Next, one of the young men jumped up on the shoulders of the other and the boy then shinned up the two of them as easily as if he were climbing an apple tree. Balancing on the head of the topmost man, he threw back his own head and a rush of flame came from his mouth. Babur’s commanders yelled their approval. Quick as a flash the boy was on the floor again. Coiling up his limbs, he fitted himself back into his box and, with a farewell flourish of his hand, snapped the lid shut. The other two acrobats bowed before Babur, who threw them gold coins. Then they picked up the box and to thunderous applause bore it away.
A rhythmic stamping and jingling announced a line of eight barefoot dancing girls who entered the chamber one by one through a small servants’ door. At the same time, musicians came in by another entrance. The girls formed a circle before Babur. Their thick, dark hair was plaited with sweet-smelling white flowers. Above red and purple many-layered skirts their midriffs were bare. Tight-fitting silk bodices revealed more than they concealed of their breasts, and rows of tiny bells were twined round their wrists and ankles. Six drummers in baggy white trousers and with chests naked beneath open gold-cloth waistcoats began to beat with their palms on the long, thin drums suspended from around their necks, jumping and swaying in time to the beat. The dancers’ bodies began to undulate rhythmically. Soon they were whirling faster and faster, skirts flying up around them revealing their long, slender legs and hands pressed together above their thrown-back heads. As they danced they sang, their high-pitched, honey-sweet voices rising and falling.
The other musicians joined in, playing instruments Babur had never seen before – a sort of lute but with a neck over a metre long that he was told was a tanpura, another stringed instrument with two bowls, a rudra-vina, and a wind instrument like a compressed trumpet, a shahnai. Babur felt the whole performance with its fluid, lithe young bodies, pulsing drums, plangent strings and cascading voices was of an overwhelming, compelling sensuality unique to his new kingdom.
It was late but Babur realised that his men, pulses raised by the dancers, were just getting started. Some were singing, in deep bass voices, the songs of the steppes and mountains they’d left behind. Others were getting up, arm in arm, to dance wild, martial dances, stamping and shouting, sharing this great moment of joy and triumph. Humayun left his stool to join them.
Babur, though, was lost in his thoughts. He was celebrating more than a victory. Tonight was the start of a new phase in his life when he would bring everything he had done, everything he had learned, to glorious fruition. But the elation was bitter-sweet. Another face should have been at the feast, sharing in it all, but wasn’t – that of his truest friend and wisest commander. Babur picked up his goblet and drank a silent tribute to Baburi.
Chapter 24
Buwa
As Babur looked out one Friday evening from a covered watch-tower on the battlements of the Agra fort, the sky was piled with deep grey, almost purple, stormclouds that were releasing sheet after sheet of rain. The raindrops were bouncing off the flagstones of the courtyard and rainwater was pouring from the drainage channels out through the holes cut in the sandstone walls. On the northern and eastern sides of the fort, it fell fountain-like into the muddy waters of the river Jumna in full spate below. On the southern and western sides, it cascaded down into the already large pools that had formed on the parade-ground. Occasionally flashes of lightning lit the low, misty horizon, accompanied by the distant rumble and growl of thunder.
To the watching Babur the air felt cloyingly warm and humid, so different from the intense dry summer heat at this time of year in Central Asia. Here in Hindustan, the rains the native people called the monsoon had already lasted three months. Damp got into everything, mildewing furnishings and clothes if given a chance. He had even had to have his precious diaries dried before a fire to get rid of the moisture that had penetrated the metal casket in which he kept them.
Still, he reflected, shortly he was to dine quietly in his apartments with Humayun which was good – he wasn’t in the mood for wider
company. He had commanded his chief cook to make one of his favourite dishes: a stew of tender young rabbit cooked slowly in a sauce of cumin and raisins into which curd was stirred just before serving. He had also asked that the four chefs he had retained from Sultan Ibrahim’s household to introduce him to the tastes of his new kingdom should produce some of their heavily spiced, garlicky dishes of which he was becoming increasingly fond. The thought of the food awaiting him banished the incipient headache which the monsoon so often produced in him. Turning, he made his way down from the tower to his own apartments.
