Tamerlane

by Justin Marozzi

  Later that day, the Ottoman sultan issued another order. He had discovered the extent of his losses with mounting fury, not least the pile of massacred Turks – who had been taken prisoner before battle – in the luxurious Crusader camp. Now he vowed revenge. All prisoners barring the greatest knights, who could be ransomed for considerable sums, were to be slaughtered. Each Ottoman officer was ordered to kill all those he had captured. The battlefield ran with blood. The flower of European chivalry were executed in cold blood.

  The Bavarian page Johann Schiltberger was among those condemned to death. ‘They took my companions and cut off their heads, and when it came to my turn, the king’s son saw me and ordered that I should be left alive and I was taken to the other boys because none under twenty years of age were killed and I was scarcely sixteen years old,’ he later wrote. Schiltberger was saved only to be enslaved, but was not spared the spectacle of the mass execution.

  Then I saw lord Hannsen Greif, who was a noble of Bavaria, and four others bound with the same cord. When he saw the great revenge which was taking place, he cried with a loud voice and consoled the cavalry and infantry who were standing there to die. Stand firm, he said, when our blood this day is spilled for the Christian Faith, and we by God’s help shall become the children of heaven. When he said this he knelt and was beheaded together with his companions. Blood was spilled from morning until vespers, and when the king’s counsellors saw that so much blood was spilled and that it still did not stop, they rose and fell upon their knees before the king, and entreated him for the sake of God that he would forget his rage, that he might not draw down upon himself the vengeance of God, as enough blood was already spilled.

  Estimates of the number of prisoners killed ranged from three hundred to Schiltberger’s exorbitant figure of ten thousand. Surveying the battlefield, piled high with the dead and the dying, Bayazid the Thunderbolt had reason to be pleased with himself. The Crescent had triumphed emphatically over the Cross. He had annihilated the last Crusade. The crippling ransoms on the heads of the twenty most illustrious Crusaders would virtually bankrupt the treasuries of Christendom. Now, he boasted, he would ride on through Europe, crush the infidels with his invincible armies, and feed his horse on the altar of St Peter’s in Rome.

  Europe suddenly found herself depending for her survival on the Scourge of God, a man who for two decades had glorified in butchering Christians. In Georgia repeatedly, in Tana and Saray in the lands of the Golden Horde, and most recently in Sivas, Christians had been massacred in their thousands as Temur sought to add lustre to his Islamic crown.

  This was a fortuitous coalescence of interests between Temur and the kings of Europe, no more, no less. In the Tatar’s political universe, alliances tended to be convenient arrangements of the moment, to be picked up and dropped at whim, safe in the knowledge that he held overwhelming military force if events took an unexpected course. If Christians could be of use to him against Bayazid, then that was to his advantage.

  His first concern, as he prepared for the critical encounter with his most powerful antagonist yet, was that the Christian powers should not obstruct his efforts in any way. His second was that they should offer all possible support. From Constantinople, Regent John, Temur’s newest vassal, duly undertook to provide soldiers, galleys and tribute. The governor of the beleaguered Genoese colony at Pera did the same. Both men vowed to prevent Bayazid’s troops in Europe crossing into Asia Minor to assist the Ottoman against Temur in a battle that grew more likely with each day.*

  Further indications that war was imminent came in February 1402 with Temur’s instruction to his empresses to return to Sultaniya, a traditional prelude to conflict. Around this time the first military engagements began, as Mohammed Sultan, newly arrived from Samarkand, set about the successful siege and storming of the fortress at Kamakh, a direct challenge and provocation to Bayazid, who had only recently seized it from Temur’s ally Prince Taharten.

  Rather than wait for Bayazid to come to him, Temur stole the initiative by leading his army west on a series of forced marches to Sivas. Here he was perfectly stationed for an attack on the heart of Bayazid’s empire. His amirs, however, in one of their periodic fits of pessimism, counselled against war. Their arguments must have sounded wearily familiar to the emperor: his troops were tired after campaigning in the field for three years, while the Ottoman forces, famed for their fierce fighting skills, were well rested and lavishly equipped. Their warnings were cut brutally short by the impatient Tatar. An astrologer was summoned to pronounce his verdict on the positions of the planets. He had learnt from the experience of Delhi, when he and his colleagues had advised against battle and had been roundly excoriated by Temur. The message now was more reassuring. The emperor was at the zenith of his power, Bayazid conveniently at his nadir. Well was the great conqueror named the Lord of the Fortunate Conjunction. This was a most auspicious time to do battle.

