‘No. He was a cultured man. His great city of Samarkand was a place of grace and beauty, of scholarship and learning. But Timur knew that a conqueror must let nothing — no one — stand in his way. Ruthlessness ruled his soul until the job was done and the more who knew it the better.’ He closed his eyes, picturing the glory days of his magnificent ancestor. He had worked himself into such a lather of pride and excitement that beads of sweat were bursting out on his forehead. He took a yellow silk scarf and mopped it.

Exhilarated as usual by the images his father had conjured, Babur smiled up at him to show he shared the same joyous pride. But even as he watched, his father’s face changed. The fervent light in his dark eyes faded and his expression grew despondent, even brooding. Babur’s smile faltered. His father’s story usually finished with this paean to Timur, but today the king continued, his tone bleak, the vibrancy gone.

‘But I — descendant of the great Timur though I am — what have I? Just Ferghana, a kingdom not two hundred miles long or one hundred wide. Look at it — a place of sheep and goats grazing in valleys ringed on three sides by mountains.’ He flung out an arm towards the soaring, cloud-circled peaks of Mount Beshtor. ‘Meanwhile three hundred miles to the west my brother rules golden Samarkand, while south across the Hindu Kush my cousin holds wealthy Kabul. I am their poor relation to be snubbed and despised. Yet my blood — your blood — is as good as theirs.’

‘Father-’

‘Even so, all we princes of the house of Timur,’ the king interrupted, voice trembling with passion, ‘what are any of us, compared with him? We squabble like petty chieftains as we struggle each to hold on to our own little scrap of his empire. I am as guilty as any of the others.’ He sounded really angry now. ‘If Timur came back today he would spit in our faces for the fools we are. We are so proud to call ourselves Mirza, “Offspring of the Amir”, so eager to call him ancestor, but would he be so ready to acknowledge us? Wouldn’t we have to fall on our knees and beg his forgiveness for dissipating our inheritance and forgetting our greatness?’