unassuming as ever, had never told him his daughter was so beautiful — but as he hadn’t seen her since she was a child how could he have known? Her oval face was dominated by huge chestnut eyes and her dark hair reached almost to the curve of her buttocks. Her body was small but rounded. As Babur took in the high, round breasts with their pearlescent sheen, the tapering waist, the delicate curve of her hips, he felt a possessive passion, a desire to protect at all costs. The thought that anyone might hurt her made him so angry that he had to remind himself it hadn’t happened, would never happen — that he was there to look after her. .
The following days seemed to pass as if time no longer existed. His couplings with Ayisha had blunted physical need but nothing more. Even his frolics with women like Yadgar, when he and Baburi had roamed the bazaars and brothels of Ferghana, had been no more than the taste of a good meal or the joy of the hunt — just a passing pleasure.
His grandmother had no need to urge him to Maham’s bed, as she had once driven him to Ayisha’s. However many times they made love, just to look at her with her hair tumbling over her breasts was enough to arouse him afresh, to pull her gently to him, run his hands over the silken curve of her hips, feel her body’s ready response and hear the quickening of her breathing, which told him she was as ready for passion as he was.
‘How is the bridegroom? I am surprised you don’t need the
‘The bridegroom is well. .’
‘Is that all you have to say. .?’ Baburi raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes.’ Even now, a month after his marriage, Babur felt reluctant to talk of his feelings for Maham, even to Baburi with whom he shared nearly everything. Instead he turned the subject to something else that was preoccupying him. ‘I must take another wife, from among the nobility of Kabul. The citizens expect it and it will help bind them to me.’
‘Who have you chosen?’
‘I haven’t. I’ve allowed my mother and grandmother to pick for me. They’re been summoning suitable candidates to the royal women’s apartments. .’
‘And looking them over on your behalf?’
‘Exactly And now they’ve decided. Last night my grandmother told me the name of the girl. . But what about you, Baburi? Isn’t it time you took a wife? Don’t you want sons?’
‘Since I was eight years old I’ve been alone. . The thought of ties, of family, doesn’t attract me. I like variety in my bed and the freedom it brings.’
‘You can have as many wives as you want. You’re a poor man no longer. .’
‘You don’t understand. Family, heirs, dynasty — they are a natural part of your world. You see yourself as part of a story that began long ago and will continue long after you’re dead but in which your role will always be remembered. I don’t care whether people remember me. Why should they?’
‘Surely every man wants to leave his mark on the world and be spoken of by his descendants with pride. . that’s not just something for kings. .’
‘Isn’t it? People like me fade quickly out of history. We don’t matter. Let me ask you something. . What have you written about me in that diary of yours. .? Have you even mentioned me recently?’ Baburi’s dark blue eyes flickered.
Suddenly Babur realised that this was not about fame, glory and kingly destiny. It was simpler than that. Baburi was jealous. He was used to being Babur’s closest companion, his confidant, the one person from whom Babur kept nothing. Babur’s passion for Maham had changed that. If he was honest, he had hardly given Baburi a thought these past weeks, and Baburi — grown man, tried and tested warrior though he was — was hurt. Something of the vulnerable market boy, fighting for scraps and confronting life with his fists, still lurked beneath the swaggering, cocksure exterior.
Long ago Wazir Khan had warned him against his growing intimacy with Baburi and had admitted his own jealousy, his own sense of exclusion. Babur found himself repeating almost the same words he had used to salve Wazir Khan’s wounded pride. ‘You are among the foremost of my
Baburi looked at his hand but didn’t twist aside. It was like taming a stallion, Babur thought. Something of the wildness always remained, despite the passing of the years. But a softening in Baburi’s expression told Babur that his words had found their mark. ‘So, tell me about this next bride of yours. Who is she?’ Baburi said, after a moment.
‘Bahlul Ayyub’s granddaughter, Gulrukh. She is nineteen and, my grandmother informs me, strong enough to bear me many sons.’
‘So that old fool of a grand vizier will be your father-in-law.’
‘Yes.’
‘So he’ll have even more op-op-opportunity to p-p-prose on and you’ll have even less excuse not to l-l- listen.’
‘He comes from an ancient family. His ancestor was grand vizier when Timur’s army passed through.’
‘That explains why Timur didn’t stay long. What does she look like?’
Babur shrugged. ‘Gulrukh? I’ve not seen her. When the time comes I’ll do my duty by her, but Maham will always have first place among my wives. .’
On a cold March evening in 1508, Babur was on the citadel’s battlements. His breath rose in frosty spirals and he pulled his fur-lined robes tightly round him. The skies above Kabul — as so often at this season — were clear and the stars shone with such brilliance it almost hurt to look at them. An hour ago, he had been standing in this exact spot with his astrologer gazing skywards with him. ‘If the child is born tonight, while we are in Pisces, it will bring good fortune on your house,’ the old man had said, mottled hands shaking with cold as they clutched his bundle of charts.
Babur had dismissed him and all of his attendants — even Baburi. Until he knew what had happened he wanted to be alone. At least up here he was unable to hear Maham’s agonised screams. . She had been in labour now for fifteen hours. It had taken every ounce of his self-control not to rush to her bedside but it was no fit place for a man. His grandmother had shouted at him to go away and leave matters to the women. He had caught only a glimpse of Maham’s face, contorted with pain, running with sweat, her lip bleeding where she had bitten it, before the great doors had been closed firmly in his face.
‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s a boy or a girl — but let Maham live,’ he found himself praying. ‘And if any must die let it be the child, not her. .’ The
Gulrukh, too, was pregnant. Her child would not come for another five months yet already she had swelled up like a watermelon and looked healthy and well. But pregnancy had only made Maham ill. She had found it difficult to eat and instead of blooming like Gulrukh, her face had grown pinched. Circles dark as bruises were etched in the delicate skin beneath her long-lashed eyes.
Baisanghar, too, had been watching Maham anxiously. She was his only surviving child. These would be difficult hours for him. .
‘Majesty. . come quickly. .’ The woman, one of Maham’s attendants, was panting and finding it hard to summon enough breath to speak. She put an arm against the stone door frame through which she’d emerged to steady herself. Babur felt as if he was viewing the scene from far away. . ‘You have a son, Majesty. .’
‘What did you say. .?’
‘Her Majesty, your wife, has borne you a son. . She ordered me to find you — to tell you all is well. .’
‘And my wife. . how is she?’
‘She is exhausted but she is asking for you.’ For the first time the woman looked at him, and, perhaps because she saw an anxious father rather than a king, she shed her nervousness and smiled. ‘All is well, Majesty, truly, and you can go to her.’
She disappeared back down the twisting staircase towards the women’s quarters, but he didn’t follow her immediately. For just a few moments he raised his face to the cold, pure sky above, seeking Canopus, the sign of fortune. It had surely guided his steps from the moment he saw it beaming, beacon-like, beyond the snowy passes of the Hindu Kush. There it was now, shining brightly. Babur gave silent thanks.
