping him for tormenting her mongoose and Kutlugh Nigar reproving her. His mother setting the feathered velvet cap of Ferghana on his head and placing his father’s sword, Alamgir, in his hand on the night the khutba was read in his name. But, above all, he saw the agony on her face when he had told her that Khanzada was to be given to Shaibani Khan. That had sapped the life from her long before the sickness had struck. . Babur bowed his head in anguish.

As attendants swung the doors open, the close, heavy air of the sick chamber — sweat mingled with sandalwood and camphor — hit him. He caught the sad, sweet notes of a lute. As he entered he saw Esan Dawlat sitting by her daughter’s bedside, her head bent low over her instrument. ‘Grandmother. .’

She looked up at his voice but completed the refrain she had been playing before handing the lute to a subdued, pinched-looking Fatima sitting just behind her. ‘Music seems to soothe her. I was afraid you would be too late. The hakim says the crisis is near. .’

Babur could see his mother lying with her eyes closed. Her face and what he could see of her neck were covered with raised angry red spots. There were even some swelling her eyelids. He stepped towards her, but Esan Dawlat waved him back. ‘The fever is deadly — especially to the young.’ Babur stared at her. He took another step forward but, with a speed almost unbelievable in a woman of her age, Esan Dawlat sprang up, rushed towards him and gripped his arms. ‘The hakim is doing all he can, and so am I. We can only wait and hope. Will it help if you catch it too? The best thing you can do for your mother, and for me, is to survive.’

‘But is there nothing I can do?’

‘There is one thing. When your mother is conscious she says little. But in her delirium she says much. Again and again she has asked God why she has no grandchildren, why you have no heirs. Let me tell her you will marry again, that there will be children she can hold on her knee when she recovers. All she feels in her soul is despair, leaving her no strength to fight. I must give her something to hope for. .’

‘Tell her I will do anything she asks. Tell her she must recover so she can dance at my wedding feast and that there will be many grandchildren. . Tell her I need her. .’

Esan Dawlat scrutinised his face, then — satisfied — released him. ‘Now go. I will send you word of her condition.’

Fighting back tears, Babur made his way to his own apartments. Esan Dawlat and his mother were right — he must face his responsibilities. Now that he was settled in Kabul it was high time to take another wife: his people would expect heirs and, of course, marriages cemented alliances. But that was irrelevant — if it would help his mother recover he’d take ten brides, twenty. .

The next days passed slowly as Babur waited for news. The reports were always the same — ‘no change’. He had much to occupy him in the aftermath of his expedition. The tribal chieftains who had ridden with him were anxious for their share of the booty and he put Baburi in charge of working out the allocations. The court scribes were soon recording how many sheep and goats, how many bales of woollen cloth, how many sacks of grain were being doled out.

Babur also had his own men to think of. They must be rewarded with increases in ranks and titles, as well as shares of the plunder. He’d make Baburi his new quartermaster — the post had remained vacant since Ali Gosht’s dismissal. That should tickle both that prickly pride of his and his sense of humour. But what could he do for Baisanghar, loyal for so long and who had governed Kabul well in his absence? If he had daughters or nieces it would be no shame for Babur to find a wife from among them. Baisanghar came from an ancient family in Samarkand and, if Babur ever returned there, it would please the citizens. The more he pondered the idea, the more pleased he became with it. . He’d seldom heard Baisanghar speak of his family and certainly none had travelled with him from Samarkand, yet that didn’t mean he had none. So why not ask him? Summoning Baisanghar to his private apartments, he went straight to the point. ‘I owe you a great deal. From the moment you clapped me on the shoulder in Samarkand you’ve kept faith with me. .’

‘I have always kept faith with the House of Timur, Majesty, and always will.’

‘That is why I have something to ask you. My mother wishes me to marry again soon. I have sworn to do so — even if she doesn’t live to see it — and it would do me honour, Baisanghar, if I could take a woman of your house. That is all I wanted to say. .’

Baisanghar looked stunned. It was the first time Babur had seen the cool-headed, unemotional, slightly humourless commander — a man who, despite the loss of his right hand, could hack his way with his left through a parcel of assailants and barely blink — at a loss.

