The Road to Oxiana

by Robert Byron

  Two years later occurred the misfortune for which she had been preparing. She had persuaded her husband, despite his failing powers, to lead an army into Persia, and had herself accompanied him. After marching nearly as far as Shiraz, Shah Rukh settled for the winter at Ray, where Teheran is now. And there, on March 12th, 1447, he died, aged sixty-nine years. The first period of the Timurid Renascence was over. For the arts cannot flourish without political, or at least civic stability, and during the next twelve years Herat fell prey to ten successive rulers.

  The anarchy opened inauspiciously for Gohar Shad, who was caught in her own trap. Ala-ad-Daula, the grandson she trusted, had been left in charge of Herat. Abdullatif, the grandson she suspected and had forced to accompany the army in order to watch him, now had her in his power. He left her in no doubt of it, seizing not only her baggage, but all her animals as well; so that while the body of the dead king was on its way back to Herat in a litter, his widow, the most famous woman of the age and more than seventy years old, was compelled to follow it on foot across the wastes of Khorasan; “with an ordinary linen scarf thrown over her head, and a staff in her hand”, says Khondemir. She was rescued from this predicament by Ala-ad-Daula, who captured Abdullatif and put him in the Citadel (where I got into trouble over the artillery park). On learning this, Ulugh Beg, who had started from Samarcand with an army to claim the empire also, renounced his claim in favour of Ala-ad-Daula on condition that his son was set at liberty.

  For a moment Gohar Shad’s plans had triumphed. But a dispute arose with Ulugh Beg over the other terms of the agreement, and he continued his advance on Herat. There he got news that a party of Uzbeg raiders had sacked the suburbs of Samarcand and destroyed many of his favourite works of art. To replace them he carried off as many treasures as he could from Herat, including a pair of bronze doors from Gohar Shad’s College. He also took away the body of his father Shah Rukh out of the Mausoleum, and deposited it at Bokhara on his way back to Samarcand. Meanwhile, Abdullatif’s morbid fancy must needs start brooding on his father’s supposed preference for his younger brother; regardless of the fact that but for his father’s renunciation of the empire, he would still have been in prison. He crossed the Oxus from Balkh, defeated his father at Shahrukhiya, and had him executed by a Persian slave. So perished Ulugh Beg on October 27th, 1449, the most amiable of all his family and the only scientist among them.

  Six months later the parricide was assassinated by one of Ulugh Beg’s servants.

  For the next seven years Abulkasim Babur reigned in Herat. He too was a son of Baisanghor, and seems to have lived in peace with his grandmother. But Ala-ad-Daula, Baisanghor’s youngest son, was still her favourite. And when Abulkasim Babur died in 1457, of drink like his father, she summoned her last energies to the support of her great-grandson Ibrahim, Ala-ad-Daula’s son.

  She was now more than eighty years old. That July Abu Said, the great-grandson of Timur and ancestor of Babur, arrived before Herat. Only the citadel held out for Ibrahim. But Abu Said, though he directed operations in person, could not take it. Infuriated by this hindrance to his plans, and believing that its resistance was being secretly encouraged by Gohar Shad, he had the old lady put to death.

  She was buried in her own Mausoleum. On her tombstone was written: “The Bilkis of the Time”. Bilkis means Queen of Sheba.

  A year later both Ala-ad-Daula and Ibrahim were laid beside her. But another great-grandson, also of the seed of Baisanghor, survived in the person of Yadgar Mohammad. In 1469 he was living with Uzun Hassan, the Chief of the White Sheep Turcomans, when that ruler was attacked by Abu Said. The attack failed. Abu Said was captured, and Uzun Hassan handed him over to his guest, then a boy of sixteen. The boy, having given the necessary order, retired to his tent; Abu Said was immediately executed. Thus was Gohar Shad avenged by the posterity of Baisanghor.

  It is cold. The sun has gone down. The mullahs have gone in, and their pupils with them. The lustre has gone from the blue towers and the green corn. Their shadows have gone. The magic scent has gone. The summer has gone, and the twilight brings back the spring, cold and uncertain. I must go.

  Goodbye, Gohar Shad and Baisanghor. Sleep on there under your dome, to the sound of boys’ lessons. Goodbye, Herat.

