Alex Rutherford - Raiders from the North

Babur stared at him, trying to take in what he had just said. His father — so full of life just moments before — was dead. He would never hear his voice again or feel his warm hand on his head or be embraced in his great bear-hug. He would never again accompany him when he went hunting in the valleys of Ferghana, or sit close by him beside the campfire at night, listening as his men’s singing mingled with the rising wind. He began to cry, silently at first, then aloud, convulsed by great sobs welling up from the pit of his stomach.

As he wept, doubt and uncertainty, as well as grief, engulfed him. He was king now. . Would he live up to his father’s hopes and his glorious ancestry? For some reason a leaner, older face with slanting cheekbones and cold, determined eyes ‘like candles without brilliance’ replaced his father’s image in his mind. As it did so, he seemed to hear his father’s much-repeated mantra: ‘Timur’s blood is my blood.’ His own lips began to repeat it, softly at first but then with more conviction. He would make both Timur and his father proud. Pulling himself to his full height and wiping his tear-stained, dirty face with his sleeve, he turned. ‘I must be the one to tell my mother what has happened.’

Exciting though he found Farida, his beautiful young wife, Qambar-Ali’s lovemaking had been more perfunctory than usual. The vizier was preoccupied. The king’s sudden and extraordinary death had left much for him to think about and little time if he wished to act. A twelve-year-old boy as king? Possibly. . but, then again, possibly not. Splashing water hurriedly over his groin and pulling his navy brocade robes back round him, the vizier hurried from Farida’s chamber without a backward glance.

As he passed through the fortress’s interior passageways, lit by flickering oil lamps, he caught the sound of wailing coming from the royal harem. So, the official mourning had begun, led no doubt by Babur’s mother and grandmother, formidable women, the pair of them. He would need to be wary of them. Neither would be so lost to grief that they would not be seeking to protect and promote Babur’s interests.

The vizier approached the royal audience chamber to which he had summoned the other officers of state. As the two guards opened its green, leather-covered, brass-studded doors to allow him to enter, he saw that three were already there: Yusuf, the stout keeper of the treasury, the golden key of office dangling on its long chain round his jowly neck; Baqi Beg, the diminutive court astrologer, whose thin, restless fingers were twisting the beads of a rosary; and the wiry, beetle-browed Baba Qashqa, comptroller of the household. Only Wazir Khan was absent.

The ill-matched trio were sitting cross-legged on the red, richly patterned carpet beneath the empty throne. Without its occupant it looked a small, faded, insignificant thing, the gilt a little tarnished and the red velvet, gold-tasselled cushions shabby with use and age.

‘Well,’ said Qambar-Ali, looking round the assembled faces, ‘who would have thought it?’ He waited, wanting to gauge their views before he said more.

‘It was the will of God.’ Baqi Beg broke the silence.

‘A pity you did not foretell what would happen. For once the stars kept their secrets veiled from you,’ Baba Qashqa said.

The astrologer flushed angrily at the comptroller’s spiteful words. ‘God does not always wish a man to know his own destiny — especially a ruler who must be as a god to his people and act for them as well as himself.’

‘I meant no offence, but if the king had foreseen his own death, he would not have left a twelve-year-old boy as his heir,’ Baba Qashqa said slowly, and shook his head.

Qambar-Ali’s pulse quickened. ‘Indeed. The kingdom needs a strong, seasoned ruler to survive. Shaibani Khan and his Uzbek mongrels will be baying at our gates when he learns the news. He has sworn to build a tower from the bleeding, eyeless heads of all the princes of the House of Timur. A puny youth won’t keep him out of Ferghana for long.’

The others nodded, all wearing melancholic expressions as if their only concern was the well-being of Ferghana.

‘And it is not only the Uzbeks we must fear. Our late king made many enemies among his own family — his incursions westwards over the border into the lands of his brother, the King of Samarkand, will not have been forgotten.’

‘Of course, the King of Samarkand is a great warrior,’ Qambar-Ali said slowly. ‘So is the Khan of Moghulistan.’ His mind dwelled for a moment on the purple velvet bag plump with gold coins that the khan had pressed into his receptive hand during his last visit to Ferghana. He remembered his words: ‘If Ferghana should need me, only send me word and I will come.’ The khan would surely reward him generously for the gift of a throne.

‘There is also the ruler of Kabul — he, too, is of the House of Timur, a cousin of our late king.’ Baba Qashqa looked directly into the vizier’s eyes. ‘He would protect Ferghana. .’

Qambar-Ali, bowing his head in courteous agreement, resolved instantly that this very night he would send a messenger northeast through the mountains to the Khan of Moghulistan or the chance would be lost. ‘We must be cautious and not hurry in case we stumble,’ he said, with an air of deep thought. ‘We need to take time to reflect and to consider the best interests of Prince Babur. The throne must be his when he comes of age. We should seek a regent from among our neighbouring rulers to keep Ferghana safe from its foes until then.’ Not that Babur ever would mount the throne, he reflected inwardly. A little accident would not be long in happening. It would be so simple. .

The four men sat up as Wazir Khan entered the chamber. He looked tired and the pink scar across his tanned face — the memento of a sword swipe a decade earlier that had also robbed him of the sight in his right eye — stood out livid and raw as if it had been received only weeks ago. ‘Gentlemen, my apologies.’ He touched his hand to his breast and bowed to Qambar-Ali in acknowledgement of the vizier’s position as the chief among them. ‘I have posted a double guard around the fort but all is quiet. The king’s body is being prepared and everything is in readiness for the funeral tomorrow.’

‘We are in your debt, Wazir Khan. I thank you.’

‘You were speaking of appointing a regent for Ferghana?’ Wazir Khan sat down beside Qambar-Ali and fixed on him his one eye with an unblinking intensity that the vizier resented.

‘We were. Prince Babur is too young to bear the responsibility of government. And we face a threat from those dogs of Uzbeks.’ At the mention of the Uzbeks, the vizier simulated spitting.

‘It is true that the prince is young, but he is the king’s only surviving son and has been reared since his earliest days to reign. It is his destiny, and what his father would have wished. Babur is brave, determined and learns fast. I should know. At the king’s request, especially when it became clear that Babur would be his only heir, I spent much time instructing him in swordplay and archery, how to wield a spear and hurl a battleaxe. Babur is also astute beyond his years. Surely we five can guide him through the early days,’ Wazir Khan said quietly.

‘My dear Wazir Khan, if only it were that simple.’ The vizier smiled. ‘If these were peaceful times your plan would be suitable, but the Uzbeks’ ambitions know no limits. As soon as they hear that the King of Ferghana has died leaving his kingdom to a mere boy they will be upon us, ripping out our entrails and raping our women.’

‘What do you propose, Vizier?’

‘We should ask one of our dead king’s relations to hold the throne in trust until Prince Babur comes of age. The question is, which one. .’