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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 thechaos – 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