Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (37 page)

Babur mounted again and rode slowly out before his men. ‘Just the sight of us was enough to make this upstart piss himself. In a short while, he and his men will slink away like beaten dogs that dare not bark, let alone bite. Let them hear our scorn and laughter as they depart into the fading light, their swords still bright and unbloodied, their honour tarnished.’

That night, dressed in robes of purple and gold – the colours of the King of Kabul – the nobles of the royal council and his commanders with him, Babur entered Kabul’s main mosque. The prayer place marked for the king – just in front of the
mihrab
, which indicated the direction of Mecca – was where Timur must have knelt when he had prayed here on his way to Hindustan, Babur thought, as he knelt and touched his forehead to the cool
stone. When he heard the royal mullah read the sermon, the
khutba
, in his name – the sacred moment that made him king – he felt a swell of hope and pride. He was no longer a wanderer without a home.

As the mullah moved on to a new prayer, Babur listened carefully:

It is you, God, who bestows kingdoms on whom you will,

And you take them from whom you will.

You raise up those whom you will,

And you cast down those whom you will.

You are the fount of goodness,

For you are almighty.

God was indeed all-powerful and he had been good to Babur.

L
uckily the city’s coffers had proved even fuller than Babur had hoped. As Wali Gul had promised, the Hazaras had never found the royal treasure vaults concealed beneath the stables in the citadel. ‘If they’d only shovelled away the horse shit, Majesty, they might have found them, but the Hazaras are too proud for such work.’ The old man had chortled as his servants brushed away the foot-deep layer of steaming dung and straw to reveal a trapdoor and steps leading down to eight subterranean chambers. Behind the thick, iron-bound oak doors there had been enough gold and silver for Babur to reward his men well, recruit more troops and beautify his new kingdom.

He rolled up the large plan he had been studying. On it, laid out on a grid of squares, was the design for the great domed mosque he had commissioned for the central square of Kabul using some of this wealth. Even though he had been invited to Kabul and its wide territories by its leaders and welcomed by the people, his new subjects – Aymaqs, Pashais, Tajiks and Barakis on the plains and, in the mountains, Hazaras and Negudaris, and the citizens of Kabul itself – were even more prone to jealousies and blood feuds than the tribes of Ferghana. It would do no harm to remind them – Sunni Muslims like himself – that it was by God’s will that he ruled.

Also, it would feel good to leave his permanent mark on the city – a monument to remind future generations of his rule, something he’d never had the chance to create in Samarkand. He’d never been there long enough – and, anyway, how could he have embellished a place already made so beautiful by Timur? At least in Kabul he could fashion a capital worthy of a prince of Timur’s line – a place where scholars and craftsmen would gather.

Now, though, he had unpleasant business to attend to. A month ago, Baisanghar had brought him reports that Ali Gosht – Babur’s master-of-horse whom he had promoted to chief quartermaster – had been taking bribes to favour certain horse dealers and forage suppliers in Kabul. This was against Babur’s express orders. He’d repeatedly promised the local people that he’d deal fairly with them but now, thanks to Ali Gosht’s greed, they would be justified in murmuring against a king who had broken his word so lightly . . .

Babur had wanted more evidence – he had known Ali Gosht all his life, in fact the man had taught him to ride and play polo – but Baisanghar had brought him further proof and now he must act. He made his way to the arched audience hall where his council were standing at either side of the gilded throne in order of precedence, the most senior members closest to him. Seating himself, Babur nodded to Baisanghar. ‘Bring in the quartermaster.’

He watched, expressionless, as Ali Gosht, his familiar bandy-legged gait even more pronounced because of the heavy irons dragging at his legs, shuffled towards him. Outwardly he looked defiant but Babur knew he was anxious. His battle scars were more than usually livid on his taut face and his eyes moved nervously from one counsellor to the next as he approached the throne. He didn’t look at Babur, and before the guards behind him could jab at him with the butts of their spears he fell to his knees.

‘You know what you are accused of . . .’

‘Majesty, I—’

‘Just answer me.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

‘And is it true?’

‘It is the way things have always been done . . .’

‘But I gave you specific orders to treat the dealers and merchants fairly. You disobeyed me . . .’

Ali Gosht raised his head and licked dry lips. ‘You know the tradition among our people, Majesty, from the days of Genghis Khan. The highest officials of the court should not be punished until their ninth transgression.’

‘And you have transgressed at least a dozen times . . . I have all the details.’

His quartermaster crumpled even lower on the hard stone floor. Babur looked at his bowed head – the neck thick and muscular but so vulnerable to the executioner’s sword. Ali Gosht must know these might be his last minutes on earth. What was going through his mind?

In the long, deep silence it seemed to Babur that all around him his counsellors were holding their breath.

‘You are dismissed from my service. If you are found in Kabul after sunset tonight you will die. Take him away.’

‘You should have had him executed,’ said Baburi later, as they rode out of the citadel to go hawking. Babur’s bird, secured to his gloved wrist by a golden chain, was turning its head restlessly beneath its tufted yellow leather hood, sensing that soon it would soar skywards.

‘You say that because you didn’t like Ali Gosht . . . because he clouted you . . .’

