What really counted, though, were Shaibani Khan’s plans. With autumn almost upon him, did he intend to winter in Samarkand? Babur frowned as he rode, his chestnut’s hoofs beating a rhythmic tattoo, trying to put himself inside the mind of his enemy. What did he really want? To rape and loot Samarkand and then return with his pack of marauders back to the northern steppes to enjoy his booty, or did he have grander ambitions? Was his attack on Samarkand simply a sustained raid or had he come to stay to establish a dynasty and empire of his own?
If the stories Babur had heard in his boyhood were true, Shaibani Khan bore Samarkand a grudge. He recalled his father’s tales of how, as a boy, Shaibani Khan had been captured during a raid by the King of Samarkand’s forces on an Uzbek settlement. His father and brothers had been killed but, at scarcely more than ten, he had been dragged at a camel’s tail, a leather thong round his neck, as a slave to Samarkand. Quick-witted and clever, he had survived the harsh conditions in the blacksmiths’ workshops, where the symbol of the slave had been burned into his left cheek, and had come to the attention of a courtier in the Kok Saray.
The nobleman had had him educated and given him a good position as a scribe, but had also forced him to share his bed. One night the young Shaibani Khan had slit his master’s throat. Dipping his finger in the murdered man’s blood, he had written his final missive as a scribe; a message scrawled on the wall, calling down a curse on the city. He had vanished back to his own people. Reunited with his clan, he had risen to become overlord of all the Uzbeks and still nursed a brooding hatred for the royal House of Timur. He was now a man of some thirty-five summers and in his prime, a formidable enemy who cast a dark shadow before him and left death in his wake. Defeating such a man would not be easy . . .
Guile rather than force might be the answer. Within some four days, if they could keep up their pace, they would be within striking distance of Samarkand. To retain any advantage of surprise, he would have to attack at once. But perhaps it would be better to make Shaibani Khan uncertain of his intentions – or, best of all, to mislead him. If he could convince him he was trying to break out of Ferghana – to bypass Samarkand and travel west – he might draw his enemy away from the city.
That evening, as Babur sat at a campfire with Wazir Khan and Baisanghar, he stared into the flames, still seeking inspiration. The ground where they had made camp was sandy. Suddenly he rose, picked up a stick and traced the outline of Samarkand – the five-mile girdle of walls pierced by the six gates, the surrounding patchwork of meadows, orchards and gardens, the tracery of streams and rivers on the eastern and northern sides. ‘What if we sent a detachment of our men along the far side of the Ab-i-Siyah river, parallel with the northern walls of Samarkand . . . They would be visible to those guarding the Iron and the Shaykhzada gates but still too far off for the Uzbeks to gauge their strength accurately. We might make them think it was our entire army . . .’
‘And then, Majesty?’ Baisanghar asked.
‘If we are lucky, the Uzbeks will ride out in pursuit – and we will have our chance. If we conceal the remainder of our men in the scrubland that borders the Kan-i-Gil meadow, east of the Iron Gate, we’ll be able to see what is happening and – if God is with us and the Uzbeks are indeed deceived – attack the eastern walls of the city by the Turquoise Gate.’
Wazir Khan was staring thoughtfully at the map in the sand, through which a line of long-bodied ants, disciplined as soldiers, was tramping, some carrying leaf shreds, to their nest. ‘The detachment that tries to lure the Uzbeks out of the city must be our best and fastest horsemen. They must be able to outride their pursuers, circle round and re-join the main force to help in the attack on the city.’
‘Yes.’ Baisanghar nodded vigorously. ‘They would need to work their way south and east like this . . .’ With his left hand, he picked up the stick Babur had thrown down and scratched arrows in the sand, sweeping past the Chaharraha Gate round the southern walls and up past the Needlemaker’s Gate towards the Turquoise Gate. In so doing he disturbed and killed some of the marching ants, but the remainder re-formed and continued as though nothing had happened.
‘But it would be risky, Majesty.’ Baisanghar looked anxious. ‘We have little knowledge of how many Uzbeks are in the city or of their defences. Even if we succeed in tempting some out of the city, the defenders may still be too many for us to overwhelm. Perhaps we should first try to send in spies.’