  That Bayazid was equally keen on war and just as confident of victory is evident from a letter he sent Temur which reached the Tatar at Sivas. It was the most insulting letter yet from the Ottoman. Bayazid was, said Arabshah, a ‘stalwart champion of the faith’ and ‘a just ruler, pious and brave in defence of religion’, a verdict doubtless coloured by the Syrian’s hostility towards Temur. Such piety was nowhere in evidence in this latest correspondence, in which, against all Muslim customs, Bayazid deliberately referred to the Tatar’s wives in the most offensive fashion.

  ‘So far as concerns his original state, certainly he was a brigand, a shedder of blood, who violated all that is sacred, broke pacts and obligations, an eye turned from good to evil,’ the sultan’s letter began, before going on to summon Temur to appear before him as though the Tatar were no more than his meanest vassal. Its ending was practically sacrilegious: ‘I know that this speech will rouse you to invade our countries, but if you should not come, may your wives be condemned to triple divorce.’

  Arabshah related the conqueror’s reaction to this missive. ‘And as soon as Temur read this reply, he was excited and said: “The son of Othman is mad, for he is prolix and sealed the purpose of his letter with the mention of women.” For among them the mention of women is a crime and grave offence.’*

  Bayazid had made his intentions abundantly clear. While his envoys were still in the Tatar camp, Temur responded in kind. He ordered a review of his army, to impress upon the ambassadors the vast size of his forces, veterans from his many campaigns drawn from all reaches of his empire. No power on earth could put such a cosmopolitan army into the world, according to Arabshah.

  There were men of Turan, warriors of Iran, leopards of Turkistan, tigers of Balkhshan, hawks of Dasht and Khata, Mongol vultures, Jata eagles, vipers of Khajend, basilisks of Andakan, reptiles of Khwarizm, wild beasts of Jurjan, eagles of Zaghanian and hounds of Hisar Shadman, horsemen of Fars, lions of Khorasan, and hyenas of Jil, lions of Mazanderan, wild beasts of the mountains, crocodiles of Rustamdar and Talqan, asps of the tribes of Khuz and Kerman, wolves of Ispahan, wearing shawls, wolves of Rei and Ghazni and Hamadan, elephants of Hind and Sind and Multan, rams of the provinces of Lur, bulls of the high mountains of Ghor, scorpions of Shahrizor and serpents of Askar Makram and Jandisabur … To these were added hyena-cubs of slaves and whelps of Turkomans and rabble and followers and ravening dogs of base Arabs, and gnats of Persians, and crowds of idolaters and profane Magi.

  Alongside these hardened soldiers stood the gleaming ranks of fresh troops under Mohammed Sultan, each detachment gorgeously arrayed in its own colours. Some wore crimson, with matching shields, saddles and ensigns. Others were resplendent in uniforms of bright yellow, violet or white, their lances, quivers and clubs in identical colours. And there, once again, were Temur’s favourite prizes of war, the thirty elephants from Delhi, ‘covered with the most splendid trappings … with towers on their backs in which were placed archers and casters of wild-fire to spread terror and disorder wherever they should go’.

  With the pomp and ce
remony of the review at an end, the ambassadors were summarily dismissed. The time for diplomacy had passed. Both sides were now prepared to risk their empires on a single encounter. All that remained to be decided was where and when it would take place.

  While Temur’s preparations continued, Bayazid had not been idle. In 1396 he broke off the siege of Constantinople to rout the assembled forces of Christendom. Now, six years later, he abandoned the siege once again to marshal his forces. It was, though to a lesser extent than that of his enemy, a cosmopolitan army.

  He ordered the leaders of his warriors and the bold eagles of his army and the falcons and the finest of his braves and nobles of Karmian and the valiant horsemen of the seacoasts, the stallions of Karaman, the soldiers of the provinces of Mantasha, the cavalry of Sarukhan and all the Amirs of the tumans and sanjaks [districts] and lords of standards, leaders of divisions and all the governors of posts and places under the sway of both the capitals Brusa and Adrianople, and everyone that was carrying his white standard painted the green sea with the red blood of blond Greeks and split the black heart of every blue-eyed enemy with his black arrows, mounted on his piebald steed – all these he ordered to carry out their business and take their precautions and arms.

