Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (65 page)

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

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

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

‘No, Father. It’s me, Humayun.’

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

‘Your son.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Babur paused, exhausted.

‘I promise, little brother.’ Khanzada’s lips brushed his forehead and he felt moisture – her tears not his – on his cheek.

‘We’ve travelled a long road, have we not, sister?’ he whispered. ‘A long and sometimes painful road, but one that has brought our family to a glorious destination . . . Now call my attendants to put on my ceremonial robes. I must speak to my council and my time is ebbing . . .’

A quarter of an hour later, when the council was ushered in, Babur was sitting in his green robes on one of his gilded thrones, cushions supporting his body. As they entered, Babur closed his eyes again but willed himself not to drift away. He must keep his mind clear. He heard a murmuring all around him.

‘Father, they are here.’

Opening his eyes, Babur found he could no longer focus fully . . . No matter. What mattered was that they should all hear his words. He took a deep breath of air into his congested lungs and began: ‘As you can see I am unwell . . . My life is in God’s hands. Should I die, our great destiny must not die with me, evaporate in the heat and dust . . . It is up to you all to fulfil it, united as you are now, undistracted by internal strife. To achieve that you must know my wish for my successor.’

Babur paused to take more strength. ‘I have for some time thought of Humayun as my heir because of his virtues and bravery . . . but seduced by my vigour, my desire, into assuming I might live long, I have failed to tell you. I do so now. I appoint Humayun my heir. I commend him to you. Swear to me you will follow him as loyally and bravely as you have followed me. Swear to him your allegiance.’

There was silence for a moment, then a united chorus: ‘Majesty, we so swear.’

‘Humayun, take Timur’s ring from my finger. It is yours. Wear it with pride and never forget the duties it imposes on you to your dynasty and to your loyal people. Have you all heard my words?’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

‘Then leave me, all of you, except Humayun. I wish to be alone with my son . . .’

Babur shut his eyes and waited. He heard feet shuffling away over thick carpets but then a door closed and all was quiet. ‘Are they gone?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Listen to me. I have some other things to say to you. First, take care to know yourself, to understand yourself, and how to master any weaknesses . . . but, above all, preserve the unity of our dynasty. I am not so foolish as to think jealousies will not arise between you and your half-brothers. Do nothing against them, however much you think they might deserve it. Reconcile them, love them. Remember the principle established by our ancestor Timur that the lives of princes are sacred . . . Promise me, Humayun . . . promise me you understand my commands and will fulfil them.’

Babur began to feel dizzy. He could hear nothing from Humayun. ‘Why don’t you answer me?’

‘Do not distress yourself, Father. I promise.’

Babur slumped against the cushions, his face and body relaxing, but then he spoke once more. ‘There is one last thing. Do not bury me here in Hindustan. This will become your homeland and the homeland of your children, but it is not mine. Take my body back to Kabul . . . I have written my wishes in my diary . . .’

Humayun was starting to sob.

‘Don’t be sad for me. It’s what I prayed for when you were ill. Your astrologer told me what I must do – that I must offer up what was most precious to me. I offered God my life for yours and I did it gladly. God has been good. He gave us some time together before gathering in the debt . . .’

Humayun looked down at his father’s wasted face. How could he tell him that that hadn’t been what the astrologer had meant? The man had told him of the conversation. He had been asking Babur to give up some of his treasure, perhaps the Koh-i-Nur, his Mountain of Light, not his own life . . .

But a smile was curving his father’s dry lips and he was trying to speak again. ‘Don’t grieve. It means God listened to me . . . I go gladly . . . knowing that you will continue what I have begun. They are all waiting for me, all those I loved who have gone before me to Paradise . . . my father, my mother and grandmother, Wazir Khan and my friend Baburi . . . even Timur with his eyes like candles without brilliance . . . I can see him and I will tell him what we did . . . how we, like him, crossed the Indus and won a great victory . . . how we . . .’

Babur felt a warm peace envelop him. He was falling, floating, his consciousness diminishing. Whatever he had been going to say next, Humayun would never know. With a long, low sigh his father breathed his last and his head slumped forward.

Humayun lowered his own head and began to pray: ‘Speed my father to Paradise. Give me the strength to continue what he began so that, looking down on me, he will be proud . . . Give me the strength . . .’

Rising at last, Humayun took one last look at his father, then turned away. Tears filled his eyes again and he struggled to steady his voice. ‘Abdul-Malik,’ he called, ‘the emperor is dead . . . Send for the embalmers . . .’

Two days later, Humayun watched as six officers laid Babur’s body, washed in camphor, wrapped in a soft, woollen shroud and enclosed
in a silver coffin packed with spices, on a gilded cart drawn by twelve black oxen. Then, to the slow beating of drums, the funeral cortège began the long, slow journey that would take it north-west over the bleached plains of Hindustan, across the Indus and up through the winding, dun-grey hills of the Khyber Pass to Kabul. Humayun knew it was right that in death his father should return to the mountainous lands he had loved.

As Babur had asked, when his body reached Kabul it would be laid in the earth in the hillside garden Babur himself had created beneath a simple marble slab close to Baburi’s grave and those of his mother and grandmother. As Babur had also wished, nothing would be constructed over it, no great edifice. The grave of the first Moghul emperor would lie exposed to the winds and soft rain beneath the infinite canopy of the sky.

Humayun glanced at Kamran, Askari and Hindal close beside him. Their sombre faces told him they shared his grief and that for the moment, they were united. But how long would that last? Might they come to resent his father having given him supreme power rather than dividing his realm between them? Ambition – the relentless hunger for fresh conquest and the power it would bring that he had long felt stir within himself – would undoubtedly rise in them, especially Kamran, so close to him in age . . . Would he not feel resentment in Kamran’s place? Or Askari’s? Even little Hindal might soon consider the world with a cool, ambitious, speculative eye. All sons of an emperor, it was in the blood of each of them to desire to be the one to lead their dynasty to new heights. How long before Babur’s memory faded and brotherly feeling waned? Might they become like snapping dogs circling the same piece of meat? Before he realised what he was doing, Humayun stepped away from his half-brothers, whose eyes were still on the cortège as, with its escort, it slowly disappeared round a bend in the road through the city of Agra, leaving a pall of orange dust hanging in its wake.

‘Do nothing against your half-brothers . . . love them . . . reconcile them . . .’ Babur’s words, the last instructions of a loved and loving father, resounded inside Humayun’s head. He had made a promise
to Babur and he would keep it. Doing so would not be easy and might demand all his self-restraint. Babur’s words had in part been a warning . . . For generations the House of Timur had ripped itself apart. Brother had turned on brother, cousin on cousin, and their feuding had irredeemably weakened them, making them easy prey to external enemies like the Uzbeks. He, the new Moghul emperor, must not let that happen in Hindustan. It was his sacred duty.