‘As I was once a spy?’ Babur thought of how he had crept like a sewer rat into the city. ‘No, we don’t have time. If we are to trick the Uzbeks we must be quick and take the risk.’
Babur was certain he was right, but if his plan failed, what would the consequences be? That was something he refused to contemplate. There was an ancient proverb in Ferghana: ‘Who dares not take his chance will regret it until old age.’
Better to have no old age than to spend his life in regret.
Three days later – they had covered the one hundred and fifty miles even faster than Babur had hoped – Samarkand lay just beyond the next rows of hills that were now scorched brown by the heat of summer but in a few weeks would begin to be silvered with frost. For the past three hours, on Babur’s express orders, his men had ridden at no faster than a trot and in silence. Scouts despatched to scour the landscape for potential ambushes had returned at regular intervals to report that they had seen nothing, heard nothing, to alarm them.
Nevertheless, Babur would take no chances. The Uzbeks were formidable fighters, with the guile of foxes desperate for fresh meat. And that was how they killed – as indiscriminately as a fox in a hen house that slaughters every bird but steals off with only one between its jaws.
As purple dusk softened the landscape, the silent lines of riders at last approached Qolba Hill – the highest of the final range before Samarkand, from which Babur had first glimpsed the city more than five years earlier. This time, instead of heading for the summit, he called a halt, summoned Wazir Khan, Baisanghar and his other chieftains, then gave his final orders. ‘Using Qolba Hill to give us cover, we will ride westward and camp under cover of the trees bordering the Qolba meadow where we will make our final preparations. We will light no fires for fear of giving away our position. Just before the sun rises tomorrow, Baisanghar, you will be our decoy. Take three hundred of our best horsemen, ride down to the banks of the Ab-i-Siyah, then head west. Make sure you are seen from the city walls. The morning mists will make it difficult for the guards to estimate your numbers accurately. Take no risks. Don’t ford the river until you are beyond the Shaykhzada Gate. I depend on you to re-join us and help in the assault on the city walls by the Turquoise Gate no more than four hours after we part.
‘Wazir Khan, as soon as we see that the Uzbeks have taken the bait and are riding in pursuit of Baisanghar, we will attack the walls from the east. Once we are inside, my orders are to kill every Uzbek we find – give no quarter as they gave none to our people – but treat the citizens of Samarkand and their property with respect. They are my subjects.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’ His commanders nodded, each man seeming wrapped in his thoughts, perhaps wondering whether he would live to see another dawn. Shaibani Khan had never been defeated on the battlefield. But this was a trial of wits as well as weapons, and the thought gave Babur renewed courage.
It was half an hour since Baisanghar and his men had departed. Babur rested his back against a well-grown apple tree whose branches sagged with fruit, their ripe scent making him think for a moment of Yadgar. Dawn mists softened the outlines of trees and bushes. The poles for the scaling ladders had been cut and the ladders fashioned wide enough for three men to climb abreast. They would be carried to the attack between pairs of horses. Wazir Khan was kneeling in silent prayer, every few moments bending forward to touch his forehead to the ground.
Perhaps he, too, should be praying, Babur wondered. Instead he allowed himself a few moments’ quiet contemplation, but then returned to thoughts of action. His scouts had r
eported no sign of any large Uzbek encampment outside the city walls. Perhaps that meant some of Shaibani Khan’s forces had already moved on. The temptation – now that Samarkand had fallen – to pillage the surrounding villages and settlements would be great for some of his ill-disciplined troops. With luck, it would not have entered Shaibani Khan’s arrogant head that anyone would dare attack him and he would have been content to let them go.
Suddenly, Babur thought he heard something and it jerked him from his reflections. Leaping to his feet, and half-skidding on rotting windfall apples, he peered through the trees. In the distance, above the mist shrouding the river, he could make out the familiar walls of Samarkand and – here and there – pinpricks of light on the battlements.
