before then — was that destiny held something special for me. .’ He ignored Baburi’s usual sceptical glance. How could he possibly understand what it had been like growing up in a court where the father you loved talked only of the greatness that might have been and the greatness that might yet be. .
‘The truth is I’m restless — unsatisfied. Kabul is all very well but I want more. Every day when I open my diary to write in it, I wonder what the future pages will say. . Will they describe great glories, great victories, or will they be blank. .? I must not relax but hold firm to my destiny. I can’t allow the pages of my life to turn with nothing memorable inscribed upon them.’
‘So what are you thinking of doing. .? Attacking Shaibani Khan?’
‘As soon as my armies are stronger. But not yet. I’d be a fool to take him on so soon. .’
‘What else, then?’
Babur took another long drink and felt the wine flow through his body, freeing his tongue and his imagination. Suddenly an idea that had long been at the back of his mind crystallised. ‘Hindustan. . that’s where I’d like to go. Do you remember Rehana’s story? If I captured treasure, as Timur did, no one, not Shaibani Khan or even the Shah of Persia, could stand in my way.’ He swayed on his seat. Baburi’s hand was on his shoulder, steadying him, but he shook it off. In his mind he saw a little golden elephant with ruby eyes. .
‘You should follow your instincts.’
Babur peered at him blearily. ‘What. .?’
‘I said follow your instincts. . see where your so-called destiny that you love so much leads you. .’
Though Baburi’s voice seemed to come from far away and was half drowned in the drunken hubbub around them, the message penetrated Babur’s mind with complete clarity, sobering him in spite of the wine. . Yes, he would muster a force and raid south along the Kabul river towards Hindustan. He would gaze on the broad Indus, contemplate the prospect of awesome riches beyond and perhaps even seize some.
At Babur’s request, the court astrologers consulted the planets. Night after night they studied their charts and scrutinised the infinitely complex web of stars lighting the dark skies over Kabul. January, when the sun was in the sign of Aquarius, would be an auspicious time for him to launch his campaign, they pronounced at last, stroking their beards. Babur wasn’t sure he believed their predictions, but his men would. It was good for them to believe the stars blessed their journey into an unknown world. At least the astrologers’ advice gave him time to prepare: he could spend the next few months building up his forces and considering his strategy.
As the last of the autumn fruit was being gathered from the orchards around Kabul, Babur’s mother and grandmother arrived from Kishm. He hadn’t wanted to send for them too soon — the Hazara rising had made him cautious — but his heart swelled with pride to hear the trumpets sound and the drums over the gatehouse thud as they and their escort entered the citadel. Kutlugh Nigar had noticeably lost weight and looked tired and frail after the long journey — Babur saw how heavily she leaned on Fatima’s arm — but Esan Dawlat seemed vigorous as ever.
As soon as they were alone she took Babur’s face between her hands and stared at him. ‘You’ve become a man,’ she nodded approvingly, releasing him. ‘Look, daughter, your son has changed these past months — see how he has broadened.’ She slapped his chest and poked at one of his upper arms as if inspecting a prize animal. ‘Muscles like iron.’
Kutlugh Nigar gazed at him but said nothing. She had grown so silent — so different from the mentally strong woman who had determinedly guided his steps to the throne of Ferghana in the uncertain hours after his father’s death — so less physically strong than when she’d purposefully swarmed up the mountains not two years previously.
‘I’ve something to tell you both. When January comes I’m leaving Kabul to lead my army south towards Hindustan to try my fortune there. Baisanghar will be regent in my absence. .’
As his words sank in, Esan Dawlat nodded her approval, but something stirred in Kutlugh Nigar. She rose from the gold brocade bolster against which she had been reclining and, shaking her head from side to side, seemed to be struggling to find words. It shocked Babur to see tears begin coursing down her cheeks — tears that she made no effort to brush away. Before his eyes her whole body began to shake and her hands to twist in her long dark hair, now streaked with white.
‘Daughter. .’ Esan Dawlat’s voice was stiff with disapproval.
Babur took his mother in his arms, trying to soothe her as if she were a small child and he the parent. ‘What is it?’
‘Khanzada — have you forgotten your promise, Babur? You promised you would rescue her. Why are you wasting time riding south. .’
It hurt as much as if she’d struck him. He flushed as the familiar mix of shame, frustration and grief washed through him. ‘She is always in my mind. I will keep that promise. But now is not the time. I must have more men, more money, before I can challenge Shaibani Khan. This raid may give me those things. But I swear to you that as soon as I can I will find Khanzada. .’
At length his mother’s sobbing quietened and her body stilled. Babur kissed the top of her head, but the turmoil she had provoked inside him would take a long time to die away. .
In the weeks that followed, he tried to lose himself in the preparations for the Hindustan campaign. He would take the same route — south-east along the Kabul river and down through the Khyber Pass — that Timur had used a century earlier.
In the brief time before the snows arrived, whitening the grassy meadows and softening the landscape so that it was hard to see where the mountains ended and the pale skies began, Baisanghar and Baburi trained the men — their own forces and new recruits from the local tribes. The tribesmen weren’t bad. . Babur watched them learn to fire from the saddle at straw targets and spear melons and sheep’s heads on the ground as they thundered past. . but who knew what awaited them?
On many a night Babur listened to travelling merchants regaling open-mouthed and credulous listeners with tales of exotic creatures — even monsters — lurking in Hindustan’s forests of banyan trees, whose aerial roots would twist round the throat of an unwary traveller and squeeze the breath from him, of naked holy men, yogis, followers of their idolatrous religion with white ash on their faces who lived in dark caves and never cut their hair or beards. Childish nonsense, most of it. . but he intended to be prepared.
It was a relief when January finally arrived. Though the snow still lay thick, the worst of the winter storms were over and they could ride.
Six days’ steady advance — the pace set by the drummers’ rhythmic beating — brought Babur and his two thousand men to the approaches to the Khyber Pass. But on the seventh day, with the sun at its height, leaching all colour from the increasingly barren landscape, Babur thought he detected a movement among some rocks on a low hill just ahead to the right. Signalling a halt he stared up.
‘What is it?’ As Baburi spoke a shower of scree skittered down the hillside.
‘I don’t know. I’ve posted men in a protective cordon all round the column. How could ambushers have slipped through? Let’s climb up and take a look. .’
Babur jumped from his horse. ‘Some of you, draw your bows and keep us covered,’ he called to his bodyguards. ‘The rest, come with us.’
A few minutes later, Babur looked around the bare, stony summit in disappointment. Nothing. Whatever it was, animal or human, must already have made off. Then from over the far edge he heard pebbles falling. Running across he saw a man in brown tunic and baggy trousers slithering frantically down a patch of scree to make his escape. Reaching for his bow, Babur took careful aim and sent an arrow hissing after him. The man screamed but disappeared into some rocky ground at the bottom of the hill.
With Baburi and his guards close behind, Babur leaped and skidded down the stony hillside after his quarry. Reaching the bottom he glimpsed the man half running, half staggering among the rocks, the arrow protruding from the muscle of his right arm, just below his shoulder. Summoning a burst of speed, Babur caught up with him and flung himself at him, bringing him down among the pebbles. Soon his bodyguard had caught up and pinioned the man.
Babur stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes. ‘Who are you?’
‘Pikhi, headman of the Gagianis. .’ the man gasped.
‘What were you doing?’
