Raiders from the North

Chapter 2

Babur watched from his horse as the green-grey jade sarcophagus containing his father’s body was borne into the tomb by eight of Wazir Khan’s guards. Thick sheepskins on their shoulders cushioned them against the hardness of the stone but the coffin was a mighty weight. Sweat poured down their wind-tanned faces and one man stumbled, almost losing his hold. There was a gasp from the assembled onlookers — it would be a dreadful portent if the sarcophagus should fall to the earth. Babur’s stomach tightened and he glanced at the vizier a few feet away, but Qambar-Ali’s tortoise face was impassive.

‘Careful, man, you carry our king.’ At the bite in Wazir Khan’s voice, the guard steadied himself, rebracing his shoulder to the burden, and the pall-bearers shuffled slowly into the passageway sloping down to the burial chamber in the heart of the tomb.

Babur’s father had long ago planned his mausoleum. Babur had been just a baby, mewling in the arms of his big-breasted wet-nurse, when the king had summoned stonemasons and craftsmen from across Ferghana and beyond. Under his personal direction they had laboured on the banks of the Jaxartes river a mile and a half or so west of the fortress of Akhsi to create a smaller version of the great Timur’s resting place in Samarkand. Now the tiles on the egg-shaped dome, bright aquamarine counterpointed with rich cobalt blue, sparkled in the June sunlight. His father would have been proud, Babur thought, and at the idea a half-smile crossed his tense face.

As the sarcophagus disappeared from his view, a great wailing rose from the crowds — from courtiers and chieftains in silken robes to simple herdsmen who stank of the animals they tended. Men of whatever condition in life rent their robes and sprinkled their turbaned heads with earth in a ritual that predated even Genghis Khan. What were they really thinking? How many were genuinely grieving like himself? Babur wondered. The chieftains had come in response to Esan Dawlat’s summons but, when the time came, could he rely on them?

‘Beware of those who seem to have no ambition — it is unnatural,’ his father had always counselled him. Babur could not help glancing at Wazir Khan but felt instantly ashamed. With his father dead, after his mother and grandmother the tall, straight-backed soldier he had known all his life was the person he trusted most in the world. But what about that grey-bearded, pockmarked chieftain over there who had ridden so hard through the night from his mountain fastness that his robes were stained with his own and his horse’s sweat? Or that buck-toothed one, with his head shaved in the old Mongol fashion, who had once been banished by his father for his scheming, deceit and greed and only recently forgiven? Esan Dawlat had been forced to take risks with her invitations: she had hoped to summon allies but, even at his age, Babur knew some might easily turn out to be jackals.

But all of this must wait. First his father must be laid to rest. As Wazir Khan, head bowed, held his jewelled bridle, Babur dismounted. Brushing away a tear he took a deep breath, ready to lead his father’s favourite mullah and the most important mourners down into the crypt to pay their final respects. For a fraction of a second he longed for the soft touch of his mother’s hand. But Kutlugh Nigar was waiting within the harem with his sister and grandmother, as was proper. Such occasions were not for women. They had made their silent adieus from behind screens carved high in the walls as the cortege wound down out of the fortress and on towards the banks of the swift-flowing Jaxartes.

As Babur approached the mausoleum’s dark mouth, he saw that Qambar-Ali was already ahead of him, his brown robes swirling around him in his eagerness to be first. ‘Vizier!’ Babur’s young voice was stern. It sounded good.

A faint twitch of irritation flickered over Qambar-Ali’s face as he paused and turned aside. ‘Majesty.’

‘I will lead the mourners for my father. It is fitting.’ Babur stepped past, making sure he trod hard on one of the vizier’s felt-booted feet. That felt good too.

‘Of course, Majesty.’

Babur gestured courteously to the mullah to join him. Qambar-Ali followed them down the low, dark passageway. The other royal council members came next, as their high office decreed they should. Yusuf, as treasurer, was carrying a bowl of gleaming gold coins to be laid at the foot of the sarcophagus. Baba Qashqa was bearing the huge red leatherbound journal in which, as comptroller of the royal household, he had recorded the minutiae of royal expenditure. This, too, would be left in the tomb to show that the king had gone to the next world with his affairs in order. Baqi Beg was cradling a crystal globe, the symbol of office of the court astrologer. Later, when the funeral was over, he was thinking, he would gaze into its shining depths and proclaim in a voice laced with sorrowful regret that the stars would not accept a mere boy as king.

