Babur looked around at his council once more. There seemed no point in deliberating any longer. He had gone over it again and again in his mind and each time his conclusion had been the same. If he wanted Kabul he must be quick.
‘Very well. I have decided. We go over the Hindu Kush. As we near the mountains, we’ll look for men to guide us – but if we cannot find them we go anyway . . . We will ride out in thirty-six hours. Use that time to check your men’s equipment and provisions, and the condition of your animals. Baisanghar, I rely on you to tell the other chieftains. And we take only our horses and pack-mules, no livestock, not even into the foothills.’
The rows of ragged, jagged peaks were getting closer. Sometimes Babur imagined he could feel their frozen breath on his face. The lower slopes rose in dark green ripples but, high above, the icy tips gleamed diamond bright. Some called these mountains the Stony Girdles of the Earth, but to Babur they were more like towers of crystal. Old Rehana’s tales of Timur being hoisted down a cliff face, of his frozen, starving warriors, of terrified horses slipping and sliding on the ice and of attacks by wild Kafirs were still vivid in his mind. Bringing his own family and his few men through the southern mountains out of Ferghana safely eight months previously had been nothing compared with leading an entire army and all its equipment across these high peaks, which – so the legends said – touched the skies.
‘What are you thinking?’ Baburi was beside him on a bay mare that kept tossing her head to rid herself of a buzzing horsefly
‘What Rehana told us of how Timur brought his army over the Hindu Kush to Delhi . . .’
Baburi shrugged. ‘They were vivid stories, romantic and much embroidered. To her every word was true but I wasn’t sure how much of it was real. Take that story of her grandfather saving the boy who gave him the golden elephant – I bet he looted it, and made up the rescue to compensate for having abandoned the other boy. Anyway, soon we’ll see for ourselves what it’s like up there. At least we have a man to guide us.’
‘I hope he was telling the truth when he said he knew the mountains.’
‘Your promise to throw him down a crevasse if he’d lied seemed effective.’
‘I meant it.’
Babur looked over his shoulder at his bodyguard and, beyond, the long lines of riders advancing across a dry landscape that shimmered in the August heat. Sweat dripped from his forehead and was running down between his shoulder-blades. He drank some water from the leather water-bottle dangling from his saddle. It was strange to think they’d soon enter a world of snow and ice.
‘What’s Kabul like?’ Baburi took a swipe at the horsefly with one of his gauntlets and grunted in satisfaction to see it fall lifeless to the hard-baked ground.
‘My father never went there but he said he’d heard it was a strange place caught between two worlds – one hot, the other cold. Within a day’s ride of Kabul is a place where the snow never falls, but two hours in another direction takes you to where the snow never melts . . .’
‘I wonder about the girls . . .’
‘Whether they’re hot or cold? If we’re lucky we’ll find out.’
The air was thin. Babur was finding it hard to breathe and his heart was beating faster than normal. The horses, too, were feeling the strain, snorting with effort as they climbed. With frozen fingers, Babur yanked the fur-lined hood of his cloak further over his head. An hour ago, the sky had been clear but suddenly, without warning, snow had begun to fall. Now thick, white flakes whirled dizzily round them. Looking back, Babur could barely make out the dark shapes of men and beasts plodding in a long line behind, a few men still riding but many more, like him, leading their animals up the steep, icy slopes, heads bowed against the storm. His own horse, a grey with a dark mane and tail, was whinnying in discomfort and protest as Babur tugged at its bridle.
He was well accustomed to bitter winters, but the suddenness of this summer blizzard, carried on a freezing, scouring wind, seemed a warning. Through the crazily dancing snowflakes he imagined he could see the shadowy figures of Timur’s warriors battling their way upwards. The thought that they had endured and survived gave him strength.
‘Majesty,’ Babur recognised Baisanghar’s voice close by him, ‘the guide says it is too dangerous to go on when we cannot see in front of our noses. He knows of a khawal – a cave in the rocks – a few hundred yards further on. He urges you to take refuge there until the storm passes and he will show the rest of us how best to protect ourselves and the animals.’
