Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (12 page)

The lane was lined with tall, thin, mud-brick houses whose doors were no doubt being barred. For a second Babur thought of the families cowering behind them, praying the storm would pass over them. They were not to know that he had ordered there was to be no looting or killing of civilians. Though his enemies would pay in full, the beginning of his reign over Samarkand would not be defiled with the blood of its innocent citizens.

‘Down here, Majesty.’ Baisanghar grabbed Babur’s arm and jerked him towards a narrow passage winding off to the left. Thrown off balance Babur staggered and almost slipped. For a split second he glanced at Wazir Khan, close beside him. The passage was high -walled and very cramped. One man, or at very best two, could pass down it abreast – a perfect place for an ambush. Who or what might not be waiting for them down there in the murk?

‘It’s a short-cut through to the citadel.’ Baisanghar’s voice was sharp and urgent.

Babur searched the man’s face. He knew that, despite his youth, his men were beginning to look to him for leadership. Now was no time to hesitate, with the shouts of their enemies growing ever closer. He trusted Baisanghar, which made his decision easy. Calling to his warriors to follow and with Wazir Khan at his side, he turned down the passage behind Baisanghar. Babur was surprised that he felt no fear now that the action was under way, only exhilaration. Would every battle feel like this? Suddenly, from away to the east, he heard a great roar. His men must be disgorging from the tunnel and racing into the heart of the city. That should keep the grand vizier’s soldiers occupied.

The passage twisted sharply to the right, then ended abruptly. Looking about him in the gloom, Babur saw he was in a small square, one side of which, the one directly opposite, was bounded by what looked like the high walls of Timur’s citadel. Recalling his previous visit and the plans he had studied, he realised they must be on its southern side. Yes, he was right – within the walls and just a few hundred yards onward, towards the east, he could make out the sharp-toothed battlements of the Kok Saray itself. Baisanghar had guided them well. Even better, Babur could see no defenders on the walls directly above. Presumably they were not expecting their enemy to steal up on them here.

Even so, following the example of Baisanghar and Wazir Khan, Babur quickly crossed the square and flattened himself against the citadel wall. As his men emerged from the passage, he signalled to them to do likewise. They moved quickly, obeying him without hesitation. Baisanghar gave a low call and dark-cloaked, dome-helmeted figures moved quickly from where they had been waiting, concealed behind the steaming midden that occupied the western corner of the square. Baisanghar’s guards. They gathered silently round their commander.

‘Majesty, the citadel wall is lowest near an old blocked-up doorway on its eastern side, just round the corner,’ Baisanghar whispered. ‘That is where we should climb in. My men have brought ladders and I will post archers to provide us with cover.’ Babur and Wazir Khan nodded agreement. Keeping very close to the wall and with
Baisanghar leading the way, the party edged towards the corner of the citadel wall. Cautiously, Baisanghar peered round, then stepping back, gestured to Babur and Wazir Khan to do the same.

A swift glance confirmed that all was quiet. The doorway was only some thirty yards ahead. Suddenly the excitement and tension became too much for Babur. Dodging Wazir Khan’s restraining arm, he ran towards the door, yelling to the others to follow him. He did not even remember to keep in the shadow of the wall and immediately he heard the swoosh of one arrow, then another, as archers arrived on the battlements above, no doubt alerted by his wild shouts. A long-shafted arrow grazed his cheek, before slamming into the ground behind him. The stinging pain didn’t matter. Nothing did, except the exhilaration of this moment. He hurtled on towards the doorway. Somehow reaching it unscathed, he pressed his body against the stones with which it was blocked, hoping that the overhanging lintel would provide some cover. Glancing around he noticed a crouching tiger, the emblem of Samarkand, carved into the stone frame beside him, lips curled in a snarl, ears flat against its head.

Baisanghar’s archers were now in place, firing back at the defenders on the walls above. Babur could feel warm liquid dripping down his forehead and into his eyes. Touching it with his fingers he realised it was blood, but not his own. Looking up, he saw, high above, a man with an arrow in his neck leaning over the wall. As his hand clutched at his ripped flesh, he overbalanced. Seconds later, he crashed at Babur’s feet with a soft thud. Spewing blood and phlegm, he twitched convulsively for a few moments and then lay still amid an ever spreading pool of dark blood.

