Raiders from the North

Chapter 18

Babur breathed in the familiar smells — the acrid smoky scent rising from the twigs and animal dung of campfires, the aroma of fat lamb roasting on spits and of flat bread baking on hot stones. All around him, in the gathering darkness, his men were cleaning and oiling their weapons, laughing, cooking, pissing, enjoying the rest after the weeks of skirmishing. It was good to know that his force had swelled to at least sixteen thousand. Every day men driven out by the Uzbeks were joining him.

But they couldn’t stay much longer in these sweet grasslands, deep in the mountains of Gharjistan, twelve days’ ride east of Herat. According to reports picked up by Babur’s scouts, Shaibani Khan had quit the city some weeks ago. The accounts were vague and the exact timing of his departure was unclear but all seemed to suggest that he had ridden out through the Qipchaq Gate at the head of a large force and had appeared to be heading north-west. Could it be a device to tempt Babur on to Herat, apparently left only lightly garrisoned? Or was Shaibani Khan planning to sweep north-east to outflank Babur? The Uzbek leader would know by now that Babur had led an army westward from Kabul. He’d also know that if he could take Babur’s force by surprise he’d crush it easily. Or perhaps he was bypassing Babur. Perhaps even now he was leading his Uzbek barbarians through the mountains north towards Babur’s capital, Kabul.

Babur stared deep into the glowing charcoal in the metal brazier outside his tent. The lack of definite news in recent days seemed ominous. . It was as though Shaibani Khan had vanished. . He stretched his hands over the heat, frowning at the stiffness he still felt in moving his left wrist. The wound to his forearm was healing cleanly and well — thanks to his hakim — but the cut had gone deep and the flesh round it was numb. The loss of suppleness made him impatient: it was his dagger arm and he needed it.

That night, images of Shaibani Khan again stalked his mind and Babur hardly slept. As the pewtery dawn light seeped into his hide tent he was still turning restlessly when he became aware of excited shouting and raised voices coming from some way off at the perimeter of the camp. Tossing back his coverlet he leaped up and threw open the flaps to his tent.

‘Find out what that noise is. .’ he ordered one of the guards on watch outside. It was probably nothing — a fight over a goat or a sheep. Yesterday he’d had five tribesmen — two Ghilzais and three Pashais — flogged for brawling. But it wasn’t that. Babur could tell from the guard’s surprised expression as he returned at a half-run through the lines of tents.

‘Majesty, it’s an ambassador. . with a large escort.’

‘From where?’

‘Persia, Majesty, from the great shah himself. .’

‘Bring him to my tent.’

Hurrying inside, Babur dressed quickly. He unlocked a small, leather-covered chest on a carved wooden stand, took out a jewelled chain and hung it round his neck, then placed Timur’s heavy gold ring on his finger. His jaw was rough with stubble but there was no time to do anything about that now. Anyway, he was a warrior on campaign — the Persian ambassador must take him as he found him. .

Five minutes later, Babur’s guards ushered in the envoy and four of his attendants. Babur found himself looking at a tall, black-bearded man of about forty in cream robes. A high purple velvet cap topped by an egret’s white feather secured by an amethyst pin made him seem even taller. His four attendants were in tunics of amber velvet and, like their master, also wearing high caps. One held a large purple velvet bag fastened with gold cord.

The ambassador made a graceful bow. ‘I bring you greetings from the Lord of the World, the great Shah Ismail of Persia. He prays for your long life.’

Babur inclined his head. ‘I am grateful, and may God grant him long life also.’

‘It took us many days to find you, Majesty.’

Babur waited. What could the shah, away to the west, want with him?

‘My master knows what brought you from Kabul. He, too, has been insulted by the Uzbek mongrels who have dared to encroach upon his eastern borders. In his arrogance Shaibani Khan led his army from Herat and six weeks ago attacked a rich caravan bringing goods to our city of Yazd that were destined for my master. When Shah Ismail demanded the return of his goods, the Uzbek sent him a pilgrim’s staff and bowl, signifying that my master is a beggar. In return Shah Ismail sent a distaff and spindle and the message that Shaibani Khan, a sheep-rustler, would do better to spin wool than insult his betters. But, unknown to the Uzbek, my master also immediately despatched an army bearing a further message for him: “When a wild dog foaming at the mouth attacks in his madness there is only one solution. The dog must die.” My master, whose magnificent armies are numberless, has dealt with the mad beast and he wishes you to know it.’

