Raiders from the North

Chapter 22

Babur’s men had erected his large, scarlet command tent at the very centre of the camp they had pitched two days previously at the small village of Panipat on the plains north-west of Delhi. The tent gave little respite from the intense dry heat of an April afternoon to Babur and his military council gathered around him. When the side flaps were down the atmosphere soon grew stifling. When they were pulled back and secured with leather thongs, the omnipresent wind blew in gritty dust that clogged noses and stung eyes. The windbreaks of thick brown cloth erected some yards from the tent had improved things only a little.

Babur sat on his gilded throne with his back to the breeze, drinking a sherbet made from local limes mixed with water and some of the last of the carefully preserved ice they had brought down from the mountains. Baburi, squatting on his haunches by Babur’s left side, was doing likewise, lowering the thin yellow cotton cloth he had tied over the lower part of his face to protect against the dust each time he took a sip.

Just a month after his eighteenth birthday Humayun was seated on a stool to his father’s right. He was wearing a deep green tunic woven from the thinnest cotton loosely belted over baggy trousers of the same material. Like several other commanders, he was being cooled by a great peacock feather fan wielded dextrously above his head by servants stripped to the waist but still perspiring copiously with the effort.

‘What do our scouts tell us about the movement of Sultan Ibrahim’s troops, Baburi?’

‘They’re still moving towards us but taking their time about it. They break camp only every other day and even then they only travel five or six miles before making camp again, partly because of the size of their baggage train but also, I think, because they’ve no great appetite for an early engagement. They’d rather leave us to eat up our supplies or — in our impatience — make an unwise attack of our own.’

‘No chance of that, I hope. We must tempt them to attack us so that we can make the most of our cannon and muskets, firing from defensive positions and thus reducing the effect of their greater numbers. While we’re on the subject, what are the latest estimates of their strength?’ Babur put down his sherbet.

‘About a hundred thousand — two-thirds cavalry, the rest foot-soldiers. The latter probably with plenty of eagerness for plunder but little for battle. And then, of course, there are the war elephants. Our spies say there are around a thousand, nearly all in good condition, well trained and armoured. They’re a real worry. Even if we sit on the defensive we’ll need to blunt their charge before they get into our lines. Otherwise, if they do get in amongst us, we’ll find it difficult to keep our men disciplined. Most have scarcely seen an elephant, never mind fought one-’

‘The cannon will help,’ interrupted Humayun.

‘Yes, but we’ll need to protect them too if they’re to be reloaded and get off enough shots to make a difference. We musn’t let them be overrun after firing just a couple of rounds.’

‘ We could position them at the centre of our formation, just as this tent is at the centre of the camp for protection,’ Humayun said.

‘But they’ll need a clear field of fire. .’ Baburi went on.

‘Let me speak.’ Babur motioned both Humayun and Baburi to be silent. ‘Baburi, do you remember what that old woman — Rehana — told us all those years ago, when we were not much older than Humayun is now, about Timur’s strategy when he took Delhi? Last night I was thinking about our battle plan and what my great ancestor might have done when I remembered Rehana — and that I had had the good sense to have her account transcribed and still had it in the chest where I keep important royal papers and my diary. .

‘When I read it I found it provided the main elements of a battle plan against the elephants. Timur had trenches dug and used the earth to build ramparts in front of his lines. Then he ordered tethered bullocks to be roped together as a further line of protection. I thought we, too, should dig trenches and throw up earth barricades — but instead of tying bullocks together, we should link our baggage wagons by knotting their traces to each other, leaving gaps at intervals through which our cannon — placed as you suggested, Humayun, at our centre — can fire and our cavalry make sorties when necessary. We could station the musketeers and some of our best mounted archers to protect the gaps between the wagons with crossfire.’

Nods of agreement followed, but Baburi asked, ‘That begs the question of how you’ll make sure they actually attack us, rather than try to force us into retreat by cutting off our supplies.’

‘Once we’ve prepared our positions, if they don’t attack after a few days we’ll attempt to provoke them. We’ll make a flanking movement apparently aimed at their camp and its treasure or — better still — launch a limited attack and then feign retreat. We’ll make them think they’ve bested us and that an easy victory will be theirs if only they follow through. .’

