Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul

by Alex Rutherford

  Humayun was lying on his bed, arms thrown back, eyes closed, forehead beaded with sweat, shivering. When he heard his father’s voice he opened his eyes but they were bloodshot, the pupils dilated. Babur could hear his heavy wheezing breathing. Every scratchy intake of air seemed an effort which hurt him.

  ‘When did this illness begin?’

  ‘Early this morning, Father.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I told?’ Babur looked angrily at his son’s attendants. ‘Send for my hakim immediately!’ Then he dipped his own silk handkerchief into some water and wiped Humayun’s brow. The sweat returned at once – in fact, it was almost running down his face and he seemed to be shivering even more violently now and his teeth had begun to chatter.

  ‘Majesty, the hakim is here.’

  Abdul-Malik went immediately to Humayun’s bedside, laid a hand on his forehead, pulled back his eyelids and felt his pulse. Then, with increasing concern, he pulled open Humayun’s robe and, bending, turned his neatly turbaned head to listen to Humayun’s heart.

  ‘What is wrong with him?’

  Abdul-Malik paused. ‘It is hard to say, Majesty. I need to examine him further.’

  ‘Whatever you require you only have to say . . .’

  ‘I will send for my assistants. If I may be frank, it would be best if you were to leave the chamber, Majesty. I will report to you when I have examined the prince thoroughly – but it looks serious, perhaps even grave. His pulse and heartbeat are weak and rapid.’ Without waiting for Babur’s reply, Abdul-Malik turned back to his patient. Babur hesitated and, after a glance at his son’s waxen trembling face, left the room. As attendants closed the doors behind him he found that he, too, was trembling.

  A chill closed round his heart. So many times he had feared for Humayun. At Panipat he could have fallen beneath the feet of one of Sultan Ibrahim’s war elephants. At Khanua he might have been felled by the slash of a Rajput sword. But he had never thought that Humayun – so healthy and strong – might succumb to sickness. How could he face life without his beloved eldest son? Hindustan and all its riches would be worthless if Humayun died. He would never have come to this sweltering, festering land with its endless hot rains and whining, blood-sucking mosquitoes if he had known this would be the price.

  Babur spent the next half-hour pacing round the dripping courtyard and resisting the desire to send at once to the hakim to demand news. But at last Abdul-Malik appeared. Babur tried unsuccessfully to read his face.

  ‘The prince has a very high fever and is becoming delirious . . .’

  ‘What is it? Not poison?’

  ‘No, Majesty, there has been no vomiting. I cannot say what the cause is. We can only try to sweat the infection out. I have ordered fires to be lit in his room and I will prepare a cordial of spices to heat his blood . . .’

  ‘Is there nothing else to be done? Nothing I can send for?’

  ‘No, Majesty. We must wait. God alone will decide his fate as he does for us all.’

  All through the night, Abdul-Malik and his assistants tended Humayun. In the almost suffocating heat of the room, Babur sat close by the bed as his son heaved and tossed, struggling to throw off the thick wool blankets that the hakim had ordered to be piled on him. All the time Humayun was muttering, sometimes shouting. The words were incomprehensible to Babur.

  In the hour before dawn, as a pale yellow sliver of light appeared on the eastern horizon, Humayun’s delirium worsened. He began to shriek as if in terrible pain and to shake so convulsively that had the hakim’s assistants not held him down he would have fallen from the bed. His eyes were bulging and his tongue – furry and yellow – protruded through dry lips.

  Suddenly unable to bear the sights and sounds of his son’s suffering, Babur turned and left the chamber. In the courtyard, he bent and immersed his head in the lotus basin of one of the fountains. As the cool water filled his nose and ears, it was as if – just for a moment – he could insulate himself from the pain and anxieties of the world. Reluctantly he straightened and wiped the water from his eyes.

  ‘Forgive me, Majesty . . .’

  Babur glanced round. The diminutive figure of Humayun’s astrologer, in the rust-coloured robes that always looked too large for him, was standing beside him. Babur brushed his wet hair off his face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have been looking into the heavens, Majesty, trying to discern what is written there about God’s plans for my master. There is something I must tell you. Your son’s life lies in your hands. If you wish him to live you must make a great sacrifice . . .’

