Raiders from the North eotm-1

by Alex Rutherford

  In one corner, a large black kettle was suspended over a smoky fire. In another, Babur watched a Chakrak drop his trousers and begin busily defecating, his comrades seemingly oblivious to the stink. Another got to his feet and spewed an arc of yellow vomit before slumping down again, flicking a gobbet of sick from his sleeve with a long fingernail. Babur ducked away again. He had seen enough in every sense.

  Keeping low to the ground again, he made his way back to Wazir Khan. ‘They’re ours for the taking, the drunken fools. They’ve even left their shields and swords piled by the door.’

  Wazir Khan raised an eyebrow. ‘Now, Majesty?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Babur and Wazir Khan rose to their feet, signalling to their men to do likewise. They had done this so many times before that spoken orders were no longer needed. Finger to his lips, Wazir Khan gestured to several men to work their way around the caravanserai to the back, in case there were other ways out. Then Babur yelled his battle cry: ‘Ferghana!’

  With Babur at their head, the men burst in. Stupid with drink and taken by surprise, the Chakraks put up little resistance. The only blade that Babur faced, as he and his men went ruthlessly to work, belonged to the snub-nosed girl. She whipped a dagger out of her bodice and made a spirited attempt to stab Babur in his arm but he turned her wrist with its jingling bells with ease and, flicking her round, put a boot to her wide rump and sent her sprawling.

  In a couple of minutes it was all over and Babur’s men, barely out of breath, were cleaning and sheathing their swords. Not one had been wounded — but they were hardened warriors, used to fighting better men than these drunkards. ‘Take the bodies outside — let’s see who we have,’ Babur ordered, and hurried out himself, glad to leave the fetid, smoky room for the fresh air.

  As soon as his men had hauled the dead Chakraks out by their boot-clad feet and arranged them in a line, Babur counted them. There were fifteen. Many had their throats slit, some were headless. His men had also neatly arranged the severed heads, a few with their shaggy hats still on. Babur ran his eyes over them, grunting with satisfaction when he recognised a face. He had vowed to kill every Chakrak who had betrayed him and each skirmish that brought him closer to his goal was highly satisfying.

  At the sound of squealing Babur turned. Two of his warriors had each grabbed a dancing girl and were dragging them out of the caravanserai. ‘Do not force them — you know my orders. If they will go with you willingly for money, well, that is another matter.’ Babur turned away.

  The girls were indeed willing and, after a few moments of brisk negotiation, led the warriors into an apple orchard beyond the caravanserai. Babur guessed they were the daughters of the squint-faced innkeeper who, at the first sign of trouble, had hidden himself under the table and was still there. Soon a regular procession of Babur’s men were making their way to and from the orchard. From the smiles on the faces of those returning, it seemed that the women were well used to providing favours to their father’s customers.

  Wazir Khan was already organising the rounding up of the Chakrak ponies that had drifted off and was checking the goods the Chakraks had looted from the merchants. ‘Look, Majesty,’ he called to Babur, pulling out two brightly coloured rugs. From their sheen the weavers had mixed silk with the wool and the patterning was unusual — perhaps the merchants had been travelling from the east, from Kashgar, where the people were skilled in such things. With the furs and the leather, they would fetch a good price, which would help him pay his men, Babur thought, pleased.

  It would also be a good move to give his men a feast. They had done well and he must show his appreciation. He would hold it as soon as they returned westward, back to Shahrukiyyah. There, in the fortress he had seized from Tambal’s forces six months ago and made his base, they would toast the memory of Ali Mazid Beg, lord of Shahrukiyyah until his murder in Samarkand. They would also drink to his son, slain as he tried to defend the fortress against Chakrak mercenaries despatched by Tambal as soon as he had learned of Ali Mazid Beg’s death.

