Chapter 8
Esan Dawlat looked satisfied as with her thin, veiny little hand she smoothed the parchment on which Babur’s scribe had sketched an outline of Ferghana. The drawing was crude, depicting the Jaxartes flowing on a straight east-west axis instead of showing how its cold waters curled through wide valleys and down rolling hills as they flowed from the snow-tipped mountains in the northeast. But that was irrelevant. What mattered were the pleasing numbers of towns and villages, marked with dots of vermilion ink, that Babur now controlled.
Two years of confinement had not dulled his grandmother’s knowledge of the political alliances of the nobles of Ferghana, their weaknesses and ambitions. Esan Dawlat still knew all there was to know about the complex blood lines and loyalties. But, above all, she seemed able to see into men’s minds, to understand their foibles, vanities and weaknesses and how best to exploit them. With her guidance, Babur had developed skills in persuasion, not to say manipulation, that he’d not known he possessed, coaxing several important chieftains to his cause. Others, sensing how the balance of advantage was shifting, had followed, calculating that even if Babur could not reward them immediately, the time would come when he could and richly.
With his burgeoning political acumen and his increasing armies, Babur had been pushing steadily eastwards. Over the last six months, the fortresses of Sokh, Kassan and Karnon had all fallen to him, the latter two without a fight, and at last he was closing in on Akhsi. It wouldn’t be long before he could depose Jahangir and once again call himself King of Ferghana, he was sure of it. But he must curb his impatience until winter was over, he told himself, biting his lip as he considered the map. Little moved on the frozen landscape — only the odd fox or deer darting hither and thither in search of food and kites hovering in the icy skies as they kept watch for an unwary mouse. It was no time for campaigning, with icicles hanging from the battlements and the air so cold it hurt a man to breathe.
‘Babur, pay attention. There is something I need to discuss with you. Your mother and I are agreed that it is time you were married. You are seventeen years old. But, more important than that, the right match will strengthen your position.’
Esan Dawlat was looking at him triumphantly. ‘It has all been arranged — in principle, at least. Your mother and I started to plan while we were captive. As soon as we were freed, I began to sound out potential alliances for you, and two days ago a messenger brought me good news. The offer of marriage that, above all, I hoped would prosper has been accepted. If you are content — and I can’t think of a reason in the world why you shouldn’t be delighted — you may ride to claim your bride as soon as the snows begin to melt.’
Babur stared at her, open-mouthed, unable to think of any response — not even to ask who the girl was that his masterful grandmother had so thoughtfully obtained for him.
The air was still cold, but the patches of bright green beyond the walls of Shahrukiyyah were growing bigger as winter retreated. The excitement in the women’s quarters was unbearable — Khanzada in particular could talk of nothing but his coming marriage, Babur thought moodily, as he walked across the courtyard from the stables where he had been inspecting his horses. Their winter feed had left them thin and irritable. The hoofmarks where they’d kicked at the wooden slats penning them in showed their impatience to be galloping over the hills again. Babur sympathised. He felt exactly the same.
In fact, he felt more than impatient. He was angry. Members of royal houses married for political, not personal, reasons and alliances were important — he had known that since boyhood. Even as a baby, potential betrothals had been spoken of for him, some even formalised. But with his father’s death and the ebb and flow of his fortunes, they had fallen away. Since then, he had assumed that when the time came to take a wife he would settle matters for himself. Instead, his grandmother and mother were treating him like a callow youth, not a king, arranging things slyly between themselves and presenting him with a
But seeing his mother’s quiet joy, after all she had been through, and listening to her explain that her marriage with his father had been arranged solely for political reasons but had turned into a perfect union, Babur couldn’t see how he could protest. And at heart he knew he shouldn’t. The two women were right: he needed the extra support a strong alliance sealed by marriage would bring. The pair had, as all his advisers insisted, chosen and negotiated well, even if they had taken his name in vain in the process. Wazir Khan’s smile and lack of surprise when Babur told him what was planned betrayed more than a hint that he, at least, had been consulted at an early stage.