  War was imminent, but a battle of nerves had first to be fought before the two armies could take to the field. Temur had already marched much farther west than Bayazid had anticipated, and to that extent the Ottoman was on the back foot, faced with the prospect of a major encounter in his own lands, a destructive situation which Temur had always sought to avoid in Mawarannahr. Based on high ground around Ankara, Bayazid now resolved, against the advice of his senior amirs, to march east and halt the enemy’s incursion into his territories. There were good reasons for this decision. It was harvest time, and Bayazid was determined to avoid the wholesale destruction and pillaging that would inevitably occur were he to wait passively for the Tatar’s advance.

  Learning from his scouts that Temur was headed for Tuqat, north-west of Sivas, the Ottoman led his army to head off this advance. But the Tatar, as masterful as ever in his feints and counter-feints, had taken a completely different route. Rather than follow the difficult road north to Tuqat through inhospitable hilly country, he slipped south-west instead, following the broad sweep of the Halys as it arced towards Ankara, all the time keeping the river between his forces and the Ottomans.* This, wrote Arabshah, was ‘well-tilled country’, full of ‘shades, springs and choice fruits’. The Tatar soldiers ‘ceased not to delight in crops and pastures and udders, amid sidras without thorns and tall trees set in order and spreading shade and flowing water and gentle breezes and health-giving delights, in security, tranquillity, abundance and amplitude, without fear, journeying at their convenience, confident of prosperity and victory, promising themselves wealth and spoils’.

  For a week the Tatars continued their forced marches, until Qaysariyah, where they struck camp, rested the horses and pillaged the local countryside of all available crops. As Bayazid scoured the valleys and forests and mountains for his enemy, his scouts brought him perplexing news. There was no sight of the Tatar armies. They had vanished into the depths of Anatolia. Increasingly unnerved by the sudden disappearance of his enemy, Bayazid continued to march, seeking his quarry and waiting for fresh reports from his scouts. Still nothing. Then, as swiftly as he had vanished, Temur reappeared at Qir Shahr (now Kirşehir), south-east of Ankara, where the first vicious but inconclusive skirmish was fought. Pressing on at full speed, he led his men west until, after three more days, they arrived at the Ottoman base at Ankara, only recently abandoned by Bayazid. When reports reached the Turk of this lightning manoeuvre, he was ‘seized with panic as though it were the day of resurrection and bit his hands with grief and remorse and roared and howled and burning with the fire of anger was almost suffocated and abandoned rest and sleep’.

  Temur had seized a crucial advantage over his opponent. Time already favoured him. The Ottomans were a week’s march away to the east. This gave him the opportunity to choose the most favourable ground, dig in his positions, put Ankara under siege, destroy his enemy’s camp, divert the river which supplied it and, most important, rest his march-weary men. This was where he would give battle, from the very position which Bayazid had, against his officers’ advice, only just vacated. The manoeuvre bore all the hallmarks of Temur’s tactical genius. It was swift, brilliantly executed and a devastating surprise to his opponent. It was, in addition, a powerful psychological blow for Bayazid to be outwitted in his own kingdom. Temur had struck decisively.

  There was now no option for the Ottoman other than to order forced marches west to Ankara. The soldiers’ morale was low, the country dry and unforgiving, stripped bare by Temur’s hordes. By the time they approached Ankara they were in a pitiful condition, said Arabshah, ‘perishing with distress and violent thirst’. The only water supply lay behind Temur’s lines. It has been estimated that up to five thousand of Bayazid’s troops died before the battle.

