Courtiers flattened themselves against the damp walls of the crypt while others jammed into the passageway. The heavy air reeked of men’s sweat. Babur’s arms were almost pinned to his sides by the crush. As the mullah began to intone, softly at first but voice then rising and soaring around the chamber, fear prickled along Babur’s spine. He was in a confined place. What if an enemy should choose now to strike? In his mind’s eye bright red blood spurted from his slit throat and spilled on to the jade casket with its delicate tracery of tulips and narcissi. He heard himself trying to scream but managing only a blood-choked, bubbling gasp.

Faintness and nausea gripped him. Babur closed his eyes, struggling to master himself. Despite his lack of years and hairless chin, he must be a man. In a few hours, if he played his part courageously, he would be on the throne of Ferghana. Timur’s blood is your blood. Silently he repeated once more the words his father had spoken so often and with such pride. As they echoed around his brain images formed in his mind of great and glorious battles fought long ago and of even greater conquests to come. Resolve steeled his blood — together with an anger that men should even think to deny him what was his.

Babur felt for the jewelled dagger his mother had pushed into his purple sash before he had set out and, as his fingers curled around the hilt, his breathing steadied. He looked speculatively around him. Wazir Khan’s men were in the crypt. They would surely not allow an assassin to cut down their prince. Or would they? Scanning their faces, he realised how little he knew about any of the guards. Until yesterday he had taken their allegiance to his family for granted. Today all that had changed. His grip on the dagger tightened.