disappointment.
‘Come, Majesty.’
Babur fought the impulse to gallop wildly on and confront these interlopers who thought they could snatch away his dreams. Sadly he turned his horse and followed Wazir Khan slowly back down through the tussocky grass of Qolba Hill.
Soon the tents were pitched but there was no hot food in case smoke rising from the cooking fires alerted those on the plains beyond. Despite their weight, Babur shivered beneath layers of pungent-smelling sheepskins as the temperature dropped. Finally he drifted off to sleep only to be shaken awake what seemed like just a few minutes later. ‘Majesty, I have news.’ Wazir Khan was kneeling at his side. His face was relaxed. There was even a twist of a smile. ‘It seems we have interrupted an affair of the heart.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Five days ago your cousin Mahmud, son of the King of Kunduz, arrived here. His goal was not to take the city but a girl. With Samarkand in confusion he planned to steal into the city and find her. She is the daughter of the grand vizier.’
‘What stopped him?’ Babur could hardly believe his ears. The last time he had seen Mahmud, the son of his mother’s favourite sister and three years older than him, he had been a clumsy, cheerful boy with angry spots on his hairless chin and a passion for pranks that often got him into trouble. Babur had followed worshipfully where he led. The idea of a lovelorn Mahmud sighing his heart out for a girl was ridiculous.
Wazir Khan’s face assumed its usual grave expression. ‘Your cousin found the city gates barred. The grand vizier is claiming the throne of Samarkand — the city and all its territories.’
‘What gives him that right?’
‘Nothing. He has no blood descent from Timur. But he is powerful. He controls the treasury and can bribe anyone he wishes.’
‘But when he learns that I, the former king’s nephew, am here he must give way. My right is greater than his, however many fistfuls of golden coins he can shower on those around him.’
The youthful indignation in Babur’s voice made Wazir Khan smile again. ‘He knows you are coming but has declared he will not yield the throne to a raw stripling. Neither will he give his daughter to Prince Mahmud. He plans a great match for her with another of your cousins — the son of the King of Kabul.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Babur jumped to his feet, so that the sheepskins tumbled around him. ‘Bring my horse. I will ride to my cousin’s camp.’
Dawn was rising as Babur, wrapped in a thick cloak, galloped towards his cousin’s encampment, his escort close around.
‘Halt.’ A soldier’s voice came gruffly out of the pale grey light. ‘Declare yourself.’
‘Babur, King of Ferghana, who wishes to greet his cousin, Prince Mahmud of Kunduz.’
A silence, then a murmuring, then a blazing torch held high, casting haloes of light. Babur shaded his eyes as soldiers encircled his small party. Then he heard a voice he recognised, deeper than he remembered but still brimming with good humour. ‘You are welcome, cousin.’ Mahmud, unruly black hair flowing over his shoulders and a falcon on his gloved wrist, strode towards him and threw his other arm round Babur’s shoulders. ‘You have interrupted my plans for an early hawking expedition but I’m still pleased to see you. Come.’ He gestured towards a large square tent.
Rich carpets covered the earth and brocade hangings concealed the hide walls and ceiling. Mahmud hooded his falcon and returned it to its golden perch, then flung himself on to a pile of plump velvet cushions. Babur did likewise. ‘I was sad to learn of your father’s death. He was a good man and a good warrior. May peace be with him. We of course observed mourning for him in Kunduz.’
‘Thank you.’ Babur bowed his head.
‘And now my little cousin is a king.’
‘As you will be one day.’
Mahmud smiled. ‘True.’
‘But today your thoughts lie in a different direction?’
Mahmud’s smile broadened to a grin. ‘You should see her, Babur. Skin like silk, slender as a willow wand and nearly as tall as I am. I will have her, I have sworn to, and I will not break my word.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘Don’t worry — I didn’t disguise myself as a woman and slip into the grand vizier’s harem. It happened last year while she was accompanying her father on an embassy from Samarkand to Kunduz. Brigands attacked their party soon after they had crossed our northern borders. I and my troops had been sent to meet them. We were close when the attack occurred. We heard the clamour and rode to their rescue. That was when I saw her — she came out from behind the rock where she had been hiding, her veil and half her clothes torn off. .’ Mahmud paused, clearly remembering the pleasurable sight.
‘The grand vizier should have been grateful to you.’
‘He was — but Kunduz is not as rich as Kabul.’ Mahmud shrugged. ‘And you, cousin, what brings you here?’
‘Beware the man who has no ambition.’ His father’s words flickered unbidden through Babur’s mind. But wasn’t it also right to be wary of the man who did? Had Mahmud really come to Samarkand at such a time merely for the sake of a girl, however desirable?
Babur decided to be frank. ‘The King of Samarkand, though my father’s brother, was no friend to Ferghana and meant to rob me of my throne. But as he lay dying, he ordered his men to bring me this.’ Babur held out his hand. Timur’s ring, cleansed now of blood, was on his index finger. It was a little too big, but he had secured it with a twist of red silk. The metal gleamed in the light from a brazier of burning charcoal and he heard Mahmud’s sharp intake of breath.
‘You believe you are Timur’s heir?’
‘His blood runs in my veins. I will have his city.’
‘His blood runs in my veins also,’ Mahmud said slowly. Their eyes met and suddenly there was nothing boyish about either of them. Babur felt glad of the dagger in its jewelled scabbard tucked into the mauve sash around his waist.
‘Don’t worry, little cousin — though perhaps I should not call you “little”. I have seen kinder expressions on the faces of she-wolves whose young I’ve just slain.’ Mahmud was grinning again. ‘True, I came to Samarkand because I guessed there would be confusion in the city. But look around my camp and you will see I’ve brought no more than a few hundred men. I never planned to seize the city, merely to raid it, steal some of its wealth and quell this fire in my loins.’ He pulled a face and gave his groin a playful rub.
‘I wish you luck. May the fire soon be quenched.’
‘And you, cousin, how many men have you?’
‘When my main force arrives, we will be more than six thousand strong, including many archers.’ In reality, Babur’s army totalled some five thousand but it would do no harm to exaggerate a little.
Mahmud looked impressed. ‘I didn’t think Ferghana could muster so many.’
‘Many are my own retainers and their men, but others are from the hill tribes.’
‘Let’s attack together.’ Mahmud grasped Babur’s wrist. ‘When you have the grand vizier’s head on a spear, I shall have my wife.’
‘Why not?’ Babur smiled back. With his superior forces there could be little danger of Mahmud outmanoeuvring him and taking the throne.
Two months later the winter winds whipping around them were not as bitter as the pain Babur felt as his men plodded wearily eastwards back towards Ferghana. The horses, shaggy manes clotted with ice, were sinking into the snow to their hocks. As they snorted with the effort, their breath rose in clouds of mist. In some places the drifts were so deep that the men dismounted to relieve the animals of their weight and struggled along beside them. Much of the baggage lay scattered and abandoned on the snowy wastes behind them.
This was not how it should have been, Babur thought grimly. The ring on his finger with its piece of red silk still hung a little loose. It seemed vainglorious now, a testament to his failure and humiliation.
Wazir Khan was by his side, shrouded in a heavy wool blanket with frost mantling his beard and brows. Wise Wazir Khan who had urged him to abandon their assaults when the pale skies pregnant with snow announced that