‘I have a daughter, Majesty, but I have seen nothing of her these last ten years. My wife died giving birth to her. After Shaibani Khan killed your uncle and Samarkand’s future seemed so uncertain, I sent her to my cousin in Herat for safety. She is seventeen years old.’

‘What is her name?’

‘Maham, Majesty.’

‘Will you send for her? Will you give her to me?’

‘I will, Majesty.’

‘I cannot make her my only wife. To build the alliances I need,

I must marry others, but I will always treat her well, Baisanghar. I give you my word.’

‘Majesty, wake up.’ At the feel of a hand on his shoulder, Babur reached instinctively for the dagger that he kept beneath his pillow but then he realised a female voice had roused him. Shading his eyes against the light of the candle the woman was holding, he saw Fatima’s plain, round face.

This was an extraordinary breach of court etiquette — and of security. Then his heart almost stopped beating. Fatima must have come from his mother’s chamber. He leaped from his bed, oblivious to his nakedness. ‘What has happened? How is my mother. .?’

Fatima was crying but they were tears of joy, not grief. ‘The crisis is finally over — the hakim says she will live.’

Babur closed his eyes for a moment, thanking God. Then, noticing Fatima’s blushing confusion and that she was averting her eyes, he reached hastily for his robe. He ran along the narrow stone passageway, pushed the doorkeepers aside and burst through the silver doors into his mother’s chamber. The grey-haired hakim clicked his tongue disapprovingly but Babur didn’t care. Esan Dawlat was wiping her daughter’s face with a damp cloth and as she turned to greet him, he saw the relief in her eyes.

Then Babur looked at his mother. Her once smooth skin was cratered and puckered with circular red scars but her eyes were bright, and brighter still as they rested on him. She opened her arms and, flinging himself to the floor beside her, Babur let her embrace him, feeling the years roll back and deep relief flood through him.

The cloud of dust billowing on the western horizon was huge as was to be expected with a caravan of more than five thousand camels and two thousand mules. Maham would be somewhere amid that great trudging throng. Though he had sent an escort to protect her on the journey eastward from Herat, he had decided that, for even greater safety, the party should join the caravan.

His bride should be here before nightfall. Her apartments, spread with rich carpets, hung with silks and scented with the finest rosewater and sandalwood, were prepared, together with his wedding gifts — not the heavy gold neck- and armlets he had once given Ayisha and that she had returned, but delicately worked chains and bracelets bright with gems, the choicest in his treasure houses. What would be going through Maham’s mind? he wondered. Joy at being reunited with the father she had not seen for so many years? Apprehension about the husband she would shortly have. .?

Babur was again watching from the battlements as, just before sunset, with the sky glowing amber, the wedding party passed through the gates of Kabul’s citadel into the courtyard. He saw Baisanghar eagerly approach the enclosed bullock cart in which his daughter and her women were travelling. He wished he, too, could see her, but he would have to wait for the wedding ceremony. .

It took place a week later on a day deemed especially blessed by the court astrologers. He and Maham sat side by side beneath a velvet canopy while mullahs recited prayers for their happiness. She was concealed beneath layers of embroidered silk veils, the colour of blue duck eggs, flowing from beneath a cap of golden filigree worked with precious gems that trembled and sparkled when she moved her head — a gift from Kutlugh Nigar. As Babur took her hand to lead her to the wedding feast he sensed no hesitation, no reluctance, but a responsive tremor that sent erotic anticipation creeping through him.

That night, in the bridal chamber, he watched her attendants undress her. Baisanghar, reticent and unassuming as ever, had never told him his daughter was so beautiful — but as he hadn’t seen her since she was a child how could he have known? Her oval face was dominated by huge chestnut eyes and her dark hair reached almost to the curve of her buttocks. Her body was small but rounded. As Babur took in the high, round breasts with their pearlescent sheen, the tapering waist, the delicate curve of her hips, he felt a possessive passion, a desire to protect at all costs. The thought that anyone might hurt her made him so angry that he had to remind himself it hadn’t happened, would never happen — that he was there to look after her. .

The following days seemed to pass as if time no longer existed. His couplings with Ayisha had blunted physical need but nothing more. Even his frolics with women like Yadgar, when he and Baburi had roamed the bazaars and brothels of Ferghana, had been no more than the taste of a good meal or the joy of the hunt — just a passing pleasure.

