relief carvings of his favourite flowers — the Hindu craftsmen could fashion tulips and irises so lifelike they seemed to toss their fragile heads in the breeze — it would be a fine structure. He had also established a post system to link Agra with Kabul, with staging points every eighteen miles. Teams of post horses and riders were kept in constant readiness so that messages could be swiftly carried between Babur’s capital in Hindustan and his lands beyond the Khyber Pass.
Having achieved so much, it was satisfying to reread some of the early passages of his diary, especially his despairing laments about his hopeless, throneless state and his yearnings for Samarkand. How ironic that he had not managed to hold Timur’s city long enough to create anything lasting whereas here, in Hindustan, he was building something permanent. When, eventually, he was called to Paradise, he would, God willing, leave his sons a rich and stable empire.
Babur sat up and watched the river flow past. A bird’s wing flashed emerald in the sunlight as a green woodpecker swooped among the reeds. What about his sons? With Maham, Gulrukh and Khanzada, their aunt, Kamran, Askari and Hindal had made the long journey south-east to Agra as soon as Babur had thought it safe to send for them. He had marked their arrival with a grand ceremony, awarding his two elder sons robes of honour, yak-tail standards, drums, fine horses, ten elephants apiece and strings of camels and mules.
He was proud of them. Khanzada had told him that Kamran — now twenty-one and sprouting a black beard — had heeded her advice and Baisanghar’s and had done well as regent in Kabul, a position since filled by Baisanghar. Thirteen-year-old Askari was also showing himself able and ambitious. And why not? Babur had been King of Ferghana at that age. Since their arrival he’d found plenty of employment for them, sending them on tours of inspection and occasional small campaigns to quash sporadic resistance.
They should be content, but something in their manner towards Humayun — especially Kamran’s — occasionally troubled Babur. They seemed resentful, even jealous. But it was healthy, he tried to tell himself. After all, Humayun had been at Babur’s side throughout the conquest of Hindustan. It was inevitable that he and Humayun should have grown close and equally inevitable that Kamran, so near in age to Humayun, should feel excluded. Babur had talked it over with Khanzada, whose wise advice had been that he should ask Humayun to be a little more tactful towards his brothers.
Maham, too, had noticed the friction but she blamed Kamran and Askari’s mother, Gulrukh, for stirring up her sons against her own, Humayun. Maham’s pleas that he formally declare Humayun his heir were growing more persistent, but that was a decision only he could take — and only when he was ready. The king’s right to choose his heir from among his sons was a good one — indeed, in the old days, sons had been expected to compete with one another. . Only the strongest deserved to rule because only the strongest could protect the clans. Humayun was undoubtedly a good warrior but now, in addition to fighting skills, a king needed other talents to win loyalty and make alliances. Babur must be absolutely sure before making any final decision.
At least ten-year-old Hindal did not seem part of this sibling rivalry. Maham still kept him close to her, although Babur must appoint a tutor for him. Hindal’s birth-mother, Dildar, had not come to Agra. She had been ill and had remained in Kabul with Hindal’s sister Gulbadan. When she was recovered Babur would send for them and his entire family would be with him, which was as it should be.
Babur stood up, dived in again and cut powerfully through the water of the Ganges — only thirty strokes this time — to where his men waited patiently.
‘I want you to have this.’ Babur held out a copy of his diaries bound within carved ivory covers. ‘It is the account of my life that I have kept for many years and will continue to keep. I ordered my scribe to copy what I have written so far. .’
Humayun took it, his brown eyes — so like Maham’s — widening in surprise. ‘It is a great honour, Father.’
‘More than that, I hope. I want you to learn from it. You have known campaigns and battles but never what I went through. . I became a king at not much more than half your age. I survived only because of the loyalty of a few of my men, the determination of my mother and grandmother and my own wits. There were times when I had nothing and a bowl of soup brought me tears of happiness. . They were bleak days but they toughened me, fitting me to rule an empire and hardening my determination that I would win one. . You have grown up with greater security, with a father to protect you, with brothers to share your youth. . You should value that. .’
‘I do, Father.’ Humayun seemed puzzled.
Babur looked away. This was hard. He was proud of his tall, muscular, athletic son, who had shown so much bravery and resourcefulness.
‘You behave arrogantly to your brothers. Kamran is only a few months younger than you. It was not his fault that he took no part in the conquest of Hindustan. He had a task to fulfil in Kabul and he acquitted himself well — yet you lord it over him. You treat Askari as the child he no longer is and he resents it. A little rivalry between you is only natural but you should be more sensitive to your brothers. .’
Humayun said nothing.
‘Our strength in this new land must be our unity or we will fail. Spend more time with your brothers, teach them some of the things that you have learned. . You pass too much time alone. Many evenings when I ask for you, I am told you’ve ridden out alone. . Some of our commanders have commented to me that they’ve found the same when they’ve sought you out for orders or to make reports. Why this need for solitude?’
‘I need time to think free from distraction. . to understand myself and the world about me, what it all means and how it works. . I particularly like to contemplate the heavens. That’s why I go out in the evenings and at night.’
‘And what do you learn from your star-gazing?’
‘That under God the stars shape our lives, our destinies. Haven’t you often told me about the time you saw the Canopus star shining on the high, snowy mountains and knew it was a sign. .?’
‘I do believe there are signs in the stars of the will of God, but I also believe that men have the power to shape their own destinies. The heavens indicate things but the choices, the decisions, are for us to make. .’ Babur’s tone was sharper than he had intended because Humayun’s expression told him he wasn’t getting through.
‘Father, I’ve never told you this, but the night before we fought at Panipat, my astrologer told me that if, next day, when the midday sun was at its height over the battlefield, three eagles appeared, we would win a great victory. In the dust and press of the battle, I raised my eyes to the skies, hot and clear above the smoke of cannon and musket, and I saw three eagles circling high above us. That’s not all. Now my astrologer is predicting a great destiny for the Moghuls in Hindustan. . That is why I spend so much time trying to discern from the stars what will happen next.’
Babur allowed himself a brief smile. ‘Your belief in our destiny pleases me greatly. I would not wish it otherwise. But the heavens do not foreshadow everything. Did they predict that Buwa would try to poison me? Above all, we need resilience and application to hold on to our new possessions. Leadership and dedication count even more than the stars. . listen to this passage from my diary. .’ Babur took the ivory-bound volume back from his son and quickly found the place: ‘“A ruler must at all times be vigilant, listening to what his courtiers are saying and ready to pounce on any sign of disloyalty.”
‘Remember, Humayun, that there is no bondage like the bondage of kingship. Remember that — as my son — eyes are constantly upon you. Spending so much time alone will be seen as a flaw. Let us be frank. I know what is in your heart and in your mind because I see it in your face all the time. You want to know whether I will name you my heir. My answer is I am not certain enough to do so. . not yet. I don’t doubt your bravery but show me you have also the mental strength, the leadership, the focus, dedication and application. . Prove to me the blood of Timur and Genghis flows with as much fire and purpose through your veins as it does through mine. .’
‘Majesty, the first heat of the riding contest is about to begin.’
From the battlements of the Agra fort Babur could see the yellow and green banners driven into the riverbank marking where the race would start. Six rows of stakes — ten feet apart and extending four hundred yards — marked the course. The riders would gallop their horses in and out of them until they reached the far end where each would try to spear one of the six sheep’s heads placed on the ground eight feet beyond the final stake before turning sharply and zigzagging back through the posts. The turns were tight and to be the swiftest would take skill and nerve.
The race was part of three days of celebrations to mark the fourth anniversary of Babur’s arrival in Hindustan.