  Moghor (c. 3000 ft., 120 miles from Herat), May 17th, and smoking the last of Wishaw’s cigars, bless him; I wish at moments I were back in that secure and comfortable domicile, among those sweet blue domes and sweet mauve mountains. Still, our present situation has the compensation of grass and rolling downs. And at least we have passed Kala Nao, so that I now, as well as Christopher, am in new country.

  We left Herat in the early afternoon three days ago, sped by a bottle of sherbet from Seyid Mahmud. At Karokh a lawn had sprung up under the pines; the fish were still swimming in their netted pool, for ever upstream to keep themselves out of the net. Our inclination was to stay the night, and discretion counselled it, as there was a mackerel sky. But arguing that if we did stop, and it did rain, we might be held up for several days, we resolved to cross the pass that night. It was a risk, and if anyone had told me six months ago that I should ever take that risk again, I should have called him feeble-minded—instead of myself.

  The earth gradient leading up to the pass, where we had such trouble with the lorry, presented no difficulty when dry. Again the spare gnarled junipers and the great view greeted us at the top; again there were storm-clouds over Turkestan. The worst was over, we thought; when we noticed that the north face of the mountains was still damp. Half a mile down the car stuck.

  Our joint strength could not move it, though the gradient was about one in three and the bonnet was pointing steeply at the valley below. The undercarriage was impaled on a boulder. For an hour and a half, ankle-deep in freezing slush, we levered away the rocks; it sank the deeper. As dark fell, two white-cloaked shepherds came by with their flock. We begged them to wait and help us. They said they dared not, owing to the wolves. But one of them, at his own suggestion, lent us his rifle and two remaining bullets to see us through the night.

  We discussed what to do. Jamshyd the chauffeur wanted Christopher and me to walk to the nearest village for help, while he stayed behind with the gun. Christopher wanted us all to go to the village. I, knowing the village was five miles off, wanted us all to stay in the car, arguing that such a walk would be an indescribable bore, that the village in question was inhospitable and thievish enough when awake, that it would be more so if disturbed when asleep, and that in any case it would give us no help till morning. Christopher replied that it was nonsense to suppose the wolves would be deterred by headlights or the engine running, and that if we stayed in the car, they would raven their way through the side-curtains and pick our bones clean. To this I averred that whether it was nonsense or not, we should stand a better chance in the car than out of it, and that anyhow the dogs of the village were more savage than wolves. “For God’s sake”, I said, “get into the car, drink this whisky, and let us be cosy.”

  We were. Quilts and sheep-skins replaced our mud-soaked clothes. The hurricane lantern, suspended from a strut in the hood, cast an appropriate glow on our dinner of cold lamb and tomato ketchup out of the blue bowl, eggs, bread, cake, and hot tea. Afterwards we settled into our corners with two Charlie Chan detective stories. Jamshyd fell asleep in the front. I listened for a while to the wind soughing in the junipers and an owl hooting in the distance; then I too slept. Christopher stayed awake with the gun on his knee, thinking every rustle a wolf or a brigand.

  At half-past two he woke me with a word more sinister than any wolf: “Rain”. There came a patter on the hood; it increased to a steady drumming. At dawn, Jamshyd set off down the road for help.

  Still in our quilts, we started breakfast, and were spreading some Herat jam on slabs of bread and butter when, looking up, we beheld a man on horseback. It was the shepherd of the gun. We returned it, and the bullets, with grateful thanks. He spoke not a word, but vanished among the dar
k rain-soaked trees.

  Jamshyd came back leading a gang of turbaned road-makers, who had been sent out on corvée because a visit from Abdul Rahim was expected. The rain was dropping in sheets; every angle of the mountains was occupied by a cataract. If anything, the descent was worse than in November. Then at least it was dry below the snowline. Now, along that narrow ledge whence the red pinnacles rose into the clouds above, and whole ranges could be seen emerging from the clouds below, the car pursued its agonising progress, generally quite out of control, often broadside, and never less than two feet from the edge. At one point, a red boulder, dislodged by the rain, had blocked the ledge and a shelf had to be built out round it. At length we reached the road-makers’ tent. From there, they said, the road was good—newly dug, that is; for digging is the equivalent of resurfacing in this country. It led us out on to the open slopes, now covered with pasture. On and on we slithered and bumped through the driving rain, digging the car every quarter of a mile out of ruts that would ordinarily have needed half a dozen men, but were now so slippery that one spade and our feeble shoves sufficed.