Over the next few days, Babur’s soldiers worked from the cool hours of dawn through the hottest part of the day, when the horizon shimmered in a heat haze, and on to dusk, digging the hard, dry ground to scrape out trenches and throw up earth barricades. It was slow, exhausting work. Many collapsed from the effect of the sun, all too many falling into a delirium — eyes rolling, tongues lolling — from which they were never to rise.

To hearten the men, Babur and Humayun each took a spade and laboured with them, filling buckets with earth and carrying them two at a time suspended from wooden shoulder yokes to the top of the ramparts. After three days the barricades were of sufficient height. Behind them, the wagons had been linked together and bullocks had drawn the cannon into carefully measured positions in the gaps between them. Supplies of the heavy stone cannon balls had been piled next to each and the Turkish gunners were drilling their men in the loading process. The noise of the armourers’ hammers and the clamour of numerous voices — excited and apprehensive — echoed around the camp.

As Babur rode by on his tour of inspection, Baburi at his side, the voices hushed for a moment and the soldiers stood still, bowing their heads. Baburi leaned across to Babur. ‘The latest reports still show the forces of Delhi disinclined to attack although they are now only three miles off.’

‘But at least — if our informers are right — there’s dissent and desertion in their camp, with complaints that Ibrahim is miserly in paying his troops and even more parsimonious with promises of future reward. A divided house is easier to conquer than a united one and — equally important — easier to provoke to rash action.’

‘True.’

‘Ibrahim must know that waiting will sap morale and leave scope for more complaining and quarrelling, and perhaps more desertions.’

‘But even we can’t hold our men in check for too long, however good our discipline is and however often we explain the reasons for delay.’

‘Let’s plan a sortie to draw him on to us.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. Call the military council.’

About an hour before dusk the next day Babur, on his black horse, watched as four thousand of his best men — half of them archers — mounted and then, amid the shouts of their officers and the neighing and snorting of their horses, who seemed to have absorbed some of their riders’ excitement and nervous tension, formed themselves into ranks and then squadrons. As soon as they had done so, Babur led his force out of his encampment, through the barricades and trenches, and started to circle to the west of Sultan Ibrahim’s position. He had decided to attack from out of the setting sun so that, with the glare combining with the dust from the horses’ hoofs, his opponents would be unable to tell the number of their assailants. When they had reached a point about a mile west of Sultan Ibrahim’s outposts, Babur halted his men and turned to Baburi. ‘Have you chosen the men to snatch some prisoners?’

‘Yes. I’ll lead them myself.’

‘Then let’s go.’

‘Keep safe for the final battle.’

With a wave of his arm, Babur gave the order to charge. Digging his heels into the glossy black flanks of his horse he rapidly outdistanced his men. Soon he was a hundred yards ahead. He realised he felt no fear, only exhilaration at the speed of his charge, and a joy that his strength remained that of his youth. Then he remembered Baburi’s parting words: this was not the final battle on which his destiny depended, just a raid to bring it on. He must curb his impatience and exuberance and allow the riders following to take closer order round him. As he did so, he saw that, in front of them, Ibrahim’s men were running for their weapons. Some were already mounted and the first arrows were flying towards his own troops.

Moments later, Babur’s black horse had carried him in among his enemies and he was instinctively twisting and slashing to left and right with Alamgir. To him, the fight became a series of images blurring together: a Hindustani with a blue turban falling beneath his horse’s hoofs, blood streaming from a slash across his face that had exposed his teeth; a brown tent suddenly appearing in front of him so that he had to drag his horse’s head round to avoid becoming entangled with it; an axe whizzing through the air to embed itself in the neck of the horse beside him, followed by the thud as its slow fall pitched its rider to the ground.

Suddenly Babur saw open space before him. He was through the first line — he and his men must wheel round rather than penetrate deeper and risk being swallowed up by his opponents. Reining in his excited horse with difficulty, he gave the prearranged signal to come round and gallop back through the swirling dust that was now blanketing Ibrahim’s disordered troops.

Babur knew this turn was the moment of greatest danger, when his galloping men could collide with each other and become an easy target for Sultan Ibrahim’s archers. However, his cavalry were well trained and — although he saw one or two men take crashing falls as they tried to turn their mounts too tightly — most accomplished it successfully and Babur was soon back through the dust and confusion of the enemy line and riding for his own camp, pursued by a hissing shower of arrows. Just as he had ordered before the attack began, his men immediately broke formation and scattered, some throwing away their shields as if in panic.

