Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul

by Alex Rutherford

  Babur wanted to gallop to the gates and demand entry, but Wazir Khan was right. He got shakily down from his horse, feeling the feverish ache in his limbs, and listened as Wazir Khan selected his two best and swiftest horsemen to ride onwards and find out what they could.

  The fortress was at least an hour’s journey, perhaps more in the gathering darkness, and the scouts would need to take care not to be seen. It would be some while before they returned. Perched as Babur and his men were high on the side of a hill and reluctant to retreat back over the crest, their position was too exposed to risk a fire to warm themselves or cook over. Not that they had much to cook. In the six days since Babur’s recovery, they had travelled too fast to forage or hunt, Instead they had relied mainly on the now mouldering bread, cheese, apples and dried fruit they had brought from Samarkand. Babur wrapped himself in a blanket and chewed a strip of dried melon. Its sweetness disgusted him and he spat it out, taking a long draught of water to rid himself of the cloying taste.

  The scouts returned two hours before dawn, and the news was bad, as Babur had suspected it would be. The castle gates were barred and many defenders were keeping watch from the walls. According to a herdsman the scouts had surprised as he sat around his fire in a riverside pasture with his two young sons, who had been too terrified to speak anything but the truth, many of the nomadic tribal leaders had sworn to support Babur’s half-brother. It didn’t surprise Babur to learn that the chieftain whose men he had ordered hacked to death for stealing the peasant’s goods and raping his wife outside Samarkand was among them. And of course, Jahangir’s grandfather. Babur thought of the sly-faced old man who had brought Roxanna and her brat to the castle. He should never have taken them in – but what else could he have done? Jahangir was his half-brother. Blood was blood.

  It was no surprise either that Yusuf, his father’s stout treasurer, together with Baba Qashqa, his comptroller of the household, and Baqi Beg, his thin, fidgety astrologer, had joined his half-brother since – though Babur had allowed them to live – he had forced them to yield their profitable appointments.

  His thoughts returned to his grandmother, mother and sister. The scouts had not been able to find out anything about them. He cursed his powerlessness. What could he and two dozen bodyguards do anyway? He must wait for his army to join him.

  As the sun rose behind Mount Beshtor, making the ever-present snow on the summit sparkle like crystal, Babur wrapped his cloak round him, and, signalling he wished to be alone, began to tramp up the hill on which they had camped. The emerald-green grass was slippery with dew beneath his feet. It smelled fresh and sweet. But before long winter would descend and these slopes would be frozen hard and white. It was a worrying thought. How could he campaign in winter?

  The wind blowing in from the east had a cold bite. Babur settled in the shelter of a slab of rock and his keen eyes scanned the landscape whose contours he knew so intimately they felt like part of him – every sweep of green meadowland, every steep-sided valley with its patches of grey scree, every jagged mountain peak, every bend in the Jaxartes. The sense of loss overwhelmed him and he bowed his head.

  The sun had risen high in a bright, cloudless sky when Babur heard the distant thud of hoofbeats coming from the west. Leaping up, he turned to look behind him and, sure enough, in the distance, he could see a long line of riders coming along a valley. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to count them – perhaps two hundred, maybe more – and caught the flash of a green standard. It must be the advance guard sent by Baisanghar.

  Feeling new energy surging through him, driving out the despair, he turned and ran down the hill towards the camp, slipping and rolling in his eagerness. ‘Wazir Khan, the troops are coming,’ he shouted, as he ran into the camp.

  ‘You are sure they are our men?’

  ‘I’m certain. They carry the green banners of Samarkand.’

  ‘I will send a patrol to guide them to us, Majesty.’

  Heart pounding, Babur watched the men gallop off. Now we’ll flush those scum out of the castle. Tambal will repent his treachery and as for the rest . . . Babur ran to his saddlebag and unstrapped his father’s sword. As he drew it from its scabbard, the rubies in the eagle hilt flashed in the sunlight. It felt good to balance it in his hand and he imagined bringing it down, in a slashing sweep, on Tambal’s bare neck, as he had done on the neck of Qambar-Ali on the first day of his rule in Ferghana.