  I walked most of the way, looking at the flowers in the long grass by the road’s edge, small scarlet tulips, dwarf irises of cream and yellow, a kind of purple onion flower that pursued me from my button-hole with a stink of bad meat, poppies, campanulas, and a strange plant with the leaves of a tulip, whose flower, the colour of pink blancmange, had square separated petals growing upwards in a cup. Crops began after a time, clover and wheat, as low as they would be in England at this season. The village of Laman was already in sight when the car fell into a ditch from which we had no hope of removing it unaided.

  The village at this time of year looked a pretty little place, shaded by poplars, enlivened by a rushing stream, and overhung by red cliffs upholding tables of green grass; very different in fact from the last view I had of it through the white mist of a December dawn. Christopher had gone ahead, and been met by boorishness and ill-humour. But by the time I arrived, the headman had telephoned to the Governor of Kala Nao about us, and received us hospitably, lighting a bonfire in the middle of his floor to dry our clothes. That night the Governor of Kala Nao sent us a pilau on horseback.

  This morning there was not a cloud in the sky. After giving the road an hour or two to dry, we set off down the valley, crossing the river every ten minutes and generally having to dry the magneto afterwards. Halfway we met the Governor of Kala Nao on his grey horse, followed by a picturesque retinue in whose tail I espied the secretary that had wanted my pen. He said he had ordered a room to be ready for us if we wanted it. But no, we said; we should reach Murghab tonight.

  The valley widened. In its grass recesses appeared the same encampments of kibitkas, whose flocks impeded, dogs resented, and children mocked our passage. The salukis, I noticed, were still rugged. All the grass, even high up on the cliff-tops, was stained with patches of vermilion poppies. Occasionally, by the roadside, a burst of royal blue burrage in their midst produced a curiously artificial effect, as if both had been planted out of patriotism. We drank some milk at Kala Nao, forsook the river at last, and continued along the bottoms of a rolling down country, making good pace and confident of being in before dark. The road was crawling with tortoises, which Jamshyd called lobsters. We also met two snakes. They were four feet long, pale green, and probably harmless. But with true Indian hatred, Jamshyd stopped the car and solemnly murdered them.

  Twenty miles from Kala Nao, the front axle struck a hummock. There was a slight jar, and the engine petered out.

  One of those sordid, anxious periods ensued in which we fiddled and twiddled, changed the coil, micturated into the battery, and tested everywhere for sparks. The engine refused to cough. It was nearly evening, the country was deserted, and this particular stretch of road was notorious for brigands.

  At this juncture a bearded gentleman wearing a blue turban and mounted on a long-bodied black horse, trotted round a corner of the downs. He was followed by two attendants carrying rifles on their saddle-bows. One had a beard also. The other’s face was veiled.

  “Who are you?” asked the leader.

  “I know who this gentleman is,” interrupted the unveiled follower, pointing at me. “He came to Kala Nao in the winter and fell ill there. Your health is better now, aga, by the grace of God?”

  “By the grace of God it is. I remember you too. You are in the employ of His Excellency the Governor of Kala Nao, and brought me food when I was ill.”

  Reassured by this mutual recognition, the two parties became more confiding. Christopher explained our predicament.

  “My name,” announced the man in the blue turban, “is Haji Lai Mohammad. I am a pistachio merchant, who had business in Murghab and am now returning to India. This is a bad stretch of road to be out on after dark; a man had his throat cut here not long ago. The nearest robat is only one farsakh off. If you will mount these gentlemen’s horses, we will ride on there, and tell the people to send out other horses for your chauffeur and luggage.”

  We mounted, and the guards with their rifles hopped up behind us. The veiled enigma clasped his hands round my stomach.

  “What do you think of him?” Haji Lai asked me.

  “I don’t know what to think of a man when I can’t see his face.”

  “Ha, ha, he is very young, but a great killer. He has already killed five men. Too young for so many, don’t you think?”

  The enigma giggled coyly under his draperies and tickled me in the ribs.