  At the memory of his loyal chief, Babur’s thoughts grew sombre as they often did these days. What had he achieved in the two years since Ali Mazid Beg’s corpse had been hoisted over the Turquoise Gate? Was he any closer to freeing his family or to regaining Ferghana, never mind Samarkand? How much longer could he go on as a king without a kingdom? It would take time to build an army large enough to storm Akhsi, liberate his womenfolk and regain his throne. As for Samarkand, his brief days there as ruler were just a shadowy memory. It was hard to believe they had actually happened. The grand vizier’s ghost had had the last laugh after all.

  The thought angered Babur. He lashed out with his foot at one of the severed heads, sending it flying across the grass. His men deserved some fun, he thought, and so did he. ‘Cut branches for sticks,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s play some polo with these vermin’s heads. We’ll use the trees over there for goals.’

  For an hour, he lost himself in a wild game, swerving from side to side on one of the nimble Chakrak ponies and whacking with the branches stripped of their twigs at the severed heads so that they bowled and bounced through the grass. The heads were soon unrecognisable — features smashed, eyeballs tumbling out — and Babur and his sweating fellow players, as well as their mounts, were flecked with blood.

  Tiring of the sport at last but having released some of his pent-up anger and frustration, Babur halted his steaming mount. Glancing round he caught Wazir Khan watching him. For once there was no approval on his face. But Babur refused to feel ashamed. His enemies deserved everything they got, dead or alive.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he ordered. ‘It is a long way to Gava and we mustn’t keep our hosts waiting.’ Kicking his horse so sharply that it sprang straight into a gallop, Babur rode from the inn down towards the ford over the river without a backward glance at the mangled, bloody heads already being pecked at by crows and the two girls slightly bow-leggedly picking over the bodies of the Chakraks for anything Babur’s men had missed which they could add to the proceeds of their whoredom.

  Yellow, pink and white flowers sprinkled the bright green upland meadows when, three weeks later, Babur and his men came galloping through them towards Shahrukiyyah. The raid against Gava had been bloody but successful. Babur himself had shot down the town’s commander with an arrow despatched from the saddle at a distance of three hundred yards. All the hours of practice with his small, sharply curved double bow using a bronze ring to protect his thumb as he drew back the taut string had paid off. He could empty a quiver of thirty arrows in under a minute.

  After that, resistance had ceased. Pissing themselves with fear, the garrison had surrendered not only themselves but also their full war chest, whose contents now reposed in the bulging leather saddlebags of Babur and his men.

  Wazir Khan would be pleased. Babur had been missing his old friend but he had injured his thigh after being thrown when his horse shied at a snake the day after the attack on the caravanserai. Babur had insisted he return to Shahrukiyyah to rejoin Baisanghar, whom he had left there in command.

  Tonight they would celebrate, he would decide which of his men to honour with the ulush, the champion’s portion awarded at feasts to the warriors who had fought bravest and best — and he would tell Wazir Khan and Baisanghar about the raid on Gava. Wazir Khan would laugh at his stories, and perhaps even the serious Baisanghar might manage a smile.

  As soon as he entered the courtyard of the stone fortress, Babur jumped down from his horse and looked around for them. There was no sign of Baisanghar but Wazir Khan was in front of the stables inspecting a horse’s fetlock. Babur frowned: his friend was still limping heavily as he came towards him. Then he noticed Wazir Khan’s beaming face.

  ‘Great news, Majesty! Truly momentous news.’

  ‘What has happened?’

  ‘A week ago a messenger came from Akhsi, from Tambal speaking, or so he says, for your half-brother Jahangir and agreeing to send your mother, your grandmother and
your sister to you.’

  ‘Did he ask anything in return?’

  ‘Nothing explicit, Majesty. All he added were fine words about his respect for you.’

  Babur’s heart leaped. At last. The knowledge that his family would soon be with him again was overwhelming.

  ‘When will they be here?’

  ‘By sunset tomorrow, if all has gone well.’

