Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (46 page)

Babur watched the Persian envoy and his escort ride away. In the envoy’s saddlebags was a letter from Babur pledging his allegiance to the shah. Tonight there would be more feasting in the camp. Babur would summon his commanders to announce that as soon as Persian reinforcements joined them they would ride north-east for Samarkand to purge it of its infestation of Uzbeks and claim it as their own. His men, fired by the prospect of rich booty, would roar their approval. There’d be no need to dwell on the bargain he’d made with the shah. There would be time enough, when he was master of Samarkand’s blue-domed mosques and palaces, to consider how to present it to his people. And why should they care? They would again be ruled by a Timurid prince, not a barbarous ancestral foe. The Persians would depart to their distant homeland. Soon he would be able to think of further conquests.

Baburi would be nursing his wounded pride and his wounded nose somewhere. Now that his own temper had cooled, the deal had been done and the envoy was gone, Babur was anxious to see his friend and heal their rift. There was so much he had not said, so much he had said badly . . .

Still wearing the bright green tunic – chosen in tribute to Samarkand – in which he had received the Persian envoy for his farewell audience, Babur walked through the camp to Baburi’s tent, pitched close to Baisanghar’s.

The flaps were thrown back and he went inside. The rugs on the floor were spotted with blood and the few possessions, mostly
clothes, strewn hither and thither as though someone had hastily searched through them, deciding what to take and what to leave. In one corner was what looked like splintered wood. As Babur went closer he recognised the bow and gilded quiver set with golden tiger’s eyes he’d given Baburi the day he’d made him
Qor Begi
, Lord of the Bow. The bow was snapped in two, and the quiver smashed, as if someone had stamped on it – the gems had fallen from their mountings. Babur picked one up. The round little stone felt cold.

He hurried outside, almost tripping over the black leather gauntlet Baburi wore to go hawking but which now lay on the floor. Baisanghar was giving orders to two guards.

‘Where’s Baburi?’

‘I haven’t seen him since this morning, Majesty.’

‘Check whether his horse is here.’

Baisanghar despatched a guard to the corral where the handsome chestnut Baburi had taken from an Uzbek chieftain should have been grazing, but Babur already knew the answer. ‘He’s gone . . .’

‘Majesty?’

‘Baburi – he’s gone. Send riders to look for him and bring him back. Do it now, at once!’ He realised he was shouting.

Startled, Baisanghar hurried off, and Babur went back inside Baburi’s tent. He picked up the broken bow. Baisanghar’s men could ride their horses into the ground but it wouldn’t be any use. If Baburi wanted to disappear he would.

T
his glorious, mellow, sunlit day in the autumn of 1511 deserved a special mention in his diary, Babur thought, as he rode at the head of his army towards the Turquoise Gate where banners of bright green – not Uzbek black – again bellied in the breeze. Last time he’d entered Samarkand as its king more than a decade ago he’d been just a youth. Now he was twenty-nine, toughened and tempered by all that had happened to him since.

The city had fallen without a struggle. Babur and his army of twenty thousand, swelled by the Persian cavalry, had been too much for the occupying Uzbeks. They had fled, preferring to take refuge in their stronghold of Karshi in the northern mountains than fight a far superior force. On learning of their flight Babur had taken Shaibani Khan’s skull, filled it with blood red wine and drunk deeply, before passing it round to his commanders.

My time has come, he thought exultantly, as he passed beneath the glinting gateway to the deep, echoing
boom
of kettle-drums. Tonight, he and Maham – travelling with the other women of the royal household in mule carts with trappings of gold and green – would make love. According to his astronomers, the planets were in perfect conjunction for the conception of a son. He would have a further heir and Maham would cease to weep because she had borne him no more children since Humayun.

As he emerged from the purple shadows beneath the gate into the city, the excited, approving cheers of his people – a human rainbow in their brightest robes – burst over him, joyously shouting his name and Timur’s, as if his great ancestor were there by his side. As he rode up the broad avenue leading to the citadel and the Kok Saray he saw that the shopkeepers had draped their stalls with brilliant brocades and the ruby-red velvet for which Samarkand was celebrated. From rooftops and windows, women threw handfuls of dried rose petals that fluttered in the air like pink snowflakes.

But abruptly the happy shouting faltered. A hoarse, angry voice rose above the crowd: ‘
Kizil-Bashi
!
Kizil-Bashi
!’ Redheads! Redheads! Glancing back Babur realised that the people were looking at the Persian cavalry as they came through the Turquoise Gate. The cry was now taken up by hundreds of voices. People were pointing and jeering at the Persians with their conical red caps and the long strip of scarlet cloth hanging down behind that showed they were not Sunni Muslims, like the people of Samarkand and Babur, but Shiites, like their master, the shah.

No matter, Babur told himself, staring resolutely ahead. He’d soon be rid of the Persians and his subjects would realise they had had nothing to fear from them or their differing version of Muslim faith. Yet he couldn’t banish the jeers and catcalls from his mind.

This new sombre mood was still on him when, three hours later, he stood alone in his public audience chamber in the Kok Saray, contemplating the gleaming cobalt blue, turquoise, yellow and white geometrically patterned tiles on its walls and domed ceiling that had so astonished him the first time he’d seen them. He’d anticipated this moment for so long, yet the glory of his return felt diminished, tarnished.

The magnificence around him seemed to fade, to be replaced by Baburi’s face. Baburi should have been here, observing him with that quiet irony in his indigo eyes. But what would he have said at this moment? That he’d been right all along, that Babur was not his own master, just another ruler’s toy? As he looked into the future he had assumed would be so glorious, Babur felt truly alone . . .