  “I presume you are followers of Jesus,” remarked Christopher’s pillion-mate.

  “Certainly.”

  “And were in Herat three days ago?” broke in Haji Lai. “Therefore you can tell me what the exchange is between Kabuli and Indian rupees. Also the price of Karakulis.” By these he meant lambskins.

  “Are you married?” he continued. “How many children have you, and how much money? I sometimes think of visiting London. How much does it cost to spend the night there?”

  “That depends,” answered Christopher, “on what sort of night you want to spend.”

  This reminded Haji Lai of a more pressing matter. “Have you any medicines in your luggage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you give me one? I want the kind that will make me please the ladies in Herat.”

  “I’m not sure that we have that kind.”

  We jogged along in silence for a little.

  “That car of yours,” said Haji Lai suddenly. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will it ever go again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What will you do if it doesn’t?”

  “Go on by horse.”

  There was a further silence.

  “Will you sell it?” asked Haji Lal.

  The words fell like music. But Christopher was careful not to show it.

  An hour’s ride brought us to the robat of Moghor. Robat is the Afghan term for caravanserai, and is also used as a measure of distance, since the main highways have these establishments every four farsakhs or sixteen miles. This one consists of the usual courtyard, with stabling below and a range of rooms over the entrance. But the parapets are crenellated for serious business, and the gates shut earlier than in Persia.

  The people of the place agreed that the open road was no place for Jamshyd and the luggage at this time of day, and sent out to fetch them as soon as possible.

  Moghor, May 18th.—Christopher has accepted Haji Lal’s offer for the car, which is about fifty pounds. He only gave sixty for it originally. One of the guards has gone off to Kala Nao to fetch part of the money, and the rest is arriving in sacks from the neighbouring villages; our friend must be a man of credit. Ten pounds are being deducted for the black horse, which Christopher has taken a fancy to. I am hiring one for myself, in case we find motor transport later.

  A lorry has just passed on its way to Herat containing the secretary to the Russian Consulate in Ma
imena. Having seen our car being dragged in by oxen, he stopped to ask if he could help, which was friendly of him. He said that lorries run from Maimena to Mazar-i-Sherif almost daily.

  After he had gone, an Afghan walked into the room and addressed me as “Tovarish”. “Good God,” I said, “don’t comrade me. I’m English.” It took a long time to persuade him that not all fair people were Russians. But when we succeeded in doing so, it transpired that he was an escaped Russian subject and in fact had nothing to say for the Bolsheviks.

  There is a river near the robat where we went this evening to wash our plates. Seeing a village on the other side of it, we asked a passing youth if he could get us any milk there. He could, he said, if he had anything to put it in; so we handed him a thermos. But instead of going to the village, he stood still and open-eyed, fingering the glittering object, till we had finished washing up. Then, as we started to go back to the robat, he ran after us, and taking off his turban presented it to us as a security for the thermos.

  Later.—Everyone thinks Christopher has been swindled over the car, whose value in this country seems to be greater than we thought. I forgot to mention the most curious part of the bargain. This was that we should give Haji Lal a letter to enable him to see over the buildings at New Dehli. I have done my best, though I know no one in the Public Works Department there.

  One should study first aid before starting on this kind of journey. We have just had one man asking help for a sprained thumb, another for worms. The least one can do is to make a show of treating them. But instead of masquerading as a witch-doctor, it would be pleasanter to know they would be cured.

  Bala Murghab (1500ft., c 45 miles from Moghor), May 20th.—We left Herat six days ago. If we had started in the morning instead of the afternoon, we should probably have arrived here the same night.

  Our caravan from Moghor consisted of six horses, three for the luggage, one for me, one for the “gunman” who escorted us, and Christopher’s black. The last turned out to be a remarkable pacer, putting its near and off legs forward alternately with the speed of a machine-gun. We forsook the motor-road, and cutting across the downs, came to higher hills, still grass-covered, but dotted with outcrops of rock and occasional pistachio bushes which I mistook for wild fig trees till I saw the clusters of reddening nuts. From the top of this range we had a last view of the Paropamisus behind us, still half hidden by rain clouds. In front, and nearer, rose the main range of the Band-i-Turkestan.