‘Shaibani Khan is dead?’

‘Yes, Majesty. Seventeen thousand Persian cavalry ambushed his main army as it was returning towards Herat and annihilated it.’

Babur’s mind was racing. If this was true. . He searched the envoy’s face, whose long, dark eyes reminded him of Ayisha’s people, the Mangligh.

‘Majesty,’ the man bowed again but clearly had more of importance to say, ‘my master has charged me to deliver this gift to you.’ He took the purple velvet bag from the attendant and pulled out an oval object mounted in gold. ‘It is not as richly decorated as my master would have wished but there was little time. He hopes you will find it acceptable.’ He held out the object carefully in both hands.

Babur examined it curiously. It was shaped like a large, round drinking cup. The outside, smooth and gleaming, looked as though it had been dipped in liquid gold and on the bottom were four little golden prongs on which it could rest. The inside was pale grey and — Babur ran a finger over it — hard. Horn, perhaps? No, it didn’t have the warmth, the mellowness of horn. It was bone. . Babur looked again at the round shape, the size. . Big as the crown of a man’s head. .

‘Yes, Majesty. It is the skull of Shaibani Khan, boiled clean of its flesh and made into a drinking cup. The skin was also put to use. My master had it stuffed with straw and sent as a curiosity to his ally Bayazid, Sultan of Ottoman Turkey.’

Babur found it hard to believe what he was hearing. His greatest enemy was dead and he was holding his skull in his hands. Babur looked down at it but as he did so something of his exultation faded. He had wanted to kill Shaibani Khan himself, to ignite fear in the cold eyes he’d never seen at close quarters, to tell him, as he plunged his sword or his dagger into his guts, that this was for Khanzada. Instead someone else, a far richer, more powerful ruler, had done it. .

‘I am grateful to Shah Ismail for his. . gift.’

‘My master has sent further gifts for you. They are outside. If you will allow me to lead you, I will show you.’

‘Very well.’

Babur’s guards, weapons ready in case the Persian emissary had intended harm to Babur, parted to allow them out of the tent. As they made their way through the camp some men who had not heard of the Persians’ arrival were yawning, scratching and going about their morning ablutions. Several hundred yards beyond the perimeter of the camp, beneath a grove of oak trees, the rest of the ambassador’s men — as well armed as they were dressed — were waiting. Their hobbled horses were grazing beneath the trees or drinking from a nearby stream. However, one horse — a stallion with a long back, powerful flanks and shining coal-black coat — was moving restlessly between two grooms, who were having difficulty controlling it as it jerked its head and snorted through dilated nostrils. It was the most magnificent beast Babur had ever seen.

‘This is Sohrab, a stud stallion from the stables of my master who sends him to you — and the mares of Kabul — as a gift.’

‘I thank the shah for his generosity.’ Babur was puzzled. Shaibani’s skull made some sort of sense but why should the shah make him a present like this? What did he want from him? Persia was not only one of the earth’s most powerful nations, it was a wealthy centre of culture, its poets and painters celebrated everywhere. Both Ferghana and Samarkand had been too far from its borders for any direct contact between their rulers but now Babur was in Kabul the two lands were almost neighbours. Shah Ismail was a strong new ruler who, a few years previously, had deposed the previous dynasty and established his own. A devout man, he had also imposed the Shia form of the Muslim faith on his subjects. Some called the Shiites heretics, since they believed — unlike the majority of Muslims, including Babur, who followed the Sunnis — that only the Prophet Muhammad’s cousin and son-in-law, Ali, was his rightful heir. . But the shah’s faith seemed scarcely relevant to his gift. . Babur pulled himself from his reverie.

The emissary was looking at him almost slyly. ‘And this is also a gift from my master.’ Beyond Sohrab, Babur could see a large bullock cart, drawn by a team of six creamy-coated oxen, its contents concealed by yellow hangings, bright as the yellow of Ferghana. Ferghana. .

Babur walked slowly towards it, his breathing suddenly ragged. Though the air was cool, he was sweating. He knew what or rather who was in the cart — or hoped he did — but never in all his twenty-seven years had he felt as fearful as he did now. Reaching the cart, whose driver knelt respectfully before him, Babur paused. Slowly he put out a hand to touch the hangings, feeling for the opening. Then he paused and looked round at the group gathered close behind him — the Persians, his own men.

