Raiders from the North

Chapter 26

The waters of the Ganges were warm and Babur swam the thirty-three strokes it took to cross the river with pleasure. It felt good to fulfil the final part of his vow, made six years ago when, with Baburi, he had plunged into the icy Indus and sworn to swim every major river of his new empire. Shaking droplets of water from his hair and eyes, Babur hauled himself out on to the bank and lay down in the sun. On the opposite bank, the bodyguards and huntsmen who had ridden with him from his nearby camp at Kanauj, a hundred and fifty miles east of Agra, waited with the horses in the pool of green shade beneath a leafy neem tree. Tonight, when it was dark, he and his men would go fishing, holding candles just above the surface of the water. For some reason the shimmering light was irresistible to fish, luring them to the surface where their silvery bodies were easily grabbed.

Babur closed his eyes and contemplated the river. According to the scholars he had ordered to draw him maps of Hindustan, the Ganges flowed eastward, passing through Bengal to spill into a great blue ocean. One day, Babur promised himself, he would see the great shining expanse of water he found so hard to visualise. . How did it look, the horizon where the water met the sky?

He was still finding Hindustan a bewildering, surprising place. Compared to his homelands it was indeed another world. Its mountains, rivers, forests and wildernesses, its villages and provinces, its animals and plants, people and languages, even its rains and winds were altogether different. . But whereas when he had first crossed the Indus he had thought Hindustan alien, even oppressive, now he was starting to appreciate it. Since defeating Rana Sanga he had spent much of his time on the move, setting up vast encampments, cities in miniature, with his own red tent at the heart — just as Timur had once made tours of inspection from Samarkand. His journey had given Babur the opportunity to show himself to his new subjects but also to learn.

At night, he took increasing pleasure in writing his diary, documenting everything from how the peasants tended their fields to the teams of deotis who, with their gourds of oil and thick wicks embedded in metal tripods, lit the streets of the towns and villages. He tried to describe creatures new to him, like the playful, leaping river dolphins with bodies shaped like waterskins, and the lizard-like, sharp-toothed crocodiles.

Soon he’d return to Agra, where the gardens he had planted were flourishing and had recently yielded the first grapes and melons grown by the gardeners he had summoned from Kabul. In addition, seven hundred Hindustani stonemasons were at work on the mosque he had commissioned in Agra to celebrate his crushing of Rana Sanga. With its high recessed arches — iwans — elegantly tapering minarets and relief carvings of his favourite flowers — the Hindu craftsmen could fashion tulips and irises so lifelike they seemed to toss their fragile heads in the breeze — it would be a fine structure. He had also established a post system to link Agra with Kabul, with staging points every eighteen miles. Teams of post horses and riders were kept in constant readiness so that messages could be swiftly carried between Babur’s capital in Hindustan and his lands beyond the Khyber Pass.

Having achieved so much, it was satisfying to reread some of the early passages of his diary, especially his despairing laments about his hopeless, throneless state and his yearnings for Samarkand. How ironic that he had not managed to hold Timur’s city long enough to create anything lasting whereas here, in Hindustan, he was building something permanent. When, eventually, he was called to Paradise, he would, God willing, leave his sons a rich and stable empire.

Babur sat up and watched the river flow past. A bird’s wing flashed emerald in the sunlight as a green woodpecker swooped among the reeds. What about his sons? With Maham, Gulrukh and Khanzada, their aunt, Kamran, Askari and Hindal had made the long journey south-east to Agra as soon as Babur had thought it safe to send for them. He had marked their arrival with a grand ceremony, awarding his two elder sons robes of honour, yak-tail standards, drums, fine horses, ten elephants apiece and strings of camels and mules.

He was proud of them. Khanzada had told him that Kamran — now twenty-one and sprouting a black beard — had heeded her advice and Baisanghar’s and had done well as regent in Kabul, a position since filled by Baisanghar. Thirteen-year-old Askari was also showing himself able and ambitious. And why not? Babur had been King of Ferghana at that age. Since their arrival he’d found plenty of employment for them, sending them on tours of inspection and occasional small campaigns to quash sporadic resistance.