Babur shook his head. ‘If the guide says we should stop, we will stop,’ he said, ‘but I won’t skulk in a cave while my men face discomfort and hardship outside. What does he say we must do?’
‘Dig, Majesty. We cannot pitch our tents in these winds so we must burrow holes for ourselves and make windbreaks of snow to protect our animals and wait for the blizzard to ease . . .’
‘Very well. Give me a shovel . . .’
Early the next morning, Babur woke in his snowhole. A layer of snow was covering his body but he was surprised by how well he had slept in his cocoon of blankets. Crawling out and dusting the snow off, he saw to his relief that all was again calm. The white landscape glittered beneath a bright, clear blue sky.
‘Majesty.’ It was the guide, a tall sturdy man of about thirty-five, well bundled against the cold. His son – a boy of fourteen or fifteen – was beside him, arms crossed and mittened hands tucked beneath his armpits for added warmth.
‘Can we go on?’
‘Yes, but we must be especially careful now. The snow conceals many dangers that before would have been obvious.’
The man was right. The thick crusting of snow made the landscape appear softer and more benign but it had formed bridges over crevasses. As the party set off, Babur watched how the guide, walking cautiously ahead, now and then thrust his long stick into apparently solid ground that at once collapsed to reveal a deep ravine from which there could be no rescue. When Babur asked how he had acquired his knowledge, the man said that for centuries his family had guided travellers over these mountains. Was it fanciful to wonder whether one of his ancestors had been with Timur’s army?
Soon there was no time or energy for idle speculation. As they inched higher on to a curving saddle of land between two peaks, the snow was growing deeper so that the horses were sinking to their stirrups, even their girths . . .
‘Majesty . . . I must have snow-tramplers.’ The guide was immersed almost to his waist in the soft, dense mass.
‘What . . . ?’
‘Snow-tramplers . . . We’re past the area where we must worry about ravines. Now I need fifteen to twenty strong men. The lead man must force a channel through the snow so that those behind can beat the snow down further and create a path for the rest of the men and animals following behind. It is the only way we will ever reach the pass . . .’
An hour later, Babur’s lungs were burning and his legs felt ready to buckle beneath him. Yet he, above all others, must show stamina and fortitude. He had insisted on taking his turn as lead man and where others had cleared perhaps eight to ten yards before giving up exhausted, he was determined to manage double that . . . Sweat poured off him, despite the cold, but every step brought grim satisfaction that not even Nature herself could stand in his way.
By mid-afternoon they were finally clear of the snowfields and on higher, firmer ground. Unlike Timur, he and his men had been fortunate. The snows had not returned and they were now making steady progress through this hostile but still beautiful world. Babur had always thought of ice as white, but here, on the ceiling of the world, it shone azure and turquoise in the warm sunlight.
‘How much longer to the pass?’
The guide thought for a moment. ‘If we continue at this pace we should reach the Hupian Pass before nightfall tomorrow, Majesty.’
Babur clapped his hands, frozen despite the woollen cloth he had bound tightly around them and his fur-lined gauntlets, and winced at what felt like the pricking
of red-hot needles as his blood flowed again into his blue fingers. ‘You’ve done well. I thought we’d lose many of our animals.’
‘That is why I am bringing you to the Hupian Pass. It is not as high as some of the others, like the Khawak, and the way up is not so hazardous – though everywhere in these mountains has its dangers . . . You must always beware—’ The man was still speaking when a grinding, crunching sound split the cold air. Looking up, Babur saw a network of cracks shoot across the smooth surface of a cliff of ice high above them. With a groan that was almost human, a rectangular blue-green slab sheared off and came smashing down on to the end of the long line of men and animals.
At the same time, there was a roar so loud that Babur thought his eardrums would burst. Instinctively he put his hands over them. As he did so something hit him hard in the chest and something else sliced against the side of his head. All around, the air was full of missiles. As his horse neighed in panic, Babur flung himself to the ground and, gripping its halter, crawled beneath its belly.
