Raiders from the North

Chapter 23

The sun’s metallic glare hurt Babur’s eyes. Advancing over the arid landscape where even the scrubby bushes were coated with dust, he was glad of the shade of the green and yellow brocade canopy supported on golden poles by the four riders around him. A strong wind was whipping up the dust — he had already learned that his new subjects called it andhi and that it meant the rains were not far off.

Immediately after Panipat, he had ordered Humayun and four of his commanders with their men to leave behind their heavy baggage and ride hard and fast to Ibrahim’s capital at Agra — a hundred and twenty miles south-east of Delhi along the Jumna river — to seize the fort and the imperial treasuries there before the garrison had time to organise their defences. Now, three days later, Babur was taking the bulk of his victorious army south to Delhi. At the rear, almost obscured beneath a billowing cloud of dust, were ranks of plodding war elephants — still streaked in red paint — that his men had rounded up after the battle.

Babur should have been jubilant but grief for Baburi was blunting his triumph. In the first hours after he had learned of Baburi’s death, he had shut himself away in his tent, unwilling to see anyone or to address the many tasks and decisions that awaited him as the new ruler of Hindustan. Baburi’s death wasn’t just the loss of a best friend — it felt like the passing of his previous life. He would never — could never — have a friend like that again — a friend who had shared his youth and his fluctuating fortunes.

When he’d first met Baburi he’d been not yet twenty, the ruler of a small part of Ferghana, more a footloose warlord than a king. Now he was a father and emperor of a large realm who must always be conscious of his dignity and keep his distance in his dealings with others of whatever rank. From now on, his closest companions would inevitably be his sons. Much as he loved them it would not be the same as with Baburi. The difference in age and experience between them, the respect, the filial obedience they owed him would always lie between them, as would his overwhelming desire to protect them, and to teach them how to live and rule. They could not challenge him, laugh at him — as well as with him — as Baburi had done. .

So many memories, so many thoughts and feelings, kept running through Babur’s mind — the first time he’d seen Baburi’s sharp-featured, streetwise face and intensely indigo eyes as he’d rushed to save a child from beneath the hoofs of Babur’s horse; Baburi’s first tentative efforts to ride; the freedom of their youth; their wild, drunken nights together in the whorehouses of Ferghana; all those years of companionship and humour, of huddling together for warmth as cold winds buffeted their tent, of raids and battles, some victorious, some otherwise. .

So many of those events had played out against the backdrop of the world he and Baburi had belonged to, a place of cold, tumbling, twisting rivers, of enfolding hills, sharp-sided valleys and endless plains that were sweet with clover in the summer but in winter froze hard as iron. A place of rich cities with domes and minarets of turquoise and green, ancient madrasas and libraries where the Timurid heritage was understood and revered. Now, without his friend, Babur was in a new land that had no understanding of him and that he, in turn, did not yet fully comprehend. Except that he already knew he didn’t like the climate. Sweat was trickling down his face and the air felt almost solid, as if it had never known a breath of wind. Beneath his plumed headdress, his head throbbed.

At least they’d not encountered any hostility as they advanced. Sometimes Babur had seen small groups watching curiously from a distance as his long line of horsemen and endless baggage carts passed by. Now, shading his eyes, he could see a jumble of low, mud-built thatched houses to one side of the wide track they were following. Golden cakes of animal dung were drying in the sun. Skinny, pale-furred dogs were lying in the meagre pools of shade and a few scrawny hens were running about. Of people there was no sign, either outside the houses or in the surrounding fields where thin-legged white egrets pecked insects off the backs of water buffalo with their yellow bills.

All in all, it looked a mean little settlement. Babur turned away, but then he noticed something else just beyond the village, a large, curiously shaped sandstone edifice within a low, walled compound. Its scale seemed out of proportion with the village. As he drew nearer he saw that the front facade of the main building was a carved mass of what looked like intertwined figures, arms and legs protruding everywhere. Several times on the long road to Panipat he’d glimpsed similar buildings but had had neither the time nor the inclination to examine them.

He signalled a halt. ‘Find out what this place is,’ he ordered his qorchi.

