‘I wish you luck. May the fire soon be quenched.’
‘And you, cousin, how many men have you?’
‘When my main force arrives, we will be more than six thousand strong, including many archers.’ In reality, Babur’s army totalled some five thousand but it would do no harm to exaggerate a little.
Mahmud looked impressed. ‘I didn’t think Ferghana could muster so many.’
‘Many are my own retainers and their men, but others are from the hill tribes.’
‘Let’s attack together.’ Mahmud grasped Babur’s wrist. ‘When you have the grand vizier’s head on a spear, I shall have my wife.’
‘Why not?’ Babur smiled back. With his superior forces there could be little danger of Mahmud outmanoeuvring him and taking the throne.
Two months later the winter winds whipping around them were not as bitter as the pain Babur felt as his men plodded wearily eastwards back towards Ferghana. The horses, shaggy manes clotted with ice, were sinking into the snow to their hocks. As they snorted with the effort, their breath rose in clouds of mist. In some places the drifts were so deep that the men dismounted to relieve the animals of their weight and struggled along beside them. Much of the baggage lay scattered and abandoned on the snowy wastes behind them.
This was not how it should have been, Babur thought grimly. The ring on his finger with its piece of red silk still hung a little loose. It seemed vainglorious now, a testament to his failure and humiliation.
Wazir Khan was by his side, shrouded in a heavy wool blanket with frost mantling his beard and brows. Wise Wazir Khan who had urged him to abandon their assaults when the pale skies pregnant with snow announced that winter had come early and vengefully. But Babur had not listened – not even when Mahmud turned for home, the longing in his loins unsatisfied, or when his own paid allies, the hill tribesmen, rode away, cursing about loot promised but not provided. And now he was paying the price for his stubbornness and pride. The walls of Samarkand were unbreached and inside them the grand vizier was sitting snug with the crown that was not his and with the daughter for whom he had such great plans – her maidenhead destined for the son of the King of Kabul, not Mahmud.
‘Majesty, we will return.’ Wazir Khan as usual had read his mind. His words forced through frost-bitten lips came slowly. ‘This was only a raid. We saw a chance and took it, but circumstances were against us.’
‘It hurts me, Wazir Khan. When I think of what might have been, I feel a pain sharp as any cut from a blade . . .’
‘But it has given you your first experience of warfare. Next time we’ll be better prepared and equipped, and you will know the sweetness of success.’
In spite of his misery, the words cheered Babur. He was young. He already had one kingdom. It was not weakness to recognise the inevitable – that he could not take Samarkand this winter. Weakness lay in despair, in giving up while he still had breath in his lungs and strength in his arms, and that he would never do. ‘I will return,’ he shouted, above the howling of the wind, and lifting his head gave the war whoop his father had taught him. The defiant sound was swallowed by the wintry storm but continued to echo in Babur’s head.
Chapter 4
Into the Fat City
How lucky that a winter that had descended so cruelly early had been followed by a premature spring. From the balcony of his chamber Babur watched boys casting stones on to the frozen Jaxartes, saw the ice fissure and the waters surge up. A few unwary sheep that had wandered on to the frozen watercourse were borne away in the chill torrent. Their thin, high-pitched bleating lasted only a few seconds.
On the plains beyond the Jaxartes, his chiefs were again assembled with their men. This time he had sent his messengers even further, calling in the nomad tribes from north, south, east and west and promising them rich booty. With Shaibani Khan still in his winter quarters in the far north, this must be the moment to strike, Babur thought. Soon he would give the command to ride.
But before he embarked on his unfinished business of Samarkand he must pay his respects to his mother. He hurried to her apartments. This time, his reflection in Kutlugh Nigar’s mirror of burnished brass looked very different from when he had gazed on it in the dark, uncertain hours after his father’s death. A few weeks ago he had celebrated his thirteenth birthday. Hairs sprouted on his chin and he was taller and broader. His voice had deepened and Timur’s ring no longer hung loose on his hand.
