A soft whinny came from the stables below. Wazir Khan had told him that horses always sensed a coming battle. Beyond the fortress walls, Babur could see the red glow of charcoal already starting to burn in the braziers as the encampments came to life. Shadowy figures were emerging from hide tents and stamping on the ground to drive the early-morning cold from their limbs. Servants were scurrying about with jugs of water and lighting flares of cloth dipped in pitch.
Nearly every one of his chiefs had come, Babur thought, with satisfaction. He would march with an army of four thousand. Small, perhaps, compared with the might of Samarkand, but large enough to do some damage and make a point – maybe enough to force a truce and agree a settlement. He should have paid more attention to his father’s lengthy, excited accounts of military strategy. Instead he would have to rely on Wazir Khan’s advice – but he would learn quickly, he promised himself. He had to.
Dawn was breaking now, a pale orange glow rising over the mountains and illuminating their jagged outline. Suddenly Babur spotted a cluster of horsemen galloping hard along the valley – latecomers, perhaps. Pleased by their sense of urgency, he ran down the steep stone steps from the battlements to the courtyard to greet them.
Steam was rising from the horses’ heaving flanks as the riders surged up the castle ramp. Their leader shouted for the metalstudded gates to be opened and for permission to enter.
‘Halt!’ Wazir Khan’s voice rang out. Hurrying to his side, Babur saw what the commander of his bodyguard was staring at through the grille of the gate. The crouching tiger on their green silken banners proclaimed the new arrivals subjects not of Ferghana but of Samarkand.
The leading horseman’s mount reared as he pulled hard on the reins. ‘We bring news,’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘Our king is dead.’
‘Majesty, stay back. I will deal with this. It may be a trick,’ Wazir Khan cautioned, then signalled his guards to stand aside and open the gates to allow the riders into the courtyard. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he strode forward to confront them. ‘Identify yourselves.’
‘I am Baisanghar, a captain of the King of Samarkand’s bodyguard. These are my men.’
Baisanghar’s face was streaked with sweat and dust but what struck Babur most was his utter exhaustion beneath the grime. This was no ruse. Disregarding Wazir Khan’s caution, he stepped forward. ‘I am Babur, King of Ferghana. What has happened to my uncle?’
‘The king was on his way to Your Gracious Majesty in Ferghana to offer you his . . . protection. He and his forces had camped overnight by a fast-flowing river and were building a temporary bridge over it when Uzbeks ambushed us not two hours after dawn. In the surprise and confusion all was lost – the war elephants, camels and our baggage animals ran off in terror, trampling anyone or anything that stood in their path. Our men fought bravely but many were killed. Some tried to escape back over the half-built bridge but it collapsed under them and they were swept away. The waters of the river soon ran red with blood – Uzbek as well as ours, it’s true – but we were overwhelmed.’
‘And my uncle?’
‘When the attack began he was in his scarlet tent on the riverbank. He managed to mount his horse and ride against the enemy but an arrow struck him in the throat and he fell to the ground where he lay, his heels drumming the earth in his agony. We managed to reach him and drag him from among the horses’ hoofs. But there was nothing the doctors – the hakims – could do for him. They could not staunch the loss of blood. He was dead within the hour. As the news spread among our forces some of the chieftains, fearing what was to come, called off their men and turned for their home villages.’ Baisanghar’s voice was bitter with contempt.
‘And why have you come here?’
‘It was your uncle’s dying wish. He believed that God was punishing him for coveting Ferghana. As his last breath bubbled through the blood in his throat he asked me to seek your forgiveness so that he may rest in tranquillity in Paradise.’
That didn’t sound at all like his uncle, Babur reflected, but perhaps the proximity of death changed men.
‘What proof have you of what you say?’ Wazir Khan’s one eye was still alive with suspicion, and Babur noticed he had not ordered his men to stand down. Even now three had their bows raised, trained on Baisanghar.
‘Here is my proof.’ Baisanghar thrust his hand deep inside his hide jerkin and pulled out a small, stained pouch. Loosing the plaited thong around its neck he extracted a piece of brocade. Carefully, reverently, he unrolled it to reveal what lay inside: a heavy, blood-smeared gold ring.