‘Step back.’ His voice was sharp. He waited till they were a good few paces away, then took the hangings, pulled them apart and peered inside. In the far corner, against the cushions, a woman was hidden by a heavy black veil. As a shaft of sunlight fell on her, a tremor seemed to run through her. ‘Khanzada. .?’ Babur’s voice was a whisper.

He jumped into the cart and closed the hangings behind him. In the half-light filtering through the thin silk, he saw the woman move a little towards him. Unable to restrain himself, he reached out, took hold of the veil and pulled it from her. Khanzada’s brown eyes looked into his. .

Fifteen minutes later, Babur climbed out again. With so many eyes upon them, even in the privacy of the cart, this was not the moment to open their hearts. Babur was not even sure he could — this had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly he could still hardly comprehend it. He summoned the emissary to his side. ‘Your master has done me a very great service,’ he said simply.

‘We have treated your sister with every honour due to her. Two attendants have been with her throughout the journey and will remain to serve her, if you so wish.’

Babur nodded. ‘You are our honoured guests. I will order tents to be pitched for you and your people near my own in the centre of the camp.’

It was hard not to be able to be alone with Khanzada at once, but courtesy to the shah demanded that Babur play host to the Persians. As soon as he had arranged living quarters for his sister and for the Persians, he ordered a pavilion to be constructed from ten hide tents and spread with sheepskins where he could hold a feast. To sophisticated Persian eyes his hospitality would no doubt seem poor and primitive, but he could compensate for the lack of fine carpets, ornate dishes and rich hangings with roasted sheep and the barrels of strong wine his men had seized during their raids.

Two hours into the feast, Babur congratulated himself. The emissary, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, was already far gone, muttering verse couplets through his black beard. Soon, his head began to nod, his dark eyes closed and he slipped lower on his cushion.

The celebrations would go on far into the night throughout the camp. The Uzbek defeat and the death of Shaibani Khan were welcome news to all. Hatred of the Uzbeks had united even those who would otherwise be enemies but Babur was free at last. Waving away the guards who automatically formed up behind him, he ran through the camp, sidestepping drunken, singing men and ignoring their roars of invitation to join him at their fires.

Khanzada’s tent had been erected in a secluded area of the camp and she was sitting cross-legged, alone, at a low table, writing by the light of oil lamps. As soon as she saw him she rose. In the flickering light she was still the young woman he remembered from nine years ago, but as he came closer he saw lines on her face he didn’t recall and a white scar running from the right corner of her mouth towards the tip of her right ear he’d not noticed earlier.

‘I was writing to our mother. . the first letter I’ve been able to send her for so many years. Come and sit by me. .’

‘Khanzada. .’ He was bursting with the need to tell her how sorry he was. . how bitterly he felt all those years when she’d been a helpless prisoner, how guilty that he had been powerless to do anything. . but somehow now he had the opportunity the words wouldn’t come. Only when she reached out and gently stroked his face did his tongue free itself. ‘I should have protected you better. I was young and arrogant. . I should have used my head. . I should never have let him take you. .’

‘There was nothing you could have done. It was the only way or he would have murdered us all, right there in front of the walls of Samarkand. My greatest fear was always that you would do something rash, something foolish. .’

‘I should have. There would have been more honour in it.’

‘No — it was your duty to be prudent. . to wait. .’

‘You sound like our grandmother.’

Khanzada’s eyes filled with tears. Her first questions to him had been for news of her mother and grandmother and Babur had had to tell her the old lady was dead. ‘If I am like her, I’m glad. She understood the world as it is — not as we’d like it to be — and she taught us what was expected of us.’

‘Sometimes I wish we’d not been born who we are. .’

‘Of course. Yet if you could choose again, you wouldn’t want it otherwise — not in your heart. .’

As Babur stared at the floor, the red and blue flowers on the carpet seemed to whirl before his eyes. ‘But if you hadn’t been a Timurid princess you wouldn’t have had to endure Shaibani Khan. .’

A tremor crossed Khanzada’s face.

He reached out to touch the curve of her cheek, then the scar etched on her skin. ‘What happened to you? Can you tell me. .?’

