Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (49 page)

‘Majesty, we have reports of a group of riders approaching Kabul from the west.’ Baisanghar’s words interrupted Babur’s reverie. As usual he looked anxious. When the elderly Bahlul Ayyub had died in his sleep, Babur had not hesitated to make Baisanghar grand vizier of Kabul – consolation to him for his short tenure as grand vizier of Samarkand.

‘What are they? Merchants?’

‘I’m not sure, Majesty. They are following the caravan route, but they’ve only a few pack-mules – no more than they’d need to carry their tents. Yet our informants say they have two great carts
loaded with some curious metal contraptions and each pulled by thirty oxen . . .’

‘How many men are there?’

‘Perhaps fifty, and strangely dressed in leather tunics with high, conical hats wound about with bright orange cloth . . .’

‘A group of travelling acrobats, perhaps . . .’

‘I think not, Majesty.’

‘I was joking, Baisanghar. Have them kept under surveillance. When will they be here?’

‘In three days, perhaps four.’

‘Let me know when they arrive.’ All kinds of people passed through Kabul – Mongolians in embroidered brocade tunics with green leather bowcases and saddles, straggle-bearded Chinamen with their air of impenetrable superiority, swarthy-faced, thick-set merchants from Mesopotamia, as jealous as any Afghan tribesmen of their honour and as quick to pick a fight, and dark-skinned, bright-turbaned dealers in sugar and spices from deep inside Hindustan. If these new arrivals were interesting he’d summon them to the citadel . . . It might amuse Humayun and Kamran to see visitors from some far-off place.

In fact, Baisanghar’s estimate was wrong. Just two days later, on a day of thin, grey drizzle, the party and its mysterious wagons were spotted approaching Kabul. They ignored the city but pressed on up the steep road to the citadel. Watching from the balcony of his private apartments, Babur could see the two wagons sliding about in the oozing mud that the rain had created from the normal layer of dust. Whatever was inside them seemed to be covered with thick felt against the weather. The bullocks were struggling, their heads low beneath the heavy wooden yoke, their shoulders straining.

The leading rider, a tall man with his face wrapped in a dark cloth against the penetrating rain, looked back at the struggling beasts. Babur saw him wave. He was no doubt shouting instructions because eight of the men at once dismounted and began pushing the carts from the back. One slipped and fell face down in the mud.

The leader seemed to lose patience. He turned his grey horse
and kicked it on up the slope. Reaching the steep, paved ramp leading up to the first entrance gate to the citadel, he seemed to be urging his mount to go still faster. Only when two guards leaped in front of him did he bring it to an abrupt, slithering standstill. On his balcony, Babur couldn’t hear what was being said but everything about the man suggested this was no merchant but a warrior. The angle of his head as he responded to the guards’ questions was arrogant, and as he impatiently flung back his wet travelling cloak, Babur glimpsed the hilt of a sword in a strangely shaped scabbard – curved like a scimitar but narrower.

‘Guards,’ Babur shouted from his balcony, ‘bring that man to me now.’

Five minutes later, with four guards in front of him, six behind, the man entered. His cloak had been taken from him and so had his sword – the curved steel scabbard hanging from the thin metal chain at his waist swung empty. But the cloth still concealed the lower part of the man’s face and his conical hat was pulled low over his brow. The guards allowed him no closer to Babur than twenty feet.

‘On your knees before the king!’

The man not only knelt but spreadeagled himself full-length on the floor in front of Babur in the full, formal Timurid salute of the
korunush
.

‘You may stand.’ Babur was more curious than ever. Why should a man who had demanded entry to his citadel as if of right perform such obeisance unasked? And, even more curious, why was he still face down, arms extended? Hadn’t he understood what Babur had said?

One of the guards was about to jab him with the butt of his spear but Babur held up a restraining hand. Feeling for his dagger, he walked slowly towards the man until he was standing over him. ‘I said you may rise.’

A quiver ran through the recumbent figure. After a moment’s hesitation the man pushed himself back on to his heels but kept his head bowed. Then, slowly, he raised his face, and above the dusty, sweat-stained cloth Babur saw a pair of indigo eyes.

