Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (13 page)

The citadel was quiet and still as Babur, Wazir Khan and their men followed Baisanghar across the courtyard. After the fight on the wall there was no reason for them to keep silent – their presence within the citadel could hardly be a secret. But Babur’s men moved as quietly and stealthily as the sheep- and cattle-rustlers so many of them were. Where were the grand vizier’s remaining guards and troops? Babur expected a rush of arrows at any moment, but there was nothing.

As they stole up to it, the four-storey Kok Saray was also eerily silent, its gleaming brass doors with their dragon handles open and unguarded. Timur’s fabled stronghold. What confidence it must have taken to build something so magnificent. Its very stones exuded power and authority. Babur remembered his father’s sinister stories. ‘All of Timur’s offspring who raised their heads and sat on the throne sat there. All who lost their heads in quest of the throne lost it there. To say “They have taken the prince to the Kok Saray” meant he was already dead.’

Wazir Khan and Baisanghar were conferring. Impatient to enter, Babur joined them. ‘Majesty, we must be cautious,’ Wazir Khan said quickly, seeing Babur’s eagerness. ‘This may be a trap.’ Babur nodded. He was right. Only a careless fool would rush inside. He forced himself to curb the impetuousness that had so nearly cost him dear when he had run for the blocked doorway. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help constantly shifting from foot to foot while Wazir Khan ordered six of his men to take torches from the brackets where they were burning and enter cautiously to check for signs of an ambush.

After what seemed an age to Babur but was, in fact, just a few minutes, they returned, signalling that all seemed quiet. Babur’s heart leaped and he stepped inside, his men clustering behind him. Beyond the brass doors they found a cavernous, vaulted entrance
chamber and beyond that, straight ahead, a flight of broad, shallow steps. Slowly, warily, they began to climb, guided by flickering torchlight, eyes straining into the darkness ahead. Thirty steps brought them to the second storey. Ahead rose another flight. Babur’s foot was already on its first step when he heard a shout.

‘Majesty, down, get down!’ Babur ducked as a spear flung out of the darkness above hurtled over his head, so close that he felt his hair stir. The next moment, two dozen more of the grand vizier’s men were rushing down the stairs towards them. Babur found himself twisting and slashing. In the confusion his dagger was of more use than his sword. He darted beneath his enemies’ shields, stabbing upwards with his blade, feeling warm blood spurt down his hands and arms as he found his mark. All around him his men, swearing and grunting, were pushing forward.

The grand vizier’s troops began to waver, struggling to maintain the momentum of their charge down the stairs. Soon they were being pushed ever backwards. Suddenly they lost discipline and began fleeing back up, slipping and crashing on the steps in their desperate eagerness to get away and not to have to die in a lost cause. Babur’s men came after them, slashing and hacking at the forms disappearing up the second flight of stairs, then retreating part-way up a third.

In the rush, Babur slipped on an uneven step and slithering sideways fell. One of his advancing men was so close behind that he couldn’t stop himself stumbling over Babur and in the process standing hard on the small of his back, winding him once more. As the fight receded up the third staircase, Babur scrambled painfully to his feet. For a moment he felt sick and found it hard to focus. Putting his hand against the wall he steadied himself and forced himself to take deep breaths, though his bruised ribs and strained stomach muscles made it painful.

‘Majesty.’ Wazir Khan was rushing down the stairs towards him.

‘Are you hurt?’

Babur shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine.’

‘The last of the grand vizier’s men – those we did not kill – have taken refuge at the top of the building. It’s nearly over.’ Wazir
Khan allowed himself a rare smile and touched Babur’s shoulder. ‘Come.’

Just then came shouts from below and the sound of many feet pounding the stone steps towards them. Babur swung round to meet the new menace. But surging up the stairs from the dark shadows, he recognised some of the men who had come through the tunnel and, at their head, Ali Mazid Beg, the muscular chieftain from the west of Ferghana he and Wazir Khan had chosen to lead them.

‘Majesty, the citadel and the fortress are ours – as is the city.’ Ali Mazid Beg looked exhausted but beneath the filth and sweat his almond-eyed face beamed triumph.

‘You have done well.’

‘Majesty.’ Though he was still out of breath, Ali Mazid Beg’s voice was full of pride at what he and his troops had achieved.

‘Have you or your men seen the grand vizier?’

Ali Mazid Beg shook his head regretfully.

‘Then it must be as Baisanghar thought. He is hiding among his women, here in the Kok Saray, unless he has escaped from the city.’

‘Where would he go, Majesty? Who would hide him?’ Wazir Khan asked.

With Wazir Khan at his side Babur climbed the remaining steps to the top storey of the Kok Saray. Directly opposite the staircase, through a crowd of his jubilant warriors, he could see a pair of shining silver doors inlaid with turquoises.

‘The women’s quarters?’ Babur asked.

Baisanghar nodded.

In his mind’s eye, Babur suddenly pictured his sister Khanzada wide-eyed with fear. How would he feel if she was hiding behind such a door, defenceless before warriors high on victory? He turned to the men clustered around him. ‘The women are not to be touched. I come to Samarkand as its new king, not as a marauder in the night.’

He read angry disappointment on many of the men’s flushed faces. They’d probably believe he’d spoken as he had because he was still a boy with an incomplete understanding of a man’s needs and
frustrations. But they could think what they liked. Glancing at Wazir Khan he saw approval on his commander’s face and felt he’d passed yet another test.