Fifteen minutes later, the squire returned with a tiny old man, desiccated face furrowed as a walnut and eyes filmy with age, together with one of Babur’s captains, Junayd Barlas. As a youth, Junayd had learned Hindi from a Hindustani carpet dealer who had settled in Kabul. Babur had appointed him his interpreter until he could find a better one.

‘This man says it is a Hindu temple, Majesty,’ Junayd explained. ‘I think he is one of its priests.’

‘I’d like to see it.’ Babur dismounted and examined the priest more closely. The man was almost entirely naked except for a loincloth which, wound around his think flanks and passing between his legs, was secured to a string around his waist. Around his left shoulder and passing under his right arm was a long loop of cotton thread. His coarse white hair and beard were long and straggling and there was what looked like a smudge of ashes on his forehead. In his right hand he carried a wooden stick, as gnarled as himself.

Slowly the priest led the way into the compound. The main building was indeed like nothing Babur had ever seen before. Its front was a seven-tiered structure perhaps thirty feet wide at the base, which tapered into a squared-off tower at the top. Carved figures of humans — men and women — with voluptuous bodies and staring, bulbous eyes, wearing clinging, seemingly semi-transparent garments, with jewels on their foreheads and around their necks and arms, covered the facade. Interspersed with these figures — some of whom seemed to be dancing and others about to copulate — were strange, fierce-looking, warlike characters — demons, perhaps, or gods. Some had the heads of animals — monkeys and elephants.

Babur stared. So much elemental life and vitality, but what did it mean? A doorway led into the building. To one side a flight of narrow dark stairs ascended to the upper storeys. There was a strong smell he didn’t recognise, a scent richer, sweeter and far more pungent than sandalwood.

The priest glanced over his shoulder. Satisfied that Babur was still close behind, he walked on, his staff tapping the dusty stone slabs on the ground. Babur followed him into the building’s square inner courtyard around which ran a covered gallery. The walls were carved with scenes from what he supposed must be some Hindu folktale or legend. Warriors, with the faces of monkeys, brandishing short swords appeared to be crossing a bridge to an island to do battle.

Richly carved sandstone pillars depicting more well-fleshed bodies — some with four, six or even eight arms — supported the gallery. On one side of the courtyard was a large white stone statue of a kneeling bull, a string of marigolds round its muscular neck and sticks of incense burning in a brass pot before it. Nearby, with lighted candles surrounding it, was a simple column of black stone — basalt perhaps — rounded at the top and in places worn so smooth the stone shone like marble. In front of it lay small offerings of oil, food and lotus flowers.

‘What is that?’ Babur asked.

Junayd Barlas consulted the priest but appeared to have difficulty in understanding the answer. At last he said, ‘They call it a lingam, Majesty. It represents the male sexual organ and is a symbol of fertility.’

But Babur’s attention had been caught by something else on the other side of the courtyard, a larger-than-life stone figure of a powerfully built man sitting cross-legged with arms raised beneath a carved canopy. Under his elaborate headdress, the face was strong, determined, forceful, the eyes staring ahead.

‘That is one of their gods — they call him Shiva,’ said the interpreter, after another hurried consultation with the priest. But the old man evidently had something else to say because he was continuing to mutter. Junayd Barlas bent lower to catch his words. ‘The priest wishes you to know some words from one of their holy books. “Behold, I am come. I am Shiva, the destroyer. .”’

The priest was watching him with a sly expression. What was he trying to say? That Babur was the destroyer who had come amongst them — or that the Hindus and their gods would destroy him. .?

He turned and strode from the inner courtyard, back through the main building and swiftly out of the compound. He mounted his horse and, taking a drink of water from a cup his squire held up to him, signalled that he was ready to ride on. With his bodyguards behind him, he kicked his horse on without a backward glance at the temple and its mystifying figures.

A few yards further on, directly in their path, a cow sprawled contentedly on the ground, apparently untroubled by the cloud of black flies buzzing round its long-lashed eyes. It was a wide-horned beast and, by the standards of Babur’s homeland, a scraggy creature, its bony hips and ribs clearly defined beneath its dull brown hide. One of Babur’s men trotted forward and prodded it with the butt of his spear. The animal emitted a groan of protest but didn’t move. The man reversed his spear, intending to give the cow something sharper to think about when, from somewhere behind Babur, came an angry cry.