His grandmother had no need to urge him to Maham’s bed, as she had once driven him to Ayisha’s. However many times they made love, just to look at her with her hair tumbling over her breasts was enough to arouse him afresh, to pull her gently to him, run his hands over the silken curve of her hips, feel her body’s ready response and hear the quickening of her breathing, which told him she was as ready for passion as he was.

‘How is the bridegroom? I am surprised you don’t need the hakims services — I’ve heard he has a good ointment for treating the burning and chafed private parts of newlyweds. .’

‘The bridegroom is well. .’

‘Is that all you have to say. .?’ Baburi raised an eyebrow.

‘Yes.’ Even now, a month after his marriage, Babur felt reluctant to talk of his feelings for Maham, even to Baburi with whom he shared nearly everything. Instead he turned the subject to something else that was preoccupying him. ‘I must take another wife, from among the nobility of Kabul. The citizens expect it and it will help bind them to me.’

‘Who have you chosen?’

‘I haven’t. I’ve allowed my mother and grandmother to pick for me. They’re been summoning suitable candidates to the royal women’s apartments. .’

‘And looking them over on your behalf?’

‘Exactly And now they’ve decided. Last night my grandmother told me the name of the girl. . But what about you, Baburi? Isn’t it time you took a wife? Don’t you want sons?’

‘Since I was eight years old I’ve been alone. . The thought of ties, of family, doesn’t attract me. I like variety in my bed and the freedom it brings.’

‘You can have as many wives as you want. You’re a poor man no longer. .’

‘You don’t understand. Family, heirs, dynasty — they are a natural part of your world. You see yourself as part of a story that began long ago and will continue long after you’re dead but in which your role will always be remembered. I don’t care whether people remember me. Why should they?’

‘Surely every man wants to leave his mark on the world and be spoken of by his descendants with pride. . that’s not just something for kings. .’

‘Isn’t it? People like me fade quickly out of history. We don’t matter. Let me ask you something. . What have you written about me in that diary of yours. .? Have you even mentioned me recently?’ Baburi’s dark blue eyes flickered.

Suddenly Babur realised that this was not about fame, glory and kingly destiny. It was simpler than that. Baburi was jealous. He was used to being Babur’s closest companion, his confidant, the one person from whom Babur kept nothing. Babur’s passion for Maham had changed that. If he was honest, he had hardly given Baburi a thought these past weeks, and Baburi — grown man, tried and tested warrior though he was — was hurt. Something of the vulnerable market boy, fighting for scraps and confronting life with his fists, still lurked beneath the swaggering, cocksure exterior.

Long ago Wazir Khan had warned him against his growing intimacy with Baburi and had admitted his own jealousy, his own sense of exclusion. Babur found himself repeating almost the same words he had used to salve Wazir Khan’s wounded pride. ‘You are among the foremost of my ichkis, my closest, most trusted adviser and my friend. Never forget that.’ He touched Baburi’s shoulder.

Baburi looked at his hand but didn’t twist aside. It was like taming a stallion, Babur thought. Something of the wildness always remained, despite the passing of the years. But a softening in Baburi’s expression told Babur that his words had found their mark. ‘So, tell me about this next bride of yours. Who is she?’ Baburi said, after a moment.

‘Bahlul Ayyub’s granddaughter, Gulrukh. She is nineteen and, my grandmother informs me, strong enough to bear me many sons.’

‘So that old fool of a grand vizier will be your father-in-law.’

‘Yes.’

‘So he’ll have even more op-op-opportunity to p-p-prose on and you’ll have even less excuse not to l-l-listen.’

‘He comes from an ancient family. His ancestor was grand vizier when Timur’s army passed through.’

‘That explains why Timur didn’t stay long. What does she look like?’

Babur shrugged. ‘Gulrukh? I’ve not seen her. When the time comes I’ll do my duty by her, but Maham will always have first place among my wives. .’

On a cold March evening in 1508, Babur was on the citadel’s battlements. His breath rose in frosty spirals and he pulled his fur-lined robes tightly round him. The skies above Kabul — as so often at this season — were clear and the stars shone with such brilliance it almost hurt to look at them. An hour ago, he had been standing in this exact spot with his astrologer gazing skywards with him. ‘If the child is born tonight, while we are in Pisces, it will bring good fortune on your house,’ the old man had said, mottled hands shaking with cold as they clutched his bundle of charts.

