Raiders from the North

Chapter 25

‘The water channels will intersect there, in a pool at the center, which will have fountains and water lilies. I intend to plant apple, pear and quince trees in the garden to remind me of our homeland. The gardeners say they will need to be watered every day in this climate but labourers are plentiful and cheap.’

Babur and Humayun were standing on the north bank of the Jumna river, about a mile downstream from where its brown waters took a sharp, right-angled turn by the Agra fort. Babur was showing his son the progress the workers had made on the first garden he had commissioned in Agra.

‘What else will you have planted?’

‘I want lots of sweet-smelling plants that will produce scent during the evening — one of my favourite times for sitting in the garden. The chief gardener tells me that there are many kinds of stocks and also the creamy, white, night-flowering champa flower that will suit my purpose. He is a good man and works well to my instructions, even though he was once one of Sultan Ibrahim’s gardeners.’ Babur paused. ‘I only wish more people, both inside and outside our borders, were as ready to accept us as the new masters of Hindustan. I understand — even if I don’t accept — the hostility of those who had close ties to Sultan Ibrahim. I can hardly blame his mother for what she did — it was a kind of display of loyalty, I suppose. Nor am I too worried about the Shah of Persia at the moment, even though he is always craftily probing our north-western borders in Afghanistan, trying to buy supporters around Kandahar and Quetta. We have enough money from the miserly Ibrahim’s brimming treasuries to outbribe the shah — at least for now.’

‘Who is it then that concerns you most?’

‘The Rajputs, to the west of us here in Agra. From their strong citadels and mountain fortresses they used to maintain a kind of armed neutrality with Ibrahim, even sometimes hiring him soldiers to fight in his distant campaigns. They are brave, brave soldiers — a warrior people with a heroic code of honour, never retreating and never surrendering.’

Babur paused again. ‘Reports have kept reaching me over the past few weeks of the boasting of Rana Sanga, the ruler of Mewar, the strongest and most wealthy of the Rajput kingdoms, that he will rid Hindustan of us, the upstart invaders, and put a true Hindu — himself, of course — on the throne for the first time in three hundred years.’

‘Will the rest of the Rajput kingdoms support him?’

‘Probably not. They’re a jealous, independent lot, as touchy of their honour, as suspicious of each other and as quick to pick a fight as some of our own Afghan chiefs. The other Rajput rulers won’t want to see him even more powerful.’

‘How much trouble could he make on his own?’

‘Plenty. He has a large, loyal and well-trained army. Even though he’s ageing, he’s still a good tactician and a great warrior, who prides himself on always leading the charge himself. He also makes a virtue of the number of times he’s been wounded and lost parts of his body. I hear that his court poet brags on his behalf that he is “a mere fragment of a man but what a fragment”. He lost one eye in a fight with his brother, his arm in a battle against Sultan Ibrahim, and he limps from a severe leg wound. He has eighty wounds scattered across what remains of his scrawny body and his poet claims the randy old goat has fathered a son for each of them.’

‘I’d heard that too. He must have plenty of wives — and clearly at least one part of his anatomy remains intact. How long can we leave him to posture without confronting him?’

‘That’s the very question I’ve been turning over in my mind. It’s only nine months since we defeated Ibrahim. Our grip on our conquest is not yet secure and the future of our dynasty here in Hindustan hangs in the balance. I would like to think that you, your brothers and your children will enjoy these gardens. Only this morning I learned that Rana Sanga has made another incursion into our territory on the pretext of chasing rebels. Admittedly it lasted only a week but he penetrated deeper than before. .’

‘We can’t let him ride into our domains whenever he wishes. If we let him continue to treat them pretty much as his own it will be seen as weakness — and rightly so. He needs teaching respect now.’

‘I’m losing your youthful ardour for war, but you are right. We’re going to have to fight him some time and better to do it sooner than later to safeguard our martial reputation and, more importantly, while we’re still the only people in Hindustan with cannons and muskets. At least another campaign will curb any restlessness among our own young bloods. The prospect of battle and plunder will give them something to think about. I will call a military council for tomorrow to begin our preparations. .’