Darkness was falling swiftly, as it always did on the plains, by the time Babur dismounted within the protection of his earth ramparts. He did not have long to wait before Baburi appeared from the gathering gloom. He had a white cloth tied tightly round the knuckle of his left hand and, from the scarlet stain, had clearly suffered a sword slash. However, he was smiling as he approached Babur.

‘You’ve got the prisoners?’

‘A fine selection — not just water-carriers but some cavalrymen including a captain who put up a great fight before we could subdue him.’

‘He’ll be our messenger, then. Bring him to my tent in five minutes. Make sure he and the rest stay blindfolded. We don’t want them reporting on our dispositions.’

Five minutes later, Baburi led his prisoner into Babur’s presence. He was a tall, muscular man with dark skin. As he approached, Babur noticed he had a bushy moustache of the type beloved by so many Hindustanis and reflected that few from his homeland — himself included — had the luxuriant hair required to produce one.

‘Take off that blindfold. What is your name?’

‘Asif Iqbal.’

‘Well, Asif Iqbal, you are as fortunate as I am told you are brave. You’re to be released to bear a message from me to Sultan Ibrahim.’

The man showed no emotion, merely bowing his head in acknowledgement that he understood.

‘You will tell him that although we were repulsed in our attack today and have suffered many casualties, we defy him. We call him coward because even though he has overwhelming numbers he dare not attack us. Ask him if it is because his commanders will not obey him — you can tell him several have sent messages to me offering their allegiance for reward. Or is it because he knows that God will not support him, a ruler whose army numbers far more infidels than it does followers of the true faith? Tell him, “Attack, or for ever bear the name of coward.”’

After the black blindfold had been re-tied tightly round the captain’s eyes and he had been led out to be released near Ibrahim’s camp, Babur turned to Baburi. ‘Let’s hope that that and the impression of weakness we gave by our pretended flight tonight are enough to encourage Ibrahim to the attack.’

‘They should be. No man likes to be called coward. Ibrahim knows that there is discontent within his army and the suggestion that some nobles are in secret contact with us should make him want to attack before his army begins to disintegrate and he loses some of his advantage in numbers.’

‘I agree. Arrange for our men to be called to arms an hour before dawn. Any attack from Ibrahim will surely come before the heat of the day.’

Baburi was turning to go when suddenly he embraced Babur. ‘Tomorrow will be a fateful day for us both. I feel it.’

‘Sleep well. Fate will favour the rested, I’m sure.’

Without reply, Baburi walked from the tent and was swallowed up by the darkness beyond.

Ever since dawn there had been great activity in Sultan Ibrahim’s camp — shouting, the trumpeting of elephants and the neighing of horses. A few minutes ago Ibrahim’s drummers had begun to beat out an urgent rhythm.

He really is going to attack, Babur thought. If so, this would be the most decisive day of Babur’s life but he had done all he could to ensure victory. Scarcely sleeping, he had gone over his battle plan throughout the night, looking for flaws or weaknesses without finding any. There was no more he could do. .

He called Baburi and Humayun to him for their final orders. Humayun was to command the right wing and Baburi the left. Once battle was well joined and Ibrahim’s men preoccupied with the attack on Babur’s barricades of earth and wagons, they were to start an encircling movement. When, God willing, victory was theirs, they were to pursue any fleeing enemies relentlessly to prevent them regrouping.

When his son and his comrade had departed to their positions, Babur rode round the troops that would defend the barricades and addressed them in small groups. His message was usually the same: ‘Yours is the position of glory. You will decide the fate of the battle. Be strong. Trust in yourself and our cause. You have seen the strength of our new weapons, the cannon and the muskets. You must defend them well from the enemy to allow them to wreak their havoc.’

Once he singled out a bunch of nervous young cavalrymen, clustered together round their mounts, checking and rechecking their equipment. ‘I remember how I felt in my first battle. The waiting is the worst. I know you will fight well when the time comes. Concentrate on the enemy in front of you, trusting in your comrades to protect you from the side.’

In another part of the line he dismounted at one of the earth barricades and tested the bow-string of a leathery-skinned veteran with a pink scar high on his bald head who was at his post behind the rampart. ‘How far can you send an arrow with this bow?’

‘Five hundred yards, Majesty.’

