‘Alright. You go.’
‘And your orders are no quarter?’
‘No quarter to Muhammad-Muquim Arghun and his men, but spare the women and children.’
‘I won’t disappoint you.’ Baburi’s high cheekbones lent his face a predatory, wolfish look.
After he had gone, Babur thought for a moment, then took up his pen again to finish what he had been writing when Baburi had interrupted him: ‘This kingdom is to be governed by the sword and not the pen.’
Seven hog deer were already suspended from the huntsmen’s poles but this nilgai was a bonus. Babur had read of the antelope’s strange blue-grey coat, its black mane and the long, thick, silky hairs covering its throat but had never before seen one. The creatures concealed in the dense oak and olive forests in the east of his kingdom – gaudy parrots, shrieking mynah birds, peacocks and monkeys – astonished him. He was glad he had chosen this place for the royal hunt to celebrate Baburi’s crushing of the Hazaras. Five days ago, Baburi had returned to Kabul at the head of his men to fling the mangled head of Muhammad-Muquim Arghun at Babur’s feet. Now he, too, was watching the nilgai.
‘Yours,’ Babur whispered. It was only right.
Baburi fixed his indigo eyes on the nilgai, nosing among the juniper bushes, as he fitted his arrow to his bow-string and stretched the tight sinew till the double curved bow looked ready to snap.
Babur watched the white-feathered arrow embed itself in the soft throat of the unsuspecting deer, which, with scarcely a sound or a flicker of its long-lashed eyes, collapsed sideways to the ground. For a moment Babur saw not a stricken beast but Wazir Khan, an Uzbek arrow through his throat, sliding from his horse into a fast-flowing river and looked away. Memories and emotions came when they were least expected. He should know that by now. ‘Well done. You’re a good shot.’
‘For a market boy . . .’
The feast that night was the most lavish Babur had given since celebrating the taking of Kabul. In the orange light of torches, he sat on a pinewood dais in the courtyard of the modest fort he was occupying on this hunting trip, Baburi next to him. Soon Babur would order the ulush – the ‘champion’s portion’ – of the first sheep to be served to Baburi. He would toast him in the strong, full-bodied red wine of Kabul and award him the title of Qor Begi, Lord of the Bow, for his skill in battle.
But later, as he drank from his double-handled goblet, carved from ox horn and mounted in silver, and listened to his men roar out their songs of valour in the field and greater valour in bed, he felt dissatisfaction seep through him with the wine just when other rulers would have been content. After all, Baburi had quelled the Hazaras and cemented their heads into enough festering pyramids to strike fear into passers-by and serve as a warning for the future. Kabul – his haven and the balm to his dignity – was secure. He was enjoying planting his gardens and planning new buildings for his capital. Why wasn’t it enough? Because ambition still gnawed at his soul, sucking out the happiness.
Taking another deep draught of wine, Babur continued to brood. In a few days his grandmother and mother would arrive from Kishm. His mother would be all pleasure at their reunion but he knew that in her heart would be the unspoken question of when he would be able to redeem his promise to rescue his sister. In Esan Dawlat’s sharp eyes he sensed he would see the same question that troubled him: what to do next? What new conquest? Where and when? Neither Timur nor her revered Genghis Khan had ever rested in one place long, satisfied with what they had, as she would no doubt remind him . . .
‘You look like a man whose favourite horse has gone lame just before the big race.’ Baburi’s lean face was flushed with wine and round his neck hung the gold chain Babur had given him for his cunning and bravery against the Hazaras.
‘I was thinking . . . Ten years ago, when I least expected, I became a king. But what I always expected – even before then – was that destiny held something special for me . . .’ He ignored Baburi’s usual sceptical glance. How could he possibly understand what it had been like growing up in a court where the father you loved talked only of the greatness that might have been and the greatness that might yet be . . .
‘The truth is I’m restless – unsatisfied. Kabul is all very well but I want more. Every day when I open my diary to write in it, I wonder what the future pages will say . . . Will they describe great glories, great victories, or will they be blank . . . ? I must not relax but hold firm to my destiny. I can’t allow the pages of my life to turn with nothing memorable inscribed upon them.’