  ‘I would do anything to save him.’ Without realising it, Babur had seized the astrologer’s wrist.

  ‘You must offer up the most precious thing you possess . . .’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Only you can know, Majesty.’

  Babur turned and, half running, half stumbling, made for the fort mosque. Flinging himself down on the stone floor before the ornately carved plaster niche of the mihrab he began to pray, rocking back and forth, eyes tight shut, pouring every ounce of himself into the promise he was making to God: ‘Let me be the sacrifice. Let me take on the burden of my son’s pain. Let me, not him, be the one to die . . . Take my life . . .’

  For three long days and nights, Babur had been sitting alone in his chambers, barely eating and drinking and postponing all official business. He knew he should go to Maham but the thought of her anxiety for her son – her only child – on top of his own overwhelmed him. Neither could he write to Kamran and Askari in their distant provinces. What would he say to them? That Humayun had fallen ill and that the hakim held out little hope? Even if he did write, they could never reach Agra in time. And at the back of Babur’s mind was a suspicion he could hardly bring himself to contemplate: that Kamran and Askari might not be sorry to learn that their older half-brother was dying.

  Why hadn’t God accepted his sacrifice? Why was he still breathing whilst Humayun’s life ebbed . . . ? Babur had never known quite such depths of despair as the hours dragged by. Whichever path he tried to turn his mind down, it ended in the blackest darkness. Though the loss of Baburi had felt like the death of part of himself, that had been a personal grief. If Humayun died it would also be an overwhelming personal loss – he had become closer to Humayun than to any of his other sons – but it would be something more too. It would be God’s way of saying that everything Babur had striven for, everything he had achieved, had been for nothing . . . that he would never found an empire or a dynasty to prosper in Hindustan . . . that he should never have come – or, at the very least, not tried to outdo Timur by staying on. He should have been less proud, less blown up with vanity, and contented himself with his mountainous lands beyond the Khyber Pass.

  Babur glanced at his diary, lying open on a low table. What a piece of conceit it had been to think it worth giving to Humayun to guide him one day in ruling, never thinking his son might not live long enough to rule. He was tempted to throw it on to the fire, burning so bright and hot in Humayun’s sick chamber . . . But he could no longer bring himself to go there and witness Humayun’s shrieking, agonised delirium.

  ‘Majesty . . .’

  Babur turned. One of the hakim’s assistants was before him. The man looked worn out, the skin beneath his eyes so shadowed it looked bruised. ‘My master asks that you should come . . .’

  Babur ran to Humayun’s chamber.

  Abdul-Malik was waiting for him at the entrance, hands folded across his stomach. ‘Majesty . . . your son gave a great groan . . . and I thought – I truly believed – his end had come . . . Then his eyes opened and he looked at me and knew me . . . He is very weak but the fever has left him even more suddenly than it came . . .’ The hakim shook his head, as much puzzled as he was joyful. ‘I have never seen a case like it, Majesty . . . It is a miracle.’

  Humayun was cantering along the sunlit riverbank below the Agra fort, his black hawk in its tufted red leather hood on his gauntleted wrist. Later he would
join him, Babur decided. It had been a long time since he’d gone hawking. First, though, he’d visit his gardens over the Jumna where he wished to discuss the planting of apricots with his gardeners. Reluctantly he drew his eyes from the sight of Humayun, so vigorous and strong again just four months after his miraculous recovery from his illness.

  Babur made for the carved sandstone staircase that descended to a little gate at the base of the fortress wall. A few feet beyond it, further steps – narrow and mottled with lichen – led to the jetty where his gilded barge was waiting to carry him along the river. Suddenly he felt a searing pain in his stomach so severe that he gasped and put out a hand to clutch the balustrade. As the pain started to ease and he began to breathe more deeply, it came again, spreading to engulf his whole body. He swayed dizzily . . . ‘Help me . . .’

  Strong hands took hold of him under his armpits, raising him. Who was it? He looked up gratefully but saw nothing except an enfolding darkness.

  ‘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 de
serve 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.