Humayun was already sitting cross-legged at a large, low table covered with a turquoise linen cloth and set with silver plates. In the middle, a large platter was piled with buttered rice into which pistachios, almonds and other nuts had been stirred. As Babur entered, Humayun rose to embrace him. A little taller than his father, he was broad and muscled – the expedition to Hindustan had brought him to manhood. Babur smiled and motioned to his son to sit. Then, with a clap of his hands, he indicated to the two attendants, both dressed entirely in white, that they should bring in the rest of the food. Within minutes they were back, accompanied by four others, all carrying large metal dishes covered with cloths. As they removed them, a delicious smell of spices filled the room.
‘Majesty, this is one of the Hindustani chefs’ dishes – chicken simmered in a rich stock with crushed mustard and coriander seeds, ginger, cardamom and cinnamon. This is lamb cooked with butter, bright yellow turmeric, onions and lentils. Then there is another dish of chicken, with spinach – saag as the people here call it – garlic and fenugreek seeds baked in a pot over a fire to give it a smoky flavour. Then there are vegetable stews with okra and aubergine – each excellent tasting.’
‘All very well and very good, I am sure, but where is my rabbit with raisins?’
‘Your steward is bringing it.’ As the attendant spoke, the steward – a tall, grey-haired man – brought in the dish and removing the lid showed it to Babur.
‘It looks as good as ever, Ahmed.’
‘Thank you, Majesty.’
‘Let my son try some of the Hindustani dishes so he can advise me on which to taste, but first give me some rabbit.’
The two men began to eat. ‘Tell me what arrangements you’ve made for the embassy to the Sultan of Gujarat.’ Babur spoke through a mouthful of rabbit stew.
‘I’ve asked that it be ready to leave as soon as the roads are passable following the rains. They tell me this should be early October. Is that soon enough?’
‘I’m sorry – repeat the last bit. I had a sudden cramp in my stomach which took my mind entirely away from Gujarat.’
‘Father – are you alright?’
Babur was not. His face was covered with a cold, clammy sweat and he felt another cramp convulse his stomach like a red-hot iron hand had squeezed it. He doubled up in pain, motioning to Humayun and an attendant to help him to his feet. As they did so, yet another cramp seized him and sour vomit rose into his mouth. He tried to swallow it back once, then again, as his gullet heaved once more. He had not gone more than three paces from the table when he vomited, retching from the pit of his stomach. Undigested rabbit mixed with the red wine and sweetmeats he had eaten earlier splashed on to the exquisite rich pink and purple carpet.
Babur retched again as yet another spasm gripped him. This time, mucus and bile were mixed with the food as well as what looked like flecks of blood. He clutched his stomach in agony. ‘Forgive me. I don’t know what’s the matter. I am never sick – not even when I’ve taken too much wine. Lay me over there on that divan.’
Humayun and the attendant eased Babur on to the cushions and Humayun ordered the hakim to be sent for. ‘Drink this water, Father.’ Babur obediently sipped from the goblet Humayun held out but as soon as the water contacted his stomach, it convulsed again and Babur vomited in a projectile stream.
‘Take me to the latrines – my
bowels are about to give way too.’ Babur tried to rise. Humayun half-carried, half-supported his father to the latrines where he voided his bowels liquidly, noisily and noisomely.
As he emerged after five painful minutes, Babur was standing slightly more upright than he had been before but his face was still pale and sweating. ‘Humayun – do not let them dispose of the vomit – I suspect I’ve been poisoned – have the vomit scraped from the carpet and given to one of the dogs. Have some of the remains of the rabbit stew given to another. Keep the cook, the tasters and the other servants under guard. I must lie down. I feel very weak.’
Early next morning, Humayun was at his father’s bedside. Babur was still pale and there were purple bags beneath his eyes but he looked in less pain.
‘He can take some liquid without vomiting,’ said the brown-robed hakim, Abdul-Malik, a sturdy, grey-eyed man who had come with Babur from Kabul and had treated him and his family for many years.
