to even a year ago, Babur thought. He would take that limp to the grave.
At last, with the bullock cart trundling behind, Babur and Wazir Khan rode slowly down the castle ramp and out into the meadow beyond, where the escort was already waiting with the supply wagons drawn by mules carrying the tents, food and the equipment they would need to make camp. And, of course, the chests of wedding clothes and yet further gifts for his new wife’s family, including a yellow-eyed hawk for his father-in-law.
As the procession wound its way slowly south, it was some time before the farewell salute of the drums on the battlements of Shahrukiyyah finally faded to be replaced by the creaking of wood, the rumble of wheels, the jingling of harnesses, the grunting of pack animals and a new rhythm of many hoofs thudding on soft spring turf.
Every day, the cordon of warriors posted by Wazir Khan around the convoy kept careful watch, but nothing stirred in the quiet valleys and meadows except flocks of sheep, the ewes swollen-bellied with the lambs that would soon be born. Sometimes, restless at the slow pace and nervous at what lay ahead, Babur galloped off with a small escort.
He enjoyed the sting of the wind on his face. He hadn’t felt this free since before his father had died. At this moment, the loss of Samarkand, the betrayal in Ferghana didn’t seem to matter so much. The burden of his responsibilities — his obligations to others, duties to be fulfilled and ambitions to be achieved — which at times oppressed him — seemed to roll away. It was like the coming of spring when, after months of being enveloped in heavy sheepskins, he could shrug them off and feel the warm sun on his back. Crouching low over his horse’s neck, Babur allowed his mind to go blank, blotting out all the things that — at this moment — he just didn’t want to think about.
On the afternoon of the sixth day, when Babur was again riding sedately beside the bullock cart and they were approaching the lower slopes of a hill, a line of dark-robed riders appeared on the skyline. At once Wazir Khan raised his leather-gauntleted hand to signal a halt.
‘What do you think, Wazir Khan? Is it them? The Manglighs?’ Babur squinted, but couldn’t make out any distinguishing features — no banners no flags. The riders were sitting very still, just watching.
‘Probably, Majesty. We must be approaching the borders of their territories. But we should see what our advance guard report.’
‘Yes. Also, send out further scouts and draw the convoy into a defensive position.’
Babur watched the dozen warriors picked out by Wazir Khan gallop off, swords at their sides, battleaxes strapped to their saddlebags but within easy reach, and left arms thrust through the leather straps of their round shields that, till now, had been tied to their backs. The last two were also carrying spears. It was as well to be prepared. Realising that the women must be wondering what was going on, Babur trotted over to the bullock cart and, leaning from his horse, thrust his head inside the leather curtains. ‘There are riders ahead, probably Ibrahim Saru’s men but we must be certain. We are waiting for our scouts to return but in the meantime we are making ready to defend ourselves.’ His mother and Khanzada were dozing but Esan Dawlat, bright-eyed and alert, nodded. ‘It is well. Take no chances.’
In a matter of minutes, Wazir Khan had sent archers to conceal themselves behind trees and rocks, had the supply wagons drawn in a circle around the bullock cart and had positioned the remainder of the troops in a defensive perimeter around them. But, as they waited, time seemed to pass so slowly. Babur strained his ears, trying to catch any sound borne on the wind. There was nothing until a discordant jangling of bells announced the arrival of a herd of shaggy goats on the hillside above them. The boy driving them took one horrified look at what he had stumbled on and, waving his staff, hastily kicked and drove his goats out of sight again.
At last Babur’s men came galloping back. Behind them were the dark-clad riders, faces swathed against the wind. All must be well. As the riders came closer, Babur saw on one of their pennants the red hawk that was the symbol of the Manglighs. He rode a few paces forward, then reined in his chestnut and waited for the strangers to approach.
‘Greetings, Babur of Ferghana.’ The leading rider bent forward in his saddle by way of salute. As the powerfully built man unwound his black face-cloth, Babur saw his thick dark beard, wide cheekbones and above them a pair of penetrating, very long dark eyes, strangely flecked with amber. He looked about forty. ‘I am Ibrahim Saru, chieftain of the Manglighs. I bid you and your family welcome. Today you are my guests and tomorrow, Babur, you will become my son.’ Though he spoke Turki, the language of Babur’s people, his accent made the words sound strange. The Manglighs had originally come from Persia — perhaps Persian was still their native tongue.
