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The Mulberry Empire
Philip Hensher
The bestselling novel from the Man Booker Prize shortlisted author of The Northern Clemency and King of the Badgers.‘The Mulberry Empire’ is a seemingly straightforward historical novel that recounts an episode in the Great Game in central Asia – the courtship, betrayal and invasion of Afghanistan in the 1830s by the emissaries of Her Majesty’s Empire, which is followed by the bloody and summary expulsion of the Brits from Kabul following an Afghani insurrection (shades of the Soviet Union’s final imperial fling in the very same country in the 1980s).The novel has at its heart the encounter between West and East as embodied in the likeable, complex relationship between Alexander Burnes, leader of the initial British expeditionary party, and the wily, cultured Afghani ruler, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan.For those who enjoyed William Dalrymple’s ‘Return of a King’, ‘The Mulberry Empire’ is a must-read.
THE MULBERRY EMPIRE
or
The Two Virtuous Journeys
of
The Amir Dost Mohammed Khan
PHILIP HENSHER
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_08cc148f-d310-5068-afee-f993dab9c7d7)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
Published by Fourth Estate 2016
First published in Great Britain by
Flamingo 2002
Copyright © Philip Hensher 2002
Philip Hensher asserts the moral right to be
identified as the author of this work
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This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780007112265
EBook Edition © JULY 2012 ISBN 9780007406821
Version: 2016-08-08
DEDICATION (#ulink_00edbe92-38ca-5ea8-a2b7-a7c4ba001e90)
For Laurent Rodriguez
C’est toi d’abord, ô bien-aimé,
M’apportant avec ta gaité
Dorénavant douce, I’armée
Des victorieux procédés
Par quoi tu m’as toujours dompté,
Conseil juste, forte bonté …
VERLAINE
CONTENTS
Cover (#u67cb3186-c8ba-5d55-8830-28d33125f6f8)
Title Page (#uc0ab3b44-a084-56a0-942f-e53c84745a3b)
Copyright (#ud97f0631-d0ed-5f15-97a6-73af36a1610c)
Dedication (#ulink_806b5779-690e-598f-a643-f7ab80807a51)
Bella (#ued255ad4-3165-5fe7-adfc-4c552e7ddb8f)
One (#uafae094e-cc7c-57a3-8492-9c71cebdeb59)
Two (#uc771300b-e86d-57c5-bf32-2afc68b016c0)
Three (#ud3057137-6ce4-509e-b4ee-e3b9491377e1)
Four (#u0fda7563-4fd7-5cbb-ad6a-1fb2e57cfc69)
Five (#u114f7b8c-b3d0-51c1-b272-8f5efd07e478)
Six (#uf13ae68a-5b71-5710-80e6-4188b7931afb)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Burnes (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Anthropological Interlude (#litres_trial_promo)
Akbar (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)
Glossary (#litres_trial_promo)
Cast List (#litres_trial_promo)
Errors and Obligations (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
Other Works (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
BELLA (#ulink_e90f5396-e421-56f7-863d-61732a1db785)
On peut juger du mépris qu’avait pour l’étude des langues un homme qui passait sa vie à découvrir l’epoque précise de la chute des empires et des révolutions qui changent la face du monde.
STENDHAL, La Chartreuse de Parme
ONE (#ulink_4d03b3b4-4f58-5a3f-b51a-2e84b2373c33)
THE AMIR DOST MOHAMMED KHAN had fifty-four sons. And his favourite among these sons was Akbar. One day Dost Mohammed feared that he was ill, and close to dying, and he called his fifty-four sons to him. They came from the far peaceful corners of the kingdom of the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan to the great city he had caused to be built, and as they rode through the country, they were not troubled or threatened. The wisdom and strength of their father made straight roads for them, and the justice he had wrought smoothed their passage.
One after another, his four-and-a-half dozen sons came to the great city of Kabul, and the people of Kabul, seeing that the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan had summoned his sons, turned their dust-filled eyes to the dust in grief. One after another, his sons rode through the wide streets, which were crowded but silent in sorrow. They came to the great palace, and came to the bedchamber of their father, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan. And to each he said with kindness, as he came in, that his speed had been that of one driven by the Wind of a Hundred and Twenty Days. But the great Amir lied, for each had been driven to him by love.
At the end of three days, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan lay in his bed, and looked around at the silent crowd of his sons, and bid them count themselves. The living counted themselves, and then the dead sons, and then the sons to come, who were not yet born, whom Dost Mohammed loved best, said their names, but only to Dost Mohammed in the dark shade raised over his head. He counted them, and there were fifty-three. It seemed to Dost Mohammed that one was missing.