Looking around, he saw the priest rush forward with more speed than he would have thought possible for such a spindly frame. The old man’s face was contorted as he shouted, waving his arms and his stick. Two of Babur’s bodyguards jumped off their horses and seized him before he could come too close to Babur.

Babur signalled to Junayd Barlas. ‘What does he want?’

‘He is cursing you, Majesty.’

‘I’ll have him flogged for his insolence.’

‘You don’t understand, Majesty, he says the Hindus consider the cow a sacred creature that must be left free to roam where it will. He feared you were about to kill it. .’

Babur looked down at the old man. ‘Let him go. And tell him I didn’t understand. Tell him I meant no disrespect to his faith.’

As he listened to Junayd Barlas’s translation, the old man’s expression relaxed. By now the cow had become bored and rising clumsily to its feet ambled off to the shade of a tree. Babur’s army was free to advance once more through his new possessions.

Four days later, Babur and his army reached Delhi, whose governor offered no resistance. It was the largest and most populous city he’d ever seen. The airy grace of Samarkand or Herat was missing but some parts were not unpleasing. He inspected the large sandstone mosques, delicately arched palaces and a curiously carved two hundred and forty foot high, tapering tower — the Qutb Minar — built centuries earlier for reasons no one seemed to know. Complexes of royal tombs — domed, pillared, colonnaded — were everywhere. These smacked to Babur of conceit — clearly the Delhi sultans had wished to be as splendid in death as they had been in life. Now all they had left were these cities of the dead. .

Babur didn’t linger long — just long enough to have the khutba read in his name in the Friday Mosque and to inspect the contents of the imperial treasuries, filled with enough jewels, pearls and gold to justify the expedition on their own account. However, Ibrahim’s nervous former chamberlain in Delhi — summoned before Babur — quickly volunteered that the main treasure was, just as Babur had thought, in Agra. He had done well to despatch Humayun there. After ordering an inventory to be made and appointing one of his commanders as the city’s new governor, Babur set out south-east along the river Jumna to join Humayun in Agra.

The heat was so intense that Babur was surprised any living thing could stir. Yet as his journey continued he noticed more people than before. Soon the roads and fields seemed filled with them, staring and apparently unafraid. The tight discipline he had insisted on must be having its effect. . His new subjects — the men half naked in their loincloths and the women in lengths of brightly coloured cloth wound round their bodies and thrown over their heads, with red marks on their foreheads and gold studs in their noses — certainly didn’t seem intimidated. They pressed curiously around Babur and his army as they passed through the sun-baked villages, to which clung an ever-present sweetish aroma of drying cattle dung, spices and incense, and even brought out sacks of grain and fruit and vegetables to sell to the troops.

As the days passed, the flat, brown, dry landscape with its teeming people beneath a relentless sun began to oppress Babur. He felt leached of life and vitality. It was not much better at night when mosquitoes whined and his attendants could do little to cool his tent, designed for colder climes. He found no refreshment in looking at the sluggish Jumna. Its fetid banks of cracked mud made him long for the swift rivers and bracing air of his homeland beyond the Indus.

On the sixth evening, a messenger arrived bringing a gift from Kabul. In a metal-lined wooden cask that, at the start of its journey, must have been packed with ice, he found some melons, sent by Khanzada who knew it was his favourite fruit. Alone in his tent, as he cut into the moist flesh and tasted the sweet juice, tears pricked his eyes, so strong was his sense of exile. Khanzada had meant to give him pleasure but her gift had also brought him pain.

Reaching for pen, ink and the diary that in recent months he had too often neglected, Babur began to write:

Hindustan is a land of few charms. Its people are not handsome. . There are no good horses or dogs, meat, grapes, fragrant melons or other excellent fruit. There is no ice, cold water or good provisions in the bazaars. There are no hot baths nor

madrasas

.

Except their rivers and streams, which flow in ravines and hollows, there are no running waters in their gardens or residences. .