‘We followed your directions, Father. We gave the vomit to one dog and some rabbit stew to another and watched them throughout the night. The first was sick, and had violent diarrhoea – just as you did – then slowly recovered. The second lay motionless and whimpering for hours, its stomach distended. Even when we provoked it by throwing stones we could not induce it to move or even bark. But then – an hour ago – it too vomited and is now moving again. The learned hakims spent all night consulting their volumes. They confirm that your symptoms and those of the two dogs are indeed those of poison.’
‘I thought as much.’
‘How can you have been poisoned? You have food tasters and the cooks are not left unsupervised . . .’
‘Money will often overcome loyalty. We must find out who is responsible and punish them hard – so hard, so harsh must be the punishments that this will never happen again. Question the chefs, then the tasters. Put any who seem even a little evasive to the torture. Ask Ahmed first whom he suspects. Start with them and don’t stop until you have the answers. I’ve suffered enough pain. Let them suffer too.’
Two hours later Humayun returned, his face grave. ‘You were right . . . you were poisoned . . . the culprits have confessed and revealed their backer.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Ahmed suggested that we start first with one of the Hindustani cooks – a small stringy fellow who served Ibrahim for ten years and had been seeking permission to visit his relations in the next few days. Even the sight of the red-hot irons was too much for him. He blubbed and blurted out what he knew. Roshanna, an old serving woman of Ibrahim’s mother, Buwa, had come to him. She told him Buwa wanted revenge against the “barbarians”, as she called us, for the death of her son – the cook’s old master. To poison you would be an act of merit and of profit and she offered him two gold pieces. He accepted and she gave him the poison in a little paper packet.
‘He is a crafty man. He bided his time and ingratiated himself with one of your tasters – one of our own people who was so anxious to return home that he was prepared to be bribed not to taste your rabbit stew . . . the cook cunningly preferred to poison the stew rather than one of the Hindustani dishes to avert suspicion. Then, at the last minute, the cook was disturbed just as he was sprinkling his poison into the stew. He only managed to tip half of it in and threw the rest into a cooking fire.
‘We questioned the taster and the old woman. The taster was soon begging for mercy but Roshanna is of sterner stuff. Eventually she broke under the hot iron so far as to confess her own part – but we had to hold her head under water for minutes to make her reveal her mistress’s involvement.’
‘You have done well.’
‘What shall we do with the traitors?’
‘They must die publicly and painfully.’
‘Buwa too?’
‘No, she is of a royal line. For the present confine her to a room in one of the watch-towers from which she can witness the executions.’
‘How should the others die?’
‘Hack the cook limb from limb. Let the taster, whose breach of trust was the greatest, being one of our own people, be whipped to death. And let the old woman be pressed beneath the elephants’ feet in the Hindustani way. Do it at midday – and be sure that a good crowd, including all the kitchen staff, is assembled to see the example made. You must take charge. I am still too weak.’
It was no longer raining but the sky was still grey and lowering as Humayun sat beneath a red canopy on a dais hastily erected among the puddles of the parade-ground to watch the executions. The cook had died quickly, and his bloody and dismembered limbs had been carried off to be impaled separately over the fort gates. The taster’s high-pitched cries as the whips fell on him – spread-eagled and naked – had been almost animal. They had lasted a long time but he had at last grown silent and his mangled body was being dragged away by the heels through the muddy puddles to be exhibited on the battlements. Now it was Roshanna’s turn.
Four guards led the old woman out of a small gate at the foot of one of the fort’s towers. She was dressed in a simple white tunic. With her grey hair and calm demeanour she looked – as she probably was – a kind grandmother. Ignoring the crowd, some of whom spat at her and shouted insults as she passed, she looked straight ahead and walked steadily to a slightly raised stone slab ten yards in front of Humayun on which her execution was to take place. Before any of the guards could push her, she had lain on it, face up. Guards bound her hands and feet to the four iron rings set into the slab for the purpose. At the sound of a trumpet, a red-painted elephant began making its way slowly from the stables on the opposite side of the parade-ground, and guards cleared a path for it through the large crowd.