Babur turned in his saddle. Humayun was quite close behind but his bodyguard was strung out some way further back. He was hot and sweating, and dust had stuck to every inch of his exposed flesh, crusting around his eyes, but he was delighted that at forty-four he had ridden a hundred and fifty miles in two and a half days and had still been able to out-gallop his men to this hilltop vantage-point.

The rocky outcrop gave a fine view over the dry deserts of Rajasthan, but there was little enough else to be pleased about. He had ridden the hundred and fifty miles in pursuit of Rana Sanga but he and his men had not even come in sight of the rana’s main army, not even a glimpse of their dust on the horizon. He had been on campaign for the last six weeks but during that time had been unable to bring his enemy into a pitched battle in which his muskets and cannon — including one he had had newly cast which could throw a ball over three-quarters of a mile — could be deployed to good effect.

The wily rana had wisely preferred a war of movement, using his more mobile forces to make hit-and-run raids on Babur’s forts and supply caravans, just as Babur had once done from the hills above Ferghana against his half-brother Jahangir’s men. The raids had weakened the morale of Babur’s battalions, leaving them edgy and always on the lookout for attack. The raids had also forced Babur to detach more and more of his best troops from his main force to guard the baggage train.

Humayun was at his side now. ‘I can still outride you just as I could when you had the little white pony ten years ago. .’

‘You have the best horse and there’d be a different result if we were on foot,’ responded Humayun, provoked almost despite himself into adolescent competition with his father and an adolescent touchiness about any perceived failure.

‘I was only joking. Anyway, neither of us seems able to catch the rana and he’s older than both of us and crippled. The plain out there is deserted. We need to think again. Let’s dine alone so that we can talk frankly.’

The two servants dressed in white tunics and baggy trousers disappeared through the tent flaps carrying the remains of the last course of the dinner — oranges, nuts and sticky sweetmeats. Babur and Humayun lay back from the low table against the large purple cushions embroidered with elephants and peacocks that had once graced Ibrahim’s palace in Delhi. Each had a gold goblet of red wine, newly arrived from the vineyards of Ghazni, south of Kabul.

‘I’ve been thinking how we can entice Rana Sanga into conflict.’ Humayun put his goblet down. ‘We both know that, for the Rajputs, honour — their personal honour, their family honour — is everything. We should occupy a place of particular importance to the rana so that he will believe his honour has been impaired if he doesn’t re-capture it quickly.’

‘A good idea in principle but have you actually got anywhere in mind?’

‘I asked some of the native chiefs we number among our allies. They tell me that Sanga’s mother was born in a small village called Khanua at the edge of his territories twenty miles north-west of Agra — about seventy-five miles south-west of here. He built a shrine there to one of his gods in her honour and still worships there once a year.’

‘You’ve certainly done some thinking. I’ll send scouts first thing in the morning to check the terrain between Khanua and here and also to see whether the place itself looks a good one for us to fight. If all goes well, I should be able to order our forces to concentrate there within a few days. But you’re not the only one who’s been thinking. I’ve been worrying about how to hearten those of our men unsettled by Sanga’s success in his hit-and-run raids.’

‘Where have your thoughts led you?’

‘Perhaps in a strange direction. All of my previous campaigns have been against armies that included at least some men who shared our faith. This time our opponents are all Hindus — that is to say, infidels. We will declare holy war — jihad.’

‘But now we’re in Hindustan, some of our allies among the local rulers are Hindus, too.’

‘We’ll make sure we detach them from the main army for this battle. In any case, I’ve been worried about the loyalty — or, at least, the effectiveness — of some of them for a while now. They can garrison rear areas or some such.’

‘It may work.’

‘It will work. . I’ve even thought of how to symbolise this change. This fine red wine of Ghazni I’ve drunk tonight will be the last alcohol I shall taste. I’ll pour the remainder of the shipment away in front of our men when I tell them of the jihad.’