Then, as he strained his eyes and ears, he heard it again: the deep, rhythmic throbbing of a drum, then more drums. Suddenly the battlements were alive with moving dots as figures ran hither and thither. Baisanghar and his men must have been spotted, as intended, as they circled westward. Would Shaibani Khan take the bait?
‘Tell your men to be ready to ride but no man is to move until I give the order,’ Babur said in a low voice to his commanders, who had gathered around him, listening, like him, to the drums.
The thudding had settled into a heavy, ominous rhythm. Babur hoped it wasn’t Mahmud Khan’s flayed skin he could hear being beaten. As the minutes passed, the uncertainty was growing intolerable. Under cover of the mist, Babur moved forward to get a better view and concealed himself in a coppice nearer the walls. As far as he could tell from his new vantage point, the Iron Gate and, beyond it, the Shaykhzada Gate – closest to where Baisanghar and his men, Baburi among them, had passed – were still shut. But then, when Babur thought he could stand the suspense no longer, the portcullis over the Iron Gate began to rise. As soon as it was high enough, a stream of horsemen, two abreast, cantered out and, wheeling north-westwards, broke into a gallop. On and on the column came – at least four hundred warriors, he thought, in near ecstasy. When, finally, the last riders had disappeared wraithlike into the mist there was a pause. Babur expected the Iron Gate to be lowered but instead a single man rode slowly out. A few paces beyond the gate, he reined in his horse and turned his head from left to right. He appeared to be snuffing the air, as hunting dogs did before they gave chase. For a moment, the lone rider seemed to be looking across the low-lying fields and meadows through the mist straight at him, though he knew that was impossible.
Babur had little doubt as to who it was – Shaibani Khan himself. What would the Uzbek leader do? Finally the rider raised his hand. As yet more warriors surged through the Iron Gate behind him, he kicked his horse and, calling to his men with a harsh cry that, though faint by the time it reached him, Babur could still hear, disappeared north-west. After another couple of minutes, all the riders had gone and the portcullis was being slowly lowered back into place.
Curbing his impatience, Babur returned to the main body of his troops and signalled yet again to his men to stay quiet and still. If they moved into the open too quickly, sounds of alarm from the city might yet reach Shaibani Khan and bring him back. Wazir Khan was using the time to tighten his horse’s girths and check his weapons – sword, dagger and throwing axe. Grateful for his old mentor’s calmness and commonsense, Babur did the same. On his shoulder was his leather quiver and it gave him confidence to run his fingers over the sharp tips of his long, newly fletched arrows. He took his curved bow from its case and tried the tautness of the string, grunting with satisfaction at the tension in the oiled sinew. It felt as tightly strung as he did.
Finally the moment came. All was quiet again on the battlements, and Shaibani Khan’s force must now be well beyond earshot.
‘ We ride!’ shouted Babur, his voice raw with excitement. Leaping on to his horse he rode clear of the trees and waited as his men formed up. His bodyguard, under Wazir Khan, was immediately behind him, then the pairs of riders bringing the ladders, the rest of the cavalry and finally Ibrahim Saru’s mounted crossbowmen.
Babur dug in his heels and his horse leaped forward. They tore south across the meadows through the dispersing mists, the city walls on their right as they made for the Turquoise Gate. They were on the far side of the river that flowed past the walls but this time they had no need to ford it. A wide, strong bridge of wooden planks – newly built, no doubt, by the Uzbeks – stood three hundred yards upstream from the Turquoise Gate.
Babur and his men thundered over it and made straight for the gate. As shouts of alarm rang out from the battlements, the Mangligh crossbowmen sent up volley after volley of bolts. Within minutes the ladders were against the walls at their lowest point, on either side of the Turquoise Gate. Looking up as he began to climb, Babur was astonished to see not a single defender.
It was a matter of moments to scale the ladder and climb the last few feet by grabbing on to the stonework. There was hardly room to move, let alone draw a sword, as his warriors swarmed around him. But of Uzbek defenders – apart from those lying dead with Mangligh bolts sticking into them like a porcupine’s quills – there remained no sign.