He paused. What would Baburi, who had brought him the means to conquer Hindustan, have said to him? What he had just written looked bitter and carping. Baburi had detested any sign of self-pity and had always been quick to spot it. He would have told Babur to get on with it. . that he had been given a great chance and it was his duty not to squander it. But perhaps if Baburi was still with him, he wouldn’t feel like this. .

Reaching inside his tunic, Babur drew out the soft leather pouch in which he kept the Koh-i-Nur, his Mountain of Light. Even in the gloom of the tent it shone, a potent symbol of this new land that sent renewed energy and determination flowing through him. This was no time for regret. If Hindustan was not yet the kind of land he wanted, he and his sons must make it so. They must create an empire so fabulous that, for centuries, people would speak of it with awe.

Opening a fresh page in his diary, he began again:

From the year when I first came to Kabul, I had coveted Hindustan. Now, through God’s great favour, I have conquered a mighty adversary, Sultan Ibrahim, and won for my dynasty a new empire.

After a moment’s further thought he added,

The best thing about Hindustan is that it is a large land with an abundance of gold and other wealth. .

Yes, much could be done here by a man if he only had the will. .

Babur’s mood lifted further as he continued his progress south-eastward. He began to notice that the land was not as bare as he had thought. Despite the dryness and the hot winds, some flowers bloomed, like the red gudhal with blossoms deeper in colour than those of the pomegranate, and the oleander, five-petalled like peach blossom, with a faint but exquisite scent.

With his new optimism came the thought that — if he was indeed to establish himself here — he must try to understand this new land and its customs. With the aid of Junayd Barlas as interpreter, he began to question some of those they passed on the road, farmers, merchants, peasants, about the things he saw. One day he noticed a man in a purple turban striking with a mallet a brass disc big as a tray hanging above a tank of water. He learned that this man was a ghariyali — a timekeeper. In Babur’s homeland each day was divided into twenty-four hours and each hour into sixty minutes but he discovered that in Hindustan his new subjects apportioned day and night into sixty parts — gharis — of twenty-four minutes, while night and day were also each divided into four watches, pahars. Ghariyalis measured the passage of each pahar by submerging in water special pots with a hole in the bottom that took exactly one ghari to fill. At the end of the first ghari of their watch they struck a large, thick brass disc so that all could hear. At the end of the second ghari they struck it twice, and so on until their watch was over, when they struck it many times in rapid succession.

From a money-lender whom Babur observed counting coins in the marketplace, he discovered that the Hindustanis had an excellent numbering system: one hundred thousand was equal to one lakh; one hundred lakhs equalled one crore; one hundred crores equalled one arb, and on it went, even higher up the scale. In Kabul there was no need of such high numbers but here in Hindustan, where the wealth — at least of its rulers — seemed almost limitless, there was. It was a pleasing thought.

Babur watched the laborious way in which the farmers irrigated their fields, using leather buckets hauled from the well by oxen, and tasted the sweet, intoxicating wine of the date palm, a plant he’d never seen before. Most of all he attempted to understand more about the Hindu religion, learning that Hindus believed in reincarnation, and that their bewildering multiplicity of gods — from many-armed women festooned with skulls to a pot-bellied elephant-man — were all manifestations of a central trio or trimurti: Brahma, the creator of the world, sky and stars; Vishnu, who held them all in balance and harmony; and Shiva, the destroyer. But it still seemed shadowy, confusing, even disturbing. What had Sultan Ibrahim — a Muslim like himself — made of it? Babur thought again of the temple priest’s words: ‘I am the destroyer. .’

He soon discovered that he was not the only one to find Hindustan unsettling. Sitting outside his tent one night, hoping for some touch of a breeze on his face, he saw Baba Yasaval approaching.

‘Majesty.’ His commander touched his breast and waited respectfully.

‘What is it?’

Baba Yasaval hesitated.

‘Speak.’

‘Majesty, my men are growing restless. . They do not like this new land. . these hot, incessant winds. . Many are becoming sick. .’ He paused, torchlight falling on his mosquito-bitten face. ‘We’re not cowards — we never flinched in battle — but this place is alien to us. . We want to return to Kabul. I speak not just for myself and my men but for some of the other commanders. They asked me to speak for all of us.’