Babur gasped as Baisanghar held it out. ‘See,’ his voice was almost a whisper, ‘the ring of Timur the Great.’ The snarling tiger etched into the yellow metal seemed to writhe and spit.
The atmosphere at the council of war was very different this time. As Babur entered, flanked by his vizier and Wazir Khan, the chiefs were noisily debating the astonishing turn of events.
‘The message is clear, Majesty.’ Tambal’s eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘The king has named you his heir – he had no sons. Others will try to claim it, but Samarkand is yours if we move quickly.’
Babur could not resist an ironic smile. ‘And the Uzbeks? A few days ago you were afraid of them. And you were right – they have just butchered my uncle, ravaged his armies and looted his baggage train. Suppose they, too, now have their eyes on Samarkand?’
‘But it’s almost autumn. The seasons are our friend. Every year it’s the same. As winter approaches Shaibani Khan withdraws north to his lair in Turkestan and does not move again until the snows melt.’
‘What do you say, Ali Mazid Beg?’ But Babur already knew. The man’s whole body exuded ebullience and confidence and his eyes were brilliant at the thought of the glories and booty ahead. Samarkand was rich but, more than that, it had been the centre of Timur’s empire, the glorious place every Timurid prince and noble ached for. Babur felt the same longing. While still so young, fortune had handed him an opportunity that might never come again. He had no wish for a long life and a peaceful death propped on silken cushions if his last living thoughts were to be of missed chances. His road to Paradise must not be paved with regrets.
Ali Mazid Beg did not disappoint him. ‘I say we should ride quickly, before the winter comes.’
‘And you, Wazir Khan, what is your view?’
Babur had had no time to discuss plans with him. Would he say something to quell the excitement pumping so violently through him that his body was almost vibrating? Wazir Khan’s single eye was gazing intently at him, considering. Here it comes, Babur thought, the words of cold reason to slow my pulses. He will tell me I am just a youth, that defending my kingdom is one thing but conquests are another. He will counsel me to wait, tell me prudence must be allied with courage, patience with ambition.
‘Tambal is right. Having tasted blood, Shaibani and his Uzbeks should now be riding north, away from Ferghana along the Jaxartes river. I will send out scouts to make sure. But even without the Uzbek menace our armies are too few for such a venture. We need allies, paid men – mercenaries, if you will. We must persuade the mountain tribes to ride with us. If we pay they will come, and if they come we may – God willing – be victorious.’
Babur gazed at Wazir Khan as if he had never before appreciated him properly. ‘You will be my commander-in-chief. Do whatever is necessary. We ride in two weeks.’
‘Majesty.’ Wazir Khan bowed his head.
Hoofbeats pounded the cold earth, over and over again, so that their rhythm seemed the only reality. Babur twined his fingers in his horse’s mane to steady himself as he swayed with fatigue. Since leaving his fortress at Akhsi, he had ridden ahead each day with the advance guard, leaving the heavily laden pack-beasts carrying tents and cooking equipment to follow and meet up with them at nightfall. Four days ago his entire force had crossed from Ferghana into lands belonging to Samarkand but had encountered nothing more threatening than a few herdsmen.
Babur looked up. In
an hour the sun would be sinking in their faces but before then their three-hundred-mile journey west between high mountain passes and across foaming rivers should be over. The domes of the city of Samarkand itself would lie before them like an offering. Perhaps even tonight he would occupy Timur’s capital. Babur indulged himself by picturing the grateful populace thronging round him, overcome that a new Timurid king had come to save them.
At the thought, he kicked on his horse once more and, despite its fatigue, the animal shot forward up the slope of a hill. There in the distance, across the shining waters of the Zarafshan river, Samarkand lay silhouetted against a vibrant sky. Babur stared as if mesmerised. His breath caught in his throat. Perhaps, until this moment, he had not quite believed that Samarkand really existed. Now there was no doubt. This was no fable, no haunt of phantoms, but a place, inhabited by men of flesh and blood, that he had come to claim as his own.