‘But you’ve drunk all my life. .’

‘Yes and I’ve enjoyed spirits, bhang and the fruit of the opium poppy, I know. We people of Timur’s blood — and of Genghis’s — have taken strong drink since long before the mullahs brought the true religion to us. Fermented mare’s milk — kvass — was, after all, what kept Genghis’s people alive in the winter cold on the high steppes. All but the strictest mullahs realised it would be impossible to change people completely and at once. They lauded abstinence as the ideal and helped the pious and ascetic to achieve it but tolerated drinking among men of the world. They encouraged us to forswear it for short periods — such as during our holy month of Ramadan and as we became older and could sooner expect to be called to account by our creator.’

Babur took another sip. ‘Yes, wine is good and I’m known to enjoy it. That’s why my renouncing it will have a big impact on morale. That’s why I’m expecting you to renounce it too.’

Humayun grimaced.

‘You must — at least for a while. . I’ll make the announcement to our troops in a couple of days or so when I’ve had a chance to tell the mullahs and detach our Hindu allies to other tasks.’

Babur’s army was drawn up in a hollow square at the centre of which was a raised wooden dais, covered with gold cloth, on which their emperor stood in his green robes. His belt was of intertwined pearls and round his neck he wore a gorget of uncut rubies and emeralds. His gold crown was on his head and his sword, Alamgir, was at his side. Next to him, Humayun was similarly royally attired, and they were surrounded by their senior mullahs, all in black and each with the Holy Book in his right hand.

Babur began to speak: ‘Men, we march tomorrow for what I intend to be our climactic confrontation with this upstart Rana of Mewar, who dares invade our territories. He is not a man of our religion. He does not follow the one true God but worships many. He mistakenly believes he will be reincarnated on earth many times. That may be what makes him so reckless. We must show him the superiority of our religion and of our courage. We are not afraid to lose our one life because we are certain of Paradise if we fall martyrs in our battle against the infidel. I have consulted our mullahs, these wise and holy men you see around me. They have agreed that because we fight against infidels, to demonstrate the superiority of our divinely inspired courage, we should declare this a jihad, a holy war. We fight for our God, for our beliefs. We will conquer in their name. Allah akbar! God is great!’

A loud cry of approval went up from the army’s front ranks, spreading and growing in volume and fervour as it was relayed to the outermost. Soldiers raised their swords and banged their shields.

After a few minutes, Babur lowered his hands repeatedly, palms down, to signify he wanted silence once more. As the crowd hushed he spoke again: ‘You know me as a man who has not always succeeded in following all of God’s teaching. Weak, as we all are, I have indulged my senses. You know I have enjoyed alcohol. You may have heard of the wine of Ghazni — the finest of the year’s crop — that I had shipped down the Khyber Pass only a week ago to indulge myself. To show my passion for our holy war I now renounce alcohol and so does my son, Humayun. To symbolise this, we will pour away the fine Ghazni wine I imported into Hindustan with such effort.’

As he spoke, he and Humayun both raised axes above their heads and brought them crashing down on the wooden barrels of wine that had been placed before the dais, smashing them open so that the ruby-red wine flowed out to soak into the dust. The roar that followed was even greater than the first. Babur’s nobles and generals, as well as many of the common soldiers, vied with each other to shout that they, too, wished to reform and renounce intoxicants. . that, purified and renewed, they would conquer. .

Babur stood at the top of a low hill overlooking the red sand of the Rajasthan desert at Khanua. Behind him was the village itself, mainly mud-brick houses but, at its centre, the intricately carved sandstone Hindu temple raised by Rana Sanga in memory of his mother. Babur had made the shaven-headed, white-robed priests watch while his men defaced or chiselled out all references to the rana or his mother on the temple. Then he had expelled the priests from the village, knowing they would take the news to the rana.