  It wasn’t long before the riders were in view, Baisanghar himself at their head.

  Babur stepped forward. Beneath his pointed helmet, Baisanghar looked exhausted. ‘When will the main army get here? Are they far away?’

  Baisanghar hesitated a moment before he answered. ‘There is no main army, Majesty.’

  The light in Babur’s eyes died. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Mahmud of Kunduz, your cousin, has seized Samarkand. He must have been plotting with Tambal and had his armies ready. He waited until I had ridden from the city with the advance guard, then made his attack. He was aided from within by some of the former associates of the grand vizier whom the vizier’s daughter, Prince Mahmud’s wife, seems to have suborned through messengers promising extravagant rewards. We had been riding for five days before men reached me with the news of Samarkand’s fall. I’m sorry, Majesty. I have failed you.’

  ‘Mahmud . . .’ Babur could hardly take in what Baisanghar had said. That the cousin he’d known all his life and had thought of as a friend – the cousin to whom he’d only recently sent the gift of a bride – should betray him like this seemed impossible. ‘What of Ali Mazid Beg?’

  ‘He is dead, Majesty. His body, not the grand vizier’s, now swings above the Turquoise Gate, and many others who were loyal to you are dead.’

  Babur turned away, disgust at his cousin and grief for the loyal Ali Mazid Beg almost overwhelming him. At the same time, his mind was trying to grapple with something else: the sheer enormity of his loss. His reign over Samarkand had been – what? A hundred days . . . ? And now he was king of nothing, not even of Ferghana. He was still clutching his father’s sword and the solid feel of the hilt in his hand comforted him. This was not to be his fate, he vowed, gripping the hilt still tighter. He would not let it be. However long it took, however much blood he spilled, he would take back what was his. Those who had injured him would pay.

  Part II

  King Without a Throne

  Chapter 7

  Hit and Run

  The mixture of snow and sleet penetrated even the thick sheepskin-lined jacket in which Babur was wrapped. He shivered as, head bowed against the elements, he rode at the head of his remaining men beside a small river, the edges of which were half frozen, up a remote valley among the high mountains to the north of Ferghana.

  During the first difficult days after he had discovered that he had lost not one but both of his kingdoms, Babur had wanted to stay near Akhsi in the hope of being able to stake all on getting into the fortress to free his family. But Wazir Khan had with difficulty dissuaded him, pointing out that his enemies would expect such a desperate attempt and would be on guard against it. Wazir Khan, fatherly in his comforting support, had advised, ‘If you wish to save your grandmother, your mother and your sister, you must not throw your life away by taking extravagant risks but make your enemies fear you. To do this you must pressure them, attacking now here, now there, disappearing before they can concentrate their forces against you. Be elusive, ever-threatening. Your foes must never sleep soundly. And if you do this, Majesty, they will not dare to harm your family.’

  At length, Babur had recognised the sense of what Wazir Khan was saying. Thinking carefully, he had suggested a plan. ‘We will need a safe base where we can see out the winter and plan our

  first raids. I remember that, as part of the military training you gave me each summer, you once took me on an expedition to the northern mountains and we stayed in an old mud fort at the head of a valley where a vassal of Tambal commanded the small garrison. That might
make a good base. It is little visited. What d’you think?’

  ‘I remember the place. It is indeed remote and could serve our purpose well.’

  And thus two weeks ago he and Wazir Khan had begun their ride towards the mountains. Only two hundred men were accompanying them. Babur had selected them carefully with Wazir Khan’s help, choosing only those who were young, like himself, and without family ties, or those who, like Baisanghar, formed the trusted core of his inner circle. The rest he had despatched to their homes, telling them to await his call, which they could be sure would come. The snow had started at the beginning of the second week of their journey and had grown thicker and more persistent the higher they had climbed, hampering their progress.

  ‘How far do you think we are now from the fort, Wazir Khan?’

  ‘If it weren’t for this foul weather, Majesty, we should be able to see it by now. But at least the defenders won’t see us coming. Let’s pause under cover of those trees and eat some of the dried meat we still have in our saddlebags while we send some scouts ahead.’