Courtiers flattened themselves against the damp walls of the crypt while others jammed into the passageway. The heavy air reeked of men’s sweat. Babur’s arms were almost pinned to his sides by the crush. As the mullah began to intone, softly at first but voice then rising and soaring around the chamber, fear prickled along Babur’s spine. He was in a confined place. What if an enemy should choose now to strike? In his mind’s eye bright red blood spurted from his slit throat and spilled on to the jade casket with its delicate tracery of tulips and narcissi. He heard himself trying to scream but managing only a blood-choked, bubbling gasp.

Faintness and nausea gripped him. Babur closed his eyes, struggling to master himself. Despite his lack of years and hairless chin, he must be a man. In a few hours, if he played his part courageously, he would be on the throne of Ferghana. Timur’s blood is your blood. Silently he repeated once more the words his father had spoken so often and with such pride. As they echoed around his brain images formed in his mind of great and glorious battles fought long ago and of even greater conquests to come. Resolve steeled his blood — together with an anger that men should even think to deny him what was his.

Babur felt for the jewelled dagger his mother had pushed into his purple sash before he had set out and, as his fingers curled around the hilt, his breathing steadied. He looked speculatively around him. Wazir Khan’s men were in the crypt. They would surely not allow an assassin to cut down their prince. Or would they? Scanning their faces, he realised how little he knew about any of the guards. Until yesterday he had taken their allegiance to his family for granted. Today all that had changed. His grip on the dagger tightened.

He focused his attention back on the mullah who, in his deep, sonorous voice, was chanting: ‘May Allah be merciful. May the soul of our king, Umar-Shaikh, even now be in the gardens of Paradise. Let we who are left weep pearl drops of sadness but let us also rejoice that our king is drinking a pure draught of the waters of perfect happiness.’ He came to an end and, folding his hands, backed away from the sarcophagus up the passageway, the spectators parting with difficulty to allow him through to the outside.

Babur closed his eyes for a moment and bade a silent farewell to the father he had loved. Then, holding back tears, he followed the mullah to emerge blinking into the sunlight. A whooshing sound, like a bird in flight, so close it almost grazed his left ear, startled him and he leaped backwards. Was someone out hawking? He looked around to see who would dare seek such sport while the King of Ferghana was being laid in his tomb. But there was no bright-eyed bird with jewelled collar and silken tassels dangling from its claws and shreds of prey in its curved beak. Instead an arrow, long-shafted, with blue-black feathers, quivered in the ground at Babur’s feet. A few inches more and it would have pierced his body.

Shouts of alarm rose from the crowd and people were running for cover behind bushes and trees, staring up in alarm as if expecting the late-afternoon skies to darken with a shower of missiles. Chieftains were yelling for their horses and their men and reaching for their own bows and quivers. Almost instantly Wazir Khan was by Babur’s side, shielding him with his body as his gaze swept the landscape. Out on the plains there were few hiding-places but a large rock or patch of scrubby bushes would be enough for a lone archer with skill in his hands and murder in his heart. With a curt motion of his gauntleted hand, Wazir Khan despatched a detachment of mounted guards in search of the would-be assassin.

‘You must return to the palace at once, Majesty.’

Babur was still staring at the arrow. ‘Look,’ he stooped and wrenched it from the earth, ‘there’s something round the shaft.’ He ripped off the coarse red thread that was securing a sliver of parchment and stared at the writing on it. The language was his own tongue of Turki, but the words leaped and danced before his eyes and for a moment he struggled to take in their meaning.

Wazir Khan took the paper from him and read the message aloud: ‘“The mighty Shaibani Khan, lord of the world, presents his compliments. He wishes it to be known that before three full moons have come and gone he will take possession of the shit-hole that calls itself Ferghana and piss on its throne.” ’

‘Bastard of an Uzbek,’ the soldier said contemptuously, but Babur saw anxiety in his face.

‘What is it?’ The court astrologer came hurrying over and twitched the paper from Wazir Khan’s fingers. Baqi Beg glanced at its contents and Babur heard his sharp intake of breath. The little man began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands clenched, his reedy voice rising in a wail: ‘Shaibani Khan is coming, that alachi, that killer. . I see it. . He rides a black horse that smashes men’s skulls to dust beneath its hoofs.’ His wail turned to a shriek: ‘Shaibani Khan is coming! Death and disaster ride behind him!’

