Kabul. Already workmen were clearing the ground and digging channels through the cold earth for the intersecting watercourses, the central pool and the fountains the nearby river would feed. Soon riders would bring the sour- cherry saplings he had ordered from the east of his kingdom to be planted among the oranges, lemons, pomegranates and apples. In this fertile earth they would grow quickly. By the time his mother and grandmother joined him, there might be something to see.
Babur flung back the wolfskin, stood up and stretched. Sunlight was pouring through the carved fretwork of the sandalwood doors on the eastern side of his chamber, with gave on to a stone balcony projecting over the courtyard below. For centuries the kings of Kabul had stood here on great occasions to show themselves to their people. It felt good to have earned that right.
‘What are you doing? This is the third time I’ve found you scribbling away.’ Baburi’s shadow fell across the paper on which Babur was writing.
‘It’s a diary. When I took Samarkand from Shaibani Khan, I decided to record what happened in my life. . but when I lost the city. . when I was forced to flee for my life, I put it aside. .’
‘Why did you stop? It might have comforted you. .’
Babur put down his pen. ‘Some things were too painful to dwell on — the loss of my sister, Wazir Khan’s death. . And when I was a fugitive, what could I write about except failure, the struggle to survive and how a half- bowl of millet-flour soup tasted when I was starving? There would have been no comfort in writing about such things. . only shame. . only the self-pity you once derided me for. .’
‘And now?’
‘I am a king again. . I suppose I feel worthy to record my memoirs. . But there’s something else. Do you remember how, as we came over the Hindu Kush, we saw the Canopus star shining so pure and bright? At that moment, I vowed that if Kabul became mine, never, ever would I lose the initiative again. Never again would I let myself be pushed around by marauders like Shaibani Khan, ambitious relations or mutinous subjects. I would control my own destiny. I can achieve that, I feel it with every breath I take. .’
‘And is that what you are writing about?’
‘In a way. . I want my future sons, and their sons after them, to know everything that happened to me — to know my achievements, my strengths — but I also want them to understand my mistakes. . my failings. . my thoughts. . the choices I had to make to survive. . From now on, I intend to record everything that happens — good or bad — frankly and honestly. .’
‘Including the number of times you had that Negudari girl the other night?’
‘Even that. . A man can be proud of many things. .’ Babur grinned, but then his expression sobered. He couldn’t push from his mind his discussion with his grand vizier earlier that day. ‘Bahlul Ayyub requested an audience with me this morning.’
‘That waffling old woman, wh-wh-what did he w-want?’ Baburi was no respecter of age or status and was fond of parodying the grand vizier’s high, quavering voice and fluttering hands.
‘He brought bad news, though it was not unexpected. The Hazaras are raiding caravans on the roads to and from Kabul — despite my orders that they must not be molested — and are refusing to pay the fine of horses and sheep I imposed on them. . The messenger Wali Gul sent to Muhammad-Muquim Arghun to demand payment was returned this morning. . without his ears to signify the Hazaras’ deafness to my commands. .’
‘Then Muhammad-Muquim Arghun is even more stupid than he looks. .’
‘His insolence is certainly greater than his brains and the Hazaras are a lawless breed. If I don’t bring them to heel quickly, the other clans will grow rebellious. I have already decided what to do. . As punishment for the messenger’s ears, the life of every captured Hazara warrior will be forfeit. I’ll build pyramids of their heads higher than anything Timur created. .’
‘Let me go — send me out with a force. I’ll flush the bastards from their mountain hideaways and remove their heads from their shoulders. .’
Babur looked at his friend. There was no doubting his seriousness: his voice shook with passion and there was an eager light in his eyes. He was a good, brave soldier but he had never been in command.
‘You’re sure you can lead?’
‘Of course. You’re not the only one to have faith in himself. .’
Babur pondered. Others would grumble and wonder why he had chosen Baburi above them. Even Baisanghar would probably look askance. But why not follow his instincts and give Baburi the chance he was obviously aching for?
‘Alright. You go.’
‘And your orders are no quarter?’
‘No quarter to Muhammad-Muquim Arghun and his men, but spare the women and children.’
‘I won’t disappoint you.’ Baburi’s high cheekbones lent his face a predatory, wolfish look.
After he had gone, Babur thought for a moment, then took up his pen again to finish what he had been writing when Baburi had interrupted him: ‘This kingdom is to be governed by the sword and not the pen.’
Seven hog deer were already suspended from the huntsmen’s poles but this nilgai was a bonus. Babur had read of the antelope’s strange blue-grey coat, its black mane and the long, thick, silky hairs covering its throat but had never before seen one. The creatures concealed in the dense oak and olive forests in the east of his kingdom — gaudy parrots, shrieking mynah birds, peacocks and monkeys — astonished him. He was glad he had chosen this place for the royal hunt to celebrate Baburi’s crushing of the Hazaras. Five days ago, Baburi had returned to Kabul at the head of his men to fling the mangled head of Muhammad-Muquim Arghun at Babur’s feet. Now he, too, was watching the nilgai.
‘Yours,’ Babur whispered. It was only right.
Baburi fixed his indigo eyes on the nilgai, nosing among the juniper bushes, as he fitted his arrow to his bow-string and stretched the tight sinew till the double curved bow looked ready to snap.
Babur watched the white-feathered arrow embed itself in the soft throat of the unsuspecting deer, which, with scarcely a sound or a flicker of its long-lashed eyes, collapsed sideways to the ground. For a moment Babur saw not a stricken beast but Wazir Khan, an Uzbek arrow through his throat, sliding from his horse into a fast- flowing river and looked away. Memories and emotions came when they were least expected. He should know that by now. ‘Well done. You’re a good shot.’
‘For a market boy. .’
The feast that night was the most lavish Babur had given since celebrating the taking of Kabul. In the orange light of torches, he sat on a pinewood dais in the courtyard of the modest fort he was occupying on this hunting trip, Baburi next to him. Soon Babur would order the ulush — the ‘champion’s portion’ — of the first sheep to be served to Baburi. He would toast him in the strong, full-bodied red wine of Kabul and award him the title of
But later, as he drank from his double-handled goblet, carved from ox horn and mounted in silver, and listened to his men roar out their songs of valour in the field and greater valour in bed, he felt dissatisfaction seep through him with the wine just when other rulers would have been content. After all, Baburi had quelled the Hazaras and cemented their heads into enough festering pyramids to strike fear into passers-by and serve as a warning for the future. Kabul — his haven and the balm to his dignity — was secure. He was enjoying planting his gardens and planning new buildings for his capital. Why wasn’t it enough? Because ambition still gnawed at his soul, sucking out the happiness.
Taking another deep draught of wine, Babur continued to brood. In a few days his grandmother and mother would arrive from Kishm. His mother would be all pleasure at their reunion but he knew that in her heart would be the unspoken question of when he would be able to redeem his promise to rescue his sister. In Esan Dawlat’s sharp eyes he sensed he would see the same question that troubled him: what to do next? What new conquest? Where and when? Neither Timur nor her revered Genghis Khan had ever rested in one place long, satisfied with what they had, as she would no doubt remind him. .
‘You look like a man whose favourite horse has gone lame just before the big race.’ Baburi’s lean face was flushed with wine and round his neck hung the gold chain Babur had given him for his cunning and bravery against the Hazaras.
‘I was thinking. . Ten years ago, when I least expected, I became a king. But what I always expected — even