Predictably, Rana Sanga’s Rajput honour had been unable to stomach the insult and he was now encamped about three miles away on the plain below. Although his camp was shrouded in early-morning mist, only a few minutes ago scouts despatched before dawn had reported back to Babur that they had heard and seen the unmistakable sights and sounds of preparation for battle — cooking fires doused, swords sharpened, horses saddled and orders shouted.

Babur’s own deployments had been agreed a few days previously — immediately after the arrival of his army at Khanua — in the familiar surroundings of his scarlet tent.

‘I believe we should follow basically the same battle plan as at Panipat,’ he had begun, ‘but we should use the hill to strengthen our position further. Let us place the cannon on the hilltop and dig trenches and build ramparts around the hill to protect them.’

Then one of Babur’s longest serving commanders, the usually taciturn Hassan Hizari, a Tajik from Badakhshan who had been with him for more than twenty years, had spoken. ‘That is well, Majesty, but Sanga has fewer than two hundred elephants and relies mainly on his cavalry. Our perimeter will be longer than at Panipat. Horses are much nimbler than the lumbering elephants, if less frightening. Even if the Rajputs lose some of their cavalry to cannon shot, it won’t deter them. Many will simply jump the ditches and barricades. We must be ready for at least some to penetrate our perimeter.’

‘You’re right, of course. We’ll need to station archers and musketeers as a further line of defence halfway up the hill.’

‘ We will need cavalry up there, too, to rush to any breach,’ Humayun had added. ‘Let me take charge of them.’ Babur had not had the heart to deny him.

Over the past few days Babur’s troops had put the plans into practice, digging earthworks and positioning cannon with the help of oxen. They had even made some of the wagons into a kind of movable barricade by encasing their sides and wheels in thick planks.

When Humayun had reviewed the dispositions with Babur only a few minutes earlier they had found need for only the most minor adjustments. After embracing his father, Humayun had departed to take up his position with his cavalry detachments a little further down the hill. Left alone on the hilltop Babur prayed for Humayun’s safety in the coming battle. Despite his son’s protests, he had ensured that the young man had a strong bodyguard — forty men from Hassan Hizari’s Tajiks. He could do no more but still he was anxious — the memory of Baburi’s hand trailing in the dust after Panipat remained vivid. .

By now the mist was beginning to lift and Babur could see that the Rajputs were deploying fully. There were rank after rank of horsemen. Babur’s spies had estimated that the rana’s forces outnumbered his own by at least four to one.

Suddenly a tall Rajput galloped towards Babur’s lines. He was dressed all in orange, his saddle and bridle ornamented with tassels of the same colour. His white horse’s head was protected by a steel headguard that glinted in the morning light. He wheeled his horse within just a hundred yards of Babur’s defences to shout what sounded like a herald’s challenge. Babur’s response was to send an order to his matchlock men to shoot the herald down. They obeyed. The man fell from his horse, but his foot caught in the stirrup and the animal bolted back towards the Rajput lines dragging its rider along, his orange-turbaned head quickly reduced to bloody pulp as it banged along the rocky ground.

Just as Babur had intended, his contempt for the traditional challenge goaded the Rajputs into a headlong, undisciplined charge. Their horsemen soon outdistanced the hundred or so armoured elephants Rana Sanga had deployed. Babur lowered his sword as a sign to his artillerymen, musketeers and archers to fire as soon as their enemy was in range. From his position on the hill, the Rajputs seemed like a great wave rushing forward to engulf his perimeter. Often a man or a horse fell. Sometimes a cannon ball stopped an elephant in its seemingly ambling but actually speedy run. But nothing stopped the onward charge, until it crashed around the trenches and barricades from behind which Babur’s archers were firing as fast as they could draw arrows from their quivers.

Babur could see the flashes as the musketeers discharged their weapons further up the hill and, nearer still, acrid white smoke billowing from the cannons’ mouths. Around the western side of his perimeter, Babur saw the wave of Rajput horsemen break and dissipate their force and after swirling around in front of the barricades pull back to regroup. However, to the east, a number of Rajputs who had jumped the earth ramparts and kicked their horses on up the hill were scattering a group of musketeers and archers. Babur saw several slashed down by the Rajputs who then turned their mounts towards the cannon.