‘Summon them here — now.’

Baba Yasaval had spoken from the heart, saying what had been in Babur’s own mind only a few days ago. But hearing those things from the lips of another made him realise how passionately he wanted to keep what he had seized. While he waited, he turned over carefully what he must say. When the commanders were gathered, some avoiding his gaze, he addressed them slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving their faces.

‘Conquest isn’t easy. For years we’ve struggled, overcome great obstacles, travelled great distances, subjected ourselves to hardship and danger, fought great battles. By God’s grace we’ve overcome numerous enemies and conquered a vast new realm. How can we throw away what we have won at such great cost? How can we go back to Kabul and abandon what God has given us? What will our people say of us? That we were afraid of greatness. .’

Babur paused to let his words sink in. ‘Any man who wishes may take his share of the booty and return across the Indus. But I promise you this. When, as old men, you sit by the fire with your grandchildren and they ask you to tell them what great warriors you once were, you will have nothing to say. You will be ashamed to admit that you left your king — no, your emperor — who had given you a chance of seizing the world. . You will stay silent and hang your heads, and your grandchildren will drift away. .’

The commanders looked at one another uneasily and for a few moments there was silence. Then, led by Baba Yasaval, a low chant began, words that Babur had not heard for many years which took him back to his days as boy-king of Ferghana: ‘Babur Mirza! Babur Mirza!’ The chant grew louder and louder, vibrating through the heavy air. They were affirming their allegiance to him, their king and Timur’s heir. They would not leave him. At least, not yet.

Humayun was waiting in the courtyard, his commanders behind him, when, a few days later, Babur rode up the steep ramp into the mighty Agra fortress. As he dismounted, his son knelt briefly before him but Babur quickly raised and embraced him.

‘Father, the treasuries are secured. In the harem we found Sultan Ibrahim’s mother, Buwa, and his wives and concubines. Buwa called us barbarians — she said she despised us. . I ignored her insults and ordered that she and the other women be well treated. . We had no trouble from the local people — indeed, they were relieved to see order restored. When news first came that you had defeated Sultan Ibrahim, bandits — dacoits — took advantage of the chaos to plunder the villages and steal grain, animals and women. We caught some and executed them publicly, here on the parade-ground, in front of the fort where all could see.’

‘You’ve done well. What did you find in the treasuries?’

Humayun grinned. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it — whole vaults filled with gold and silver. . more gems than I would have believed the mines of the world could produce. Everything has been counted, weighed and noted. .’

‘Good. I must reward my men well and I’ll send money to every man, woman and child in Kabul in celebration of our success. In a few days’ time, we will hold a victory feast, but now there are things I need to discuss with you and something I must ask. On the road from Delhi, I had time to reflect. . I thought of other great warriors drawn, like us, to Hindustan — Alexander of Macedonia, who brought his army over the Indus but turned back, and Timur who raided Delhi but did not stay. . I began to wonder whether we could prosper here. . Some of my men, brave as they are, also began to question it. . They don’t like this place. . We could just pile all this treasure on to the backs of our pack-beasts and go home. If we stay, we face many more difficulties and dangers.

‘Panipat was a great victory but it was just the start. Only a part of this land is ours — in truth no more than a corridor a mere two hundred miles wide, even if it does extend a thousand miles down from the Khyber Pass. We’ve met little resistance since Panipat but only because the other rulers of Hindustan have withdrawn to their strongholds to watch and wait. They think we’re mere barbarian raiders, nomads, whose rule will be as easily blown away as the morning mist. Already they will be plotting to challenge and expel us. We must ask ourselves whether we have the stomach to fight and fight again until we can call ourselves secure here. Have you that strength, that will, as I do?’

‘I have, Father.’ Humayun’s brown eyes looked unflinchingly at Babur.