Babur returned the bow. ‘Thank you. You honour us.’
‘Our encampment is two hours south from here. We have been waiting and watching for you. I came in person because I wished to be the first to greet you.’
Babur bowed again and kicking his horse followed Ibrahim Saru slowly up the hill.
The round tent in which he had spent the night was quite well furnished, Babur thought critically, his gaze wandering over the red and blue woven hangings that covered the ten-foot-high walls of stitched, cured hides. Candles burned in brass holders cast to resemble coiled snakes, their bases set with chunks of gold-speckled lapis- lazuli. The soft dark blue cushions on which Babur was resting his head were embroidered with thick gold thread that tickled the back of his neck, and his mattress was a sumptuous bag of what felt like duck down, covered in a thick, slippery brocade. The tent floor was spread with furs.
It was crude, of course, compared with Samarkand, but Ibrahim Saru had gone to great trouble to set up such an elaborate camp to which to welcome his guests. The night before, as they had ridden in, the lines of tents — pennants in the yellow of Ferghana flying from those set up for Babur’s men and, in their centre, his own much larger ceremonial tent — had been an impressive sight. No doubt exactly as Ibrahim Saru had intended.
From the light creeping in through the entrance flaps, closed with engraved metal clasps, Babur guessed it must be well past dawn. He thought back to last night’s feast of buttered rice, lamb, root vegetables and heady liquor in Ibrahim Saru’s tented audience chamber with its elaborate awnings and carpeted walkway leading to the entrance. Babur would much rather have spent the evening with Esan Dawlat, Kutlugh Nigar and his sister in the women’s tents but, of course, that had been impossible. Instead he had politely watched the antics of jugglers, fire-eaters and supplelimbed acrobats, and the gyrations of a troupe of plump dancing girls whose eyes had looked boldly into his as they shook their full breasts and hips. Later, he had sat smiling as his own and Ibrahim’s men had danced and sung together, pledging each other’s health as the brothers-in-arms they were soon to be, until eventually, fuddled with wine, they had slumped to the floor to sleep.
Babur, who could usually drink as much as any man, had drunk little, hoping that Ibrahim Saru would talk to him of their coming alliance. There was much to discuss. With his father-in-law’s help, he could storm Akhsi and regain his throne in weeks, not months, he was sure. Then there was the small matter of throwing his cousin Mahmud out of Samarkand. But Ibrahim Saru had made only polite small-talk and Babur deciding it would be discourteous to talk of war on such an occasion had reluctantly curbed his tongue.
Throwing back the fur coverlet, beneath which he had slept only fitfully, Babur got up. At this thought of what lay ahead he allowed himself a quick sigh. He felt impatient with himself as well as with his situation. At this moment he’d have given anything to be leading his men into combat rather than having to marry an unknown young woman. But he was a king, a conqueror, a warrior, and he was also now a man. How often during his wild days had he not lain at night on hard ground beneath cold skies thinking of the soft, warm bodies of women?
Why had he not summoned one to him? He couldn’t say for certain. Perhaps it was the prudishness of an only son who lacked a father. Perhaps a disinclination to father a child in his circumstances? Perhaps a consciousness of his dignity preventing him associating with the available women or a wish not to let such women get close to him — other princes before him had been ruled and ruined by unsuitable women. But tonight he would finally discover how it felt to hold and possess a woman. He should be glad.
Babur clapped his hands for the four attendants his father-in-law had pressed on him as a courtesy. This was his wedding day and he must observe the proprieties. He could already hear them murmuring outside the tent, and at his signal they entered, throwing back the tent flaps and letting the sunlight stream in.
Babur’s wedding clothes — trousers of soft doeskin, a tunic of yellow silk, belted with the heavy gold chain his father had worn on his wedding day, and a long coat of bronze brocade — had been unpacked the night before and were draped over a dome-lidded chest. A high, dark blue velvet cap, sewn with tiny pearls by Khanzada and with a crest of eagles’ feathers was on a nearby stool.
Two hours later, after bathing in water heated over hot stones in the bath tent and allowing his attendants to
