hostile but still beautiful world. Babur had always thought of ice as white, but here, on the ceiling of the world, it shone azure and turquoise in the warm sunlight.
‘How much longer to the pass?’
The guide thought for a moment. ‘If we continue at this pace we should reach the Hupian Pass before nightfall tomorrow, Majesty.’
Babur clapped his hands, frozen despite the woollen cloth he had bound tightly around them and his fur-lined gauntlets, and winced at what felt like the pricking of red-hot needles as his blood flowed again into his blue fingers. ‘You’ve done well. I thought we’d lose many of our animals.’
‘That is why I am bringing you to the Hupian Pass. It is not as high as some of the others, like the Khawak, and the way up is not so hazardous — though everywhere in these mountains has its dangers. . You must always beware-’ The man was still speaking when a grinding, crunching sound split the cold air. Looking up, Babur saw a network of cracks shoot across the smooth surface of a cliff of ice high above them. With a groan that was almost human, a rectangular blue-green slab sheared off and came smashing down on to the end of the long line of men and animals.
At the same time, there was a roar so loud that Babur thought his eardrums would burst. Instinctively he put his hands over them. As he did so something hit him hard in the chest and something else sliced against the side of his head. All around, the air was full of missiles. As his horse neighed in panic, Babur flung himself to the ground and, gripping its halter, crawled beneath its belly.
As suddenly as it had begun, the avalanche was over. The surrounding peaks were silent once more though from all around came the sounds of frightened beasts and men. Babur’s head throbbed and his breastbone felt tender as cautiously he climbed out from beneath his horse, which was still skittering about but seemed unhurt.
‘Majesty, are you alright?’ It was Baburi, cradling his left arm with his right hand, a livid bruise already welling on one side of his face.
Babur nodded. His thick garments had protected him. But the guide was splayed face down at his feet. The man’s shaggy wolfskin cap had not saved him from the hunk of ice that had smashed into the back of his head with such force that his brains and blood now spattered the snowy ground.
Babur thought of the man’s warning, ‘You must always beware. .’ Those had been his last words on earth. Above them, the cliff of ice gleamed like a mirror in the sunshine yet at any moment it might shed another deadly load. He must get his men out of here.
‘Gather up the injured,’ he said softly. ‘We must move as quickly as we can. Pass the order down the line. .’
He looked again at the crumpled figure at his feet. There was no sign of the man’s son and no time to look for him. ‘Help me, Baburi. .’
The guide had been a big man and it was hard to sling his body over Babur’s horse but it felt wrong to leave him there. He deserved a better resting-place and Babur intended to find him one — perhaps on the pass where his spirit would rest happy.
They hurried on as fast as they could, feet slipping and scrabbling on the icy ground, until they reached a plateau. They should be safe there from any further falls of ice and snow, Babur thought, and ordered a halt so he could take stock. The casualties were not as bad as he had feared — eighteen men killed, nearly double that number injured, though most not badly, with six horses and three mules killed or too badly injured to go on. Babur’s men had already slit their throats and were preparing them for the cooking pot. It could have been far worse. .
‘Majesty. .?’ A young voice interrupted his thoughts. It was the guide’s son. His eyes were red but his voice was steady. ‘I know the way forward. I will be your guide now. It is what my father would have wished. .’
‘I thank you, and I am sorry for your loss.’ Babur nodded. He would be sure to reward him well at journey’s end.
Led by the youth, they breasted the Hupian Pass just after dawn. Low on the southern horizon, a single brilliant star was still shining.
Babur stared at it. ‘Which is that? I’ve never seen it before.’
Baburi shrugged, but Baisanghar knew. ‘It is Canopus, Majesty. It doesn’t shine in our northern skies in Samarkand and Ferghana, but I read of it in Samarkand, in the books of Timur’s grandson, Ulugh Beg the astronomer. There is a famous verse:
How far do you shine, Canopus, and where do you rise? You bear a sign of fortune in your eye to all upon whom it falls.
Before Babur’s eyes, the star vanished in the paling sky but the message was good. A sign of fortune was exactly what he needed and he felt his spirits rise. He became even more cheerful when, eight hours later, snow and ice yielded to pastures. For the first time in three days they could pitch their tents, take off some layers of clothing and ease off their boots.
But Babur was horrified as, with Baisanghar and Baburi, he inspected the condition of some of the men. Despite his orders, many had been ill-prepared for the mountains. The Mongols, faces burned by the sun, looked healthy enough, but Mirza Khan’s soldiers were in poor condition. The hands and feet of at least a dozen were black and swollen with frostbite.
Babur had seen such severe frostbite before. There was only one remedy if the men were to live. Soon fires were burning and swords were being sharpened on stones. With no strong spirits to deaden their pain, all that could be done for the men whose fingers and toes or hands and feet were to be amputated was to place a folded cloth between their teeth to stop them biting off their tongues.
Mirza Khan’s cup-bearer — a slim, handsome youth of sixteen whose right hand was black, swollen to the size of a small melon and oozing yellow pus from beneath the nails — was struggling unsuccessfully to hold back tears as he watched a soldier test the sharpness of his blade.
‘Courage.’ Babur knelt beside him. ‘It will be over quickly and at least you will live. . Keep your eyes on mine and don’t look down.’ Babur gripped him by the shoulders while another man held the frostbitten arm tight above the elbow and a second man held his feet.
‘Now — quickly!’ Babur ordered. The boy’s eyes, wide with fright, stayed fixed on his face. As the sword sliced down on his wrist his body arced in pain but though he bit hard on the rag between his teeth he didn’t utter a sound. Still gripping the boy, Babur moved aside to allow another soldier to kneel down and cauterise the bleeding stump with a blade red hot from the fire. This time, though muffled by the rag, the boy did cry out but struggled to control himself.
Mirza Khan was watching, curious but detached. He had come through the mountains unscathed — he still even looked plump — but he didn’t seem to care a fart for his men. Babur wanted to smash his face. ‘What is this youth’s name?’ he asked.
‘Sayyidim.’
‘I would like to take him into my service.’
‘As you wish.’ Mirza Khan shrugged as if to say ‘What use is a one-handed cup-bearer to me?’
Babur stood up and watched as the boy’s arm was wrapped in strips of cloth torn from a cloak. ‘Take him to my tent and bring him some broth,’ he ordered. ‘He’s shown courage.’
The Aq Saray Meadow, the meeting-place on the borders of the kingdom of Kabul that the ambassador had appointed, was pleasant enough, with its lush, sweet grass. So was Babur’s camp, the neat lines of tents radiating out from his own in the centre. It was encouraging that his army had encountered no hostility from the people in the villages on the mountainsides and in the valleys they’d passed through on their journey south-west, only curiosity that they had dared to come over the mountains.
It was September now. The harvest was gathered and the granaries were full so the villagers were more than willing to sell them food. It was good to sit around a fire at night to eat fat, juicy lamb, then ripe apples and plums, new picked from the orchards and sweetened with honey from the hives. Blackbirds, thrushes and doves fluttered in the branches and at night Babur heard the call of the nightingale. This was a prosperous, abundant land and when he was king in Kabul he’d keep it so.
But his first priority was to enforce discipline in his camp. Though he had forbidden looting, six men had disobeyed him, raiding a farm and killing two peasants who had tried to defend their livestock. Babur had had the