Baisanghar’s men were throwing long wooden ladders up against the walls. They were crudely made with rough wooden rungs lashed to the uprights with strips of leather, but they were suitable for the purpose. Men were already climbing them, holding on with one hand and supporting their shields above their heads with the other to deflect the arrows being shot from above.

Babur’s heart was still pounding and he wanted to be into the action quickly. He looked around for a different way up. There was
no chance of unblocking the door. At first glance, the stonework of the walls looked smooth, the joints fitting neatly. But he had not grown up amid the wild mountains and ravines of Ferghana for nothing, he told himself. He could see that there were small cracks and fissures that might provide hand- and footholds to someone as lithe and light as himself. Slinging his father’s precious sword across his back, Babur took a deep breath. Glancing round, he saw Wazir Khan watching him. His expression was anxious. Babur turned quickly away and ran along the base of the wall to a point well away from the ladders, dodging an arrow as he did so.

He began to swarm up, his hands exploring the surface, seeking out protruding edges and corners where the mortar had crumbled or the mason’s chisel had left its mark – anywhere he could balance a toe or the edge of a foot or thrust his fingers. He must keep his momentum going or he would fall, and his hands reached up, searching for each new hold. Timur’s masons had built well – hadn’t he brought them specially to Samarkand precisely because they were such good craftsmen? Too good, perhaps, Babur thought as suddenly, twenty feet above the ground, his feet were spinning in empty air and he felt his fingernails cracking as he struggled to cling on with his hands alone.

Mouth dry and dusty as the stone he was trying to hang on to, Babur flailed about, kicking out wildly to right and left as he sought a purchase for his feet but meeting only smooth stone. His protesting arms burned as they took his full weight. Then, just when he felt he must let go and tumble down, he felt his right foot nudge something soft – a tussock of coarse grass that must have seeded itself deep in one of the cracks between the stones. Gasping with relief, Babur pushed his right foot on it to test its strength and as it took some of his weight felt the pain in his arms subside.

For a moment he closed his eyes. He felt like an insect, tiny, vulnerable and exposed, but at least he could rest for a second. Opening his eyes again and looking up through his tumbled hair, he saw the top of the wall was tantalisingly near – perhaps no more than seven or eight feet above him. Cautiously, he stretched
up an exploratory right hand and almost laughed out loud as it found a rough, protruding edge he could grip about two feet above his head. Then, still keeping his right foot on the clump of grass that had saved him, he bent his left leg and probed upwards with his foot. Again he found a hold – not much of one – just a narrow, diagonal crack in one of the stone blocks, but enough. With one last great effort he propelled himself upward, reaching for the top of the wall and praying he wasn’t about to feel the slash of a blade across his knuckles.

Heaving himself over the low parapet on to the broad top of the wall, the stone worn smooth by the feet of many sentries, Babur looked round to find to his amazement he was among the first to reach it. He felt he had been climbing for ever, but within moments all around him many more of his men, led by Wazir Khan and grunting with the effort, were dropping from their ladders.

The defenders, it seemed, had fled. Stepping back and wiping the sweat from his face, Babur tripped over a handsome, silver-bound shield that a fleeing soldier had thrown aside. He stooped to pick it up but a noise behind him made him twist around. Less cowardly soldiers of Samarkand were rushing up a steep staircase leading from the courtyard beneath the inner side of the wall. The grand vizier’s personal bodyguard, Babur guessed, noting the bright green sashes of Samarkand round their waists and the green pennants fluttering at the ends of their spears. With a yell, Babur charged towards them, knowing that Wazir Khan and his men would be with him, and found himself locked in a crowd of heaving, swearing, stabbing men. Even though the top of the wall was broad – perhaps ten feet wide – men were soon tumbling from either side of it, some wounded, some simply pushed over the parapet by stronger opponents. The stench of hot, sour sweat filled his nostrils. For ever afterwards it would be for him the scent of battle.

A giant of a man with a long black beard tinged with grey singled Babur out, a voracious sneer spreading over his fleshy face as he took in Babur’s slight stature and his youth. Babur had seen just such a look on the face of a cat about to devour a mouse and the utter disrespect stung him. Wazir Khan had insisted that Babur
should wear nothing to identify him as Ferghana’s king but he would still prove his pedigree to this arrogant, fat pig.