‘Majesty, they are waiting for you.’ The lines on Baisanghar’s grave face were deep. He was no longer the vigorous warrior who had ridden all those years ago to Ferghana to bring him Timur’s ring. It had been right to make him grand vizier, Babur reflected. His long, loyal years of fighting and service deserved such a reward, and Maham was pleased to see her father so honoured.

Did Baisanghar ever feel the frustration that sometimes overcame himself ? Did he ever long again to sweep down on a raid from the mountains on a moonlit night with a cold wind scouring his face? Or to sleep on hard ground under the stars, sword by his side, unsure what the next day would bring except that it would be hard and dangerous? Babur’s hankering for action was absurd, he knew, but after only six weeks in Samarkand he was restless. He wanted to get back to Kabul to assure himself that all was well there, even though he had left it strongly garrisoned. He was also eager to recover Ferghana, which, since the Uzbek collapse, had been dismembered by petty local warlords with more fleas than real troops. He could swat them with one blow of his fist if only he were free to leave Samarkand, but he had to establish order in the city. He had summoned the leading citizens to announce how Samarkand was to be governed and now they were waiting – no doubt hoping for lucrative sinecures.

Babur entered his audience chamber and mounted his dais. At Baisanghar’s command, his waiting subjects prostrated themselves on the soft, rich carpets the Uzbeks hadn’t had time to loot. Mechanically acknowledging them, Babur’s mind was elsewhere. The Persian troops should have departed by now. Yet, though some had left as soon as the
khutba
confirming Babur as king had been read, a thousand were still camped in the riverside meadows outside the Needlemaker’s Gate. With them was the shah’s own priest, Mullah Husayn. Whenever he broached the question of the Persians’ departure with their commander – a cousin of Shah Ismail, haughty and cold – the answer was the same: he was awaiting orders from the shah. As soon as he received them he and his men would ride away.

Babur couldn’t order them to go but he could insist that they
kept off the streets of Samarkand. The populace’s hostility hadn’t died away. In fact, the news that he had become the shah’s vassal had only fed their suspicion, instead of reassuring them that they had a powerful protector as Babur had hoped. He had received several visits from the city’s mullahs, seeking assurances that the shah was not planning to interfere with their religion. An aged priest from one of the
madrasas
, his thin face nearly as pale as his white robes, had gone further, upbraiding Babur for his dealings with the heretical Persians and demanding he expel them. ‘Even the Uzbeks – wicked defilers of our city though they were – are true believers . . .’ he had said. ‘Even the Uzbeks . . .’ Babur had never thought to hear words like that. Somehow he must send the Persians on their way . . .

‘Majesty,’ Baisanghar interrupted his thoughts, ‘your subjects are waiting to hear you.’

Babur unrolled the piece of paper on which was written the latest list of public appointments – a stout merchant in robes of peacock blue was gazing at him expectantly – but as he did so the velvet-covered, gilded throne on which he was sitting lurched sideways. Babur tried to right himself but he and the throne were flung to the floor. A rumbling, roaring, cracking sound filled the air and everything shook. A lump of masonry, bright tiles still attached, crashed down beside him.

Bitter-tasting dust clogged the air and Babur felt he was choking, but as he gasped for breath, his mouth filled with grit. He couldn’t even open his eyes. Bracing himself, he covered his head with his hands, waiting for a piece of masonry to land on him. But after a few more moments the shaking stopped as abruptly as it had begun. With groans rising from all around, Babur raised his head cautiously and managed to open his streaming eyes a little. Though some stones had been dislodged, the main walls and ceilings of the Kok Saray had withstood the earthquake. Timur’s builders had done a good job. But looking around he saw Baisanghar lying unconscious, his brilliant green robes of office now grey.

‘Guards,’ Babur yelled, not sure who would answer him. Almost at once he heard running feet. Through the drifting, stifling dust
he recognised two of his bodyguards who had been on duty in the antechamber. ‘Send for my
hakim
and fetch any other doctors you can find. The grand vizier is hurt – others too.’ Babur got to his feet, staggered to Baisanghar and put his fingers to the side of his neck as he’d so often done to wounded comrades in battle. Yes, he was alive – he could feel the faint but rhythmic pulsing of his blood. On his forehead a huge bruise was purpling. Baisanghar’s eyes flickered open and he looked up at Babur, confused.

‘It was an earthquake . . . The
hakim
is coming.’ Babur ripped off his outer robe, rolled it up and placed it beneath Baisanghar’s head. ‘I must go to the women’s quarters.’

All around him in the audience chamber dazed men were picking themselves and others up, but a few were lying still. Scrambling over chunks of masonry, Babur ran from the chamber, making for the broad flight of stairs leading to the top storey and the women’s apartments. Hurling himself up them, he saw deep fissures in the dark stonework and that lamps and torches had tumbled from their niches – he kicked them aside – but again Timur’s walls had held.

At the top, he saw that the tall double doors – resilvered and inlaid afresh with turquoises since the day when a youthful Babur and his men had battered them down – were still standing, though a crack gaped in the stone lintel above and part of the elaborately tiled ceiling had collapsed, littering the floor with shards as bright as butterfly wings. Of the attendants who should have been outside there was no sign. They would pay for their negligence, Babur thought, as he threw his weight against the doors and pushed them open.

The first face he saw was Maham’s, her long hair hanging around her. She was standing in the centre of the chamber, which, apart from a few tumbled pieces of furniture, spilled food and broken clay dishes, was untouched. A sobbing Humayun was in her arms but her eyes were bright and clear.

‘See, Humayun? I told you there was nothing to be afraid of . . . It was only a foolish giant stamping his feet to annoy us . . . I said your father would come.’ Babur kissed her forehead and took Humayun from her, feeling the warmth of his body which, now
he was three, was losing some of its puppy fat. The boy’s hazel eyes – so like his mother’s – looked into his own. He stopped crying and smiled.