Qambar-Ali, too, appeared by Babur’s side, the treasurer and the comptroller close behind. All three were shaking their heads. ‘The royal council must meet tonight after the funeral feast. Shaibani Khan does not make idle threats,’ the vizier said. Yusuf and Baba Qashqa nodded vigorous assent. So, too, did Baqi Beg.

Wazir Khan made no such gesture of agreement. Instead he was staring at the vizier in a way that Qambar-Ali did not seem to relish. ‘Vizier, perhaps you would do well to use your undoubted authority to calm the people. My guards are at your disposal should you require them to restore order.’

‘You are right, Wazir Khan, I thank you.’ Qambar-Ali inclined his turbaned head and hurried off, the other royal councillors in his wake. Babur could hear Baqi Beg still muttering about the apocalypse to come and felt a surge of irritation. Once he was crowned he would have a better man than that spineless worm as his astrologer. It was a mystery why his father had put up with him — indeed why he had ever chosen him. Perhaps Baqi Beg’s family had done him some service he had felt he must reward.

Now that no further attack seemed imminent, men were emerging slightly sheepishly from their hiding-places, dusting themselves down. As the name of Shaibani Khan passed from mouth to mouth, Babur could hear some beginning to lament and moan as if they thought their doom already sealed. He glanced up at the sky to find it suddenly bloated with black clouds that had sailed in unnoticed over the plains and across the sun. Drops of rain splashed on his upturned face.

‘Majesty.’ Wazir Khan shook him again, so roughly this time that he thought his shoulder would jump from its socket. The soldier lowered his voice to an urgent whisper: ‘This message from Shaibani Khan. How can it possibly be him? How could he have learned of your father’s death so soon when he and his hordes are the far side of the mountains? No, it is a device, probably planned by that traitor Qambar-Ali. Perhaps he hoped to kill you. At the very least, he wished to strike panic into the hearts of the people so that they will less readily accept a youth as their king. But we must not be deflected from our plan. Ride for the fortress — stop for nothing and no one. As soon as I can, I will follow.’

The urgency in Wazir Khan’s voice burned into Babur. He shouted for his horse and leaped into the saddle. For a second Wazir Khan gripped his bridle. ‘Just a few hours more, Majesty, and all will be well,’ he said. Then, signalling to a detachment of guards to escort Babur, he slapped the horse’s creamy rump and it shot forward.

As he galloped over the tussocky grass and the rain fell more heavily, Babur glanced back over his shoulder. He could make out Qambar-Ali moving through the agitated people, arms raised. What was he really trying to do? Calm them or spread panic? Every instinct told him Wazir Khan was right: the malevolent hand that had guided the arrow had not been an Uzbek one.

Digging into the deep pocket of his quilted overtunic Babur found the arrow he had stuffed into it. Taking his reins between his teeth for a moment, he pulled it out, snapped it in two and tossed it contemptuously to the ground. The pieces landed in a dark mound of sheep droppings.

‘How goes it with my son?’ Kutlugh Nigar’s face was drawn, her eyes pink with crying. From deeper within the harem, Babur caught the sound of muted weeping. All the women were observing the rituals of mourning for the dead king. Their gasps of sorrow sounded strangely in unison as if no woman dared to be first to stop.

‘It goes well.’ He had decided not to tell his mother about the arrow — at least, not yet. It was the first time in his life that he had kept something from her but the knowledge that he could have lost his life might frighten her.

‘And your father. He is at peace?’

‘Yes, Mother. We prayed for him and he sleeps in Paradise.’

‘Then it is time to look to the living.’ She clapped her hands and her waiting woman, Fatima, stepped forward from the shadows. In her arms were what looked like robes of yellow silk embroidered with flowers in gold and silver thread and a velvet cap of the same yellow, topped with a nodding peacock feather. Kutlugh Nigar took the garments from her, handling them reverently. ‘These are the coronation clothes of the kings of Ferghana. Feel them, they are yours.’

Babur reached out to touch the gleaming folds and felt a quiver of pride. A king’s robes — his robes. The silk was cool beneath his fingertips.

