Afghanistan has thousands of these medieval figures who rule little fiefs with the aid of Kalashnikovs, loyal soldiers and a power generator or two. When the U.S. worries about fashioning a post-Taliban nation, its biggest challenge may be getting these diverse and divisive rulers to agree on, well, anything. Just a couple of weeks ago, two Northern Alliance-linked chieftains in Faizabad let a minor feud escalate into a full-fledged firefight. "There has not been a central government in Afghanistan for centuries," says Abdul Samad, an infantry commander in the Dast-e-Qale region of northern Afghanistan. "How can you tell 20,000 Kings they are no longer the King?"
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Marzban's affiliation with the Northern Alliance is little more than an accident of geography: the three districts he controls just happen to be in the heart of rebel territory. Marzban's socio-religious preferences, like wanting women shrouded and men to have at least a fist's worth of beard, seem more suited to the troglodytic Taliban than the Northern Alliance, which likes to present a liberal face to the West. If the Northern Alliance ends up in power, these warlords could foil international hopes for liberal reform. "The Northern Alliance has made so many promises to so many people," says a Western diplomat in Dushanbe, the capital of nearby Tajikistan. "The conservative factions are not going to just let the liberals in the Alliance take over without a fight."
Like many warlords, Marzban teethed on religiously inspired dissent during the Soviet occupation. Upon graduating from an Islamic institute, he agitated against the communists and landed in a Kabul jail for 18 months. After his release, he joined the mujahedin in northern Afghanistan. His wartime exploits earned him the right to control a crucial swath of Northern Alliance turf. There was no vote among the people, of course. Marzban simply slid into power by virtue of his stash of Kalashnikovs. Now, says his assistant, "he has no boss. He is the boss."
Everyday, lines of people come to curry favor with the long-bearded boss: Northern Alliance Foreign Ministry officials, army commanders, even the town sage. Marzban likes to take credit for everything that has ever transpired in his dusty fief. "I have made this place perfect for living," he says, whisking away the omnipresent flies. His civic works projects, he claims, include building roads and organizing games of buzkashi, the national pastime, which resembles a polo game with a beheaded goat serving as the ball. In reality, the one barely passable path that snakes its way through the lunar-like landscape was built by a French aid group. And the most recent game of buzkashi in Khoja Bahauddin took place last year. "The leader here has done nothing to improve this place," says a Western aid worker. "All he cares about is making sure he has enough weapons."
Guns guarantee Marzban's power. He used to have enough weapons to outfit 3,000 soldiers, though he had to sell 2,000 guns to buy food for his troops and, anyway, they only number about 1,000. Sending these men to war is a risk: their first role is to protect Marzban's fief. But Marzban also knows that if he doesn't send his militia to the front, he could lose out if the Northern Alliance ever comes to power. Marzban is thinking hard behind his Ray-Bans. "The world today is very complicated," he says. "Good and evil are too mixed up." In these complicated times, being an Afghan warlord isn't as simple as it once was.