‘Well, I don’t need to remind a seasoned soldier like you to wait until our enemies are four hundred and ninety-nine yards away before you fire. But perhaps I do need to say that you’ll serve me best by aiming at the riders sitting behind the ears of those elephants I hear preparing over there. Once they are dead, the beasts are directionless and will trample their own men.’

As he rode back to his place in the centre of the barricades, Babur made his final stop before the captain of his Turkish gunners, Ali-Quli. ‘Thank you for travelling so far from your homeland to fight with me. I know that each of your weapons is worth fifty of our opponents’ elephants, however daunting they may seem. Put them to flight and I’ll reward you well.’

Back in his position Babur dismounted and knelt for a moment in prayer. As he finished, images of his father, his mother, his grandmother Esan Dawlat, Wazir Khan and Baisanghar came into his mind. Esan Dawlat’s expression seemed the most warlike of all. Silently he promised, I will do you all honour today and prove I am worthy of you and the blood of Timur and Genghis.

‘Majesty, they’re definitely on the move.’

His qorchi broke into Babur’s thoughts and he stood up, calm and confident in his destiny. His squire fitted on his steel breastplate, buckled on his father’s sword and handed him his domed helmet, with its green and yellow plume, together with a long leather-sheathed dagger that Babur stuck into the top of one of his brown leather riding boots.

He could see that Ibrahim’s forces were advancing swiftly now. As he’d expected, the war elephants were in the lead. Most seemed twice a man’s height and the morning sun reflected off the shiny, overlapping steel plates of their armour. Curved scimitars — six feet in length — were strapped to their scarlet-painted tusks. The drivers were urging their elephants to move more quickly with blows from the large wooden sticks they held in their hands. Already archers were firing from the howdahs — the small castles positioned on the elephants’ backs — but the arrows were falling short: they were still out of range.

Babur hoped his own men would heed his command to hold their fire until they could reach their target. But first let Ibrahim’s men and beasts feel the effect of his new weapon from the west: the cannon. Babur waved Alamgir twice above his head — the prearranged signal to Ali-Quli to open fire. He saw the first artilleryman bend to put a lighted taper to the powder in the firing hole. Then there was a flash, a roar, and white smoke emerged from the barrel as the cannon ball was propelled towards the enemy. Other flashes followed from the rest of the cannon and smoke began to drift across the barricades.

Through it Babur saw one of the leading elephants fall, dislodging its howdah and sending the occupants sprawling to the ground. Then the wounded beast staggered upright again, turned, trunk raised in what looked like a trumpet of pain, and crossed the path of its neighbour, bringing it down, too, before collapsing again, blood pouring from the stump of one of its front legs. As it lay, thrashing its head back and forth in agony, the scimitar on its tusk cut into an elephant following, which — frightened and in pain — bolted. But although such incidents were being repeated the length of the advancing line, Sultan Ibrahim’s forces were still pressing on.

Suddenly, Babur heard the crackling discharge of muskets. More of his enemies fell. Then his archers started to fire, some riding out from behind the barricades to get closer to their targets — the drivers sitting behind the elephants’ white-painted ears. Ibrahim’s front line wavered. More elephants trumpeted in fright and turned to the rear, bringing a crashing halt to those behind, provoking yet more to panic and trample their own men beneath their great feet as they fled.

Babur yelled for more mounted archers to ride out and fire into the swiftly disintegrating enemy ranks. As he did so, he felt, rather than heard, a loud explosion near him and pieces of hot metal showered around him while something warm and soft stuck to his face. Dazed and partly deafened, he could not think what had happened. Then he realised one of his cannon had exploded and Ali-Quli had been blown apart. Raising his hand to his cheek he discovered it was a piece of his master-gunner’s flesh that had struck him. Ali-Quli would now receive his reward in Paradise, not on earth, but his work had been well done. More and more of Sultan Ibrahim’s troops were fleeing when they could, in particular the infantry, many of whom were barefoot, wearing only a loincloth and with just a spear to defend themselves.

Pulling himself together, Babur waved his sword in a gesture for his best cavalry to follow, kicked his heels into the flanks of his black horse and led them at a gallop through the smoke and dust the half-mile into the heaving, shouting mass of fleeing, frightened men.

