As the mullah moved on to a new prayer, Babur listened carefully:
It is you, God, who bestows kingdoms on whom you will,
And you take them from whom you will.
You raise up those whom you will,
And you cast down those whom you will.
You are the fount of goodness,
For you are almighty.
God was indeed all-powerful and he had been good to Babur.
Part III
Chapter 15
Luckily the city’s coffers had proved even fuller than Babur had hoped. As Wali Gul had promised, the Hazaras had never found the royal treasure vaults concealed beneath the stables in the citadel. ‘If they’d only shovelled away the horse shit, Majesty, they might have found them, but the Hazaras are too proud for such work.’ The old man had chortled as his servants brushed away the foot-deep layer of steaming dung and straw to reveal a trapdoor and steps leading down to eight subterranean chambers. Behind the thick, iron-bound oak doors there had been enough gold and silver for Babur to reward his men well, recruit more troops and beautify his new kingdom.
He rolled up the large plan he had been studying. On it, laid out on a grid of squares, was the design for the great domed mosque he had commissioned for the central square of Kabul using some of this wealth. Even though he had been invited to Kabul and its wide territories by its leaders and welcomed by the people, his new subjects — Aymaqs, Pashais, Tajiks and Barakis on the plains and, in the mountains, Hazaras and Negudaris, and the citizens of Kabul itself — were even more prone to jealousies and blood feuds than the tribes of Ferghana. It would do no harm to remind them — Sunni Muslims like himself — that it was by God’s will that he ruled.
Also, it would feel good to leave his permanent mark on the city — a monument to remind future generations of his rule, something he’d never had the chance to create in Samarkand. He’d never been there long enough — and, anyway, how could he have embellished a place already made so beautiful by Timur? At least in Kabul he could fashion a capital worthy of a prince of Timur’s line — a place where scholars and craftsmen would gather.
Now, though, he had unpleasant business to attend to. A month ago, Baisanghar had brought him reports that Ali Gosht — Babur’s master-of-horse whom he had promoted to chief quartermaster — had been taking bribes to favour certain horse dealers and forage suppliers in Kabul. This was against Babur’s express orders. He’d repeatedly promised the local people that he’d deal fairly with them but now, thanks to Ali Gosht’s greed, they would be justified in murmuring against a king who had broken his word so lightly. .
Babur had wanted more evidence — he had known Ali Gosht all his life, in fact the man had taught him to ride and play polo — but Baisanghar had brought him further proof and now he must act. He made his way to the arched audience hall where his council were standing at either side of the gilded throne in order of precedence, the most senior members closest to him. Seating himself, Babur nodded to Baisanghar. ‘Bring in the quartermaster.’
He watched, expressionless, as Ali Gosht, his familiar bandy-legged gait even more pronounced because of the heavy irons dragging at his legs, shuffled towards him. Outwardly he looked defiant but Babur knew he was anxious. His battle scars were more than usually livid on his taut face and his eyes moved nervously from one counsellor to the next as he approached the throne. He didn’t look at Babur, and before the guards behind him could jab at him with the butts of their spears he fell to his knees.
‘You know what you are accused of. .’
‘Majesty, I-’
‘Just answer me.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’
‘And is it true?’
‘It is the way things have always been done. .’
‘But I gave you specific orders to treat the dealers and merchants fairly. You disobeyed me. .’
Ali Gosht raised his head and licked dry lips. ‘You know the tradition among our people, Majesty, from the days of Genghis Khan. The highest officials of the court should not be punished until their ninth transgression.’
‘And you have transgressed at least a dozen times. . I have all the details.’
His quartermaster crumpled even lower on the hard stone floor. Babur looked at his bowed head — the neck thick and muscular but so vulnerable to the executioner’s sword. Ali Gosht must know these might be his last minutes on earth. What was going through his mind?
In the long, deep silence it seemed to Babur that all around him his counsellors were holding their breath.
‘You are dismissed from my service. If you are found in Kabul after sunset tonight you will die. Take him away.’
‘You should have had him executed,’ said Baburi later, as they rode out of the citadel to go hawking. Babur’s bird, secured to his gloved wrist by a golden chain, was turning its head restlessly beneath its tufted yellow leather hood, sensing that soon it would soar skywards.
‘You say that because you didn’t like Ali Gosht. . because he clouted you. .’
‘He also told me I was only good for shovelling horse shit. . No, of course I didn’t like him. You know I despised the old goat. He was an arrogant, conceited bully who fawned to his superiors but liked swinging his fists at those in his power. But that’s not why I spoke as I did. Your own men, and the people of Kabul, will think you sentimental and weak.’
Babur leaned from his saddle and gripped Baburi’s wrist. ‘Anyone who thinks that is wrong. It took more courage to allow him to live. It would have been far easier to order his execution. When I was only twelve, I personally hacked off the head of my father’s treacherous vizier, Qambar-Ali. But Ali Gosht was loyal to me when I was a wanderer without a throne in need of friends and he had little to gain from his loyalty to me. Nevertheless, in future any man who disobeys my orders — whoever he may be — will die.’
Though it was early spring, the cold northerly wind the people of Kabul called the parwan still flecked with white the dark green waters of the lake beneath the citadel and ruffled the feathers of the ducks sheltering among the reeds. But the snows were gone, the pastures and meadows bursting into new life. Vermilion tulips dotted the foothills, and in the forests strutting snow-cocks called in search of mates. Peasants wrapped warmly against the winds were busily tending the rows of vines that, in a few months, would yield the sweet, golden ab-angur grapes for the wine the courtiers relished in summer, chilling it with ice carried in chunks from the mountains and stored in ice-houses.
Babur stretched beneath the wolfskin coverlet he still needed for warmth at night, though the Negudari girl — skin the golden tawny of the honey gathered in the mountains from which she came — with whom he’d shared his bed until dawn had been more than enough to heat his blood. Later he might go hunting with Baburi. Though there was little game, the wild mountain sheep migrating between their winter and summer pastures and the occasional wild ass provided surprisingly good sport.
Or perhaps he would visit the garden he had ordered to be laid out in the clover meadows on a hillside above