‘So what are you thinking of doing . . . ? Attacking Shaibani Khan?’
‘As soon as my armies are stronger. But not yet. I’d be a fool to take him on so soon . . .’
‘What else, then?’
Babur took another long drink and felt the wine flow through his body, freeing his tongue and his imagination. Suddenly an idea that had long been at the back of his mind crystallised. ‘Hindustan . . . that’s where I’d like to go. Do you remember Rehana’s story? If I captured treasure, as Timur did, no one, not Shaibani Khan or even the Shah of Persia, could stand in my way.’ He swayed on his seat. Baburi’s hand was on his shoulder, steadying him, but he shook it off. In his mind he saw a little golden elephant with ruby eyes . . .
‘You should follow your instincts.’
Babur peered at him blearily. ‘What . . . ?’
‘I said follow your instincts . . . see where your so-called destiny that you love so much leads you . . .’
Though Baburi’s voice seemed to come from far away and was half drowned in the drunken hubbub around them, the message penetrated Babur’s mind with complete clarity, sobering him in spite of the wine . . . Yes, he would muster a force and raid south along the Kabul river towards Hindustan. He would gaze on the broad Indus, contemplate the prospect of awesome riches beyond and perhaps even seize some.
At Babur’s request, the court astrologers consulted the planets. Night after night they studied their charts and scrutinised the infinitely complex web of stars lighting the dark skies over Kabul. January, when the sun was in the sign of Aquarius, would be an auspicious time for him to launch his campaign, they pronounced at last, stroking their beards. Babur wasn’t sure he believed their predictions, but his men would. It was good for them to believe the stars blessed their journey into an unknown world. At least the astrologers’ advice gave him time to prepare: he could spend the next few months building up his forces and considering his strategy.
As the last of the autumn fruit was being gathered from the orchards around Kabul, Babur’s mother and grandmother arrived from Kishm. He hadn’t wanted to send for them too soon – the Hazara rising had made him cautious – but his heart swelled with pride to hear the trumpets sound and the drums over the gatehouse thud as they and their escort entered the citadel. Kutlugh Nigar had noticeably lost weight and looked tired and frail after the long journey – Babur saw how heavily she leaned on Fatima’s arm – but Esan Dawlat seemed vigorous as ever.
As soon as they were alone she took Babur’s face between her hands and stared at him. ‘You’ve become a man,’ she nodded approvingly, releasing him. ‘Look, daughter, your son has changed these past months – see how he has broadened.’ She slapped his chest and poked at one of his upper arms as if inspecting a prize animal. ‘Muscles like iron.’
Kutlugh Nigar gazed at him but said nothing. She had grown so silent – so different from the mentally strong woman who had determinedly guided his steps to the throne of Ferghana in the uncertain hours after his father’s death – so less physically strong than when she’d purposefully swarmed up the mountains not two years previously.
‘I’ve something to tell you both. When January comes I’m leaving Kabul to lead my army south towards Hindustan to try my fortune there. Baisanghar will be regent in my absence . . .’
As his words sank in, Esan Dawlat nodded her approval, but something stirred in Kutlugh Nigar. She rose from the gold brocade bolster against which she
had been reclining and, shaking her head from side to side, seemed to be struggling to find words. It shocked Babur to see tears begin coursing down her cheeks – tears that she made no effort to brush away. Before his eyes her whole body began to shake and her hands to twist in her long dark hair, now streaked with white.
‘Daughter . . .’ Esan Dawlat’s voice was stiff with disapproval.
Babur took his mother in his arms, trying to soothe her as if she were a small child and he the parent. ‘What is it?’
‘Khanzada – have you forgotten your promise, Babur? You promised you would rescue her. Why are you wasting time riding south . . .’
It hurt as much as if she’d struck him. He flushed as the familiar mix of shame, frustration and grief washed through him. ‘She is always in my mind. I will keep that promise. But now is not the time. I must have more men, more money, before I can challenge Shaibani Khan. This raid may give me those things. But I swear to you that as soon as I can I will find Khanzada . . .’