As suddenly as it had begun, the avalanche was over. The surrounding peaks were silent once more though from all around came the sounds of frightened beasts and men. Babur’s head throbbed and his breastbone felt tender as cautiously he climbed out from beneath his horse, which was still skittering about but seemed unhurt.
‘Majesty, are you alright?’ It was Baburi, cradling his left arm with his right hand, a livid bruise already welling on one side of his face.
Babur nodded. His thick garments had protected him. But the guide was splayed face down at his feet. The man’s shaggy wolfskin cap had not saved him from the hunk of ice that had smashed into the back of his head with such force that his brains and blood now spattered the snowy ground.
Babur thought of the man’s warning, ‘You must always beware . . .’ Those had been his last words on earth. Above them, the cliff of ice gleamed like a mirror in the sunshine yet at any moment it might shed another deadly load. He must get his men out of here.
‘Gather up the injured,’ he said softly. ‘We must move as quickly as we can. Pass the order down the line . . .’
He looked again at the crumpled figure at his feet. There was no sign of the man’s son and no time to look for him. ‘Help me, Baburi . . .’
The guide had been a big man and it was hard to sling his body over Babur’s horse but it felt wrong to leave him there. He deserved a better resting-place and Babur intended to find him one – perhaps on the pass where his spirit would rest happy.
They hurried on as fast as they could, feet slipping and scrabbling on the icy ground, until they reached a plateau. They should be safe there from any further falls of ice and snow, Babur thought, and ordered a halt so he could take stock. The casualties were not as bad as he had feared – eighteen men killed, nearly double that number injured, though most not badly, with six horses and three mules killed or too badly injured to go on. Babur’s men had already slit their throats and were preparing them for the cooking pot. It could have been far worse . . .
‘Majesty . . . ?’ A young voice interrupted his thoughts. It was the guide’s son. His eyes were red but his voice was steady. ‘I know the way forward. I will be your guide now. It is what my father would have wished . . .’
‘I thank you, and I am sorry for your loss.’ Babur nodded. He would be sure to reward him well at journey’s end.
Led by the youth, they breasted the Hupian Pass just after dawn. Low on the southern horizon, a single brilliant star was still shining.
Babur stared at it. ‘Which is that? I’ve never seen it before.’
Baburi shrugged, but Baisanghar knew. ‘It is Canopus, Majesty. It doesn’t shine in our northern skies in Samarkand and Ferghana, but I read of it in Samarkand, in the books of Timur’s grandson, Ulugh Beg the astronomer. There is a famous verse:
How far do you shine, Canopus, and where do you rise? You bear a sign of fortune in your eye to all upon whom it falls.
Before Babur’s eyes, the star vanished in the paling sky but the message was good. A sign of fortune was exactly what he needed and he felt his spirits rise. He became even more cheerful when, eight hours later, snow and ice yielded to pastures. For the first time in three days they could pitch their tents, take off some layers of clothing and ease off their boots.
But Babur was horrified as, with Baisanghar and Baburi, he inspected the condition of some of the men. Despite his orders, many had been ill-prepared for the mountains. The Mongols, faces burned by the sun, looked healthy enough, but Mirza Khan’s soldiers were in poor condition. The hands and feet of at least a dozen were black and swollen with frostbite.
Babur had seen such severe frostbite before. There was only one remedy if the men were to live. Soon fires were burning and swords were being sharpened on stones. With no strong spirits to deaden their pain, all that could be done for the men whose fingers and toes or hands and feet were to be amputated was to place a folded cloth between their teeth to stop them biting off their tongues.
Mirza Khan’s cup-bearer – a slim, handsome youth of sixteen whose right hand was black, swollen to the size of a small melon and oozing yellow pus from beneath the nails – was struggling unsuccessfully to hold back tears as he watched a soldier test the sharpness of his blade.
‘Courage.’ Babur knelt beside him. ‘It will be over quickly and at least you will live . . . Keep your eyes on mine and don’t look down.’ Babur gripped him by the shoulders while another man held the frostbitten arm tight above the elbow and a second man held his feet.