Some of Ibrahim’s troops were made of more determined stuff and were putting up a brave fight, grouping themselves tightly into defensive formations. Babur made for a small hillock on which one such group of cavalry — about a hundred men all wearing gold turbans — were succeeding in driving off all attacks.

‘It’s Ibrahim’s bodyguard,’ one of his men yelled. Babur rode directly towards the tall officer who appeared to be commanding them. Swerving to the left at the last minute to pass him, Babur slashed with his sword in his right hand but the officer raised his shield in time to deflect the blow and, with his other hand, cut deep into the rump of Babur’s black stallion with his sword. The animal reared in pain and Babur was thrown to the earth. As he struggled to regain his feet, he saw the officer urge his white horse towards him, bent on finishing him off.

Babur stood his ground until the last minute, then jumped to the side slashing wildly with Alamgir as he did so. The sword skimmed along the left side of the white horse’s neck and then penetrated deep into the thigh of its rider. However, he was clearly an expert horseman and despite his wound stayed in the saddle, controlling his horse and wheeling it — bright red staining its white coat — ready to attack Babur once more.

This time, Babur ducked low as the officer swung his sword with the aim of decapitating him, and cut with Alamgir at the back of the white horse’s foreleg. He hit his target and the horse fell, trapping its rider beneath it and causing his sword to fly from his grasp. As the officer struggled to reach for it, Babur put his foot on his wrist and Alamgir to his throat. ‘Surrender. You deserve to live for your bravery.’ As he spoke, more of his men assembled around him, having at last killed or put to flight the rest of the gold-turbaned warriors. Seeing further resistance was useless, the officer lay still. ‘I will give you my word not to renew the fight,’ he said.

‘Help him to his feet. . What was it you and your fellows were struggling so bravely to protect?’

‘The body of Sultan Ibrahim. It lies over there. He was mortally wounded by the sting of one of your new weapons. They have rendered bravery useless.’

‘No weapon is more powerful than he who aims it.’

All the while they had been speaking, the officer’s white horse had been neighing and thrashing in pain, blood running from the cut on its neck and unable to support itself on the foreleg where Babur had slashed its tendon. Now, bleeding from the mouth and speaking with increasing difficulty — probably from the effect of being crushed by his mount — the officer said, ‘Allow me to have my sword to put my stallion to rest. I have ridden him in many battles. He will face death more calmly if I am the one to inflict it.’

Babur signed to one of his men to return the sword. The officer — scarcely able to walk from the wound in his own thigh as well as his shortage of breath — moved over to the horse. Taking its gold leather bridle he stroked its nose, cradled its head and whispered into its ear. His words seemed to calm it. Then he quickly drew his sharp sword across its throat severing its windpipe and artery and more red blood spurted. The horse collapsed instantly and within moments was still, its blood welling up into the dust. However, the officer was not finished. He thrust the sword into his own abdomen. ‘I can no more survive crippled than can my horse.’

‘May your soul rest in peace.’

‘I pray so, but remember that to subdue Hindustan you’ll need to subdue many men braver than I.’

As the last words bubbled scarcely audibly through the froth of blood in his throat, he too died, his body slumping across that of his stallion while his gold-turbaned head hit the bloodstained earth.

‘Majesty, the battle is yours.’

The words of his qorchi roused Babur from contemplation of the scene before him. Looking around, he realised that the battlefield was falling silent, that the fighting was over. . He had triumphed. ‘Praise God.’ He felt an enormous sense of relief. Then at the thought of what his victory meant, he punched the air in joy. He — like Timur — would enter Delhi in triumph. .

Dragging his mind back to the present, Babur addressed the riders around him. ‘We have done well. Let us hope that Humayun and Baburi succeed in capturing or thoroughly dispersing Ibrahim’s retreating forces. At least with him dead they will have no leader to rally round. Bury Ibrahim — and indeed this brave officer — with due ceremony. I will return to our camp to await news of the pursuit.’

His victory had been so swift that it was not yet midday when Babur turned his horse and rode back towards his camp, past the bodies of elephants lying like great boulders amid the dust, mostly surrounded by the wreckage of their howdahs and the crumpled bodies of the soldiers fallen from them. In the heat, his own men had already begun to gather up their wounded, placing them on rough stretchers, binding their wounds and offering them water and what other comfort they could.