  The snow continued to fall throughout the ninety minutes the five scouts were away, sometimes thickly, sometimes less so. When the men returned they and their mounts were crusted with snow and their leader spoke through lips that were almost blue with cold. ‘The fort is only about two miles ahead, around a bend. There are no hoofor footprints to show that the occupants have been out today, either to patrol or to man outposts. When we dismounted and crept closer, we could make out smoke rising from one part of the fort – presumably the kitchens – but, most importantly, the main gate stood open. Clearly no one is suspecting an attack in this weather.’

  ‘Well they’re going to get a nasty surprise. Wazir Khan, let us not hesitate but mount up at once and while the snow continues to fall, concealing us, let the scouts lead us quietly and quickly towards where the way bends towards the fort. Then let us gallop for the gate.’

  Wazir Khan nodded, and within five minutes the column was on the move, riding in single file up the gentle slope towards the head of the valley. After about two miles, through the snowflakes, which were falling more lightly now, Babur saw the shadow of a rocky outcrop emerge. As he did so, his chief scout whispered, ‘The bend is at that outcrop. The fortress is only about a thousand yards ahead. The path becomes broader now.’

  ‘We’ll make our attack from here. Tell the men to have their weapons ready but to leave saddlebags and any other unnecessary equipment here in the shadow of the outcrop so that we can gallop to the fortress as fast as the snow will allow.’

  Quickly the soldiers began to prepare but before many had completed their task the snow stopped entirely and there, ahead, was the fort – a dark shape against the white of the surrounding snow.

  ‘Mount up, those who are ready! We must attack before we are seen!’ yelled Babur who, even as he spoke, had drawn Alamgir from its scabbard. He leaped into the saddle and urged his black horse into a gallop towards the fort whose gate he could see remained open. With at most ten riders immediately around him, and the rest strung out to his rear, he felt the blood pound in his ears as he bent low to his horse’s neck. When he was only two hundred yards from the gate, he heard a shout from within the fort – they had been seen. The gate shuddered and juddered as men inside tried to push it closed to bar it against the sudden threat but the newly fallen snow piled against it stopped it moving far. Two men rushed out, futilely kicking at the snow and trying to force the gate over it.

  ‘Shoot them down!’ Babur shouted, but did not slacken his pace. Within seconds he saw one of the men fall, an arrow in his throat. Then he was at the gate. Slashing at the second man with Alamgir, he felt the sword bite home into soft flesh but did not pause to look where. Instead, pulling hard on the reins, he jerked his horse’s head round to guide it through the still partly open gate. The black horse snorted and Babur felt one of its legs slip but it made the turn, as did the three riders immediately behind him.

  But the fourth did not. Babur heard a thudding crash as horse and rider came down, blocking the entrance. He was in the fort but – for the moment at least – with only three men to assist him. Looking about, he saw men rushing out through the tall wide door to what must be the fort’s main hall. Some were struggling to pull on chain-mail, others to draw their weapons.

  ‘Come! Attack them now!’ Babur kicked his horse into a gallop once more, and soon he and his three companions were among the panicking men, cutting them down. Suddenly Babur saw a tall man, who appeared to be one of their chiefs, duck back into the hall and urged his horse on after him, bending low to pass beneath the wooden lintel. Blinking in the semi-darkness, he saw that the twenty or thirty men who had emerged from the hall must have been pretty much the entire garrison. Only the officer remained within. He had run back towards a rack of weapons and grabbed a spear and shield before turning towards Babur.

  ‘Lay down your weapons on the orders of your rightful king, I, Babur of Ferghana.’

  ‘I will not. You are not my king. My name is Hanif Khan. I owe my loyalty to Tambal, who now controls the land. Vanquish me in combat if you can.’