‘He was a strange man, always unpredictable, often needlessly cruel. . He was not. . gentle and he made me do degrading things. . to humble me, he said, to make me forget my Timurid blood, to remind me I was only a woman subject to his whims. . I–I cannot speak of them but they are over now.’ Her voice trembled. ‘But I was only one of many in his harem and I was lucky to be one of his wives. We had a certain status — all his wives were from noble houses. . However badly he treated us in the bedchamber we had rich clothes, jewels, good food, servants. We were symbols of his power and conquests. . He didn’t take us with him on campaign but left us where we’d be safe. If we’d been captured and dishonoured, he would have been dishonoured too. That was why the shah’s men found me in Herat. .

‘His concubines — there were hundreds — were not so fortunate. When he went on expeditions, he’d select some to go with him to dance for him in the camp at night and give to his warriors who’d fought well. If they angered him he had them killed. In one of his camps a girl who stumbled as she danced was buried up to her armpits in sand and left without water under the hot sun. They say she was still alive, skin and lips blackened and peeling, when his army rode on two days later. . Such things meant nothing to Shaibani Khan.’

Khanzada’s calm, matter-of-fact tone — there was no anger, no bitterness — amazed Babur. From somewhere she had found strength to accept her situation.

‘I don’t understand. .’ he began, but she hushed him as if he were still her childish small brother and put a finger to his lips.

‘Just as your duty was to be patient, mine was to survive. That was what I did. I hid my thoughts and feelings. I was submissive and unresisting — dutiful, even. Sometimes I even pitied him. There was no happiness, no contentment in him, only a restless hunger for revenge against a world he thought had treated him badly. .’

‘But you must have been afraid, living in the power of a man who hated our family so much?’

‘Sometimes, of course. His moods were strange, impossible to read. But as time passed, I grew less fearful that my life was at risk, at least not from him. .’

‘From who, then. .?’

Khanzada looked down at her clasped hands with their intricate hennaed patterning. Even as a girl she had loved to decorate her hands and feet. ‘Some of the other women. Though Shaibani Khan was what he was, there was still jealousy. He was handsome, powerful. He could be generous to those who pleased him. Women vied for his attention. . One in particular was envious of me though she had no reason. .’

‘Who?’

‘The daughter of the grand vizier of Samarkand — the young woman you sent to be the wife of our cousin Mahmud Khan. After Shaibani Khan had killed him, he took her from Samarkand as a concubine. She wanted to be one of his wives and hated me because I was. But, above all, she hated me because you had her father killed. Six months after Shaibani Khan took me, she tried to stab me. . She was aiming for my eyes but one of the harem guards saw her in time and dragged her off me, but the blade still caught the side of my face.’ Khanzada put her hand to the scar.

In his mind’s eye Babur saw the slender, fiery-eyed girl begging him for the life of her despicable cur of a father. ‘What happened to her?’

‘Shaibani Khan had her walled up alive in an underground chamber in the Kok Saray in Samarkand. He said he was the only arbiter of who lived and died. He said he was punishing her for her presumption. .’

As the hours of the night passed and his sister continued to speak of her ordeal, Babur began to understand how she had managed to survive and to stay sane. It was as if she had distanced herself from everything, convincing herself that the traumatic things happening around her — to her — were happening to someone else. A little like Ayisha, but with far more reason than she had ever had, she had longed to be elsewhere and, in her mind, had persuaded herself she was.

It moved him almost unbearably to see her smile but he was also filled with pride by her strength. Whatever had been done to her body she’d refused to allow her mind to be cowed and dominated. If Esan Dawlat had been a true daughter of Genghis, then so was Khanzada. . Her experiences, horrific as they must have been, had not destroyed her. She was thirty-one years old and had spent nearly a third of her life subject to the whims of a brutal tyrant, but the girl who’d played with her pet mongoose had somehow, inexplicably, survived. Tears pricked his eyelids but he forced them back. From now on, his sister would know nothing but happiness. .

‘The Lord of the World has a proposition that he hopes you will find acceptable.’ The Persian envoy was clad even more gorgeously today in robes of bright orange and his beard was perfectly combed and perfumed. There was no sign of the aching head Babur had been sure he’d be suffering from. The man’s self-possessed, rather patronising expression suggested the ‘proposition’ was something Babur would grab as a starving man would seize a hunk of bread.

Babur waited, eyes a little narrowed. At last he was about to find out why the shah had gone to so much trouble to please him.