Babur let out a whoop but his cry of jubilation died on his lips. To the south, several miles from the city, was an encampment among the nearly leafless tress of Samarkand’s fabled orchards that, just a few weeks earlier, would have dipped under their burden of fragrant apples and golden pomegranates. Banners flew in the chill breeze and smoke spiralled from cooking fires. As he watched, Babur saw a detachment of riders gallop into this camp, swerving expertly between the tents to be greeted by the metallic blare of trumpets.
So, despite all his haste, he was not the first would-be king to reach Samarkand. Someone had forestalled him. Disappointment sharp as physical pain skewered him.
Wazir Khan was beside him, cursing vividly as he, too, stared at the scene ahead. ‘I will send scouts, Majesty.’
‘Is it Shaibani Khan?’
‘I don’t think so. The camp isn’t large enough. And the city doesn’t appear to be under attack or even siege, which it would surely be if Shaibani Khan were here.’
‘Then who?’
‘I don’t know. But it isn’t safe to go forward. We must retreat down this hill, make camp in its lee, where we cannot be seen, and wait for our main force to catch up tomorrow.’
Wazir Khan read the bleak disappointment on Babur’s face. ‘This is Qolba Hill, a place of dreams and hopes. Five years ago I was with your father, here, on this very spot, with the armies of Ferghana behind us. Like you, Majesty, he gazed on Samarkand and what he saw made him catch his breath with ambition and desire.’
‘What happened?’
‘The king, your uncle, was away fighting rebellious tribes to the west. It was the perfect time to attack, but God was not with us. That very night your father, who had ridden so hard that one of his best horses collapsed under him, was stricken by such a deep fever that the doctors feared for his life. We had no choice but to turn back. Your father took it hard but it was his fate.’
‘Why did my uncle and my father hate each other so much? They were brothers.’
‘Only half-brothers, born of different women, and rivals from the moment they were old enough to realise that each coveted the same thing – Timur’s city. Your uncle Ahmed was the older by four years. He seized Samarkand and spent the rest of his life taunting your father. Yet your father had something he did not. In spite of all his women and all the potions he swallowed or rubbed into his groin, your uncle could not father a son to succeed him. And that, more than anything, he could not forgive. That was why he planned to take Ferghana from you and leave you nothing – perhaps not even your life.’
In his mind’s eye Babur saw his distraught mother sobbing in anguish at the news of his uncle’s advance. She had understood the depths of his enmity. But in his dying moments his uncle had relented and sent Babur Timur’s ring. Surely that was a sign? He was meant to rule Samarkand and not, like his father, live out a life blighted by disappointment.
‘Come, Majesty.’
Babur fought the impulse to gallop wildly on and confront these interlopers who thought they could snatch away his dreams. Sadly he turned his horse and followed Wazir Khan slowly back down through the tussocky grass of Qolba Hill.
Soon the tents were pitched but there was no hot food in case smoke rising from the cooking fires alerted those on the plains beyond. Despite their weight, Babur shivered beneath layers of pungent-smelling sheepskins as the temperature dropped. Finally he drifted off to sleep only to be shaken awake what seemed like just a few minutes later. ‘Majesty, I have news.’ Wazir Khan was kneeling at his side. His face was relaxed. There was even a twist of a smile. ‘It seems we have interrupted an affair of the heart.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Five days ago your cousin Mahmud, son of the King of Kunduz, arrived here. His goal was not to take the city but a girl. With Samarkand in confusion he planned to steal into the city and find her. She is the daughter of the grand vizier.’
‘What stopped him?’ Babur could hardly believe his ears. The last time he had seen Mahmud, the son of his mother’s favourite sister and three years older than him, he had been a clumsy, cheerful boy with angry spots on his hairless chin and a passion for pranks that often got him into trouble. Babur had followed worshipfully where he led. The idea of a lovelorn Mahmud sighing his heart out for a girl was ridiculous.
Wazir Khan’s face assumed its usual grave expression. ‘Your cousin found the city gates barred. The grand vizier is claiming the throne of Samarkand – the city and all its territories.’
‘What gives him that right?’
‘Nothing. He has no blood descent from Timur. But he is powerful. He controls the treasury and can bribe anyone he wishes.’
‘But when he learns that I, the former king’s nephew, am here he must give way. My right is greater than his, however many fistfuls of golden coins he can shower on those around him.’
