had recovered consciousness. That should have been the end of it. But for some reason Babur was curious to know more and, on the second day after the accident, ordered the youth, if he was well enough, to be carried to him on a litter.
The young man was very pale but saluted Babur from his prone position, touching his hand to his chest and inclining his head — a gesture that clearly hurt because he winced.
‘You were brave to save the child like that. I’m glad God has been compassionate to you, preserving your own life. What is your name?’
‘Baburi, Majesty.’
Babur looked down at him in frank surprise. Baburi was an unusual name, but also so similar to his own. ‘Where are you from? What is your tribe?’
‘My father was a warrior of the Barin people and served your father, but he died when I was a baby. I have no memory of him. My mother took me to Samarkand but she died of smallpox when I was seven. I’ve fended for myself ever since.’
‘What are you? A soldier?’
‘No, Majesty.’ Baburi raised his eyes to Babur’s. They were a dark blue, almost indigo. ‘Till recently I was a market boy. I hawked cabbages on the streets of Samarkand.’
‘How did you come to be in Shahrukiyyah?’
‘When you captured Samarkand, Majesty, I got a job as a water-carrier with one of your chiefs. He has since gone home to Ferghana but I decided to stay.’ Baburi spoke directly, with a simple dignity.
‘But I have not seen you before?’
‘That isn’t surprising. I work in the kitchens now, skinning animals and pulling the guts out of chickens. It isn’t glorious but it’s a job.’ A half-smile curled his lips. ‘It could be worse.’
He’s laughing at me, Babur thought, astonished. I amuse him. ‘I’m sure it could be worse — sometimes we must accept what fate doles out, even disembowelling chickens. But now perhaps fate has something different in store. Your bravery suggests you could be a soldier.’
‘I’d like that. . After all, I’ve proved I’ve got a good thick skull to take a blow. . And it would be preferable to the kitchens — even if occasionally I have to spill human guts or even lose some of my own.’ Still the youth smiled.
‘Very well. As soon as you are recovered, you shall join my cavalry.’
Babur had expected rapturous gratitude but the youth’s smile disappeared. His expression changed to one of discomfort and his pale face flushed. ‘What is the matter?’
‘I can scarcely ride, Majesty.’
Babur bit his lip at his own stupidity. In a society of nomads where only the poorest were ignorant of horses, it was a shaming thing to have to confess. How could a poor market boy have learned to be a good enough horseman to join the cavalry?
Anxious to spare Baburi further embarrassment, he said quickly, ‘You have already shown you have no fear of horses. Tell the master-of-horse to arrange your training as a cavalryman as soon as you’re fit.’
‘So, we are agreed. If no Mangligh crossbowmen have come from Zaamin by the time of the new moon after next, we will march on Akhsi anyway.’ Babur gazed at his counsellors, seated cross-legged in a half-circle round him.
There was still no news of the Mangligh reinforcements and Babur had had enough. The lands he had seized were still securely in his hands, the forts he had taken well garrisoned under chieftains he could trust, but he could not afford to wait much longer. He must regain Akhsi and quickly. Then he could truly call himself Ferghana’s king and plan for a greater future.
‘In the meantime, Majesty, we must continue to drill our troops. We have enough siege engines and enough catapults but many of the men are still undisciplined. Under fire they may forget what we have tried to hammer into their heads. And we must also build up our supplies. Though we do not want a long siege, it may come to it,’ said Wazir Khan.
‘You’re right. And when we march out, we must send raiding parties ahead to seize flocks before they are taken to feed the garrison of Akhsi. Baisanghar, I look to you to have men ready for such a task — men we can trust. There is to be no killing or looting of my people. We will pay for what we take. I am a king returning to his own, not an Uzbek bandit out on a raid.’
Babur rose, pleased that he had taken control and that the waiting would soon be over. Feeling restless, he hurried out into the courtyard and ordered his favourite horse to be saddled. Taken by surprise, the grooms rushed to obey while his bodyguards, shouting for their own mounts, added to the confusion. They were getting sloppy and lax. He noticed the broad-shouldered, slim-waisted figure of Baburi, broom in his hands, coming from the stables and summoned him with a wave.
‘Majesty?’ Today Baburi seemed unwilling to look Babur in the eye.
‘How is your riding?’
Silence.
‘I gave orders that you were to train for the cavalry.’
Still silence.
‘And I am not used to being disobeyed.’ Babur was perplexed. The youth had seemed so eager yet he had done nothing. He had wanted to help Baburi and had thought he detected a spark in him, but he must have been wrong. Baburi was as dull as the cabbages he had once peddled. Disappointed, Babur turned away. As he did so he noticed a bruise on the side of Baburi’s high-cheekboned face. ‘Wait. What is that mark?’
‘Your master-of-horse hit me.’
‘Why?’
Now, at last, Baburi looked at him. ‘Because I said that I wanted to ride, to be a cavalryman. He said I was fit only for shovelling horse shit.’
‘Did you mention that it was my personal wish?’
‘Perhaps not in so many words. I thought he would have heard. And he gave me no chance to explain before he hit me. Afterwards, it was all I could do to restrain myself from thumping him. It didn’t seem the time for explanations. . or for pleading. If you were serious, I knew it would get sorted out sometime. If not, the stables were better than the kitchen.’
Babur turned to one of his guards. ‘Fetch Ali Gosht.’
A few moments later, the man was kneeling before him. He was of the Saghrichi tribe, descended, like Babur himself, from Genghis Khan, and famous for his skill with horses. It was said he could break a stallion in two days. Ali Gosht was loyal and conscientious, if quick-tempered and conscious of the dignity of his hard-won position. Babur suspected Baburi had not chosen the time or manner of his approach with particular care. No doubt Ali Gosht had assumed that Baburi was being presumptuous — a trait for which the Barin clan had no mean reputation. It was his own fault, Babur thought, for not making his orders clear.
‘I intend this man to be a member of my cavalry. We will start his training now. Fetch a horse from the royal stables.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’
Twenty minutes later Babur, with Baburi clinging to his mount — a quiet mare — rode out of Shahrukiyyah, the usual escort of guards close behind. It was a warm afternoon and bees hummed in the patches of thick white clover that covered the meadows and sweetened the air. Babur reined in and turned in his saddle to watch Baburi’s progress. He was sitting a little straighter now, no longer clutching the horse’s mane. ‘Grip with your knees. Keep your ankles in, your heels down and your feet in the stirrups.’
Baburi nodded, with a frown of concentration. He had natural grace in the saddle and would make a good rider, Babur thought. What had his life been like till now? It was hard for Babur to imagine. Images came into his head of the scrawny old man with his mildewed onions in the square in Samarkand where Babur had hidden after creeping into the city through the tunnel. Perhaps Baburi had been somewhere in the square that morning.
‘Come on,’ Babur shouted. ‘Hurry up.’
‘I will — if I can persuade the horse to agree, Majesty.’
A few days later, Babur was handing his horse to his groom outside the stables, when he saw Baburi inside,