‘You are becoming a man, my son.’ There was pride in his mother’s
voice as she kissed him farewell. Even his grandmother seemed satisfied – and it took much to please the stern old woman, whose face was as wrinkled as a dried apricot but whose shrewd dark eyes missed nothing.
‘When the city is mine I will send for you all.’
‘You promise?’ Khanzada thrust out her chin.
‘I promise.’ He bent to kiss the sister who was now, to Babur’s satisfaction, a good six inches shorter than he.
As he strode away through the harem, he passed an open door. In the windowless chamber within, lit by the soft light of a row of oil lamps, a tall young woman in bodice and wide trousers of pink flowered silk was bending forward, combing her flowing hair. Babur stepped beneath the low lintel.
As soon as she saw him, she knelt before him so that her forehead touched the ground and her hair flowed round her like a pool of shining water. ‘Greetings, Babur, King of Ferghana. May God smile on you.’ Her voice, low but clear, held the cadences of the mountain people of the north.
‘You may rise.’
She got up gracefully. Her eyes were elongated, her figure slender and her skin the colour of honey. In the corner of her chamber Babur noticed two rustic wooden chests with garments tumbling out of them.
‘I was tired after my journey. I ordered my attendants to leave me . . .’ She paused and Babur noticed uncertainty in her face, as if she was weighing something up. He turned to go. There was still much for him to see to before the army departed.
‘I thank you, Majesty, for summoning me here.’ She took a step towards him and he caught her musky scent.
‘My father’s concubine is, of course, welcome in my house.’
‘And his son by his concubine?’
Babur felt a flash of irritation. ‘Of course.’ This woman, Roxanna – the daughter of some petty chief – had no right to question him so. He’d only learned of her existence a few weeks ago. For some reason his father had chosen not to bring her to his castle but had left her among her own people to be visited and tumbled when he was away on hunting trips. He had told no one of her. Neither had he revealed that eight years ago, when she could have been no more than fourteen, she had borne him a son, Jahangir.
When, in the first days after the snows had ceased to fall, Roxanna’s father had arrived at the castle, no one had paid much attention to the shabby tribal chief with his straggling beard. Then he had drawn from his sheepskin robes a letter written by Babur’s father acknowledging Roxanna as his concubine and her young son as his seed. It asked that if anything happened to him, they should be admitted to the protection of the royal harem.
Kutlugh Nigar had responded with barely a shrug. It had been her husband’s right to take as many concubines as he wanted and, indeed, three other wives. She knew she had been his great love, his daily companion, the mother of his son and heir. No other couple on earth could have matched the depth of their physical and mental compatibility. The sole shadow in their union had been that only two of their children had survived. The unexpected existence of Roxanna and Babur’s half-brother mattered not to her – or so she had insisted to Babur who, embarrassed like all young people to discuss his parents’ affairs of the heart, had tried to curtail the conversation. ‘Let her come with her brat,’ she had concluded coldly. Later, Babur noticed that she had ordered Roxanna to be given apartments near her own. Out of sympathy for a young woman alone among strangers? No. So that she could keep an eye on her.
‘You are gracious,
Majesty.’ Roxanna was smiling at him now. ‘Your brother thanks you also.’
Half-brother only, Babur thought, and did not smile back. He hadn’t seen him yet. The child was apparently ill with a fever – no doubt bitten by fleas or a sheep tick, Kutlugh Nigar had said on learning of it. ‘May your son soon be blessed by the return of good health,’ Babur said. Courteous words but he knew they sounded cold. He meant them to. Turning on his heel he walked swiftly away, his mind already on the great game that awaited him.
This time he had nearly eight thousand men under arms Babur thought, with pride, as the ranks of his horsemen fanned west across the plains. Behind them rode his liegemen and their forces, then the motley contingents of the tribal chiefs, like the wild Chakraks, who dwelled in the high wilderness between Ferghana and Kashgar with their horses, sheep and the shaggy yaks they preferred to cattle. The baggage wagons, hauled by long-horned oxen, creaked and groaned under the weight of equipment. This time Babur had left nothing to chance. Again and again, in his councils of war, he had gone over everything he would need for a lengthy campaign, from siege engines to ladders to be placed against Samarkand’s walls, to the cooking pots required to feed so many men, to the musicians who would play to lighten their spirits and give them the appetite for victory.