At length his mother’s sobbing quietened and her body stilled. Babur kissed the top of her head, but the turmoil she had provoked inside him would take a long time to die away . . .
In the weeks that followed, he tried to lose himself in the preparations for the Hindustan campaign. He would take the same route – south-east along the Kabul river and down through the Khyber Pass – that Timur had used a century earlier.
In the brief time before the snows arrived, whitening the grassy meadows and softening the landscape so that it was hard to see where the mountains ended and the pale skies began, Baisanghar and Baburi trained the men – their own forces and new recruits from the local tribes. The tribesmen weren’t bad . . . Babur watched them learn to fire from the saddle at straw targets and spear melons and sheep’s heads on the ground as they thundered past . . . but who knew what awaited them?
On many a night Babur listened to travelling merchants regaling open-mouthed and credulous listeners with tales of exotic creatures – even monsters – lurking in Hindustan’s forests of banyan trees, whose aerial roots would twist round the throat of an unwary traveller and squeeze the breath from him, of naked holy men, yogis, followers of their idolatrous religion with white ash on their faces who lived in dark caves and never cut their hair or beards. Childish nonsense, most of it . . . but he intended to be prepared.
It was a relief when January finally arrived. Though the snow still lay thick, the worst of the winter storms were over and they could ride.
Six days’ steady advance – the pace set by the drummers’ rhythmic beating – brought Babur and his two thousand men to the approaches to the Khyber Pass. But on the seventh day, with the sun at its height, leaching all colour from the increasingly barren landscape, Babur thought he detected a movement among some rocks on a low hill just ahead to the right. Signalling a halt he stared up.
‘What is it?’ As Baburi spoke a shower of scree skittered down the hillside.
‘I don’t know. I’ve posted men in a protective cordon all round the column. How could ambushers have slipped through? Let’s climb up and take a look . . .’
Babur jumped from his horse. ‘Some of you, draw your bows and keep us covered,’ he called to his bodyguards. ‘The rest, come with us.’
A few minutes later, Babur looked around the bare, stony summit in disappointment. Nothing. Whatever it was, animal or human, must already have made off. Then from over the far edge he heard pebbles falling. Running across he saw a man in brown tunic and baggy trousers slithering frantically down a patch of scree to make his escape. Reaching for his bow, Babur took careful aim and sent an arrow hissing after him. The man screamed but disappeared into some rocky ground at the bottom of the hill.
With Baburi and his guards close behind, Babur leaped and skidded down the stony hillside after his quarry. Reaching the bottom he glimpsed the man half running, half staggering among the rocks, the arrow protruding from the muscle of his right arm, just below his shoulder. Summoning a burst of speed, Babur caught up with him and flung himself at him, bringing him down among the pebbles. Soon his bodyguard had caught up and pinioned the man.
Babur stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes. ‘Who are you?’
‘Pikhi, headman of the Gagianis . . .’ the man gasped.
‘What were you doing?’
Pikhi’s eyes – elongated like a mountain cat’s – flickered, but if he had thought of lying, he seemed to realise the futility. ‘Watching your progress towards the pass.’
‘And why would you do that?’
‘There are Pathan tribes in the pass who will reward me and my people well for information about opportunities for plunder. Last year’s harvest was bad and the winter has been hard . . . My people have never been rich but this year we will starve unless I seek booty.’
‘I am a king leading an army . . . not a fat merchant with a camel train.’
‘Shall I slit his throat?’ Baburi drew his dagger, ready to inflict the habitual punishment on spies.
‘No . . . I may have a better idea.’
Babur turned back to Pikhi, who seemed to have composed himself to meet his end as befitted a headman. ‘You know these mountains well, and you want to live?’
‘Yes to both, of course – after all I got through your cordon easily enough, didn’t I?’
‘In return for your life, you will send messengers to your allies in the pass telling them that I, Babur of Kabul, am passing through. Any tribe that attacks me will be annihilated . . . And you will be our guide. At the first sign of trouble, you die. Is that clear?’