‘Then we cannot fail, I’m sure of it. I’ve chosen a name for our new dynasty and lands. On the journey from Delhi, a messenger caught up with me bearing an impudent message from the Shah of Persia, written before he’d learned of our victory at Panipat. He said that he had heard of my enterprise — a “brigand’s raid” he called it. He called me a “Moghul” — the Persian word for “Mongol” — in hopes of insulting me as a barbarian pillager. But I wrote back that I take as much pride in my descent from Genghis Khan, greatest of all the Mongols, as I do in my descent from Timur. To be called a “Moghul” is no insult. I told him I will carry that name with pride and so will our new empire which, God willing, might soon eclipse his own.’

Preceded by two guards with drawn ceremonial swords, Babur slowly approached the gilded leather double-doors of what had been Sultan Ibrahim’s private entrance to his apartments where his commanders now awaited him for the victory feast. Their men were already celebrating in the courtyards below and in tents set up along the riverbanks. No one who had helped in his victory must go unrewarded.

In the torchlight the emeralds in Babur’s turban flashed. Round his neck hung a triple string of yet more emeralds intertwined with pearls and on his finger was Timur’s ring. His green brocade tunic was fastened at one side with bunches of pearls and Alamgir hung from a heavy gold chain at his waist. Gazing at his reflection a few minutes earlier he had been satisfied to see a glittering image — the embodiment of power and magnificence.

To a blast of trumpets, attendants threw open the doors and Babur entered. Instantly there was silence as each of his commanders, themselves elaborately dressed, fell to the ground to perform the formal obeisance of the korunush. Ahead of Babur in the very centre of the room was a tiered white marble dais. On the highest tier was a golden, jewel-encrusted throne beneath a green and yellow canopy. His commanders, lined up in rows before the dais, remained prostrate while Babur, head high, back straight, ascended it, took his place and gestured to Humayun to seat himself on a blue velvet stool placed on the right side of the tier below.

‘You may rise.’ Babur waited until all eyes were upon him. ‘God was magnanimous to us at Panipat. He gave us victory because ours was a just cause. The throne of Hindustan is our birthright. Sultan Ibrahim, who tried to oppose us, is dead. All of us — all of you, my commanders, who came through fire and water with me — are the victors. This is the beginning of a new page of our history, a new destiny for our people, now that we have made ourselves the masters of Hindustan. Still greater glories lie ahead, but tonight let us forget everything but the sweet taste of our victory. .’ Babur stood, raised his arms above his head and cried, ‘ To our new empire!’ as a great roar of acclamation burst out around him.

Sultan Ibrahim had lived well, Babur thought a little while later as he looked critically about him. With its finely carved red sandstone columns, central cupola and rose-pink silken hangings this chamber was more magnificent than anything he had seen since Samarkand. Fragrant smoke curled from two tall golden incense burners shaped like peacocks with outspread tails of sapphires and emeralds on either side of the dais. The wall to Babur’s right was a carved sandalwood purdah screen separating the room from the adjoining harem.

In the week since he and his exhausted army had arrived at Agra, the temperature had fallen a little and a breeze had at last begun to blow — perhaps this always happened in the last days before the rains or perhaps it was just good fortune. Babur watched the silk hangings stirring gently.

He and his guests were also being cooled by punkahs, huge rectangular pieces of flowered brocade suspended on long silk cords which ran through iron rings in the ceiling before disappearing through small apertures high in the walls to be pulled by punkah wallahs — concealed on the other side — so that the brocade swung slowly to and fro above the diners’ heads. At low tables set up along the walls facing Babur, they were feeding on roasted mutton, stewed chickens and flat bread, the food of their homeland, but also the fruits of Hindustan: orange-fleshed mangoes oozing juice, creamy, soft papaya and dates.

Many, like him, traced their descent from the clans of Genghis Khan and Timur. All had served him well. Before the feasting had begun, he had bestowed gifts — robes of honour of scarlet silk, sable jackets faced in blue, jewelled daggers, swords and gilded saddles. Babur could see their satisfaction. Baba Yasaval was examining the emerald-studded hilt of the curved sabre he had given him.