  From the Ottoman point of view, the preparation for battle had been disastrous. Temur had outmanoeuvred Bayazid completely, drawing him out on a line and reeling him back in again with consummate ease. The sultan’s troops had seen their leader struggle to keep up with an adversary whose name was spoken of in awe throughout Asia, a man who had never been defeated in battle and who had already seized control of the superior ground they themselves had once held. But Temur’s preparations, although his adversary did not yet know it, went far deeper than this. Over several months he had been courting the Tatar tribes who had been recruited into Bayazid’s army. Playing on their sense of tribal loyalties, he offered them lucrative spoils on condition they switch sides and join their brother Tatars when battle began. Though it is difficult to give an accurate assessment of the size of both armies, the chronicles make it clear that Bayazid’s contingent of Tatars was immense. According to Arabshah, ‘It is said that the whole host of the Tatars nearly equalled the army of Temur.’ Whatever the total, Temur’s deserved reputation for generosity to his soldiers, which had fuelled his rise to power over Amir Husayn in 1370, was about to deliver him his most famous winning hand. The battle had been decided before it had even begun.*

  So it was that at around 10 o’clock on the morning of 28 July 1402, the Conqueror of the World faced Bayazid the Thunderbolt on the plains east of Ankara. Once more his kettle-drums gave their tumultuous roar amid a deafening clash of cymbals and trumpets. For three decades this martial concert had been the harbinger of his enemies’ collapse. The princes of Persia had heard it, so too the khan of the Golden Horde, the kings of Georgia, the sultans of Delhi, Baghdad and Egypt. This time, the drums and cymbals and trumpets sounded the doom of Bayazid. It was one of the greatest battles the region had ever seen.

  Ill-prepared, outmanoeuvred and outwitted, the Ottoman army, exhausted after a week of forced marches, began the fighting on the defensive. As the first blows fell, as the skies darkened with arrows, the desertion of Bayazid’s Tatar forces to Temur, orchestrated over a period of several months prior to the battle, proved decisive. Undermined by these losses, the Ottoman left wing under Prince Chelebi crumbled and fled the field. Consolidating these early advantages, Mohammed Sultan’s elite Samarkand division charged the Serbian cavalry, which had been devastated to see a prince of the royal blood abandon his position. Following his example, they withdrew in flight.

  Bayazid’s resistance continued until nightfall, but Temur’s centre of eighty regiments and thirty elephants had already put paid to the main body of his army. After hours encircled by Temur’s forces, the Ottoman emperor’s Janissaries were finally overcome. Bayazid was seized and delivered to his enemy. The Sword Arm of Islam, for so long raised in triumph over Europe and Asia, had been brought crashing down. Bayazid would never recover.

  What happened next has, over the centuries, been a matter of great contention. Much of the controversy can be blamed on Christopher Marlowe, for in the closing years of the sixt
eenth century and at the considerable remove of 185 years and 1,700 miles from the battle of Ankara, he penned the following prophetic lines:

  The ages that shall talk of Tamburlaine,

  Even from this day to Plato’s wondrous year,

  Shall talk how I have handled Bajazeth …

  The first-person refers to the eponymous protagonist of Tamburlaine the Great. But it can equally be understood to mean Marlowe himself, for in dramatising the immediate aftermath of the battle of Ankara he was, intentionally or otherwise, stepping into controversial territory. The issue in question was how Temur behaved towards Bayazid after his capture. It was a humiliating moment for the Sword Arm of the Faith. In the first three centuries of Ottoman history this was the only crushing defeat, the single instance in which the sovereign was captured in person.

  Marlowe’s version naturally aims for the sensational. Tamburlaine removes the crown from Zabina, Bajazeth’s wife, and passes it triumphantly to his lover Zenocrate. In his first speech after the battle, the defeated Ottoman combines melancholy with defiance. Acknowledging that ‘Never had the Turkish emperor/So great a foil by any foreign foe,’ he reflects bitterly that his downfall will be welcomed by the Christians, ‘Ringing with joy their superstitious bells’. But he refuses to accept his downfall. He has enough troops, he says, ‘To make me sovereign of the earth again’.

  After pouring scorn on these hopes, Tamburlaine refuses Bajazeth’s request to be ransomed. Then he orders the Ottoman emperor to be bound and forced to attend a ‘martial feast’ to celebrate his victory. We next see Bajazeth at the opening of Act IV scene II, which begins with his astonishing arrival at the banquet in a cage drawn by two Moors. ‘Bring out my footstool,’ Tamburlaine commands. The stage directions – ‘They take him out of the cage … He gets up upon him to his chair’ – painfully emphasise his opponent’s dishonour. There is no trace of magnanimity in victory. Every word, every action, is intended to shame Bajazeth.