  The next evening, in the gathering dusk, Babur was on the battlements, where he had been for most of the day, straining his eyes impatiently eastward where the road wound up to a pass. At last, emerging from the gathering gloom, he spied an undulating line of camels with baskets hanging at either side of them. Behind them rode the detachment of soldiers Wazir Khan had sent, under Baisanghar, to meet and protect the women on the final stage of their journey.

  Babur could not see who was riding in the baskets, but it must be his family. Unable to contain himself any longer, and without pausing either to summon guards to accompany him or to have a mount saddled, he jumped on to a horse and urged it out over the grassy meadows towards the small caravan.

  Tears were flowing down his sunburned cheeks but he didn’t care. There was no one to see them and, anyway, what did it matter? They were tears of happiness, not of weakness. Dashing them from his cheeks with one hand as he clung to his horse’s mane with the other, Babur urged the beast to a pace so fast he felt he was flying.

  Suddenly four soldiers detached from the escort and, spears tilted, galloped towards him. Although Baisanghar had probably guessed who was riding bareback so swiftly and wildly towards them, prudent soldier that he was he must have ordered the men to confirm his identity. As the riders drew near, Babur swung his own horse round sharply to force it to a standstill. Lathered with sweat, it snorted in protest.

  Babur threw back his head and yelled his ancestral cry. ‘Ferghana!’

  The riders, quite close enough now to recognise him, saluted and Babur cantered on to where the camels had halted. If his heart had not been so full, there would have been something comical about the sight of Esan Dawlat’s head poking out of a pannier like a chicken being carried to market. She was so light that there had been no need to stuff the basket on the other side with anything heavier than cabbages and her lute which was secured to the outside of the basket with hide thongs. Kutlugh Nigar and Khanzada were riding in baskets suspended on either side of a bigger camel with a creamy, long-haired coat that spat at Babur’s approach. On the camels behind, Babur recognised several of his mother’s waiting women, including Fatima, and his vizier, Kasim.

  The camel drivers jumped down, tapped the camels’ knobbly knees with their sticks and forced them to the ground. Remembering what was due to age, Babur ran first to his grandmother and lifting her from the basket knelt before her. He could find no words and neither, for once, could she. He felt her hand rest briefly on his head. As he rose again and looked into her small bright eyes he saw, to his relief, that her spirit seemed unquenched. She still looked what she had always been, a khanim — a woman of the blood of Genghis Khan.

  Then he turned to his mother, lifted her to the ground and clung to her, breathing in the familiar warm scent of sandalwood. When he released her, he saw tears in her eyes. ‘It is good to see you again, my son,’ she said simply, and a smile lit her face that was thinner and more lined than he remembered.

  Khanzada had, by now, climbed from her basket herself and she flung herself at him. Her pet mongoose, which she was holding in her left hand, squeaked in protest. Last time he had seen her she had been a skinny girl with a few spots. Now she was a woman, her body rounded, her face smooth and beautiful — but with the same grin, he was relieved to see. He hugged her then stepped back to look at her properly.

  Khanzada was scrutinising him too. ‘You’re taller,’ she said, ‘and your shoulders are broader. And you look terrible. Your chin is all stubbly and your hair is wild — it’s nearly as long as mine! And look at your nails — they’re black.’

  Behind him, Babur heard Esan Dawlat click her tongue in reproof at Khanzada’s disrespectful words and he smiled. They were together again at last and everything was as it should be. Later, they would talk and he would learn all that had happened to them, but for now this was enough.

  As they approached the fort, trumpets blared and drums thundered their welcome to the royal women of Ferghana, free at last and — for the moment at least — safe.

  While the women settled into the chambers Babur had ordered to be prepared for them on the top floor of the fortress, he summoned the cooks to check that all was in place for the celebration he had planned. It would be a far cry from the magnificence of Samarkand, to which he had once hoped to welcome them. However, twenty lambs had been slaughtered and were already roasting over fires in the courtyard. Chickens had been plucked and drawn and were now being baked in butter with walnuts and apricots. Apples were being glazed with thick, golden honey and red pomegranates stuffed with almond paste and pistachios. He was particularly pleased as he looked at a pile of silvered almonds that his men had seized during one of their raids. Esan Dawlat loved these more than any other sweetmeats.

