Babur stared after them cat-like and unblinking, but they didn’t look back. As soon as they had turned a corner he began to follow. From the direction they had taken, they must be making for the Kok Saray. As he tracked them, keeping a cautious distance, he began to find himself among more and more soldiers, some clearly on patrol through the quiet, cowed streets, others returning from sentry duty on the city walls. Learning by experience, he tried to keep out of their way, dodging into doorways or behind piles of refuse at their approach.
And then, looking up, he saw Timur’s citadel, snug within its walls, and, at its heart, the tall facade of Timur’s fortress, the mighty Kok Saray. Green silk banners fluttered from the pointed battlements. My palace, Babur thought. Unconsciously he felt for Timur’s ring and clenched it in his hand.
The sound of marching feet on the stone-paved street broke his reverie. A detachment of troops was returning to the citadel. Keeping well back, Babur observed them and their weapons critically. Tall, muscular men, they showed no sign of malnutrition and carried themselves like warriors. Again, they wore the bright green sashes of Samarkand. How much was the usurping vizier paying them for their loyalty?
Suddenly a hand closed on his shoulder and Babur tensed, ready to tear himself free, but the grip was like iron. Helpless, he was swung round to face his attacker.
‘Greetings. I had not looked to see you so soon in Samarkand. The siege is not yet over.’
Babur gasped. ‘Baisanghar!’ The last time he had seen the man had been in Ferghana when he had presented him with Timur’s blood-smeared ring.
‘You’ve been careless. I’ve been following you for the last thirty minutes.’
Babur’s mouth was too dry for speech and he looked down. What he saw made him gasp again. Though Baisanghar was still holding him tightly with his left hand, his right arm hung stiffly by his side and ended in a raw-looking stump.
Baisanghar had followed his gaze. ‘The penalty for obeying your uncle’s final command and bringing you Timur’s ring. I was lucky to keep my head, but the grand vizier decided he needed me to help in the defence of Samarkand.’
As he tried to calm his racing heart and looked around to assess what chance of escape there might be, Babur was dismayed to see a group of soldiers watching. They must be wondering what their commander had to say to a grimy peasant boy. If he tried to run, they would be on him in a second. ‘What now?’ He had found his voice.
‘It is simple. If I give you up to the grand vizier, my fortune is made. I can take my ease in a luxurious palace where fountains flow with rosewater and beautiful houris fulfil my every whim.’ Baisanghar’s eyes searched his face. ‘But life is not so simple. Your uncle was a good ruler and warranted my loyalty to his last command, whatever the price. The vizier has wounded my honour and my pride. If you will promise me his head, I will give you Samarkand.’
Babur’s eyes burned. ‘You have my word. The word of a king in whose veins the blood of Timur flows.’
‘Majesty.’ With a gesture so tiny that no one observing them would have noticed, Baisanghar lowered his head in submission.
Chapter 5
The Kok Saray
As dusk fell Babur, with Wazir Khan at his side, addressed a picked band of his men who were ready to set out on foot from their main camp, bellies full, the blades of their weapons honed and oiled, their leather-covered wooden shields strapped to their backs. First they would follow Babur’s footsteps of three nights ago along the stream, but then wait in concealment for a signal to enter Samarkand through the Chaharraha Gate, the entrance to the city where Baisanghar commanded the guard and that he had sworn to open to Babur.
‘My brothers-in-arms, tonight we go to meet our destiny. Let us fill our hearts with warrior spirit and summon all our reserves of courage — not only the physical bravery to fight, which I know you possess, but the resolution of mind to move quietly along the stream and wait silently in hiding for however long it takes until the signal comes for us to attack. Each of us carries the lives of his comrades in his hands. If any one of us betrays his position — whether through impatience or foolishness — he betrays us all. Young as I am, I know I can play my part. Will you swear to me that you have the will to do so, too?’
The immediate response was a chorus of ‘Yes, Majesty.’