‘Now – quickly!’ Babur ordered. The boy’s eyes, wide with fright, stayed fixed on his face. As the sword sliced down on his wrist his body arced in pain but though he bit hard on the rag between his teeth he didn’t utter a sound. Still gripping the boy, Babur moved aside to allow another soldier to kneel down and cauterise the bleeding stump with a blade red hot from the fire. This time, though muffled by the rag, the boy did cry out but struggled to control himself.
Mirza Khan was watching, curious but detached. He had come through the mountains unscathed – he still even looked plump – but he didn’t seem to care a fart for his men. Babur wanted to smash his face. ‘What is this youth’s name?’ he asked.
‘Sayyidim.’
‘I would like to take him into my service.’
‘As you wish.’ Mirza Khan shrugged as if to say ‘What use is a one-handed cup-bearer to me?’
Babur stood up and watched as the boy’s arm was wrapped in strips of cloth torn from a cloak. ‘Take him to my tent and bring him some broth,’ he ordered. ‘He’s shown courage.’
The Aq Saray Meadow, the meeting-place on the borders of the kingdom of Kabul that the ambassador had appointed, was pleasant enough, with its lush, sweet grass. So was Babur’s camp, the neat lines of tents radiating out from his own in the centre. It was encouraging that his army had encountered no hostility from the people in the villages on the mountainsides and in the valleys they’d passed through on their journey south-west, only curiosity that they had dared to come over the mountains.
It was September now. The harvest was gathered and the granaries were full so the villagers were more than willing to sell them food. It was good to sit around a fire at night to eat fat, juicy lamb, then ripe apples and plums, new picked from the orchards and sweetened with honey from the hives. Blackbirds, thrushes and doves fluttered in the branches and at night Babur heard the call of the nightingale. This was a prosperous, abundant land and when he was king in Kabul he’d keep it so.
But his first priority was to enforce discipline in his camp. Though he had forbidden looting, six men had disobeyed him, raiding a farm and killing two peasants who had tried to defend their livestock. Babur had had the culprits found and flogged to death, watching stony-faced as the sentence was carried out in front of the murdered peasants’ family. Then he had ordered the men’s flayed bodies, more pulp than substance, to be thrown into a common grave dug on scrubland. It would be good when messe
ngers arrived from Kabul. The longer he was kept waiting, the more chance there was for mischief in his army.
On the third day, as he was sitting outside his tent, watching Baburi fletch arrows, Babur saw a small party of horsemen galloping through the meadow towards them.
‘What d’you think? Is it the ambassador?’ Babur narrowed his eyes. The figures were too far off to distinguish properly but that so few men should ride into his camp suggested they must be friends. As they came closer, Babur saw the peacock blue of the ambassador’s tunic and the sun flashing on the jewelled pin securing the tall feathers to his cap.
‘Greetings, Majesty. I rejoice to see you have made a safe journey and that you have gathered so many warriors to your cause. The royal council salutes you.’
Babur nodded. ‘When may I enter the city?’
The ambassador’s hazel eyes flickered. ‘There is a problem, Majesty. A usurper – Muhammad-Muquim Arghun – has seized Kabul and the citadel above it. The council escaped to Karabagh, outside the city, with a few loyal troops but could do nothing to take back Kabul.
‘Who is this man?’
‘A chieftain of the Hazara tribe. He forced his way into the city with his troops.’
‘Has he declared himself king? Has the khutba been read in his name?’
‘No, Majesty, not yet. There are many rivalries between the tribes.’
‘How many soldiers has he?’
‘Perhaps a thousand, Majesty, maybe a few more, or maybe a few less.’
‘I have four thousand men eager for a fight. Tell your council that. No – take me to Karabagh. I did not bring my army across the Hindu Kush so that others might profit.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’ The ambassador knelt before him and touched his forehead to the ground. It was the first time, Babur reflected, that he had treated him as his king.
Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul Page 25