Then a volley of arrows from a strong point about a hundred yards away revealed that not all the Uzbek defenders had fled. A black-feathered arrow struck Babur’s domed helmet a glancing blow. Another embedded itself deep in the thigh of a man behind him. A third penetrated the cheek of a soldier who was clambering from a ladder over the battlements on to the wall. Blood pouring out of his mouth, he lost his grip and, falling backwards from the wall, took the man climbing below with him in his death fall to the rocky ground beneath.
Babur raised his shield to protect himself from the next volley and, yelling for his men to follow, charged towards the strong point. Two more arrows thudded into his shield but the thick hide and wood did its work. However, behind Babur a young soldier fell, an arrow in his neck. Then Babur was in the strong point, which had no door. He slashed at the first man he encountered before he could drop his bow and pull out his sword. A second had his fingers on his sword hilt but Babur gave him a slashing cut across the wrist, almost severing his hand. The man turned and ran out of the opposite doorway and along the walls towards the gatehouse of the Turquoise Gate another fifty yards away.
The other occupants of the strong point tried to follow, but Babur and his men killed two as they tried to extricate themselves from the close-quarters mêlée. His archers brought down two more as they rushed for the gatehouse, although one succeeded in half-staggering, half-crawling into its protective embrace.
‘Majesty, we’ve put them to flight!’
Babur turned to see Wazir Khan, breathing heavily but triumphant, dagger in one hand and bloodied sword in the other. ‘Not quite. Post guards to hold this section of the walls and the gate. You are to stay here in command. Meanwhile I and the rest of the men will try to get into the gatehouse to open the gate to the rest of our troops.’
Wazir Khan looked abashed but Babur was not going to risk his increasingly lame counsellor in street fighting when a man’s ability to run fast might make the difference between life and death.
Shield in front of his head and running bent double, Babur covered the fifty yards to the gatehouse. Inside, he found that the only Uzbek left was the man who had almost lost his hand. He had collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily and cursing in his pain as his lifeblood pumped from his wound on to the stone floor. The clatter of feet from the stairs leading down to the gate told Babur where the rest of the defenders had gone. He and his men followed cautiously, fearing an attack as they emerged from the staircase, but none came.
‘Smash the lock and open the gate,’ Babur yelled.
Axes ready, two of his bodyguard ran to carry out the order. There was the sound of metal against metal as they slammed their axes into the lock and a final crash showed they had succeeded. Soon, the ancient, iron-studded gate was swinging open to admit the remainder of Babur’s troops, including the Mangligh crossbowmen.
With Alamgir
in his hand, Babur glanced about. It was very quiet. Where were the Uzbeks hiding? Babur put caution aside and advanced up the wide street, yelling, ‘Ferghana! Ferghana!’
His shouts echoed in the silence. There was no volley of arrows or even an answering cry of Uzbek defiance. Then, to Babur’s astonishment, doors and shutters began to open. He darted for cover and again reached for his bow and an arrow, but the heads poking out were not those of Uzbek warriors. They belonged to the ordinary people of Samarkand – merchants, shopkeepers, innkeepers – who, recognising Babur, were calling out blessings upon him and his men, thanking them for their liberation. Soon they were pouring from their houses, almost insane in their joy and jubilation
‘Quick! This way!’ a man was calling. ‘I saw one of those Uzbeks run up here.’ He pointed to a narrow alleyway where tell-tale drops of blood were already congealing in the dust. Before Babur could order his men to investigate, two ordinary citizens – one burly enough to be a butcher and the other a smaller, wiry man with a wart on the side of his nose – disappeared in that direction. Within moments they had reappeared, dragging a young Uzbek by the legs so that his head banged along the ground. A Mangligh bolt was protruding from his chest, and as he struggled for breath, he begged for mercy. Before Babur could say anything, the burly man drew his knife and cut the boy’s throat from ear to ear, beaming as the warm blood splashed his boots.
All around, citizens were arming themselves with anything they could find – stones, pitchforks, blacksmith’s tools . . . A light in their eyes reminded Babur of wild dogs as they ran with him and his troops through the streets, searching for Uzbeks and continuing to stab and club any they found long after they were dead, so great was their hatred, so bad had been the treatment they had received.
Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul Page 18