  As the moon rose in a clear, star-lit sky and guards kept watch from the fortress walls in case of any sudden attack, the feast began. Babur and his men ate in a long, low chamber on the ground floor while, in their own apartments above, the women were served the choicest portions. As the candlelight danced and flickered, one of Babur’s men began to sing in a deep, rich voice. The others kept the rhythm, striking the hilts of their daggers on the low wooden tables around which they were seated, cross-legged. They were happy, Babur thought. The release of the women had pleased them too. It had wounded their honour as well as his that they had lacked the strength to set them free.

  Babur tried to eat but felt little appetite. He longed to withdraw and be private with his mother, sister and grandmother but courtesy to his followers demanded that he wait. The singing was growing louder and more strident, the warriors roaring out the exploits of their ancestors, and Babur added his own voice. But at last, as some slumped forward, overcome by strong drink, and others staggered blearily from the chamber to relieve themselves in the courtyard outside, Babur could leave them and climb the winding stone stairs to the women’s chamber.

  Kutlugh Nigar held out her arms to him and he came and sat by her on the carpeted floor. From what remained on the brass dishes spread before them, he could see that they had eaten well. Yet, now that he looked at their faces again, he could see signs of strain. All three were pale and drained as if they had not felt the warmth of the sun or breathed fresh air for a long time. Someone would pay for this — in blood. But for their sakes he mastered his feelings. He must show them a calm face, whatever they told him.

  For a time they were all silent. Now that the initial euphoria had passed, it was hard for anyone to know where to begin.

  Finally, Esan Dawlat spoke: ‘So, Babur, you took Samarkand.’ Her shrewd little face cracked into a rare smile.

  ‘Yes, but I could not keep it.’ Babur bowed his head. There was something he must say. ‘Grandmother, I failed you. You wrote asking my help and I could not give it. I came too late and with too few men to free you.’

  ‘You did not fail us. And it was because of us that you lost Samarkand. You rode to our help at once. What more could you have done?’

  Babur shook his head. ‘My first duty was to you and Ferghana. In Samarkand I was like a child with a new toy. I thought of little else. I should have sent back Wazir Khan to ensure that you and Ferghana were safe.’ He leaned against his mother and felt her fingers stroke his hair just as she had always done. It soothed him.

  ‘Tambal kept us well informed of some things,’ Kutlugh Nigar said. ‘I think it amused him. We learned, of course, of your cousin Mahmud’s treachery — that it was he who took Samarkand from you. He and Tambal set a trap for you, my son. They agreed that in Ferghana Tambal would depose you and put Jahangir in your place, knowing tha
t this would bring you — and many of your troops — back to Ferghana and Mahmud would have his chance. You were such a new lord of Samarkand — they say its nobles felt no allegiance to you so it was easy for Mahmud and his young vixen of a wife, the grand vizier’s daughter, to bribe them.’

  Babur closed his eyes at the confirmation of his worst suspicions. What a naive fool he had been.

  ‘You should know, too, it was Mahmud’s wife who demanded Ali Mazid Beg’s death.’ Esan Dawlat’s voice was bitter. The chieftain’s mother had been her friend and she had been fond of him. ‘She said that if she could not have your head, his would have to do in the meantime — in vengeance for her father. Mahmud could not deny her. They say she is the real ruler of Samarkand, greedier and more vindictive even than her father was.’

  Babur blinked in surprise. He had not thought the slender young woman who had begged bravely for the grand vizier’s life could be so cold-blooded and ruthless. One day she would answer for her spite but that could wait. Now there were other things he must know, and come to terms with.

  Gently he took his mother’s hand between his own. ‘Tell me about yourselves. How did they treat you during your imprisonment?’