‘He also told me I was only good for shovelling horse shit . . . No, of course I didn’t like him. You know I despised the old goat. He was an arrogant, conceited bully who fawned to his superiors but liked swinging his fists at those in his power. But that’s not why I spoke as I did. Your own men, and the people of Kabul, will think you sentimental and weak.’

Babur leaned from his saddle and gripped Baburi’s wrist. ‘Anyone who thinks that is wrong. It took more courage to allow him to live. It would have been far easier to order his execution. When I was only twelve, I personally hacked off the head of my father’s treacherous vizier, Qambar-Ali. But Ali Gosht was loyal to me when I was a wanderer without a throne in need of friends and he had
little to gain from his loyalty to me. Nevertheless, in future any man who disobeys my orders – whoever he may be – will die.’

Though it was early spring, the cold northerly wind the people of Kabul called the parwan still flecked with white the dark green waters of the lake beneath the citadel and ruffled the feathers of the ducks sheltering among the reeds. But the snows were gone, the pastures and meadows bursting into new life. Vermilion tulips dotted the foothills, and in the forests strutting snow-cocks called in search of mates. Peasants wrapped warmly against the winds were busily tending the rows of vines that, in a few months, would yield the sweet, golden ab-angur grapes for the wine the courtiers relished in summer, chilling it with ice carried in chunks from the mountains and stored in ice-houses.

Babur stretched beneath the wolfskin coverlet he still needed for warmth at night, though the Negudari girl – skin the golden tawny of the honey gathered in the mountains from which she came – with whom he’d shared his bed until dawn had been more than enough to heat his blood. Later he might go hunting with Baburi. Though there was little game, the wild mountain sheep migrating between their winter and summer pastures and the occasional wild ass provided surprisingly good sport.

Or perhaps he would visit the garden he had ordered to be laid out in the clover meadows on a hillside above Kabul. Already workmen were clearing the ground and digging channels through the cold earth for the intersecting watercourses, the central pool and the fountains the nearby river would feed. Soon riders would bring the sour-cherry saplings he had ordered from the east of his kingdom to be planted among the oranges, lemons, pomegranates and apples. In this fertile earth they would grow quickly. By the time his mother and grandmother joined him, there might be something to see.

Babur flung back the wolfskin, stood up and stretched. Sunlight was pouring through the carved fretwork of the sandalwood doors on the eastern side of his chamber, with gave on to a stone balcony
projecting over the courtyard below. For centuries the kings of Kabul had stood here on great occasions to show themselves to their people. It felt good to have earned that right.

‘What are you doing? This is the third time I’ve found you scribbling away.’ Baburi’s shadow fell across the paper on which Babur was writing.

‘It’s a diary. When I took Samarkand from Shaibani Khan, I decided to record what happened in my life . . . but when I lost the city . . . when I was forced to flee for my life, I put it aside . . .’

‘Why did you stop? It might have comforted you . . .’

Babur put down his pen. ‘Some things were too painful to dwell on – the loss of my sister, Wazir Khan’s death . . . And when I was a fugitive, what could I write about except failure, the struggle to survive and how a half-bowl of millet-flour soup tasted when I was starving? There would have been no comfort in writing about such things . . . only shame . . . only the self-pity you once derided me for . . .’

‘And now?’

‘I am a king again . . . I suppose I feel worthy to record my memoirs . . . But there’s something else. Do you remember how, as we came over the Hindu Kush, we saw the Canopus star shining so pure and bright? At that moment, I vowed that if Kabul became mine, never, ever would I lose the initiative again. Never again would I let myself be pushed around by marauders like Shaibani Khan, ambitious relations or mutinous subjects. I would control my own destiny. I can achieve that, I feel it with every breath I take . . .’

‘And is that what you are writing about?’

‘In a way . . . I want my future sons, and their sons after them, to know everything that happened to me – to know my achievements, my strengths – but I also want them to understand my mistakes . . . my failings . . . my thoughts . . . the choices I had to make to survive . . . From now on, I intend to record everything that happens – good or bad – frankly and honestly . . .’

‘Including the number of times you had that Negudari girl the other night?’

‘Even that . . . A man can be proud of many things . . .’ Babur grinned, but then his expression sobered. He couldn’t push from his mind his discussion with his grand vizier earlier that day. ‘Bahlul Ayyub requested an audience with me this morning.’

‘That waffling old woman, wh-wh-what did he w-want?’ Baburi was no respecter of age or status and was fond of parodying the grand vizier’s high, quavering voice and fluttering hands.

‘He brought bad news, though it was not unexpected. The Hazaras are raiding caravans on the roads to and from Kabul – despite my orders that they must not be molested – and are refusing to pay the fine of horses and sheep I imposed on them . . . The messenger Wali Gul sent to Muhammad-Muquim Arghun to demand payment was returned this morning . . . without his ears to signify the Hazaras’ deafness to my commands . . .’

‘Then Muhammad-Muquim Arghun is even more stupid than he looks . . .’

‘His insolence is certainly greater than his brains and the Hazaras are a lawless breed. If I don’t bring them to heel quickly, the other clans will grow rebellious. I have already decided what to do . . . As punishment for the messenger’s ears, the life of every captured Hazara warrior will be forfeit. I’ll build pyramids of their heads higher than anything Timur created . . .’