Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (6 page)

The warriors stirred uneasily, no man daring to catch another’s eye. Tambal, a distant cousin of Babur’s, merely grunted while Ali Mazid Beg, a burly chieftain from Shahrukiyyah in the west of Ferghana, whose lands lay directly in the path of the advancing forces of Samarkand, was poking about in his embroidered sheepskin jerkin as if suddenly afflicted with a plague of fleas. Babur sensed their anxiety. His uncle was the most powerful of all the rulers descended from Timur, and Samarkand, on the great Silk Route between China and Persia, surrounded by fertile fruit orchards and fields of wheat and cotton, the richest of all the Timurid possessions. Its very name meant Fat City while the Zarafshan river, which ran past its walls, was called Gold Bearing.

‘Now you understand why I sent my swiftest riders to summon
you here. We must plan our response to this despicable threat to Ferghana’s independence. Young as I am, I am your rightful king. The
khutba
was read in my name and you were present. I have dealt with the internal threat from Qambar-Ali and his crew. Now I call on you to stand behind me against our external enemies, as your honour says you must.’ Babur’s voice was steady and clear, his words resonating pleasingly off the stone walls. With the help of Wazir Khan he had rehearsed what he would say.

Silence. Babur’s optimism wavered and he felt a lurch in his guts. If necessary he would call on Wazir Khan to speak: his cool reasoning would carry weight with the chiefs, though Babur would prefer to be seen to succeed unaided by the loyal commander of his bodyguard. He must be strong . . . He persisted in as deep a voice as his years would allow: ‘We must act. If we do nothing the armies of Samarkand will be outside our gates before the next full moon.’

‘What does Your Majesty suggest?’ Ali Mazid Beg raised his head and looked Babur straight in the eye. He had been among the most faithful of Babur’s father’s chieftains and Babur felt gratitude for the support he read in the man’s almond-eyed gaze.

‘The king’s forces will ride eastward from Samarkand along the Zarafshan river. We must circle round and come at them out of the mountains from the north. They will not be expecting such an attack. We will show my uncle that Ferghana is strong enough to defend itself.’ Wazir Khan had suggested the plan to him and, as he outlined it, Babur knew it was a good one.

Ali Mazid Beg nodded thoughtfully. ‘You are right, Majesty. They will not look for us to come over the northern passes.’

‘ We may fend off your uncle. It is possible – at least, for a while. But what will we do when Shaibani Khan comes – as he will?’ Tambal asked quietly. Unlike Ali Mazid Beg, his eyes slid away, unwilling to engage Babur’s.

Babur sensed the unease caused by Tambal’s words. The Uzbek clans had long preyed on the Timurid kingdoms, riding out from their settlements on the northern steppes to harry and raid. But recently, under their new leader, Shaibani Khan, their ambitions had been growing. They were looking for conquests and little
Ferghana might indeed prove tempting. ‘We will deal with the Uzbek and his scum, too, when that time comes,’ Babur said.

‘But we will need allies. Neither Ferghana nor any of the kingdoms of the House of Timur can stand alone. The Uzbeks will pick us off one by one, like a fox biting the heads off chickens,’ Tambal continued.

‘Of course we need allies but let us seek them as free men, not like fearful slaves craving a good master,’ Babur insisted.

‘The slave may live longer than the free man. And when the time is right he can make his bid for freedom. If we accept your uncle’s protection we can piss on the Uzbeks. When Shaibani’s head is lopped from his shoulders and stuffed with straw as an ornament for the harem, that will be the time for us to think once more of Ferghana’s independence.’

A murmur of agreement spread round the chamber and now, finally, Tambal looked into Babur’s face. His expression was grave but the slight curve of his lips betrayed satisfaction that his words had struck home.

Babur suddenly rose, glad of the little step beneath his throne that gave his youthful frame extra height. ‘Enough! We will turn back my uncle’s men and then, from a position of strength, I – not you – will decide who will be Ferghana’s ally.’

In turn the chieftains leaped to their feet – it was unthinkable to remain seated once their king was standing, whatever thoughts they might be harbouring. Even a warrior strong enough to rip off another’s arm was steeped in court etiquette.

‘We ride in four days’ time. I order you to be here with all your men. Tell them to be ready for battle.’ Instinctively, Babur turned and strode from the chamber followed by his vizier and Wazir Khan.

‘You did well, Majesty, to allow no further debate,’ Wazir Khan said, as soon as the door had closed behind them.

‘I don’t know. We’ll have to wait four days to see who answers my call. Perhaps some of them are already sending messengers to my uncle in Samarkand. He can give them richer rewards than I.’ Babur felt weary and his head ached.

‘They will come, Majesty.’ Kasim’s quiet voice surprised Babur. The vizier seldom spoke unless spoken to first. ‘The
khutba
was read
in your name just four weeks ago – it would dishonour your chiefs among their people to fail you so soon and without allowing you to prove yourself in battle. And now, Majesty, if you have no orders for me, I will return to my duties.’ He hurried off down the passageway.

‘I hope he’s right,’ Babur muttered, and then, in a sudden, furious gesture, kicked the wall with his foot, not once but twice, to release his pent-up emotions. When he saw Wazir Khan’s surprise he allowed himself a brief smile and, for a moment, the blackness lifted from him.

