tyrant, but the girl who’d played with her pet mongoose had somehow, inexplicably, survived. Tears pricked his eyelids but he forced them back. From now on, his sister would know nothing but happiness. .
‘The Lord of the World has a proposition that he hopes you will find acceptable.’ The Persian envoy was clad even more gorgeously today in robes of bright orange and his beard was perfectly combed and perfumed. There was no sign of the aching head Babur had been sure he’d be suffering from. The man’s self-possessed, rather patronising expression suggested the ‘proposition’ was something Babur would grab as a starving man would seize a hunk of bread.
Babur waited, eyes a little narrowed. At last he was about to find out why the shah had gone to so much trouble to please him.
‘Shah Ismail has shattered the power of the Uzbek marauder. He wishes the legitimate rulers to return to their kingdoms so that the lands bordering his great empire are tranquil once more. As the last surviving prince of the House of Timur he offers you Samarkand. .’
Babur felt his stomach contract. Samarkand, city of his dreams, Timur’s capital. ‘Your master is gracious,’ he replied cautiously, then waited. If he had learned anything in the years since his father’s death it was patience. Let others fill silences. .
The envoy cleared his throat. Here it comes, Babur thought.
‘Though Shaibani Khan has been defeated, Uzbek tribes still hold Samarkand. My lord will give you Persian troops to fight side by side with your own to drive them out.’
‘And then?’
‘My master admires you. He knows that the blood of conquerors runs in your veins. He believes you would make a worthy vassal.’
‘A vassal?’ Babur stared at the man.
The envoy seemed to read his mind. ‘You need pay no tribute and you alone would govern in Samarkand. All my master asks is that you acknowledge him as your overlord.’
‘And as soon as we have taken Samarkand the Persian troops will withdraw?’
‘Of course.’
‘And there are no other conditions?’
‘No, Majesty.’
‘I will consider what you have said and give you an answer when I am ready.’
The envoy bowed and withdrew. No wonder the man had asked for a private audience. His proposition was unprecedented. No Timurid prince had ever been subject to Persia. . yet the suggestion offered security for the shah and himself. The shah’s borders would be protected by the friendly buffer of Babur’s lands, and Babur would regain Samarkand. Established there, he could bide his time, build up his forces, seek opportunities for further conquests and perhaps, when the moment was right, throw off the vassalship.
He heard voices outside and one of his guards ducked into the tent. ‘The quartermaster wishes to see you.’
Babur nodded. It would be good to talk this over with Baburi before he summoned his war council.
‘Well, what did he want?’ Baburi perched on a low wooden stool next to Babur.
‘The gift of the stallion and the return of my sister were to sweeten me. The Shah of Persia has made me an offer. He will give me troops to chase the remaining Uzbeks out of Samarkand and establish my rule there on the single condition that I acknowledge him as my overlord.’
Baburi’s indigo eyes flashed in surprise. ‘Samarkand is not the shah’s to dispose of. . What right has he to it? And what right has he to expect you to be his vassal?’
‘He is one of the most powerful rulers on earth. He disposed of Shaibani Khan. . a task that might have taken us years. . that we might never have accomplished. .’ Babur said slowly.
‘You don’t mean to accept?’
‘Why not? I’ve always wanted Samarkand — desired it above everything else. And once I’ve regained it, I can retake Ferghana. With the kingdom of Kabul, I’ll have the makings of an empire of my own. . something to leave to my sons. .’
‘That primping Persian arsehole has bewitched you with his oh so soft words, his unctuous smoothness and “pwetty pwetty” promises. Is that what it’s all been for? Our treks over frozen mountains, our days of hunger when a lump of mouldy meat seemed like Paradise, our shared battles. . our mingled blood. . our victories?’
‘Isn’t it time to enjoy some reward? The past years have been like living under a whirlwind. Whenever I tried to put down my roots, they were ripped out. But I am still here — unlike my cousin Mahmud Khan, whose flayed skin was stretched to make a drum, or my male kin in Herat, all slaughtered, or my murdered half-brother in Ferghana. . I feel my time is coming at last. .’
‘Then don’t be a fool by throwing everything away. Don’t let understandable gratitude for your sister’s return cloud your judgement. You have an army — a good one. Let the Persians stay in Persia. We’re strong enough to take Samarkand on our own. Ride through the Turquoise Gate again as your own man, not as another’s hireling.’
‘You don’t understand. .’ Babur’s anger was rising. Baburi was always so obstinate.
‘I do understand. Your mindless obsession with becoming another Timur is blinding you — pushing you into contemplating stupid short-cuts.’
‘What would you know about that?’
‘Because I come from the streets? Is that what you mean?’ Baburi was on his feet now, his stool lying on its side where he’d kicked it. ‘That’s precisely why I can see more clearly than you — you idiot. If you take the shah’s offer, it is as if I’d gone down an alley with some scumbag to suck his cock in return for a meal. . you’ll be like a brood mare to that stud stallion the shah sent you — to be mounted, dominated, and compelled to satisfy your master’s every desire. . I was never that desperate. Neither should you be. . Once you succumb he’ll be back for more. .’
‘You’re being ridiculous. Leave me.’ Babur got up and turned away. Why couldn’t Baburi acquiesce gracefully in his schemes as others did?
Baburi didn’t obey. Instead he gripped Babur’s shoulder, yanking him round to face him, eyes blazing. ‘What would that father of yours that you’re always going on about have said? Or your old battle-axe of a grandmother? They’d have been ashamed you could be bought so easily, become any man’s vassal — ready to take it up the arse whenever your master feels like it. .’
Overwhelmed by anger that Baburi dared speak to him like this, Babur pulled himself free, stepped back and swung his fist at Baburi’s sneering face with all his strength. He heard a dull crunch as his friend’s nose broke and blood spurted.
For a second, Baburi’s hand was on his dagger and Babur instinctively reached for his. But instead Baburi raised his right hand to cover his nose and — eyes never leaving Babur’s — felt with his left hand around the waist of his now blood-soaked tunic for the end of his sash. Grabbing it, he tried to staunch the flow.
‘Baburi. .’
Pulling the sash from his face for a second, Baburi spat at Babur’s feet. Then ducking through the tent flap he was gone, leaving a trail of ruby-bright droplets of blood on the sheepskins on the floor.
Babur resisted the impulse to go after him. He was a king, and Baburi should remember that. He shouldn’t have hit him but Baburi had had it coming. . He was hot-headed, arrogant. When he thought about it coolly, rationally — as he would — he’d realise that the decision Babur was about to make was the right one. . Babur would ride through the Turquoise Gate and he’d do it without shame, head high.
‘Guard!’ Babur shouted. A man’s head poked through the entrance flap. ‘Summon my war council.’
Babur watched the Persian envoy and his escort ride away. In the envoy’s saddlebags was a letter from Babur pledging his allegiance to the shah. Tonight there would be more feasting in the camp. Babur would summon his commanders to announce that as soon as Persian reinforcements joined them they would ride north-east for Samarkand to purge it of its infestation of Uzbeks and claim it as their own. His men, fired by the prospect of rich booty, would roar their approval. There’d be no need to dwell on the bargain he’d made with the shah. There would be time enough, when he was master of Samarkand’s blue-domed mosques and palaces, to consider how to present it to his people. And why should they care? They would again be ruled by a Timurid prince, not a barbarous
