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before her and, as she wept, wailed and cursed him, he ordered her throat to be cut

– “to silence her whining”, he said.’

Babur’s head was reeling. His informant hadn’t seen any of these things for him-

self and perhaps the details were wrong, but Babur didn’t doubt the essence of the

story – that Shaibani Khan had tricked and killed Jahangir and Tambal and had

taken Ferghana for himself. Neither did he doubt Roxanna’s fate and for a moment

felt a fleeting pity for his father’s concubine.

At dawn, after a restless night, Babur untethered his horse and rode alone to-

wards a steep ridge from which he knew he could see Akhsi. His stallion was

sweating as they breasted the summit. Far below, with the Jaxartes curling past, he saw the fortress built by his ancestors, their stronghold for so long.

A banner was streaming proudly above the gate. From this distance Babur

couldn’t distinguish the colour but he knew it wasn’t the bright yellow of Ferghana.

It was the black of Shaibani Khan, who had stolen his ancestral lands just as he

had seized Samarkand. Babur couldn’t hold back the tears that ran down his face

or control the sobs that shook him. But it didn’t matter. Up here on the mountain

ridge there was no one to see, only the hawks circling high above.

‘It is the only way.’ Esan Dawlat’s voice was insistent. ‘He will kill you just as he murdered Jahangir and your cousin, Mahmud Khan. He has sworn to exterminate

every prince of Timur’s house and, I tell you, he means to keep his oath.’

‘I won’t run from him. I’m no coward . . .’

‘Then you are a fool instead. He commands armies of thousands. Over the sum-

mer, since he captured Samarkand and then Ferghana, the tribes of the northern

steppes have rallied to his banner. His strength increases daily while yours dimin-

ishes.’ Esan Dawlat spat into the fire – something which Babur had never seen her

do before. ‘What support do you have?’ she continued. ‘Fifty? A hundred? The

rest have slunk back to their villages. You don’t even have a wife . . . or an heir.’

Esan Dawlat blamed him for that, but he was glad Ayisha had gone for good.

The blunt message that had arrived from Ibrahim Saru that he had never intended

to give his daughter to a landless pauper and that the marriage was dissolved had

afforded Babur as much satisfaction as it had angered his grandmother. According

to the messenger who had delivered the letter – and returned the wedding jewellery

Babur had given her – the talk was that Ayisha was shortly to marry a man of her

own tribe to whom she had been promised before Babur’s offer of marriage. At

least Babur thought he might now understand the reason for her coldness towards

him, but as far as he was concerned Ayisha could lie in another man’s bed – any

man who could thaw her was welcome.

‘I have no time for a wife,’ he said bluntly. ‘It is my destiny to be a king and I

must strike back . . .’

‘If you truly believe in your destiny you will listen.

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