His reverie was broken by the clatter of hoofs. From the casement, Babur glanced down into the wet courtyard. Evening was already approaching and torches were being lit in readiness for nightfall. He saw Wazir Khan and the mullah ride in, their horses snorting and steaming. Soon the rest of the mourners would return to the fortress and it would be time to enact the plan that would give him the right to wear these robes. Babur looked at his mother. Her expression was anxious but her eyes were determined. ‘Quickly,’ Kutlugh Nigar said. ‘ We have little time. The robes will be too large for you but we must do the best we can.’ With Fatima’s help she wrapped Babur in them, tying the sash tightly to hold the voluminous folds together, then placed the cap on his long dark hair. ‘See, my son? At this moment you are a prince but by the time the moon rises you will be a king.’ She held up a mirror of burnished bronze, and Babur saw the shining reflection of a stern, slightly startled young face.

‘Khanzada!’ his mother called. She had clearly given thought to how Babur’s introduction to the trappings of kingship should be managed. His sister had been waiting and listening in the corridor for her mother’s call. Now she stepped quickly into the chamber. She was carrying a long, thin object wrapped in green velvet. Carefully she laid down her burden, threw back the velvet with a somewhat exaggerated flourish and pulled a curved sword from its scabbard.

Kutlugh Nigar took it and held it out to Babur. ‘The sword of justice, the symbol of Ferghana — “Alamgir”.’

He recognised the hilt, cunningly ornamented with white jade to resemble an eagle and studded with gems. The bird’s spread wings formed the hand-hold and the head, with its glittering ruby eyes, protruded over the top of the hilt, glaring defiance at any would-be attacker. His father had shown it to Babur several times but had never permitted him to hold it. ‘It feels good to have it in my hands for the first time.’ He gripped the hilt and made a few tentative passes through the air.

‘It was one of your father’s greatest treasures. They say that the rubies were once Timur’s and that he brought them back from Delhi. It is yours as Ferghana’s new king.’ Kutlugh Nigar knelt to fasten the jewelled scabbard at his waist, adjusting the steel chain on which it hung.

‘Where’s my grandmother?’ There was no sign of Esan Dawlat and Babur would have been glad of her strength at such a moment. He would also have liked her to see him — to tell him he looked every inch a king.

‘She is praying. She says she will greet you when you are ruler of Ferghana.’

A servant entered and knelt. ‘Wazir Khan begs leave to enter, Mistress.’

Kutlugh Nigar nodded. She and Khanzada had barely pulled their gauze veils over the lower half of their faces before he was in the room. Babur noticed that, for once, he did not prostrate himself — the business in hand was too urgent for such niceties. The tall soldier’s gaze swept over Babur in his robes of state and he nodded his approval. ‘Majesties, the mullah is ready and my men are prepared. But, even as we speak, Qambar-Ali is preparing to address the mourners at the funeral feast. He will tell them that the kingdom is in peril and that the prince is too young to rule. He will urge that another prince of the House of Timur be appointed regent. Last night one of my patrols intercepted a treasonous message he sent to the Khan of Moghulistan, offering him the throne, and I have other evidence of the vizier’s murderous deceit.’

‘But we have time?’ Kutlugh Nigar gripped Wazir Khan’s arm tightly in a breach of the harem protocol.

‘We have time, but the prince must come with me now, before Qambar-Ali suspects what we are about. He believes that the prince has returned to the harem to grieve with you.’ He turned to Babur. ‘Majesty, you must cover yourself.’ He held out his dark, duststained riding cloak to Babur who hastily threw it around himself, his mother’s deft fingers helping to fasten the metal clasps and pull the hood over the coronation cap with its waving plume.

Hand on his sword, Wazir Khan gestured to Babur to follow him out into the corridor. As he brushed past her, Khanzada touched her fingers to Babur’s cheek. His sister’s eyes above her veil were wide with apprehension.

Babur felt a mixture of exhilaration and nervousness. His life depended on what happened this evening. The vizier’s guile was not to be underestimated. Wazir Khan, seeming to sense his anxiety, stopped for a second. ‘Courage, Majesty, all will be well.’

‘Courage.’ Babur repeated the word to himself and ran his fingers over the hilt of his sword.

They walked swiftly through dark corridors and up winding, sharp-edged stairs, the light from oil lamps in niches casting grotesque shadows. The mosque was in the most ancient part of the fortress, hewn on the orders of Babur’s ancestors from the rock of the cliff behind. The solid cave-like chambers would last for ever — unlike the fragile mud-baked battlements that had collapsed and carried his father to Paradise.