‘Old man, you should be at home, dribbling by the fire and calling for your servants to mop up your leaking piss.’

The stout warrior looked startled for a moment but then, as he took in what Babur had said, rage suffused his features. He advanced towards Babur, balancing his spear in his large, leathery hands. ‘You cheeky little rat, I’ll shut you up.’ In a move so sudden that Babur hardly had time to register it, he reversed his spear and jammed the blunt end into the pit of Babur’s stomach.

Babur felt his feet lift off the ground as the impact flung him backwards. As his arms flailed, he was afraid the blow would hurl him off the wall but instead he felt his head snap back as it hit the low stone parapet. For a second his world dissolved into stars, not the pure, silvery starlight he’d gazed up at earlier from the reeds but a chaos of bright, jagged shapes tinged with red which seemed to ooze blood. His mouth was full of salty fluid and instinctively he spat it out. Yet still he couldn’t breathe – the blow had crushed the air out of him.

The bearded man was advancing on him again. ‘That was just for starters. You’ll suffer more for that sneer before you die,’ he spat and simultaneously jabbed at Babur’s groin with his spear. Just in time, and still struggling for breath, Babur rolled sideways and the spearhead hit the stone, striking sparks. His opponent cursed. For all his weight, he was surprisingly light on his feet. Moving like a determined great bear, he lunged at Babur, who, half bent, was clutching his winded and aching belly with one hand while still holding his sword in the other. His breath was coming just a little more easily now and he took comfort from it.

‘Well, rat spawn – soon you’ll be on the dung heap with the rest of your kind,’ the man said, repositioning his spear so that the tip was pointed directly towards Babur’s face. Babur stared at it, half hypnotised by the diamond bright, coldly gleaming point. For a moment, he felt strangely paralysed, powerless to react, but as the warrior thrust his spear at him again, he knew instinctively what he must do. Summoning all his agility and his speed he flung
himself to the ground and rolled not away from his assailant but towards him, underneath his jabbing spear. As his body crashed into the man’s legs, he slashed at the back of one of his knees with his long-bladed dagger, severing the tendons. With a howl, his opponent collapsed sideways, and blood gushed from the wound. Babur scrambled to his feet and struck again. This time he aimed for the man’s ribs, at a spot just below his left armpit that the breastplate didn’t cover. He felt his blade penetrate the tough muscle and thick cartilage, then slide between the man’s ribs. The giant gave what sounded like a low sigh and slumped forward. As Babur pulled out his dagger blood spurted everywhere. He gazed, fascinated, at the first man he had killed in hand-to-hand combat.

‘Majesty, look out!’ Wazir Khan’s shout came only just in time. Turning and dropping back to his knees, Babur thrust wildly at another attacker who had been about to bring an axe biting into the back of his neck. Suddenly Babur knew fear again. What an idiot to allow himself to be taken by surprise from behind. In the nick of time, Wazir Khan kicked Babur’s new assailant to the ground and, with a single, powerful sweep of his curved sword, sent his head skidding across the battlements.

Grateful for the second chance that he knew so many inexperienced warriors did not live to enjoy, Babur was already back on his feet again, dagger and sword ready, but looking around he saw that the vizier’s guards had all been killed or fled. They lay in ones and twos, slumped over each other or spreadeagled on the stone in unnatural postures, their once bright sashes dark with blood. Babur caught the stench of spilled guts and slashed intestines.

‘Come.’ Baisanghar was beside him, blood seeping from what seemed a deep wound to his shoulder, his face taut with pain. Yet he gestured insistently to the crenellated outline of the Kok Saray just a few hundred feet away. ‘That is where the grand vizier will be hiding – if I know him, he will have taken refuge in the women’s quarters.’

Signalling to his men to follow, Babur stumbled after Baisanghar towards the staircase leading down from the wall. As he scrambled over fallen bodies, half-slipping in the gore, one face caught his
eye. It belonged to a youth perhaps no older than him. Drained of blood, his lips were drawn back over the gums in a silent scream of pain and his large, dark but unseeing eyes seemed filled with fear beneath their long lashes. Babur shivered and looked quickly away. It could easily have been himself had it not been for Wazir Khan’s warning shout.