They should be content, but something in their manner towards Humayun — especially Kamran’s — occasionally troubled Babur. They seemed resentful, even jealous. But it was healthy, he tried to tell himself. After all, Humayun had been at Babur’s side throughout the conquest of Hindustan. It was inevitable that he and Humayun should have grown close and equally inevitable that Kamran, so near in age to Humayun, should feel excluded. Babur had talked it over with Khanzada, whose wise advice had been that he should ask Humayun to be a little more tactful towards his brothers.

Maham, too, had noticed the friction but she blamed Kamran and Askari’s mother, Gulrukh, for stirring up her sons against her own, Humayun. Maham’s pleas that he formally declare Humayun his heir were growing more persistent, but that was a decision only he could take — and only when he was ready. The king’s right to choose his heir from among his sons was a good one — indeed, in the old days, sons had been expected to compete with one another. . Only the strongest deserved to rule because only the strongest could protect the clans. Humayun was undoubtedly a good warrior but now, in addition to fighting skills, a king needed other talents to win loyalty and make alliances. Babur must be absolutely sure before making any final decision.

At least ten-year-old Hindal did not seem part of this sibling rivalry. Maham still kept him close to her, although Babur must appoint a tutor for him. Hindal’s birth-mother, Dildar, had not come to Agra. She had been ill and had remained in Kabul with Hindal’s sister Gulbadan. When she was recovered Babur would send for them and his entire family would be with him, which was as it should be.

Babur stood up, dived in again and cut powerfully through the water of the Ganges — only thirty strokes this time — to where his men waited patiently.

‘I want you to have this.’ Babur held out a copy of his diaries bound within carved ivory covers. ‘It is the account of my life that I have kept for many years and will continue to keep. I ordered my scribe to copy what I have written so far. .’

Humayun took it, his brown eyes — so like Maham’s — widening in surprise. ‘It is a great honour, Father.’

‘More than that, I hope. I want you to learn from it. You have known campaigns and battles but never what I went through. . I became a king at not much more than half your age. I survived only because of the loyalty of a few of my men, the determination of my mother and grandmother and my own wits. There were times when I had nothing and a bowl of soup brought me tears of happiness. . They were bleak days but they toughened me, fitting me to rule an empire and hardening my determination that I would win one. . You have grown up with greater security, with a father to protect you, with brothers to share your youth. . You should value that. .’

‘I do, Father.’ Humayun seemed puzzled.

Babur looked away. This was hard. He was proud of his tall, muscular, athletic son, who had shown so much bravery and resourcefulness.

‘You behave arrogantly to your brothers. Kamran is only a few months younger than you. It was not his fault that he took no part in the conquest of Hindustan. He had a task to fulfil in Kabul and he acquitted himself well — yet you lord it over him. You treat Askari as the child he no longer is and he resents it. A little rivalry between you is only natural but you should be more sensitive to your brothers. .’

Humayun said nothing.

‘Our strength in this new land must be our unity or we will fail. Spend more time with your brothers, teach them some of the things that you have learned. . You pass too much time alone. Many evenings when I ask for you, I am told you’ve ridden out alone. . Some of our commanders have commented to me that they’ve found the same when they’ve sought you out for orders or to make reports. Why this need for solitude?’

‘I need time to think free from distraction. . to understand myself and the world about me, what it all means and how it works. . I particularly like to contemplate the heavens. That’s why I go out in the evenings and at night.’

‘And what do you learn from your star-gazing?’

‘That under God the stars shape our lives, our destinies. Haven’t you often told me about the time you saw the Canopus star shining on the high, snowy mountains and knew it was a sign. .?’

‘I do believe there are signs in the stars of the will of God, but I also believe that men have the power to shape their own destinies. The heavens indicate things but the choices, the decisions, are for us to make. .’ Babur’s tone was sharper than he had intended because Humayun’s expression told him he wasn’t getting through.

‘Father, I’ve never told you this, but the night before we fought at Panipat, my astrologer told me that if, next day, when the midday sun was at its height over the battlefield, three eagles appeared, we would win a great victory. In the dust and press of the battle, I raised my eyes to the skies, hot and clear above the smoke of cannon and musket, and I saw three eagles circling high above us. That’s not all. Now my astrologer is predicting a great destiny for the Moghuls in Hindustan. . That is why I spend so much time trying to discern from the stars what will happen next.’

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.