‘Baburi!’ He couldn’t quite believe it, not after all these years. Stooping he grabbed Baburi’s arm and pulled him upright. The face was more lined, but those high cheekbones, those intensely dark blue eyes were unmistakable.

As Babur continued to stare, Baburi pulled off his sodden headdress releasing long dark hair that was now touched with grey. ‘Forgive me . . .’ The words seemed to come hard to Baburi and his eyes were shining very brightly.

Babur raised a hand. ‘Wait . . .’ He signalled to the guards to go and waited until the double oak doors had closed behind them before turning back to his erstwhile friend. ‘I don’t understand . . .’ Baburi flushed. ‘I’ve come back to ask your forgiveness. I left when I shouldn’t have done. I knew it – even in the first hours – but pride wouldn’t let me return . . .’

‘No . . .’ Babur gripped Baburi’s arm tighter. ‘I should ask your pardon. You were right – everything you said was right. I was the one with the pride, not you. I thought Samarkand belonged to me, that it was my destiny, that any price, even doing the shah’s bidding, was worth paying. I should have listened to you . . . I couldn’t hold the city for even a year. The people preferred even the barbarian Uzbeks to me . . .’

‘But I was your friend . . . I knew you needed me and I failed you. All these years I’ve felt the shame of it . . .’ Baburi’s voice shook a little.

‘You were the only man who was ever completely honest with me – the only one who could forget I was a king and with whom I could be myself . . . and I did need you. I searched for you . . . I never forgot you . . . I hoped you’d come back one day but then I ceased to hope . . . I feared you might even be dead.’

‘How could I return unless I had some way of making amends?’

Babur let go of him. ‘I never did understand you . . .’

‘No. We’ve always seen the world differently and we always will.’

‘So why come back to me now, after all this time?’

‘Because at last I can give you something. For the past eight years I’ve been in the army of the Sultan of Turkey. I rose high and I did him a service. In a battle I saved the life of his son. He
asked how he could reward me – and then I knew the time had come when I could return. Listen . . .’ Baburi’s eyes, so sombre a moment ago, were gleaming. ‘The Turks have weapons of a type unknown in our world. With them you can do anything, conquer anybody. I’ve brought some to you and I’ve brought you Turkish mercenaries who, like me, know how to use them. Together we can train your army . . . so that you can fulfil that destiny of yours that you carry like a millstone round your neck . . .’ As he said these last words, Baburi grinned and Babur saw again the street-wise companion whose sound common sense could wound like a barb but should never be ignored. ‘What are these weapons?’

‘Have you heard of bombards – cannon, they sometimes call them – or matchlock muskets?’

Babur shook his head.

‘They are devices so powerful that eight years ago – just before I joined the Turkish sultan’s army – his forces used them to defeat Shah Ismail of Persia at the battle of Chaltran, depriving him of much of Mesopotamia and fixing his borders. I talked to men who were there. They say thousand upon thousand of the shah’s
Kizil-Bashi
– the Redhead cavalry – were cut down like poppies in the field. The weapons use the same black powder as we do when we lay mines beneath the walls of places we are besieging, but in Turkey they have a new name for it, “gunpowder”, and a new use. You’ll be amazed . . .’

But Babur wasn’t really listening. It was only just beginning to sink in that the friend he had missed so much through all these years, his irreplaceable brother-in-arms, had come back. Looking at Baburi, all the burdens of kingship, the disappointments and frustrations fell away. In their place came such a riotous rush of feelings, such a wild joy that he felt he might choke. Whatever Baburi was saying didn’t matter . . .

As if he had read Babur’s mind, Baburi fell silent. For a moment they just stared at one another. Then, instinctively, they leaped forward to embrace, half laughing, half crying. Babur felt young again, filled with the wonder of the moment and with no thought of tomorrow.