‘Shah Ismail has shattered the power of the Uzbek marauder. He wishes the legitimate rulers to return to their kingdoms so that the lands bordering his great empire are tranquil once more. As the last surviving prince of the House of Timur he offers you Samarkand. .’

Babur felt his stomach contract. Samarkand, city of his dreams, Timur’s capital. ‘Your master is gracious,’ he replied cautiously, then waited. If he had learned anything in the years since his father’s death it was patience. Let others fill silences. .

The envoy cleared his throat. Here it comes, Babur thought.

‘Though Shaibani Khan has been defeated, Uzbek tribes still hold Samarkand. My lord will give you Persian troops to fight side by side with your own to drive them out.’

‘And then?’

‘My master admires you. He knows that the blood of conquerors runs in your veins. He believes you would make a worthy vassal.’

‘A vassal?’ Babur stared at the man.

The envoy seemed to read his mind. ‘You need pay no tribute and you alone would govern in Samarkand. All my master asks is that you acknowledge him as your overlord.’

‘And as soon as we have taken Samarkand the Persian troops will withdraw?’

‘Of course.’

‘And there are no other conditions?’

‘No, Majesty.’

‘I will consider what you have said and give you an answer when I am ready.’

The envoy bowed and withdrew. No wonder the man had asked for a private audience. His proposition was unprecedented. No Timurid prince had ever been subject to Persia. . yet the suggestion offered security for the shah and himself. The shah’s borders would be protected by the friendly buffer of Babur’s lands, and Babur would regain Samarkand. Established there, he could bide his time, build up his forces, seek opportunities for further conquests and perhaps, when the moment was right, throw off the vassalship.

He heard voices outside and one of his guards ducked into the tent. ‘The quartermaster wishes to see you.’

Babur nodded. It would be good to talk this over with Baburi before he summoned his war council.

‘Well, what did he want?’ Baburi perched on a low wooden stool next to Babur.

‘The gift of the stallion and the return of my sister were to sweeten me. The Shah of Persia has made me an offer. He will give me troops to chase the remaining Uzbeks out of Samarkand and establish my rule there on the single condition that I acknowledge him as my overlord.’

Baburi’s indigo eyes flashed in surprise. ‘Samarkand is not the shah’s to dispose of. . What right has he to it? And what right has he to expect you to be his vassal?’

‘He is one of the most powerful rulers on earth. He disposed of Shaibani Khan. . a task that might have taken us years. . that we might never have accomplished. .’ Babur said slowly.

‘You don’t mean to accept?’

‘Why not? I’ve always wanted Samarkand — desired it above everything else. And once I’ve regained it, I can retake Ferghana. With the kingdom of Kabul, I’ll have the makings of an empire of my own. . something to leave to my sons. .’

‘That primping Persian arsehole has bewitched you with his oh so soft words, his unctuous smoothness and “pwetty pwetty” promises. Is that what it’s all been for? Our treks over frozen mountains, our days of hunger when a lump of mouldy meat seemed like Paradise, our shared battles. . our mingled blood. . our victories?’

‘Isn’t it time to enjoy some reward? The past years have been like living under a whirlwind. Whenever I tried to put down my roots, they were ripped out. But I am still here — unlike my cousin Mahmud Khan, whose flayed skin was stretched to make a drum, or my male kin in Herat, all slaughtered, or my murdered half-brother in Ferghana. . I feel my time is coming at last. .’

‘Then don’t be a fool by throwing everything away. Don’t let understandable gratitude for your sister’s return cloud your judgement. You have an army — a good one. Let the Persians stay in Persia. We’re strong enough to take Samarkand on our own. Ride through the Turquoise Gate again as your own man, not as another’s hireling.’

‘You don’t understand. .’ Babur’s anger was rising. Baburi was always so obstinate.

‘I do understand. Your mindless obsession with becoming another Timur is blinding you — pushing you into contemplating stupid short-cuts.’

‘What would you know about that?’

‘Because I come from the streets? Is that what you mean?’ Baburi was on his feet now, his stool lying on its side where he’d kicked it. ‘That’s precisely why I can see more clearly than you — you idiot. If you take the shah’s offer, it is as if I’d gone down an alley with some scumbag to suck his cock in return for a meal. . you’ll be like a brood mare to that stud stallion the shah sent you — to be mounted, dominated, and compelled to satisfy your master’s every desire. . I was never that desperate. Neither should you be. . Once you succumb he’ll be back for more. .’