As Babur approached the women’s quarters, servants rushed ahead to announce the king’s approach. How different it was from the days when, as a carefree boy, he had run down these corridors and burst in on his mother causing her to scold, then caress him. Now there was so much ceremony. As he entered the honeycomb of rooms he caught the flash of a dark eye and the gleam of a golden bangle on smooth, slender ankles, and breathed in the musky scent of sandalwood. He had not yet been with a woman but, young as he still was, the women were already competing to catch his eye – even Farida, the young widow of Qambar-Ali, taken into the harem by his mother out of compassion. Though she was still in mourning, he had seen her watching him. And others had put themselves in his path, their eyes bold and inviting.

His mother was lying where he had left her, but at least she was sleeping now. His sister Khanzada was sitting hunched up, knees under her chin, in a corner of the room and playing idly with her pet mongoose, pulling gently with her hennaed hands on the golden chain attached to the turquoise-studded collar around its neck. At the sight of her brother she jumped up. ‘Well?’ she asked eagerly, but in a low voice so she did not wake Kutlugh Nigar.

‘We will see. I’ve given orders to march in four days. How’s mother?’

Khanzada frowned. ‘She won’t listen to reason. She’s convinced our uncle will seize the throne and murder you. She once heard him boast that Ferghana would make a nice addition to his kingdom
of Samarkand. She says he has always regarded us both acquisitively and with contempt. That’s why Father used sometimes to raid his borders – from pride, to show he wasn’t afraid.’

‘Well I’m not afraid either. If we don’t respond to this threat we’ll lose face among all of Timur’s descendants. I would rather die in battle than give way.’ Babur’s voice shook with a passion that startled him. Glancing round he saw his mother had woken. She must have heard what he had said. Though her eyes were still red her handsome face was alight with pride. ‘My son,’ she said softly, and held out her hand. ‘My youthful warrior.’

The stars had never seemed so bright, Babur thought, staring up from the battlements into the heavens, or so numerous. The air felt cold and pure, and as he breathed it deep into his lungs he could almost taste the approaching winter when the rivers would freeze and wolves would come howling from the mountains to haunt the villages and prey on the herdsmen’s fat-tailed sheep.

In just a few hours he would be riding on his first campaign. His father’s eagle-hilted sword, Alamgir, hung from his belt but his father’s armour was still too wide for him. Wazir Khan had found him chain-mail, a jewelled breastplate and a plumed helmet from the royal armoury, which did not fit too badly. Which Timurid prince had they once belonged to, he wondered, running his fingers over the gems, as cold and brilliant as the stars above him, and what had been his fate?

A soft whinny came from the stables below. Wazir Khan had told him that horses always sensed a coming battle. Beyond the fortress walls, Babur could see the red glow of charcoal already starting to burn in the braziers as the encampments came to life. Shadowy figures were emerging from hide tents and stamping on the ground to drive the early-morning cold from their limbs. Servants were scurrying about with jugs of water and lighting flares of cloth dipped in pitch.

Nearly every one of his chiefs had come, Babur thought, with satisfaction. He would march with an army of four thousand. Small,
perhaps, compared with the might of Samarkand, but large enough to do some damage and make a point – maybe enough to force a truce and agree a settlement. He should have paid more attention to his father’s lengthy, excited accounts of military strategy. Instead he would have to rely on Wazir Khan’s advice – but he would learn quickly, he promised himself. He had to.

Dawn was breaking now, a pale orange glow rising over the mountains and illuminating their jagged outline. Suddenly Babur spotted a cluster of horsemen galloping hard along the valley – latecomers, perhaps. Pleased by their sense of urgency, he ran down the steep stone steps from the battlements to the courtyard to greet them.

Steam was rising from the horses’ heaving flanks as the riders surged up the castle ramp. Their leader shouted for the metalstudded gates to be opened and for permission to enter.

‘Halt!’ Wazir Khan’s voice rang out. Hurrying to his side, Babur saw what the commander of his bodyguard was staring at through the grille of the gate. The crouching tiger on their green silken banners proclaimed the new arrivals subjects not of Ferghana but of Samarkand.

The leading horseman’s mount reared as he pulled hard on the reins. ‘We bring news,’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘Our king is dead.’

‘Majesty, stay back. I will deal with this. It may be a trick,’ Wazir Khan cautioned, then signalled his guards to stand aside and open the gates to allow the riders into the courtyard. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he strode forward to confront them. ‘Identify yourselves.’

‘I am Baisanghar, a captain of the King of Samarkand’s bodyguard. These are my men.’

Baisanghar’s face was streaked with sweat and dust but what struck Babur most was his utter exhaustion beneath the grime. This was no ruse. Disregarding Wazir Khan’s caution, he stepped forward. ‘I am Babur, King of Ferghana. What has happened to my uncle?’

‘The king was on his way to Your Gracious Majesty in Ferghana to offer you his . . . protection. He and his forces had camped overnight by a fast-flowing river and were building a temporary bridge over it when Uzbeks ambushed us not two hours after dawn. In the surprise and confusion all was lost – the war elephants,
camels and our baggage animals ran off in terror, trampling anyone or anything that stood in their path. Our men fought bravely but many were killed. Some tried to escape back over the half-built bridge but it collapsed under them and they were swept away. The waters of the river soon ran red with blood – Uzbek as well as ours, it’s true – but we were overwhelmed.’

‘And my uncle?’

‘When the attack began he was in his scarlet tent on the riverbank. He managed to mount his horse and ride against the enemy but an arrow struck him in the throat and he fell to the ground where he lay, his heels drumming the earth in his agony. We managed to reach him and drag him from among the horses’ hoofs. But there was nothing the doctors – the
hakims
– could do for him. They could not staunch the loss of blood. He was dead within the hour. As the news spread among our forces some of the chieftains, fearing what was to come, called off their men and turned for their home villages.’ Baisanghar’s voice was bitter with contempt.