His final enterprise was ninety years ago against China. He rode out with the thunder of two hundred thousand horsemen in his ears and victory would have been his, had Allah not summoned him to rest with him in Paradise. But how did Timur, this greatest of warriors — greater even than your other ancestor Genghis Khan — do all this? I see the question in your eyes, my son, and you are right to ask it.’

The king patted Babur’s head approvingly, seeing that he held his complete attention. Then he resumed, voice rising and falling with poetic fervour.

‘Timur was clever and brave but, above all, he was a great leader of men. My grandfather told me that his eyes were like candles without brilliance. Once men looked into those slits of muted light they could not turn away. And as Timur gazed into their souls he spoke of glory that would echo through the centuries and stir the lifeless dust that would be all that was left of their bones on earth. He spoke of gleaming gold and shimmering gems. He spoke of fine-boned women whose black hair hung like curtains of silk such as they had seen in the slave markets of his capital of Samarkand. Above all he spoke of their birthright, their right to be the possessors of the earth. And as Timur’s deep voice flowed over and around them, visions filled their minds of what was theirs for the taking until they would have followed him through the burning gates of hell.

‘Not that Timur was a barbarian, my son.’ The king shook his head vigorously so that the fringe he liked to leave hanging from his maroon silk turban swung from side to side.