‘You’re being ridiculous. Leave me.’ Babur got up and turned away. Why couldn’t Baburi acquiesce gracefully in his schemes as others did?

Baburi didn’t obey. Instead he gripped Babur’s shoulder, yanking him round to face him, eyes blazing. ‘What would that father of yours that you’re always going on about have said? Or your old battle-axe of a grandmother? They’d have been ashamed you could be bought so easily, become any man’s vassal — ready to take it up the arse whenever your master feels like it. .’

Overwhelmed by anger that Baburi dared speak to him like this, Babur pulled himself free, stepped back and swung his fist at Baburi’s sneering face with all his strength. He heard a dull crunch as his friend’s nose broke and blood spurted.

For a second, Baburi’s hand was on his dagger and Babur instinctively reached for his. But instead Baburi raised his right hand to cover his nose and — eyes never leaving Babur’s — felt with his left hand around the waist of his now blood-soaked tunic for the end of his sash. Grabbing it, he tried to staunch the flow.

‘Baburi. .’

Pulling the sash from his face for a second, Baburi spat at Babur’s feet. Then ducking through the tent flap he was gone, leaving a trail of ruby-bright droplets of blood on the sheepskins on the floor.

Babur resisted the impulse to go after him. He was a king, and Baburi should remember that. He shouldn’t have hit him but Baburi had had it coming. . He was hot-headed, arrogant. When he thought about it coolly, rationally — as he would — he’d realise that the decision Babur was about to make was the right one. . Babur would ride through the Turquoise Gate and he’d do it without shame, head high.

‘Guard!’ Babur shouted. A man’s head poked through the entrance flap. ‘Summon my war council.’

Babur watched the Persian envoy and his escort ride away. In the envoy’s saddlebags was a letter from Babur pledging his allegiance to the shah. Tonight there would be more feasting in the camp. Babur would summon his commanders to announce that as soon as Persian reinforcements joined them they would ride north-east for Samarkand to purge it of its infestation of Uzbeks and claim it as their own. His men, fired by the prospect of rich booty, would roar their approval. There’d be no need to dwell on the bargain he’d made with the shah. There would be time enough, when he was master of Samarkand’s blue-domed mosques and palaces, to consider how to present it to his people. And why should they care? They would again be ruled by a Timurid prince, not a barbarous ancestral foe. The Persians would depart to their distant homeland. Soon he would be able to think of further conquests.

Baburi would be nursing his wounded pride and his wounded nose somewhere. Now that his own temper had cooled, the deal had been done and the envoy was gone, Babur was anxious to see his friend and heal their rift. There was so much he had not said, so much he had said badly. .

Still wearing the bright green tunic — chosen in tribute to Samarkand — in which he had received the Persian envoy for his farewell audience, Babur walked through the camp to Baburi’s tent, pitched close to Baisanghar’s.

The flaps were thrown back and he went inside. The rugs on the floor were spotted with blood and the few possessions, mostly clothes, strewn hither and thither as though someone had hastily searched through them, deciding what to take and what to leave. In one corner was what looked like splintered wood. As Babur went closer he recognised the bow and gilded quiver set with golden tiger’s eyes he’d given Baburi the day he’d made him Qor Begi, Lord of the Bow. The bow was snapped in two, and the quiver smashed, as if someone had stamped on it — the gems had fallen from their mountings. Babur picked one up. The round little stone felt cold.

He hurried outside, almost tripping over the black leather gauntlet Baburi wore to go hawking but which now lay on the floor. Baisanghar was giving orders to two guards.

‘Where’s Baburi?’

‘I haven’t seen him since this morning, Majesty.’

‘Check whether his horse is here.’

Baisanghar despatched a guard to the corral where the handsome chestnut Baburi had taken from an Uzbek chieftain should have been grazing, but Babur already knew the answer. ‘He’s gone. .’

‘Majesty?’

‘Baburi — he’s gone. Send riders to look for him and bring him back. Do it now, at once!’ He realised he was shouting.

Startled, Baisanghar hurried off, and Babur went back inside Baburi’s tent. He picked up the broken bow. Baisanghar’s men could ride their horses into the ground but it wouldn’t be any use. If Baburi wanted to disappear he would.