‘Tell me what these years have brought you, Baburi. Do you have wives . . . sons?’ Babur asked that night, as they sat alone in his private apartments. He could still hardly believe that Baburi was with him. He was half afraid that if he blinked he would find him gone.

‘I told you many years ago that I had no wish for wives or children . . .’

‘But don’t you want sons to carry on your name? Who will remember you when you are gone?’

‘Friends like you, perhaps. That would be enough . . .’ Baburi paused. ‘Anyway, a man would need a more settled existence than mine if he wished to marry.’

‘Where did you go after you left Kabul?’

‘I guessed you’d look for me so I went where you couldn’t find me. I joined a caravan of merchants travelling westward to Isfahan. It was a long, difficult, sometimes dangerous journey – Uzbeks and marauding nomad tribes attacked us. By the time we finally reached Isfahan, some of the merchants had been killed and their goods plundered but my skill as a warrior had attracted notice. The caravan master asked me to travel on with a group of merchants carrying wool and silks northwards to Tabriz. There I learned you had been driven out of Samarkand and that the Shah of Persia was no longer your ally. I almost returned but somehow I couldn’t . . . perhaps it was pride . . . perhaps I was uncertain of my welcome . . . I don’t know . . . Then I heard that the Sultan of Turkey was recruiting mercenaries and paying them well. I joined a group of wanderers like myself, some from as far north as the borders of the Caspian Sea, and together we made our way to Istanbul.’

‘ To enlist in the sultan’s wars . . .’

‘Yes, though I’d rather have been fighting yours . . . being proved right about Samarkand and the shah gave me no pleasure. I often thought how hard it must have been for you to lose it again . . .’

‘I deserved it . . .’

For a moment they bowed their heads, lost in memories. Then Baburi seemed to shake himself out of it. ‘I’ve heard you’ve taken more wives and that you’ve two more fine healthy sons as well as Humayun and Kamran?’

‘True.’

‘What a family man you’ve become. It seems a long time since you and I rode with fire in our loins to the village whorehouses . . . do you remember Yadgar?’

‘Of course.’ Babur grinned. ‘Sometimes I wonder what became of her. I hope she didn’t fall prey to the Uzbeks.’

‘Is Maham still a beauty?’

‘She is – she’s not grown fat – and Gulrukh is still plain. What did you expect . . . ? Maham is still the one I care for most, the one I most desire, but . . .’ Babur hesitated ‘. . . she did not become the companion I had at first hoped for. Our bodies and affections meet, but not always our minds . . . I could talk to my grandmother, my mother and Khanzada about anything – appointments, campaigns – but not Maham. She really doesn’t understand . . . isn’t really interested . . .’

‘Perhaps you expected too much. The women of your family were brought up to know about such things.’

‘It’s more than that.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Maham’s been unhappy. After Humayun she had no more children that survived. Despite three further pregnancies, two were stillborn and the third – a son – died in my arms just minutes after my
hakim
summoned me to Maham’s chamber. She was exhausted. I watched the light in her eyes fade as the new son we’d both longed for struggled for breath then went still. When I look back, it’s as if something died in her, too, at that moment.’

‘She has Humayun . . .’

‘Yes. But she still feels she’s failed . . . Even though she loves me and I care for her, it’s cast a shadow between us.’

‘Is that why you took more wives? For companionship? To find a soul-mate?’

‘I had no such expectations. I married again for practical reasons. It’s good for a king to have many heirs and it was a way to reward loyal followers and bind powerful clans to me.’

‘These new wives of yours, what are they like?’

Babur thought of tall, muscular Bibi Mubarak, daughter of the
powerful chieftain of the Yusufzai clan from the mountains above Kabul, and of fat little snub-nosed Dildar, whose father had fled the Uzbeks in Herat and made the long journey to Kabul to offer his allegiance. ‘They’re not amazingly beautiful, if that’s what you mean. But they are good women . . .’

‘Good in bed?’

‘Good enough . . .’

‘Which are the mothers of your two youngest sons?’

‘Six years ago Gulrukh gave birth to a brother for Kamran, little Askari. Then three years later, Dildar also had a boy.’