Sparing Pikhi had been a wise move. In three long marches he had brought them through the barren, snow-dusted Khyber Pass with its jagged grey defiles. As they descended to the mud-brick settlement of Jam, the air was already warmer and three more days brought them to the Indus. Babur gazed at the broad river, so high with meltwater it was almost overflowing its banks. It formed the barrier between his world and the hot, mysterious lands of Hindustan . . .
‘This is the Indus, then?’ Baburi was beside him on a stocky gelding that, eager for a drink, was tossing its head impatiently.
‘Yes.’ As Babur stared at the swirling, eddying waters, some of his elation died. ‘We can’t cross here. Most of our animals and baggage would never make it . . . we’d lose everything. Send Pikhi to me. I must give our men at least some chance of booty.’
Ten minutes later the man was before him, brown felt cap in his hands.
‘We cannot ford the river here. I must wait for the waters to fall or find a place where it will be safe to swim our animals across.’
Pikhi shrugged. ‘The river is very high this year – it may be weeks before the flow reduces. Until then there is nowhere else to cross.’
‘What about boats? Why are there no fishermen?’
‘There were, Majesty, but hearing of your approach through the pass they fled in their boats . . .’
Babur swore. ‘Where else can we raid on this side of the river while we wait for the waters to drop?’
‘Two days’ march from here is Kohat, a wealthy place with ample herds and grain.’ Pikhi was looking sly. ‘The inhabitants’ clan is the blood enemy of mine. Last summer they raided my village in the mountains, killing our men, stealing our women and driving off our livestock. Any harm I can bring on them gives me only joy.’
‘Lead us there and you’ll have your freedom.’
For the tenth time, Babur cursed himself for a fool. It was only late April but the heat was beyond anything he and his men had ever known, the air was moist with the promise of rains that, according to the local people, would soon begin to fall. They were all sweating beneath their armour.
True, the last weeks, raiding west through the hill country of the Afghan tribes and storming their fortified stone retreats – the sangars they built high in the mountains as carefully as an eagle constructs its nest – had been successful. The erection of a few towers of lopped-off heads had discouraged most opp
osition and at least ten chieftains had sworn their allegiance, crawling before Babur on all fours with grass between their teeth as was their custom. It meant, ‘I am your cow. Do with me as you will.’
Yet all he had captured were sheep, cattle, sugar, aromatic roots and countless bales of cloth. His men appeared satisfied but to Babur it seemed hardly worth the effort of bringing a couple of thousand men and countless pack-animals from Kabul. To his disappointment the Indus had not subsided until the time had passed when he could have crossed it and penetrated Hindustan. Subduing the peoples in the mountains and plains along its northern borders had been a poor substitute. Nevertheless, the expedition had achieved one purpose, Babur reflected, wiping sweat yet again from his forehead before it ran into his eyes. It had been useful in schooling his troops – and himself – for a greater enterprise.
Now he and his long line of men, the pack-ponies, donkeys and camels bringing up the rear, were curving north-westward along the Ghazni river towards the Sawaran Pass that would lead them back through the mountains. With God’s help they should soon see Kabul again and feel the cool air from the high northern mountains on their chapped, sunburned skin. There, he could plan afresh.
‘What is that?’ Baburi’s keen eyes had spotted something on the horizon. With the great orange sun setting right in their faces it was hard to see, but Babur looped his reins over the front of his saddle and shaded his face with both hands. He could see something too – a metallic sheen straight ahead, probably an effect of the light. But as they drew nearer he saw it was a great expanse of water that seemed to hang between earth and sky.
The surface of the water glowed with a reddish light that seemed to flash on and off. The reflection of the setting sun, perhaps? No . . . Babur heard Baburi gasp beside him as he, too, stared at the extraordinary sight. Thousand upon thousand of long-legged, red-feathered birds were beating their wings as they rose in flight, their bodies a streak of blood across the livid sky, terrible and beautiful at the same time.
Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul Page 27