Immediately, Babur signalled to Humayun that his cavalry must charge. Humayun, his Tajik bodyguard around him, led them pell-mell down the hill to crash into the Rajputs. Several Rajputs fell, their horses knocked over by the sheer weight and speed of Humayun’s charge. Others were still fighting and more were joining them by jumping the barricades from which the defenders had retreated. Humayun seemed to be fighting well but through the drifting smoke Babur saw that the Rajputs were pressing round him. Then the smoke enveloped him and his bodyguards completely.

To Babur it seemed an age before the smoke cleared again. But it was in fact only a short time before he could make out that the Rajputs were now turning back down the hill and the few survivors were retreating back beyond the barricades. Five minutes later Humayun rode up.

‘There was so much smoke I couldn’t see what happened properly.’

‘Our first charge knocked them back a little but they regrouped and, seeing I was the leader, tried to cut me out from the rest.’

‘That much I saw.’

‘Well, my brave bodyguard held them off and I decided to repay the Rajputs in kind. We broke out of the heaving melee and charged one of their officers — a great black-bearded man with peacock feathers in his turban. I got in the first and only blow, slashing him across the face and neck, and down he went, backwards out of the saddle on to the rocky ground, to lie motionless. His men seemed to lose heart and we pushed them back, helped by the surviving musketeers who had taken up new positions on the flanks. Soon our perimeter was secure again and the front-line barricades were remanned.’

‘You did well.’

‘Shouldn’t we follow up and attack them?’

‘Not yet. Neither their strength nor their will is exhausted. See? They’re massing for another attack. Tell the bearers to get water-bottles and new supplies of arrows to our men. The fight is not yet over.’

Babur was proved right. The Rajputs continued to make periodic attacks throughout the heat of the day. Each time they were repulsed without breaking the perimeter, leaving wounded or dying men and horses piled around the barricades. Babur saw one wounded Rajput half walking, half crawling back towards the Rajput lines. Slowly and agonisingly, he made about seven hundred yards when a new Rajput cavalry charge rode over him and his body was crushed and spreadeagled in the stony desert dust. His turban, half-unwound and occasionally caught by a breeze, was the only movement from the corpse.

The sun was low in the sky when Humayun, at his father’s side, pointed towards yet another regrouping. ‘They seem to be massing again. There are elephants and cavalry as before, but in the middle there’s a large number of men on foot. Something we’ve not seen before — and there seem more of them than ever. It’s as if their camp-followers and servants have joined the front line.’

‘They probably have. I’ve heard that even the humblest water-carrier prefers to sacrifice his life in one last charge than to return home in defeat. They call these charges jauhur. Beforehand they pray and sacrifice to their gods to stiffen their resolve.’

‘One of our Hindustani allies told me they also chew opium pellets to deaden the fear as well as the pain of any wounds. .’

‘No doubt. Here they come again. .’

The blare of trumpets, the mesmeric tattoo of drums and the clash of cymbals grew louder as the Rajputs advanced, moving more slowly this time because so many were on foot.

‘Tell my groom to ready my horse,’ Babur shouted to Humayun. ‘I will lead the charge when the time comes.’

‘I’ll be with you.’

‘But first pass the word to our drummers to out-sound the Rajputs, and tell our officers that each time the Rajputs give their war-cry, our men should reply, “Allah akbar” — it will hearten them.’

On came the ragged line of Rajputs. Babur’s artillery despatched cannon balls into them, knocking men over. Musketeers and archers emptied saddles. Sometimes an elephant would lurch and fall or — wounded and in panic — turn to the rear, scattering those around it. Still the Rajput drummers kept up their hypnotic beat. Gaps in the lines of men were filled. To Babur, the noise of drums and trumpets and the mingled cries of ‘Mewar’ and ‘Allah akbar’, resounding in his head, seemed to drown the cannon shot and the screams of the wounded.