During the inactive winter months Babur, with Wazir Khan, had also considered how best to ensure Ferghana’s safety in his absence. He had decided to leave his vizier Kasim, whose loyalty and competence were beyond question, as regent. There had been no reports of Uzbek incursions, and if any danger should threaten, Kasim would at once send word to him.
What mattered now was to anticipate every move his enemies in Samarkand might make. Babur knew that, once again, the grand vizier – now daring openly to call himself King of Samarkand – would have been warned of his coming. The city’s granaries would still be well stocked with last autumn’s harvest and its gates and walls manned by soldiers whose loyalty the vizier had plenty of money to buy.
After ten days’ hard riding, Qolba Hill came into view. Babur did not wait for the return of the scouts Wazir Khan had sent ahead but kicked his grey horse across the emerald grasslands, still spongy with the moisture from melted snow and dotted with the yellow, pink and white of spring flowers. His horse disturbed one of the pheasants for which the area was famed – it rose into the air with a whir of wings and a cackle of alarm. Babur’s heart leaped at the sight of the great domes and minarets of Samarkand outlined against the sky. Strong, high walls surrounded the city and within them Babur’s sharp eyes made out a second set girdling the inner citadel built by Timur to protect his ultimate stronghold, the four-storey Kok Saray. In the years since his death it had acquired an evil reputation. Babur had grown up with stories of the torture, murder and blindings of ambitious princes and nobles invited to the Kok Saray to feast and never seen again.
He wheeled his horse to a standstill. Even from this distance he could sense the city’s watchfulness, as if it was a great creature, tense and waiting. Many eyes would be looking out, trying to assess when and from which direction Babur would come and how many men he would bring. Spies would have observed every step of their three-hundred-mile journey west from Ferghana.
This time there was no sign of any other army. Babur grinned, wondering how his lovelorn cousin Mahmud was faring. Doubtless he had already found himself another woman to sate his throbbing loins – but if he still wanted her, Babur vowed, the grand vizier’s daughter would be his. He would send her as a gift.
‘You must have patience, Majesty,’ Wazir Khan said, as he had every day for the past five months.
Babur scowled into the basket of glowing charcoals Wazir Khan had lit to warm them as they squatted in the middle of a grove of trees, well beyond the camp with its prying ears and eyes. They needed the warmth. Autumn was coming and the night air was bone-numbingly chill. ‘We have traitors in our midst, I am sure of it. Every time we attack a section of the walls or try to tunnel beneath, the enemy seem to know and to be ready for us.’ Babur poked the charcoal with the tip of his dagger.
‘Every camp has its spies, Majesty. It is inevitable. And don’t we also have our own spies?’
‘But they tell us nothing.’
‘They will, when there is something to tell. We have held the city under siege for five months. We still have food and water but the enemy’s must be running low. Soon they will have to send out foraging parties. We must set our spies to watch for them and learn their secret exits. What cannot be taken by force may be taken by stealth.’
Babur grunted. Wazir Khan, so wise and level-headed – the man who since the time Babur first stood unaided had tutored him in the arts of war – was good at reminding him how much he still needed to learn. All the same, the last months had taught him much. In the scorching heat of summer, he had learned that grass growing brighter and taller than anywhere else was a sign of hidden water channels. He had learned how to drill his men and keep them active and high-spirited when there was no fighting to be done. He had ordered them to play polo insolently close to Samarkand’s high walls and, braving the city’s best archers, had joined in, thundering over the ground to swipe his mallet at the sheep’s-head ball, which – when they had finished – they had lobbed contemptuously over the battlements.
Babur knew now how to move silently through the darkness with his men and to position long ladders, the tops wrapped in sheep’s wool to deaden any sound, against the high walls. He had climbed with them, only to be met by missiles, clouds of arrows and buckets of burning pitch, and forced to retreat. He had crept along dark, sandy tunnels dug by his men towards the walls, hoping to burrow beneath them but encountering foundations as unyielding as the mountains of Ferghana.