Without wasting further words, Babur gave the command for the party to set off. They did so two abreast along the stream bank into the gathering gloom. Keeping as close as they could to the water, they took advantage of every bit of protection the reeds and feathery willows fringing its banks provided. Suddenly, when they had been going a quarter of an hour or so, one of the leading men was seized by a fit of coughing. To Babur his cough was as loud as the bark of any alarmed guard dog. But no sound or movement came from the direction of Samarkand. Babur relaxed once more. Then the man coughed again, seemingly even louder, and continued to do so for what appeared an age but was perhaps just a minute. Still the only other sound was the persistent whine of the mosquitoes, which were now beginning to gorge themselves on every man’s exposed flesh.
‘I’ll send him back, Majesty,’ whispered Wazir Khan.
‘Good.’
Two hours after leaving the camp, Babur recognised the point near the Needlemaker’s Gate where he had scrambled off towards the tunnel to make his reconnaissance of Samarkand. Tonight, however, he and his men would continue along the stream. Flowing tranquilly in the moonlight, it would once more be Babur’s ally as it meandered northwards, passing close, no more than two hundred yards, to the Chaharraha Gate.
Still taking advantage of its protecting reeds and willows, Babur and his men reached the point nearest the gate without further alarms. After a brief consultation with Wazir Khan, Babur whispered the command for the men to conceal themselves in the reeds until the moon was at its zenith — the time they had agreed with Baisanghar he would open the gate.
Babur shifted, trying to get more comfortable. It was difficult. Mosquitoes continued to plague him and he could not stop himself scratching the bites raw. Mud seeped and squelched beneath his squatting form but at least the thick reeds were good camouflage. If he’d guessed the time correctly, from what he could see of the movement of the moon and stars in the small square of sky directly above his head, it must be about ninety minutes since they had concealed themselves.
From where he was crouching, though, he couldn’t see anything like enough of the landscape and sky to be certain of the moon’s position. He had to know more accurately how much longer there was to wait. He raised his head cautiously, disregarding Wazir Khan’s fatherly insistence that he, like the rest of the men, should keep it down and leave the calculation of time to his own more experienced observation. As he poked his head warily through the reeds for a better view, the chain-mail shirt that Wazir Khan had also insisted he wear, but which was too big for him, twisted, and a fold of the overlapping metal circles became wedged under one of his armpits, pinching him. Babur struggled impatiently, reaching inside his clothes and trying to tug the shirt down, but he only succeeded in making matters worse.
A pair of teal shot squawking out of the reeds, just in front of his face. They must have been alarmed by his contortions as he tried to rearrange his garments and equipment. He ducked down guiltily but no sooner was he back among the reeds than he heard rustling just feet away and drawing nearer. Though logic told him it could only be one of his own men, his fingers tightened instinctively on the eagle hilt of his father’s sword, Alamgir. He tensed, ready to spring up and fight for his life. The noise grew louder and Wazir Khan’s mud-smeared face appeared through the reeds as he wriggled towards him on his belly, propelling himself with his elbows. Babur relaxed, and as he did so it occurred to him that with his shield on his back and lying almost flat, Wazir Khan looked like an ill-proportioned tortoise.
‘Majesty, it’s time to move. Shall I order the signal to be given?’
Suppressing a smile, Babur nodded.
Wa
zir Khan slithered away again, still keeping low. Moments later, at his command, a blazing arrow arced across the cloudless sky, its fiery trail like that of a comet. As Babur rose to his feet out of the reeds his guts lurched and he found his legs were shaking with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. All around him, his men were appearing from their hiding-places.
Wazir Khan was at his side. ‘Now we will know whether Baisanghar is a man of his word.’
‘He is.’ Babur was sure of it, but Wazir Khan had been hard to convince, worried that Babur, young and untested, had been deceived.
With Babur and Wazir Khan at their head, the warriors crept out of the reeds, formed up and made swiftly for the Chaharraha Gate over the marshy ground, their leather boots occasionally sticking in the mud and their breath coming softly. As he approached, Babur could see that the gate was smaller than the soaring Turquoise Gate or even the Needlemaker’s Gate. The unadorned, stubby stone towers on either side had been built for strength, not grace, and Babur could see the heavy metal grille of the gate itself barring the narrow passage into the city. It seemed to grin with gap-toothed malevolence at him.