As he ate, Babur glanced towards the purdah screen to his right. Normally during feasts the royal women would have been sitting behind it, observing what was happening through the fretwork as they feasted, too. Could Buwa in her apartments within the harem hear these sounds of celebration coming from her son’s former quarters? Babur hoped not. Her grief and courage, as much as her royal blood, deserved his respect. The venomous words she had spat at Humayun were no reason to punish her. Wouldn’t Esan Dawlat have said exactly same if it was Babur who had been killed and his throne seized? He had decreed that Buwa could keep her jewels and servants and had granted her a pension. He hoped that in time she would be reconciled by his generosity.

Earlier that day, on the banks of the river, Babur had staged fights between trained male elephants from Sultan Ibrahim’s stables with names like Mountain Destroyer and Ever Bold. Goaded by riders sitting on their necks, the enormous, painted beasts had faced one another across a specially constructed earth rampart, slashing at each other with their great tusks until one lost heart and retreated. Now it was time for something different — the Hindustani acrobats and dancers who had belonged to Ibrahim’s household. Babur clapped his hands.

Two young men, their oiled bodies naked but for orange loincloths, their long black hair knotted on top of their heads, ran lightly in to where space had been cleared before Babur’s dais. Between them they carried an oblong yellow box about three feet long and eighteen inches wide with a mysterious eye painted in red on each side. They put the box down and stepped away from it. Babur’s men gasped as, slowly — as if of its own accord — the lid began to open. One small hand appeared, and then another, and suddenly the lid was thrown back to reveal a boy with his legs hooked back over his shoulders. It seemed incredible that any human — even one as lithe as this youth who must be double-jointed — could contort himself into such a space. Unravelling himself, the boy stepped out of the box and, as the other two acrobats spun brass hoops around their foreheads, knees, hands and feet, somersaulted around the room, slim legs flashing so fast they were a blur.

Next, one of the young men jumped up on the shoulders of the other and the boy then shinned up the two of them as easily as if he were climbing an apple tree. Balancing on the head of the topmost man, he threw back his own head and a rush of flame came from his mouth. Babur’s commanders yelled their approval. Quick as a flash the boy was on the floor again. Coiling up his limbs, he fitted himself back into his box and, with a farewell flourish of his hand, snapped the lid shut. The other two acrobats bowed before Babur, who threw them gold coins. Then they picked up the box and to thunderous applause bore it away.

A rhythmic stamping and jingling announced a line of eight barefoot dancing girls who entered the chamber one by one through a small servants’ door. At the same time, musicians came in by another entrance. The girls formed a circle before Babur. Their thick, dark hair was plaited with sweet-smelling white flowers. Above red and purple many-layered skirts their midriffs were bare. Tight-fitting silk bodices revealed more than they concealed of their breasts, and rows of tiny bells were twined round their wrists and ankles. Six drummers in baggy white trousers and with chests naked beneath open gold-cloth waistcoats began to beat with their palms on the long, thin drums suspended from around their necks, jumping and swaying in time to the beat. The dancers’ bodies began to undulate rhythmically. Soon they were whirling faster and faster, skirts flying up around them revealing their long, slender legs and hands pressed together above their thrown-back heads. As they danced they sang, their high-pitched, honey-sweet voices rising and falling.

The other musicians joined in, playing instruments Babur had never seen before — a sort of lute but with a neck over a metre long that he was told was a tanpura, another stringed instrument with two bowls, a rudra-vina, and a wind instrument like a compressed trumpet, a shahnai. Babur felt the whole performance with its fluid, lithe young bodies, pulsing drums, plangent strings and cascading voices was of an overwhelming, compelling sensuality unique to his new kingdom.

It was late but Babur realised that his men, pulses raised by the dancers, were just getting started. Some were singing, in deep bass voices, the songs of the steppes and mountains they’d left behind. Others were getting up, arm in arm, to dance wild, martial dances, stamping and shouting, sharing this great moment of joy and triumph. Humayun left his stool to join them.

Babur, though, was lost in his thoughts. He was celebrating more than a victory. Tonight was the start of a new phase in his life when he would bring everything he had done, everything he had learned, to glorious fruition. But the elation was bitter-sweet. Another face should have been at the feast, sharing in it all, but wasn’t — that of his truest friend and wisest commander. Babur picked up his goblet and drank a silent tribute to Baburi.