In his red tent once more, Babur paced back and forth. Where were Humayun and Baburi? He was less worried about his friend than his inexperienced son. Although Humayun had fought in skirmishes before, and performed well, this was his first command at a big battle and the leadership of the right wing in the pursuit was a major and novel responsibility for him.

Babur distracted himself by making short visits to the wounded and to reward soldiers reported to have fought particularly bravely, as well as in hearing reports of the plunder captured from Ibrahim’s camp. Already it seemed he had a vast haul of jewels and gold at his disposal.

Six hours had passed before a guard entered Babur’s tent to announce, ‘The pennants and flags of Prince Humayun’s column have been seen approaching.’

He had barely finished speaking before a breathless Humayun entered, rushed to his father and embraced him. ‘Our victory is complete. We are masters of Hindustan. We followed a large group of Ibrahim’s men more than ten miles to the south-west until they made a stand in a mud fortress by a river. After an hour’s fight we forced them to surrender. A little further to the west we found a group of nobles’ tents that were being defended by a few guards or servants against what looked more like bandits or looters than soldiers from any army.

‘When we had killed the attackers, a beautiful woman of about my mother’s age emerged from a white tent with cream and gold awnings. She was wrapped in one of those garments the Hindustanis call saris. It was a fine silk and had many pearls and jewels sewn on to it. She asked who was in command, and on being told it was I, and that I was your son, requested to be brought before me. She told me she was the mother of the ruler of Gwalior, a wealthy kingdom to the south of Delhi. She had heard her son had been killed fighting courageously for Ibrahim.

‘Instead of fleeing when she learned the news she had determined to wait to receive his body and perform the proper funeral ceremonies. They’re infidels who cremate the bodies of their dead on pyres. Then a fleeing soldier galloping past their camp had yelled that our forces were killing the prisoners, so many of her men, except a brave few, had abandoned her. And the brigands — dacoits, she called them — whom we defeated had seen their chance of plunder and had attacked the camp. She had feared for her life and her honour but, most of all, she had feared for her six-month-old grandson who, with his young mother, the dead ruler’s favourite wife, was still in the tent.

‘I told her to fear no more, that we were a cultured, civilised people, not savages like the dacoits. Tears of gratitude wetted her face and she gave me this, which I now give you as a token of our great victory.’ As he spoke Humayun handed Babur a soft red leather pouch secured by a gold leather thong. Babur undid the tie and pulled out a large stone that glistened and sparkled in the gloom of the tent. ‘It’s a diamond, Father, from the mine at Golconda a thousand miles to the south — the biggest I’ve ever seen. The jeweller of the royal family of Gwalior once valued it as worth half of the daily expenditure of the whole world. It is called the Koh-i-Nur, the Mountain of Light. .’

Babur was held by the gem’s perfect purity and brilliance. Light radiated from it as if from a star — the Canopus, he thought, smiling at his fancy. . Still, the jewel’s intense brightness seemed to belong to the heavens rather than the earth whence it had been dug. .

‘Indeed, my son, you have merited your name, Fortunate. Long may it continue until-’ Babur broke off in mid-sentence. Through the open entrance of the tent he had glimpsed two attendants carrying a stretcher covered with a sheet towards him. From all the shouting and bustle, it was clear that Baburi’s column had now also returned. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come to report and share in the joy of conquest? Then Babur saw that a hand wearing a richly chased golden ruby ring was trailing in the dust from beneath the sheet. He had given that ring to Baburi many years ago to mark the success of one of their campaigns. As the two handsome young men carrying the bier lowered it gently to the ground before Babur, he recognised them as Baburi’s attendants.

Slowly Babur bent and, with a trembling hand, pulled back the bloodstained cloth and gazed at the monstrously mangled body of his brother-in-arms.

‘We came upon a large body of Ibrahim’s men retreating towards Delhi in good order with forty elephants in their vanguard and the same number in their rear. Our master Baburi ordered an immediate charge and we routed your enemies, who fled in all directions. But during the last moments of the fight, our master was knocked down, trampled and crushed by one of the elephants, wounded and enraged by a spear thrust deep into its mouth,’ said one of the attendants.

Only Baburi’s face — even paler than in life — was untouched. His intense indigo eyes still stared up at Babur and there was a half-smile on his face. Babur could not prevent himself weeping as, leaning over the bier once more, he closed Baburi’s eyes and kissed him on his forehead. ‘Goodbye, my brother. .’