The youthful indignation in Babur’s voice made Wazir Khan smile again. ‘He knows you are coming but has declared he will not yield the throne to a raw stripling. Neither will he give his daughter to Prince Mahmud. He plans a great match for her with another of your cousins – the son of the King of Kabul.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Babur jumped to his feet, so that the sheepskins tumbled around him. ‘Bring my horse. I will ride to my cousin’s camp.’
Dawn was rising as Babur, wrapped in a thick cloak, galloped towards his cousin’s encampment, his escort close around.
‘Halt.’ A soldier’s voice came gruffly out of the pale grey light. ‘Declare yourself.’
‘Babur, King of Ferghana, who wishes to greet his cousin, Prince Mahmud of Kunduz.’
A silence, then a murmuring, then a blazing torch held high, casting haloes of light. Babur shaded his eyes as soldiers encircled his small party. Then he heard a voice he recognised, deeper than he remembered but still brimming with good humour. ‘You are welcome, cousin.’ Mahmud, unruly black hair flowing over his shoulders and a falcon on his gloved wrist, strode towards him and threw his other arm round Babur’s shoulders. ‘You have interrupted my plans for an early hawking expedition but I’m still pleased to see you. Come.’ He gestured towards a large square tent.
Rich carpets covered the earth and brocade hangings concealed the hide walls and ceiling. Mahmud hooded his falcon and returned it to its golden perch, then flung himself on to a pile of plump velvet cushions. Babur did likewise. ‘I was sad to learn of your father’s death. He was a good man and a good warrior. May peace be with him. We of course observed mourning for him in Kunduz.’
‘Thank you.’ Babur bowed his head.
‘And now my little cousin is a king.’
‘As you will be one day.’
Mahmud smiled. ‘True.’
‘But today your thoughts lie in a different direction?’
Mahmud’s smile broadened to a grin. ‘You should see her, Babur. Skin like silk, slender as a willow wand and nearly as tall as I am. I will have her, I have sworn to, and I will not break my word.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘Don’t worry – I didn’t disguise myself as a w
oman and slip into the grand vizier’s harem. It happened last year while she was accompanying her father on an embassy from Samarkand to Kunduz. Brigands attacked their party soon after they had crossed our northern borders. I and my troops had been sent to meet them. We were close when the attack occurred. We heard the clamour and rode to their rescue. That was when I saw her – she came out from behind the rock where she had been hiding, her veil and half her clothes torn off . . .’ Mahmud paused, clearly remembering the pleasurable sight.
‘The grand vizier should have been grateful to you.’
‘He was – but Kunduz is not as rich as Kabul.’ Mahmud shrugged. ‘And you, cousin, what brings you here?’
‘Beware the man who has no ambition.’ His father’s words flickered unbidden through Babur’s mind. But wasn’t it also right to be wary of the man who did? Had Mahmud really come to Samarkand at such a time merely for the sake of a girl, however desirable?
Babur decided to be frank. ‘The King of Samarkand, though my father’s brother, was no friend to Ferghana and meant to rob me of my throne. But as he lay dying, he ordered his men to bring me this.’ Babur held out his hand. Timur’s ring, cleansed now of blood, was on his index finger. It was a little too big, but he had secured it with a twist of red silk. The metal gleamed in the light from a brazier of burning charcoal and he heard Mahmud’s sharp intake of breath.
‘You believe you are Timur’s heir?’
‘His blood runs in my veins. I will have his city.’
‘His blood runs in my veins also,’ Mahmud said slowly. Their eyes met and suddenly there was nothing boyish about either of them. Babur felt glad of the dagger in its jewelled scabbard tucked into the mauve sash around his waist.
‘Don’t worry, little cousin – though perhaps I should not call you “little”. I have seen kinder expressions on the faces of she-wolves whose young I’ve just slain.’ Mahmud was grinning again. ‘True, I came to Samarkand because I guessed there would be confusion in the city. But look around my camp and you will see I’ve brought no more than a few hundred men. I never planned to seize the city, merely to raid it, steal some of its wealth and quell this fire in my loins.’ He pulled a face and gave his groin a playful rub.
Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul Page 5