Babur had dismissed him and all of his attendants — even Baburi. Until he knew what had happened he wanted to be alone. At least up here he was unable to hear Maham’s agonised screams. . She had been in labour now for fifteen hours. It had taken every ounce of his self-control not to rush to her bedside but it was no fit place for a man. His grandmother had shouted at him to go away and leave matters to the women. He had caught only a glimpse of Maham’s face, contorted with pain, running with sweat, her lip bleeding where she had bitten it, before the great doors had been closed firmly in his face.

‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s a boy or a girl — but let Maham live,’ he found himself praying. ‘And if any must die let it be the child, not her. .’ The hakims had been warning for days that the child was large — perhaps too large for Maham’s slight frame.

Gulrukh, too, was pregnant. Her child would not come for another five months yet already she had swelled up like a watermelon and looked healthy and well. But pregnancy had only made Maham ill. She had found it difficult to eat and instead of blooming like Gulrukh, her face had grown pinched. Circles dark as bruises were etched in the delicate skin beneath her long-lashed eyes.

Baisanghar, too, had been watching Maham anxiously. She was his only surviving child. These would be difficult hours for him. .

‘Majesty. . come quickly. .’ The woman, one of Maham’s attendants, was panting and finding it hard to summon enough breath to speak. She put an arm against the stone door frame through which she’d emerged to steady herself. Babur felt as if he was viewing the scene from far away. . ‘You have a son, Majesty. .’

‘What did you say. .?’

‘Her Majesty, your wife, has borne you a son. . She ordered me to find you — to tell you all is well. .’

‘And my wife. . how is she?’

‘She is exhausted but she is asking for you.’ For the first time the woman looked at him, and, perhaps because she saw an anxious father rather than a king, she shed her nervousness and smiled. ‘All is well, Majesty, truly, and you can go to her.’

She disappeared back down the twisting staircase towards the women’s quarters, but he didn’t follow her immediately. For just a few moments he raised his face to the cold, pure sky above, seeking Canopus, the sign of fortune. It had surely guided his steps from the moment he saw it beaming, beacon-like, beyond the snowy passes of the Hindu Kush. There it was now, shining brightly. Babur gave silent thanks.

As the mullahs in their black robes and high white turbans finished chanting their prayers, Babur showered tiny silver and gold coins from a jade saucer over the head of his five-day-old son, lying naked on a blue velvet cushion in Baisanghar’s arms.

‘You are my first-born, my beloved son. I name you Humayun, Fortunate One. May your life be fortunate and may you bring honour and glory to our house.’ The tenderness he felt as he looked into his son’s wrinkled little face was like nothing he’d ever known. He’d wanted a son — many sons — to carry the blood line down through the generations, but he had never thought of what fatherhood would mean to him. It was good he had no formal speeches to make — he might not be able to hold his voice steady or keep back the tears welling in his eyes.

Humayun’s voice rose in a thin wail as Babur handed the empty saucer to Baburi at his side. Lifting the child from the cushion, he held him high so that all his courtiers, all his chiefs, could see him and acknowledge their new prince.

Maham, though still weak, his mother and grandmother would be watching through the carved marble grille high in the wall to the right of the royal dais in Babur’s audience hall. They would have seen him acknowledging the traditional gifts — silver coins signifying good luck, silks, horses and hunting dogs from the wealthier nobles, sheep and goats brought by the tribal leaders.

The feasting and celebrations would last late into the night, long after Humayun had been returned to the care of Maham and his wet-nurse, a bright-eyed young woman who had recently weaned her own son. To be wet-nurse to a Timurid prince was a great honour and the position was eagerly sought. She would guard her new charge well.

Gusts of male laughter roused him from his thoughts. Back on the blue cushion that Baisanghar was still holding, a vigorously wriggling Humayun had unleashed an arc of yellow urine.

‘So may he piss on all our enemies!’ Babur shouted, amid the general mirth, but he had something else to say. He had not planned to do it now, in this way, but something — a new resolve — was driving him on. He signalled for silence.

‘You have come here today to honour my son, to honour my house — the House of Timur. The time has come for me to claim Timur’s title of Padishah, Lord of the World. I, with my son Humayun and my sons yet to be born, will prove myself worthy of it, and all who support me will share the glory.’