The elephant – a particularly large male – had been specially trained to act as executioner. Such punishments had been commonplace under Ibrahim. At a command from his driver, sitting as usual behind his ears, he lifted his massive right front foot and placed it above the old woman’s body. Still she made no sound. Then, at another command, the elephant obediently brought the foot and its full weight down on Roshanna. Humayun heard no scream just a soft squelch followed by a crunch as the elephant’s foot ruptured Roshanna’s stomach, spilled her intestines and crunched her spine and pelvis. Then as she lay squashed and lifeless, her white linen shift stained with her bodily fluids, the driver gave the beast the order to turn and begin to make its way back through the now silent onlookers to the stable. It did so deliberately, raising its gory foot from the body.
Before it had taken more than five steps, Humayun heard a disturbance on the battlements behind him. Turning, he saw a woman run along them, her dark garments billowing around her in the rising breeze, which carried her words to him: ‘Rest in Paradise, my son Ibrahim, my faithful Roshanna. I come to join you, crying curses on the upstart Babur and his four sons. May Hindustan slip from his grasp. May his sons quarrel and destroy each other. May they all fall to the dust.’
Buwa, Humayun realised. As he watched, she evaded the guards pursuing her and, reaching a position above the Jumna, plunged headlong into the river and was carried away, long black hair streaming around her in the frothing waters, still screaming defiance. Just as the waters engulfed her, a flash of lightning, followed immediately by a crash of thunder directly overhead, heralded the breaking of the long threatened storm. The rain began to beat down, splashing into the parade-ground’s muddy puddles, as Humayun hastily retreated into the shelter of the fort.
That night, images of Buwa flinging herself from the battlements coalesced in Humayun’s dreams with the stories Babur had told him of his grandfather’s fall from the walls of Akhsi among his fluttering doves.
‘I am much better,’ Babur told Humayun three days later. ‘The opium Abdul-Malik gave me mixed in milk has quieted my cramps. For the first time I really felt death’s hand upon me . . . There have been many, many occasions when I might easily have died but afterwards I didn’t give them a thought. This time I’m just so glad to be alive. Even the smallest things give m
e pleasure – the sight of a flower, the sound of birdsong through the stone casement. I was just writing my thoughts in my diary – listen . . .
‘“I have come to value each day God grants me. I didn’t understand fully before that life was so sweet a thing. Whoever approaches the gates of death learns the value of life. I pray merciful God to allow me long to enjoy my life and my sons.”’
Chapter 25
Jihad
‘The water channels will intersect there, in a pool at the center, which will have fountains and water lilies. I intend to plant apple, pear and quince trees in the garden to remind me of our homeland. The gardeners say they will need to be watered every day in this climate but labourers are plentiful and cheap.’
Babur and Humayun were standing on the north bank of the Jumna river, about a mile downstream from where its brown waters took a sharp, right-angled turn by the Agra fort. Babur was showing his son the progress the workers had made on the first garden he had commissioned in Agra.
‘What else will you have planted?’
‘I want lots of sweet-smelling plants that will produce scent during the evening – one of my favourite times for sitting in the garden. The chief gardener tells me that there are many kinds of stocks and also the creamy, white, night-flowering champa flower that will suit my purpose. He is a good man and works well to my instructions, even though he was once one of Sultan Ibrahim’s gardeners.’ Babur paused. ‘I only wish more people, both inside and outside our borders, were as ready to accept us as the new masters of Hindustan. I understand – even if I don’t accept – the hostility of those who had close ties to Sultan Ibrahim. I can hardly blame his mother for what she did – it was a kind of display of loyalty,
I suppose. Nor am I too worried about the Shah of Persia at the moment, even though he is always craftily probing our north-western borders in Afghanistan, trying to buy supporters around Kandahar and Quetta. We have enough money from the miserly Ibrahim’s brimming treasuries to outbribe the shah – at least for now.’
Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul Page 41