All was quiet as he followed Wazir Khan into the open and across a small courtyard to the entrance to the mosque. The rain had stopped and the moon was rising between the clouds. By its cool, inconsistent light Babur could make out six of Wazir Khan’s guards stationed outside. Silently they saluted their commander.

Signing to Babur to wait, Wazir Khan stepped through the pointed archway with its verses from the Koran carved above it. A few moments later he reappeared. ‘Majesty,’ he called softly, ‘you may enter.’

Babur peeled off his cloak and stepped inside. Torches burned on either side of the mihrab facing towards Mecca where the mullah was already quietly at prayer. In the shadows Babur counted the kneeling forms of some twenty or so chieftains, every man prepared, for reasons of blood loyalty and tribal allegiance, to swear fealty to him.

Conscious of eyes upon him, judging him, Babur felt the weight of the past — all those earlier kings of Ferghana — pressing down on him so heavily that his young shoulders seemed to ache, tensing as if under a great burden. Advancing into the centre of the mosque to the space outlined in black stone where his father the king had always prayed he prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the cool floor. As outside an owl screeched across the star-lit sky, the mullah began to preach the khutba, the sermon that would proclaim Babur King of Ferghana before God and the world.

‘And so you see, Excellencies, we have little choice in the matter.’ Qambar-Ali’s expression was one of dignified resignation. ‘Even today, at the funeral of His Sacred Majesty, the Uzbek devil Shaibani Khan — may he rot in hell — dared to threaten us. We are but a small kingdom. Many covetous eyes are upon us, not just those of the vile Uzbeks. We need a strong, experienced man from among our neighbouring rulers, not a boy of tender years like Prince Babur, to govern and protect the realm. Who that should be we do not yet know. . Later tonight the royal council will meet to consider the matter.’

Qambar-Ali gazed down at the flagstoned floor, listening to the anxious murmurings from the chieftains seated cross-legged on cushions at the low wooden tables around him. It was a pity his archer had failed to strike Babur down.

The other officers of state, Yusuf, Baba Qashqa and Baqi Beg, also watched and waited, each allowing his mind to dwell pleasurably on a future when his candidate would be regent and he would be rewarded accordingly.

‘No, by God!’ The rough voice of Ali-Dost, a chieftain from the west of Ferghana, broke into Qambar-Ali’s wishful thinking. Ali-Dost slammed his fist down on a wooden trestle bearing a whole roasted lamb stuffed with apricots. His hand was waving the greasybladed dagger with which he had been hacking off lumps of meat. ‘It is true that the prince is too young to rule, but why should we have a stranger? I am of the House of Timur. My father was a blood-cousin to our dead king. I am a proven warrior — did I not kill twenty Uzbeks with my own hands last winter as the first snows fell and they raided our flocks. .? I have as much right as any man to the regency.’ Face dark red with passion and smeared with lamb fat, he glared at the assembly.

‘Brothers, please.’ Baqi Beg spread his hands in appeal but no one was listening to him.

Ali-Dost was heaving himself to his feet, his men clustering round him, murmuring like angry bees. In a moment chieftain after chieftain was rising, each roaring his own candidature, his own demands. Ali-Dost swung his great fist at a man he believed had insulted him and, as the man crumpled, put the tip of his dagger to his throat. Tables that, just a few minutes earlier, had been laden with dishes of buttered rice, meat and dried fruits, were pushed over as men fought to get at one another, wrestling among the cushions.

Qambar-Ali, who had withdrawn out of harm’s way to the far end of the hall, was not dismayed. They were such children, these so-called warriors who would kill for a sheep — or even just a woman. This wine-fuelled brawl would soon fizzle out and only bolster his case. He watched one grizzled chief take another by the throat and shake him like a rat till his victim, over-filled with lamb, spewed it up in his face.

‘Stop in the name of the King of Ferghana!’

Qambar-Ali whirled round. Wazir Khan was standing in the great doorway, his mail-clad guards at his heels. The vizier’s derisive smirk was short-lived as he was pushed to the floor by Wazir Khan’s men rushing past to take up positions around the walls of the large chamber.

At first the noisy brawlers did not realise what was happening. Only when the guards clashed their swords on their leather shields did the heaving, flailing, swearing mass of bodies pull apart and fall silent.

‘Prepare to greet your new king.’ Wazir Khan’s voice was stern.

‘Sadly, it is Allah’s will that, for the moment, we have no king,’ the vizier said, hauling himself up from the ground and flicking dust from his robes.