When they were about two hundred yards away from the barricades, the Rajput cavalry jabbed their horses into action, riding over the bodies of the dead and wounded from previous attacks. The infantry used their fallen comrades as soft stepping stones across the trenches and aids to climb the barricades. All along the perimeter the fighting was hand to hand, personal and determined. But the greatest crush was directly downhill from Babur and Humayun.

‘That is where we aim our charge.’ Drawing Alamgir, Babur ordered his cavalry to attack once more, then led them at a gallop down the hill through the remaining barricades and into the fray. Again, the shock of their downhill charge hurled the Rajputs back, their horses rearing and trampling foot-soldiers. As he rode on, Babur saw a Rajput archer aim at him, and before he could reach him to cut him down, the arrow had thudded into the leather pommel of his saddle. Babur slashed at the archer’s unprotected body — few Rajputs deigned to wear chain-mail even if they could afford it — and he fell beneath Babur’s horse.

Once through the mass of Rajputs, Babur wheeled his horse and waited while his men and Humayun, who to Babur’s consternation had lost his helmet, re-formed around him. Then they charged into the Rajputs again, this time from the rear. Although they fought bravely, the orange-clad Rajputs were soon surrounded, separated into isolated groups and beginning to be overwhelmed. When one band of five men was given the chance to surrender, they embraced then plunged their swords into each other. But everywhere the clamour of battle was lessening. Babur realised victory was his.

Then he noticed that, a hundred yards to his right, Humayun was on the ground and three of his bodyguards were cutting his garments from his lower body. Paternal anxiety overwhelmed the joy of victory as he rode over. With intense relief he saw that Humayun was conscious, though grimacing in pain. ‘It’s just an arrow in the thigh — a lucky shot from way over there as the Rajputs were retreating.’

The arrow still protruding from his son’s leg and blood was seeping from around the metal head, only half of which had embedded itself in Humayun. ‘It seems not to have penetrated too far. All the same it needs to come out at once — I know from years of battle. I will hold my son’s shoulders,’ Babur said to the bodyguards. ‘One of you hold his ankles. The strongest of you draw it out. It’s very important you pull straight — no twisting. Humayun, keep still!’

Babur gripped his son’s shoulders. Instantly, one of his bodyguards grabbed Humayun’s feet and another stooped, gripped the arrow shaft in both hands and, in a single movement, pulled it out. Blood spurted but soon subsided.

‘Bind a pad of cloth tightly over it. Praise God, he will live to share in our victory. Prepare a litter to carry him to his tent.’

‘No, Father. I will ride with you to review our troops once I am bandaged and dressed in clean clothes.’

Half an hour later, Babur and Humayun rode around the battlefield in the dusk. By the light of flaring torches, Babur’s stretcher-bearers were bending over the bodies of his men, separating the living from the dead. Camp-followers and scavengers scuttled around the field under cover of the gloom to pick over the Rajput dead for objects of value, roughly pulling aside bodies and brawling over the richest-looking corpses. They disappeared into the darkness as Babur, Humayun and their entourage approached closer.

Father and son were quiet as they reached the tents to which their wounded were being brought. Some men were lying still and quiet, some trying to drive away the black flies crawling across their bodies and clustering on their wounds, some screaming out in pain, others biting the backs of their hands to prevent themselves from doing so and yet others begging for help.

‘So it’s true, Father, as you once said, that the badly wounded cry either for their mothers or for God.’

‘Their mothers have been their greatest and most unquestioning comfort in this world, and God is their greatest hope for the next.’ Babur paused, then continued, ‘We must give thanks that the bravery and sacrifice of these men have made us undisputed masters of Hindustan. We must repay them by seeing that the families of the fallen are cared for and those who survive compensated. Above all, we owe it to them and to ourselves not to squander the results of their sacrifice. Nevertheless, we should not dwell on sacrifice and death. Both — whether of the rulers or the ruled — are essential to all empires. To become overly concerned about them is to grow weak and indecisive. Tonight we should rejoice in our victory. We have vanquished our greatest enemy. When they hear of his utter defeat, other rulers will not dare to attack us. We have secured a bright future for our dynasty.’