Babur had also attacked by day, his sweating men dragging up the great siege engines which had hurled massive rocks. But Samarkand’s metal-bound gates and thick walls had withstood these barrages, and the pounding of his battering rams.
‘I don’t understand. The King of Samarkand was my uncle. I’m directly of the blood of Timur. I’ve sent assurances that I’ll not put the city to the sword. Why don’t the people open their gates to me of their own accord? Why do they prefer the rule of a usurping vizier?’
Wazir Khan’s patient half-smile again told Babur that he had spoken with the ignorance of youth, not the wisdom of maturity. ‘Perhaps he rules them by fear. Remember also that the people do not know you. Since Timur died, Samarkand has been besieged by many chiefs and kings hungry for glory and gold, claiming kinship with the great conqueror. Your own uncle seized the city by force. Why should the citizens look kindly on any aggressor? With the grand vizier they at least know what they have.’
The hoot of an owl made them look up at the sky, in which the stars were already fading.
‘We should return, Majesty.’ Wazir Khan pushed the brazier over and kicked earth over the still burning charcoal.
It wasn’t only the loss of their heat that made Babur shiver. ‘Wazir Khan, I’m worried. If we don’t take the city soon, winter will be upon us and my armies will melt away once more. I’ll be forced to return a second time to Ferghana without victory. Then what will my people say about me?’
Wazir Khan gripped his arm. ‘We still have time. The sun has yet to enter the sign of the balance. God willing, Samarkand will fall.’
He was right, Babur reflected. His father had endured many setbacks but had never despaired. What was it he used to say? ‘If your soldiers see you falter, then all is lost. They look to you for leadership and discipline.’ Yes, it was a king’s duty to be strong. He must remember that.
They mounted their horses and rode back towards the camp. As they drew nearer, Babur heard, above the rhythm of galloping hoofs, a man shouting in anger. Not another dispute between the lawless rogues who made up so much of his army? he thought wearily as the sounds grew louder and more strident and oaths split the air.
The commotion was coming from near the bathhouse tents. As he and
Wazir Khan rode up, Babur saw that one of his mercenary commanders – a nomad from the wildernesses – was examining the contents of two sacks with a couple of his scar-faced warriors. Another man, a simple farmer by his clothes, was watching. ‘You’ve no right to steal from me. How will I feed my family this winter when you’ve taken everything – my grain, even my sheep?’ The man gestured at the small flock of shaggy, brown-fleeced animals tethered close by. He was almost weeping with anger.
There could have been something ludicrous about this thin, insignificant peasant stamping in rage and frustration before warriors who could have flattened him with a swipe of their hard fists, but his defiance was impressive, Babur thought.
‘Get back to your midden and think yourself lucky you go with your life. And when you see your wife, give her another kiss from me and tell her I enjoyed her,’ grinned one of the warriors who then launched a kick at the peasant, sending him sprawling. When the man tried to get up, he kicked him again.
‘What is happening here?’
Taken by surprise, the men stared up at Babur.
‘Answer His Majesty,’ rapped Wazir Khan. Still no answer came.
‘Get up.’ Babur gestured to the farmer, who rose slowly and painfully, clutching his stomach, his lined face apprehensive. If he hated the soldiers, plainly he had no faith in kings either. He backed away from the imperious youth on the horse with the jewelled bridle.
‘Stay where you are.’ Babur leaped down and surveyed the tableau. The two jute sacks lolled before him, their pathetic contents spilling out. Babur ripped off his leather gauntlet, plunged his hand into one and pulled out some dun garments, a wooden cup and a couple of cotton bags. Opening the bags he found only some mouldy-looking grain intermixed with dark mouse droppings. The other sack felt heavier. Inside were half a dozen skinny chickens, necks newly wrung, and a round cheese, the rind clotted with feathers and chicken blood.
Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul Page 6