  Babur leaped from his horse and, with Alamgir in his hand, advanced towards Hanif Khan who – as soon as he was near enough – thrust at Babur with his spear. Babur jumped aside, but as he did so his left foot caught against the leg of one of the low tables on which lay the remains of a meal. Arms flailing, he fell on to the table, knocking over some rough wooden goblets and spilling their contents. The wrist of his sword hand caught against the lip of a large metal pot, half full of stew, knocking Alamgir from his grasp.

  Hanif Khan rushed towards him, eager to take advantage of this piece of good fortune and to finish him off. Raising his spear above his head in both hands he was about to stab its point into Babur’s exposed throat when Babur grabbed a large wooden platter to use as a rough shield. The spear penetrated but did not split it. Rolling to one side amid the sticky warm mess of spilled food and liquid, Babur let go of the platter and grabbed the spear shaft, twisting it as he did so and wrenching it from Hanif Khan’s grasp.

  Undaunted, Hanif Khan jumped back and pulled a slim dagger from his sash. Babur had no time to look for where Alamgir had fallen but hit the man hard with the spear, knocking the platter from its tip. As he did so, he felt a stinging pain across his cheek. Hanif Khan had thrown his dagger at Babur’s throat but missed his mark. Now Babur thrust at him with the spear point and Hanif Khan could only half turn aside before the spear caught his right side and he fell among some rough cushions beside the table. Babur twisted out the spear and, without a moment’s reflection, jabbed it hard into his opponent’s neck, pinning him to the cushions, which were soon soaked with his pumping red blood.

  In no time, Wazir Khan, Baisanghar and the rest of his men were surrounding Babur congratulating him on his bravery. The fort was theirs. He had taken his first small step on the long road to recovering Ferghana. Going outside, Babur saw that the snow was falling again, turning scarlet where it covered the bodies of his enemies. He longed for the moment when he could thrust his spear through Tambal as he had just done through his vassal.

  And so it had begun. Babur had become a raider, attacking swiftly and always leaving his name scratched in blood on a paper left stuffed into the gaping mouth of one of his dead enemies. And he had done well. Gradually he had increased the size of his forces, using soft words and sweet promises as well as harsh steel and the booty from his raids to attract new supporters and win over his adversaries. Within just twenty months of his capture of the mud fort, systematically and tenaciously, small fort by small fort, village by village, he had reclaimed much of the west of Ferghana. His strategy was working. Tambal no longer dared stir very far to the north or west from Akhsi towards Babur’s strongholds, and Babur had become powerful enough to feel able to issue demands to him.

  The first, made six months ago and often repeated, had been for the release of his grandmother, mother and sister from
imprisonment in Akhsi in return for a promise not to attack the fortress until a year had passed. Three months ago Tambal had sent messengers to Babur with oily assurances that Esan Dawlat, Kutlugh Nigar and Khanzada were all in good health and being treated with the respect due to women of the royal house. But he had not offered to let them go.

  Now Babur was advancing eastwards towards the town of Gava fifty miles away, recently refortified by Tambal and garrisoned with Chakrak mercenaries. He had a particular score to settle there. The Chakrak commander of its garrison had been one of the first to pledge allegiance to his half-brother Jahangir and to Tambal as regent. The town’s capture would send another signal to Tambal that it was time to conciliate Babur by returning his family.

  Babur and his men stopped by the bank of a small river to allow their horses to drink. As Babur was eating without relish a hunk of sour cheese, made from mare’s milk, he saw one of his scouts approaching on his horse. To Babur’s alarm a body was strapped limp across his saddlebow. Running towards the man, Babur shouted, ‘What has happened? Who is this man?’

  ‘He was a merchant. I found him lying half alive in a pool of blood by the side of the track with a sword slash across his stomach. I lifted him on to my horse but he died soon after. Before he did, though, he told me he had been heading for a small caravanserai about ten miles from here with three other merchants when about two hours ago they were attacked by a Chakrak raiding party. They killed his fellows and left him for dead before making off with all the goods.’

  ‘We must find the Chakraks and avenge him if we can. Send out some of your fellow scouts.’

  ‘Majesty, that may not be necessary. With his last breath the merchant told me that he’d overheard the Chakraks talking of making for the caravanserai to see if they could find more victims there . . .’