Eyes flicking from side to side, searching for any sign of movement, Babur realised there was nothing — not even a light in the chamber over the gate where Baisanghar should be giving the order to winch up the grille. What should he do if nothing happened? Perhaps it had all been just a trick. Or perhaps the plot had been betrayed and even now Baisanghar was being tortured in some stinking dungeon to make him scream out their plans.
Babur forced himself to think coolly. What were his options? But in his heart he knew he had only one. They must go on. Even now, triggered by the flight of the burning arrow, four hundred of his warriors would be retracing his journey of three nights ago and dropping down into the dank, narrow tunnel that had led him into the city. He could not abandon them. Whatever happened, he would lead his men in an assault on the gate.
But even as these thoughts jostled in his mind, Babur saw a figure appear on the wall to the right of the gate, holding a burning torch, which he waved slowly and deliberately from side to side. Almost at once Babur heard the raw, grating noise of a great wheel being turned. The metal grille shuddered, then slowly began to rise. He shot Wazir Khan a grin of triumph, then gave the low, whooping call that was the signal to attack. He heard it repeated ten, a hundred times as his men took it up. Soft as it was, it seemed to swell, lifting him up and impelling him forward.
His father’s sword in his right hand, dagger in his left, Babur ran the short remaining distance to the gate. The grille was already a third of the way up. With his men surging round him, he flung himself beneath it, curling into a ball to roll under its sharp prongs. Uncoiling himself he leaped to his feet and peered into the darkness, every nerve tense as he listened for the air to move as an arrow took flight or a throwing axe whirled towards him. But there was only the sound of feet running down the stone stairs from the gatehouse. It was Baisanghar, face grim. ‘Welcome. I have kept my word.’ He knelt briefly before Babur. ‘ We must be quick. There are spies everywhere — even now we will be being watched and the alarm may sound at any moment. Twenty of my men are holding this gate but the rest are waiting near the Kok Saray.’ He gestured up the dark lane leading into the city. ‘Come.’
As Baisanghar finished speaking, ahead, high on the battlements of the Kok Saray within the walls of the citadel, spurts of orange light were suddenly piercing the darkness — torches. The garrison had been alerted to their presence. The wailing of a horn and the harsh shouts of officers as they roused their men confirmed that they had lost the advantage of surprise. Babur did not hesitate. Raising his sword, he yelled the battle cry of his people — ‘Ferghana.’ Blood pounding in his ears, he charged forward.
The lane was lined with tall, thin, mud-brick houses whose doors were no doubt being barred. For a second Babur thought of the families cowering behind them, praying the storm would pass over them. They were not to know that he had ordered there was to be no looting or killing of civilians. Though his enemies would pay in full, the beginning of his reign over Samarkand would not be defiled with the blood of its innocent citizens.
‘Down here, Majesty.’ Baisanghar grabbed Babur’s arm and jerked him towards a narrow passage winding off to the left. Thrown off balance Babur staggered and almost slipped. For a split second he glanced at Wazir Khan, close beside him. The passage was high — walled and very cramped. One man, or at very best two, could pass down it abreast — a perfect place for an ambush. Who or what might not be waiting for them down there in the murk?
‘It’s a short-cut through to the citadel.’ Baisanghar’s voice was sharp and urgent.
Babur searched the man’s face. He knew that, despite his youth, his men were beginning to look to him for leadership. Now was no time to hesitate, with the shouts of their enemies growing ever closer. He trusted Baisanghar, which made his decision easy. Calling to his warriors to follow and with Wazir Khan at his side, he turned down the passage behind Baisanghar. Babur was surprised that he felt no fear now that the action was under way, only exhilaration. Would every battle feel like this? Suddenly, from away to the east, he heard a great roar. His men must be disgorging from the tunnel and racing into the heart of the city. That should keep the grand vizier’s soldiers occupied.