In just a few days, he would have to set out for the province of Zaamin, seven days’ ride to the south-west on the southern borders of Ferghana, where the marriage was to take place. The bride they had found for him was Ayisha, eldest daughter of Ibrahim Saru, the leader of the Mangligh clan and ruler of Zaamin. Ayisha was two years his senior. What would she look like? Would she have the fine-boned grace of the grand vizier’s daughter, or had they found him a foul-breathed camel? Babur shrugged. The important thing was that Ibrahim Saru was a powerful chieftain who, until this moment, had shrewdly taken no side. From now on his troops — especially his renowned crossbowmen — would be at Babur’s command in his campaign to revive his fortunes. In view of that, as Esan Dawlat kept telling him, it mattered little what the girl looked like. His young blood would allow him to fulfil his nocturnal duties more than satisfactorily and, of course, he could take more wives or concubines later.
As Babur entered his mother’s apartments, there was no sign of either Kutlugh Nigar or Esan Dawlat but Khanzada was on her knees, picking through some trinkets she had tipped from a little wooden casket on to the floor. ‘Shall I give these to Ayisha? Do you think she’d like them?’ She held out a pair of long filigree earrings, the fine gold wire studded with tiny red rubies and, at the bottom, a row of pearls that trembled.
‘As you wish.’ Babur shrugged. His own gifts to his bride — rolls of flowered silk, sacks of spices, a set of heavy gold necklets and armlets that had belonged to the royal house of Ferghana for centuries — had been selected by his mother and grandmother and sent to Zaamin three weeks ago under escort. To his prospective father-in-law he had sent gold coins, a fine stud ram and a pair of perfectly matched black stallions with white fetlocks that had cost him a pang to part with.
The bride price Babur had paid was all he could afford in his current circumstances. It wasn’t much for a chieftain of Ibrahim Saru’s standing. Babur wondered again why he had agreed to the marriage. He must believe that Babur would not be long without a throne. Doubtless he would like to see his daughter a queen and to be grandfather to Babur’s heirs. And who could blame him? Ambition was a fine thing.
‘Or perhaps these?’ Khanzada’s dark hair tumbled around her as she continued to search through her jewels.
Suddenly Babur was ashamed of himself. Khanzada had had little to enjoy in recent times, it should please him to see her so happy for him — and so generous and open-hearted. Also, she was older than Ayisha — they should be thinking about a husband for her. When he was again King of Ferghana he would arrange a good match for her, he promised himself, and consult her about it more than he had been consulted about his own marriage.
Two weeks later, Babur watched as, wrapped in fur-lined cloaks against the still biting winds, Esan Dawlat, Kutlugh Nigar and Khanzada climbed into a high-wheeled, covered bullock cart. It was well lined with cushions and sheepskins, while crimson leather hangings screened them from public view. The horns of the four white bullocks pulling it had been gilded, and the yokes above their broad, muscular necks were painted blue and gold.
Babur mounted his favourite horse, a dark-maned chestnut, which, sensing the excitement, skittered and pranced. It felt good to be in the saddle again and Babur gave the horse an affectionate slap on its shining neck. He had ordered Baisanghar to remain at Shahrukiyyah with a strong garrison while he took Wazir Khan and an escort of five hundred well-armed men with him. News of the wedding would have spread and eyes — some hostile — would be observing their progress as they passed southwards towards Zaamin. But with a force of that size and teams of scouts and outriders, Babur was satisfied there was little risk of an ambush.
Wazir Khan had been exchanging some final words with Baisanghar on the wall above the gatehouse. Now he began to make his way down the steep, uneven stairs to the courtyard, where a groom was struggling to keep hold of his horse as it stamped and snorted with pent-up energy. With what difficulty Wazir Khan was moving compared
