In a small dusty fortress in Central Asia in the summer of 1494, the baked-mud battlements, grey as elephant’s hide in daytime, were pinkening before Babur’s eyes with the sunset. Far beneath, the Jaxartes river gleamed a dull red as it flowed westward across the darkening plains. Babur shifted his weight on the stone step and returned his attention to his father, the king, who was pacing the fortress walls, hands clasped against the turquoise fastenings of his robes. His face was working excitedly as he launched into the story his twelve-year-old son had heard so many times before. But it was worth the retelling, Babur reflected. He listened carefully, alert for the new embellishments that always crept in. His lips moved with his father’s when the king reached the climax — the one part that never changed, each of its grandiose phrases sacrosanct.

‘And so it happened that our ancestor the great Timur — Timur the Warrior, whose name meant “Iron” and whose horses sweated blood as he galloped through the world — won a vast empire. Though he was so cruelly injured in his youth that one leg was longer than the other and he walked with a limp, he conquered from Delhi to the Mediterranean, from wealthy Persia to the wildernesses along the Volga. But was that enough for Timur? Of course not! Even when many years were upon him, he was still strong and robust in body, hard like a rock, his ambition boundless.