‘Great King,’ the second youngest of the sons said. ‘Akbar is not yet here. But he must be fast approaching.’ Dost Mohammed nodded, and the rough cloth of his bed cover seemed to whisper a denial. ‘That is not so,’ the youngest of the sons said. ‘Akbar my brother has sent a message that he will not come. He has sent a message to the great King my father that he is occupied, and may not turn away from the borders of the country, to mop my father’s face and hold my father’s head.’ And the brothers looked away in shame that their father should hear the truth.
But Dost Mohammed nodded, and was pleased by what the youngest of the brothers had said. ‘He has done right,’ he said, just that. He raised his head, and looked at the sons who were there, and the sons who were dead, and the sons who were not yet born, and the single son who had better things to do, and the Amir was pleased. And the sons – Afzal, and Azam, and Shams-i Jahan, and Ghulam Haidar, and Sher Ali, and Amin, and Sharif, and Akram and Wali and Faiz and Hawa and Hajira and Ahmad and Zaman and Umar and Ummat al-Mustafa and Bibi Zumurrud and Salih and Muhsin and Nur Jahan and Hasan and Husein and Wafa and Aslam and Qasim and Sher and Nek and Hashim and Sadiq and Shuaib and Rahim and Azim and Sadiq and Sarw-i Jahan and Yusuf and Azim and Habibullah and Mamlakat and Sharaf Sultan and Durr Jan and Sahib Sultan and Bibi Saira and Aisha and Bilqis and Sadiq and Rahim and Saifullah Khan Wakil and Agha and Fatima and Zainab and Banu and Mulk-i Jahan and Badr-i Jahan, youngest of the brothers (for it is written that the women who are born to a great Emperor may be considered sons, too) – the sons of the great King looked at him and saw him revive, and start to live again as he heard that everything was well with his kingdom. Glory be on the names of the sons of the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan, greatest of the Afghans, wisest of his people!
In time, Akbar found that his strength had secured his father’s kingdom from his enemies, and, leaving his people with the instruction to be awake and vigilant, hastened to his father’s house. But he found the Dost well, and recovered, and merry, and full of love for the greatest of his sons, and Akbar embraced his father. ‘My son,’ the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan said. ‘You did right not to come to my call, but to remain at the call of the kingdom that will be yours. You, alone among my sons, are truly my son.’ And after that embrace, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan lived in peace and plenty for years to come, in the knowledge of his wisdom and the knowledge of the wisdom of his son.
TWO (#ulink_266f151f-d922-5a28-a5d5-a779c8b49c01)
1.
‘EMPEROR OF THE AFGHANS,’ Burnes chanted, ‘Lord of the most distant horizon, King of the far hills, Heir of Israel, Lord of the Wind of a Hundred, of a Hundred, of a Hundred—’
He opened his eyes, and made a deflating noise. ‘Ppphhhhhwah,’ he said. ‘I always get stuck there.’
Outside, in the courtyard, a fight was breaking out between a gang of boys; the sudden close yelling was like a flock of geese, diving over the roofs of the mud-brick house. Burnes knocked his fist against his forehead, as if pretending to think. Dr Gerard got up from the corner of the room where he had been squatting, awkward as a camel, and went to the shutters to see what, if anything, the fight outside was about.
‘Very good,’ Mohan Lal said smoothly. ‘Your Persian is really excellent, if I may say so.’
There was an embarrassed sort of silence, since Mohan Lal, naturally, ought not to say so. Certainly, it was not for him to tell Burnes whether his Persian was good or not. Still, he seemed to take it upon himself not just to compliment his betters, but, on occasion, to correct them. Anywhere else, of course – but this was not anywhere else, and, knowing that all of them had to rely on Mohan Lal’s goodwill, the party had taken a tacit decision to put up with the guide’s elegant superiority, perpetually bordering on the supercilious.
‘What is it, anyway?’ Burnes said finally. ‘I can’t remember. I’m sorry.’
‘Lord of the Wind of a Hundred and Twenty Days,’ Mohan Lal said, smiling faintly, as if giving a child the answer to a terribly obvious Christmas puzzle. ‘An interesting title. The Wind of a Hundred and Twenty Days is a summer wind, a phenomenon fascinating in the abstract, although not something one would wish to experience. It is regarded as a unique property of the kingdom, and therefore an appropriate title for the Amir.’
‘Not something I’d want to boast about,’ Dr Gerard said, turning back to the room, disappointed in the small drama of the courtyard outside. ‘And I hope we’re not here long enough to have to put up with it.’
