Raiders from the North

Kutlugh Nigar reproving her. His mother setting the feathered velvet cap of Ferghana on his head and placing his father’s sword, Alamgir, in his hand on the night the khutba was read in his name. But, above all, he saw the agony on her face when he had told her that Khanzada was to be given to Shaibani Khan. That had sapped the life from her long before the sickness had struck. . Babur bowed his head in anguish.

As attendants swung the doors open, the close, heavy air of the sick chamber — sweat mingled with sandalwood and camphor — hit him. He caught the sad, sweet notes of a lute. As he entered he saw Esan Dawlat sitting by her daughter’s bedside, her head bent low over her instrument. ‘Grandmother. .’

She looked up at his voice but completed the refrain she had been playing before handing the lute to a subdued, pinched-looking Fatima sitting just behind her. ‘Music seems to soothe her. I was afraid you would be too late. The hakim says the crisis is near. .’

Babur could see his mother lying with her eyes closed. Her face and what he could see of her neck were covered with raised angry red spots. There were even some swelling her eyelids. He stepped towards her, but Esan Dawlat waved him back. ‘The fever is deadly — especially to the young.’ Babur stared at her. He took another step forward but, with a speed almost unbelievable in a woman of her age, Esan Dawlat sprang up, rushed towards him and gripped his arms. ‘The hakim is doing all he can, and so am I. We can only wait and hope. Will it help if you catch it too? The best thing you can do for your mother, and for me, is to survive.’

‘But is there nothing I can do?’

‘There is one thing. When your mother is conscious she says little. But in her delirium she says much. Again and again she has asked God why she has no grandchildren, why you have no heirs. Let me tell her you will marry again, that there will be children she can hold on her knee when she recovers. All she feels in her soul is despair, leaving her no strength to fight. I must give her something to hope for. .’

‘Tell her I will do anything she asks. Tell her she must recover so she can dance at my wedding feast and that there will be many grandchildren. . Tell her I need her. .’

Esan Dawlat scrutinised his face, then — satisfied — released him. ‘Now go. I will send you word of her condition.’

Fighting back tears, Babur made his way to his own apartments. Esan Dawlat and his mother were right — he must face his responsibilities. Now that he was settled in Kabul it was high time to take another wife: his people would expect heirs and, of course, marriages cemented alliances. But that was irrelevant — if it would help his mother recover he’d take ten brides, twenty. .

The next days passed slowly as Babur waited for news. The reports were always the same — ‘no change’. He had much to occupy him in the aftermath of his expedition. The tribal chieftains who had ridden with him were anxious for their share of the booty and he put Baburi in charge of working out the allocations. The court scribes were soon recording how many sheep and goats, how many bales of woollen cloth, how many sacks of grain were being doled out.

Babur also had his own men to think of. They must be rewarded with increases in ranks and titles, as well as shares of the plunder. He’d make Baburi his new quartermaster — the post had remained vacant since Ali Gosht’s dismissal. That should tickle both that prickly pride of his and his sense of humour. But what could he do for Baisanghar, loyal for so long and who had governed Kabul well in his absence? If he had daughters or nieces it would be no shame for Babur to find a wife from among them. Baisanghar came from an ancient family in Samarkand and, if Babur ever returned there, it would please the citizens. The more he pondered the idea, the more pleased he became with it. . He’d seldom heard Baisanghar speak of his family and certainly none had travelled with him from Samarkand, yet that didn’t mean he had none. So why not ask him? Summoning Baisanghar to his private apartments, he went straight to the point. ‘I owe you a great deal. From the moment you clapped me on the shoulder in Samarkand you’ve kept faith with me. .’

‘I have always kept faith with the House of Timur, Majesty, and always will.’

‘That is why I have something to ask you. My mother wishes me to marry again soon. I have sworn to do so — even if she doesn’t live to see it — and it would do me honour, Baisanghar, if I could take a woman of your house. That is all I wanted to say. .’

Baisanghar looked stunned. It was the first time Babur had seen the cool-headed, unemotional, slightly humourless commander — a man who, despite the loss of his right hand, could hack his way with his left through a parcel of assailants and barely blink — at a loss.

‘I have a daughter, Majesty, but I have seen nothing of her these last ten years. My wife died giving birth to her. After Shaibani Khan killed your uncle and Samarkand’s future seemed so uncertain, I sent her to my cousin in Herat for safety. She is seventeen years old.’

‘What is her name?’

‘Maham, Majesty.’

‘Will you send for her? Will you give her to me?’

‘I will, Majesty.’

‘I cannot make her my only wife. To build the alliances I need,

I must marry others, but I will always treat her well, Baisanghar. I give you my word.’

‘Majesty, wake up.’ At the feel of a hand on his shoulder, Babur reached instinctively for the dagger that he kept beneath his pillow but then he realised a female voice had roused him. Shading his eyes against the light of the candle the woman was holding, he saw Fatima’s plain, round face.

This was an extraordinary breach of court etiquette — and of security. Then his heart almost stopped beating. Fatima must have come from his mother’s chamber. He leaped from his bed, oblivious to his nakedness. ‘What has happened? How is my mother. .?’

Fatima was crying but they were tears of joy, not grief. ‘The crisis is finally over — the hakim says she will live.’

Babur closed his eyes for a moment, thanking God. Then, noticing Fatima’s blushing confusion and that she was averting her eyes, he reached hastily for his robe. He ran along the narrow stone passageway, pushed the doorkeepers aside and burst through the silver doors into his mother’s chamber. The grey-haired hakim clicked his tongue disapprovingly but Babur didn’t care. Esan Dawlat was wiping her daughter’s face with a damp cloth and as she turned to greet him, he saw the relief in her eyes.

Then Babur looked at his mother. Her once smooth skin was cratered and puckered with circular red scars but her eyes were bright, and brighter still as they rested on him. She opened her arms and, flinging himself to the floor beside her, Babur let her embrace him, feeling the years roll back and deep relief flood through him.

The cloud of dust billowing on the western horizon was huge as was to be expected with a caravan of more than five thousand camels and two thousand mules. Maham would be somewhere amid that great trudging throng. Though he had sent an escort to protect her on the journey eastward from Herat, he had decided that, for even greater safety, the party should join the caravan.

His bride should be here before nightfall. Her apartments, spread with rich carpets, hung with silks and scented with the finest rosewater and sandalwood, were prepared, together with his wedding gifts — not the heavy gold neck- and armlets he had once given Ayisha and that she had returned, but delicately worked chains and bracelets bright with gems, the choicest in his treasure houses. What would be going through Maham’s mind? he wondered. Joy at being reunited with the father she had not seen for so many years? Apprehension about the husband she would shortly have. .?

Babur was again watching from the battlements as, just before sunset, with the sky glowing amber, the wedding party passed through the gates of Kabul’s citadel into the courtyard. He saw Baisanghar eagerly approach the enclosed bullock cart in which his daughter and her women were travelling. He wished he, too, could see her, but he would have to wait for the wedding ceremony. .

It took place a week later on a day deemed especially blessed by the court astrologers. He and Maham sat side by side beneath a velvet canopy while mullahs recited prayers for their happiness. She was concealed beneath layers of embroidered silk veils, the colour of blue duck eggs, flowing from beneath a cap of golden filigree worked with precious gems that trembled and sparkled when she moved her head — a gift from Kutlugh Nigar. As Babur took her hand to lead her to the wedding feast he sensed no hesitation, no reluctance, but a responsive tremor that sent erotic anticipation creeping through him.

That night, in the bridal chamber, he watched her attendants undress her. Baisanghar, reticent and