Wazir Khan seized Qambar-Ali’s thin shoulder. ‘We have. The khutba has been read in the mosque. All of you, on your faces, now.’ The men, fuddled with drink, gazed stupidly at him. His guards began moving among them, pushing them to their knees and striking those who resisted with the flat of their swords.

‘All hail, Babur Mirza, rightful King of Ferghana,’ Wazir Khan’s voice rang out, and he prostrated himself as Babur, in his oversized yellow robes and tall, velvet cap, slowly entered the room. The chieftains who had endorsed his kingship towered behind him, eyes watchful, hands on their swords in case of trouble.

Babur doubted they felt any special allegiance to him. They had simply taken a gamble. But now they would want to make sure they had backed the winning side and could claim their reward.

To Babur the scene seemed almost comical as he surveyed the chaos — heavy-breathing men lying among strewn meat, cushions and rice, their dogs snuffling and snarling as they fought over the unexpected feast that had come their way. Qambar-Ali’s expression was no more friendly than those of the drooling hounds as, slowly, he knelt before Babur and touched his forehead to the floor.

‘Vizier, all of you, you may rise.’ As Babur gave his first order an almost visceral thrill went through him.

Qambar-Ali scrambled up, features clearly betraying a futile attempt to master his consternation. ‘We, the members of your council, are at your command, Majesty.’

‘Then how do you explain this — your letter of invitation to the Khan of Moghulistan?’ Babur flung out his hand and Wazir Khan handed him a leather box. Inside was a scroll which Babur extracted and held out to the vizier who did not even bother to take it.

‘It was for the good of the country.’ The vizier was breathing rapidly and heavily.

‘It was for your own good-’ Wazir Khan began, but Babur gestured to him to be quiet. This was his first test as ruler and he must prove himself worthy or next week, next month, next year, but inevitably at some time, there would be other plotters seeking to strip him of his birthright.

Qambar-Ali’s face was working with agitation and Babur caught the sour odours of sweat and fear. But he felt no pity for the man who had enjoyed such favour from his father, only anger and a desire for revenge.

The treasurer, the astrologer and the comptroller of the household were bunched in a tight little gaggle, eyes and mouths round with dismay. ‘Take them away,’ Babur ordered the guards. ‘I will deal with them later.’ He glanced up to a small grille set high in the wall and thought he detected movement behind it. This was where the royal women sat and watched, modest and unseen, during feasts and festivals. He knew instinctively who was there — his mother and grandmother were watching his first acts as king and urging him on.

It was strange to think that now he had the power of life and death. Babur had seen his father send men to their death many times. In the last year or two he had even witnessed the executions — beheading, flaying, ripping apart by wild stallions. The screams and stench had caught in his throat but he had never felt it was wrong, as long as justice was done.

And he knew exactly what his mother and grandmother would expect of him now. His name meant ‘Tiger’ and he must act with the great cat’s deadly speed. ‘You plotted treason and you wished me dead, did you not?’ he said coldly. Qambar-Ali did not meet his eyes. Slowly Babur drew his sword from its scabbard. ‘Guards!’ He nodded at two of Wazir Khan’s men, who seized the vizier and pushed him to the ground, pulling his arms tightly behind him. Then they pulled his turban from his head and ripped back his robes, exposing the nape of his neck.

‘Stretch your neck, Vizier, and thank the celestial stars that I am merciful enough to give you a quick death despite your treachery.’ Babur pulled himself up to his full height and swung the sword through the air in a practice stroke, just as he had in his mother’s chamber a few hours earlier. God give me strength to do this, he was praying. Let the cut be clean.

The vizier twisted in the soldiers’ grasp and there was venom in his eyes. Babur hesitated no longer and, sweeping the sword high, brought the blade down hard. It sliced through the vizier’s thin, gristly neck as easily as if it had been a ripe melon. The head, yellow teeth bared, rolled away across the flagstones, leaking red blood like liquid rubies.

Babur allowed his gaze to pass slowly over the awed crowd. ‘I may be young but I am of the blood of Timur and your rightful king. Does any man present challenge my right to rule?’

There was complete silence. Then, slowly, chanting began: ‘Babur Mirza, Babur Mirza.’ The sound swelled and rolled around the chamber and as if the noise was not enough, men beat their swords on their round hide shields or pounded their fists on walls and tables until the very chamber seemed to shake with their passion.