The passage twisted sharply to the right, then ended abruptly. Looking about him in the gloom, Babur saw he was in a small square, one side of which, the one directly opposite, was bounded by what looked like the high walls of Timur’s citadel. Recalling his previous visit and the plans he had studied, he realised they must be on its southern side. Yes, he was right — within the walls and just a few hundred yards onward, towards the east, he could make out the sharp-toothed battlements of the Kok Saray itself. Baisanghar had guided them well. Even better, Babur could see no defenders on the walls directly above. Presumably they were not expecting their enemy to steal up on them here.
Even so, following the example of Baisanghar and Wazir Khan, Babur quickly crossed the square and flattened himself against the citadel wall. As his men emerged from the passage, he signalled to them to do likewise. They moved quickly, obeying him without hesitation. Baisanghar gave a low call and dark-cloaked, dome-helmeted figures moved quickly from where they had been waiting, concealed behind the steaming midden that occupied the western corner of the square. Baisanghar’s guards. They gathered silently round their commander.
‘Majesty, the citadel wall is lowest near an old blocked-up doorway on its eastern side, just round the corner,’ Baisanghar whispered. ‘That is where we should climb in. My men have brought ladders and I will post archers to provide us with cover.’ Babur and Wazir Khan nodded agreement. Keeping very close to the wall and with Baisanghar leading the way, the party edged towards the corner of the citadel wall. Cautiously, Baisanghar peered round, then stepping back, gestured to Babur and Wazir Khan to do the same.
A swift glance confirmed that all was quiet. The doorway was only some thirty yards ahead. Suddenly the excitement and tension became too much for Babur. Dodging Wazir Khan’s restraining arm, he ran towards the door, yelling to the others to follow him. He did not even remember to keep in the shadow of the wall and immediately he heard the swoosh of one arrow, then another, as archers arrived on the battlements above, no doubt alerted by his wild shouts. A long-shafted arrow grazed his cheek, before slamming into the ground behind him. The stinging pain didn’t matter. Nothing did, except the exhilaration of this moment. He hurtled on towards the doorway. Somehow reaching it unscathed, he pressed his body against the stones with which it was blocked, hoping that the overhanging lintel would provide some cover. Glancing around he noticed a crouching tiger, the emblem of Samarkand, carved into the stone frame beside him, lips curled in a snarl, ears flat against its head.
Baisanghar’s archers were now in place, firing back at the defenders on the walls above. Babur could feel warm liquid dripping down his forehead and into his e
yes. Touching it with his fingers he realised it was blood, but not his own. Looking up, he saw, high above, a man with an arrow in his neck leaning over the wall. As his hand clutched at his ripped flesh, he overbalanced. Seconds later, he crashed at Babur’s feet with a soft thud. Spewing blood and phlegm, he twitched convulsively for a few moments and then lay still amid an ever spreading pool of dark blood.
Baisanghar’s men were throwing long wooden ladders up against the walls. They were crudely made with rough wooden rungs lashed to the uprights with strips of leather, but they were suitable for the purpose. Men were already climbing them, holding on with one hand and supporting their shields above their heads with the other to deflect the arrows being shot from above.
Babur’s heart was still pounding and he wanted to be into the action quickly. He looked around for a different way up. There was no chance of unblocking the door. At first glance, the stonework of the walls looked smooth, the joints fitting neatly. But he had not grown up amid the wild mountains and ravines of Ferghana for nothing, he told himself. He could see that there were small cracks and fissures that might provide hand- and footholds to someone as lithe and light as himself. Slinging his father’s precious sword across his back, Babur took a deep breath. Glancing round, he saw Wazir Khan watching him. His expression was anxious. Babur turned quickly away and ran along the base of the wall to a point well away from the ladders, dodging an arrow as he did so.
He began to swarm up, his hands exploring the surface, seeking out protruding edges and corners where the mortar had crumbled or the mason’s chisel had left its mark — anywhere he could balance a toe or the edge of a foot or thrust his fingers. He must keep his momentum going or he would fall, and his hands reached up, searching for each new hold. Timur’s masons had built well — hadn’t he brought them specially to Samarkand precisely because they were such good craftsmen? Too good, perhaps, Babur thought as suddenly, twenty feet above the ground, his feet were spinning in empty air and he felt his fingernails cracking as he struggled to cling on with his hands alone.
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