In the late afternoon of the next day as shadows were lengthening, Babur once more addressed his troops, assembled around him. Many were bandaged and some supported themselves on crutches.

‘Men, let us rejoice and give thanks to God for the great victory you have won by your courage and belief in our righteous cause. We have shown ourselves once more worthy successors to the noble Timur and history will remember us as such. We celebrated last night and when we are back in Agra, which lies scarcely four days’ march away, I will again break open my treasuries and reward each and every one of you.

‘Last night I learned from a prisoner that late in the battle Rana Sanga — our insolent opponent who dared set his power against ours — was wounded in the abdomen so badly that he had to be carried from the field in a litter slung between four horses. Today, scouts checking that the Rajputs were not regrouping came in sight of a great funeral pyre being built ten miles west of here. A peasant working in the fields told them it was for Rana Sanga, who had died nearby, and that those building it were the surviving members of his bodyguard. Our scouts hid in tall crops nearby until they saw it was indeed his body that was placed on the pyre. They rode away only after they had witnessed the torch applied to the base of the brushwood. Looking back, they saw orange flames flare to the sky. The rana did not live to boast of his eighty-first wound. The flames consumed not only him but Rajput ambitions to deprive us of our new lands.

‘To ensure any surviving rebels or others who wish ill to our empire understand the futility of opposing us, we will again follow the custom of Timur. I have ordered the corpses of our enemies to be decapitated and the heads collected to be piled in towers at every crossroad from here to Agra. Let the hopes of our enemies rot with them.’

That evening Humayun made his way to the part of his father’s vast scarlet campaign tent that contained his private quarters. His mind was buzzing with images of battle and his ambitions for his own place in the new empire. He must be his father’s heir. After all, he was his eldest son — even though under the traditions of Timur and his descendants the eldest did not succeed by right — and also the son of Babur’s favourite wife. Now he had proved himself in battle too. Perhaps he should broach the subject of succession with his father now. Or, at least, seek a new command in which he could impress further.

Pushing aside the heavy gold curtains which shielded his father’s quarters, he saw Babur stretched out on a low divan covered with gold-embroidered cream and purple cushions, a silver pipe at his side. He seemed neither to see nor hear Humayun enter but continued to gaze into the middle distance. Coming closer, Humayun saw that his father’s expression was of a benign content and that the pupils of his green eyes were dilated. He put out a hand and shook Babur gently by the shoulder. His eyelids fluttered briefly and his eyes began to focus. ‘Humayun, when did you come in?’

‘Only a minute or two ago.’

‘After dinner, I took a pipe of bhang and opium, which seemed to transport me away from this brown-baked land with its multitudes of people and all the cares of conquest. I was back on the hillsides of Ferghana. The emerald grass was waving, dotted with the scarlet of tulips and the blue of irises. I watched the waters of the cascading rivulets sparkle and glisten — each drop holding a world within itself. The sound of the soft breezes and the tinkling of water filled my ears. I felt the lightness, the carelessness of a young man. Peace washed over me and took away my worries and responsibilities.’ Babur smiled a tranquil, slightly dazed smile. ‘What do you say? Should we call for some of those excellent rosewater-flavoured sweetmeats?’

Humayun realised it was no time to talk of his ambitions. His father was relaxing into some of his old distractions. Perhaps he should, too. The red wines of Ghazni were good. It wouldn’t be long before he at least would be drinking them again. ‘I only came in to tell you that the preparations are well under way for the beginning of our march back to Agra tomorrow and, of course, to say good night.’

As he made his way back to his own tent, Humayun looked up into a night sky pricked by stars. As he watched, more appeared, patterning the heavens. Suddenly he felt impatient with the clamour of the camp, noisy with men and animals, and the crackling of fires whose flames seemed crude compared with the celestial light above. He called for his horse, mounted and rode out into the darkness to be alone with his thoughts beneath the silent stars.