Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (40 page)

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 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
hakims
services – I’ve heard he has a good ointment for treating the burning and chafed private parts of newlyweds . . .’

‘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
ichkis
, my closest, most trusted adviser and my friend. Never forget that.’ He touched Baburi’s shoulder.

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.’