The silver doors shuddered under the impact of a battering ram carried up from one of the courtyards below and the turquoises shattered, bright shards falling to the floor. Yet the doors held. Beneath the shining silver, the wood must be thick and the bolts strong, Babur thought as, for the fourth time, his men hurled the metal-tipped tree trunk at them. But at last the doors’ silver covering buckled and the wood beneath splintered. Two warriors used their axes to hack a hole big enough for a man to enter.

For a few seconds Babur and his men waited, fingering their weapons. He was sure that at any moment they would hear the cry of guards rushing to defend the harem or be forced back from the opening by arrows fired from within. Instead the only response was silence and the rich, heavy scent of sandalwood, which reminded him of the last time he had sat with his mother. It curled around them, mingling with the odour of their sweat.

Signalling to his men to keep silent, Babur moved towards the opening, again determined to be the first inside. ‘No, Majesty.’ Wazir Khan’s restraining hand gripped him hard. ‘Let me enter first.’

I owe him this, Babur thought. Hiding his disappointment, he watched Wazir Khan and two of his guards ease themselves cautiously through, weapons ready. A few moments later he heard Wazir Khan say, ‘You may enter, Majesty.’

Babur climbed through the shattered door and stepped on to rugs of a velvet softness he had never felt before. The carpets of Ferghana were like worn blankets in comparison.

Wazir Khan signalled to him to be wary. As the rest of his men pushed through behind him, Babur moved forward, scanning the corners of the large chamber, alert for any movement. The chamber was well lit by hundreds of candles burning in mirrored niches. The amber light played over woven wall hangings depicting tulips, irises and other flowers of Samarkand, and plump cushions of velvet or shimmering satin. Six smaller silver doors, three on each side, led to what Babur guessed were the women’s private rooms. Ahead
another door was covered with gold leaf into which was etched the tiger of Samarkand.

Feeling his men’s eyes upon him once more, Babur cleared his throat. ‘Vizier!’ he shouted towards the golden door, his voice young, but firm and clear. ‘You cannot save yourself but you can at least make your death quick and honourable.’ He thought he detected a fumbling sound from behind the door but then all was quiet again. ‘Vizier, have you no dignity or shame?’ Babur persisted.

This time there was the unmistakable sound of a scuffle and voices raised in anger. Suddenly the golden door swung open to reveal two of the grand vizier’s bodyguards, one with a sabre slash across his cheek, dragging their protesting master by his arms, his bright green brocade coat billowing behind him. Without ceremony they hurled him at Babur’s feet, then knelt before him themselves in subjection. Other guards, following nervously, also prostrated themselves. Babur gazed at the scene with contempt. ‘Baisanghar, disarm them.’

As Baisanghar’s men went briskly to work, a young woman in pale blue silk darted through the golden door, deftly evaded Baisanghar’s men and ran to the grand vizier. Falling to her knees beside him, she tried to put her arms round him but, with an oath, he pushed her slim form away violently. After regaining her balance, the girl looked up at Babur. He saw an oval face and eyes that, though puffy with tears, were still beautiful. ‘Let my father live. He is an old man.’ She spoke without fear though confronted by a crowd of battle-stained warriors from whom she must know she could expect little sympathy or even mercy.

‘He has no right to live. His ambition exceeded his breeding,’ Babur replied curtly. ‘Where are the other women?’

The girl hesitated then said, ‘In their rooms.’ She gestured towards the six small doors. Babur nodded to Wazir Khan. ‘Search them. Make sure no soldiers are hiding there. Then lock the women in until we have time to deal with them.’ Wazir Khan quickly detailed groups of soldiers to break down the doors. Almost at once Babur heard wails of dismay and screams of protest from deep within the
harem, but he knew his orders would be obeyed. He could not prevent the women being frightened but they would not be violated.

The vizier’s daughter was still looking directly at him, a challenging expression in her chestnut eyes. He turned away from her accusing stare. ‘Take her to her private quarters and lock her in also.’ He had no intention of sparing the vizier but found he wanted to save the young woman from witnessing her father’s end. Before a soldier could take hold of her, she rose of her own accord and disappeared through one of the doors, her head held high on her slender neck, without any final entreaty or even a backward glance. Babur stared after her, wondering what it had cost her to show such dignity.

‘Well, vizier, it seems your daughter is braver and more loyal than your bodyguard. You do not deserve such devotion.’ Babur realised that he felt angry for the girl about the way her father had publicly humiliated her by pushing her away.

‘You have no right to the throne of Samarkand.’ The grand vizier had dragged himself to a sitting position and was looking at Babur with a malevolent expression on his pockmarked, square-jawed face, seemingly unconcerned that he faced inevitable death.

‘I am of Timur’s blood, the nephew of the last king. Who has greater claim?’

The grand vizier narrowed his bloodshot eyes. ‘You may think you have taken Samarkand but you’ll never hold it,’ he sneered. ‘Ponder that, dregs of the mountains. Go back to Ferghana and your life among the stinking sheep. Perhaps one of them would make you a good wife – I’ve heard your people are not particular . . .’

‘Enough!’ Babur was shaking with what he recognised as adolescent fury but hoped his men would interpret as kingly rage. ‘Baisanghar,’ he rapped.

The captain stepped towards him. ‘Majesty?’

‘As well as usurping a throne, this man did you a shameful wrong because you followed your true king’s last command.’ Babur saw Baisanghar glance down to where his right hand should have been. ‘You shall have the task of despatching this wretch to whatever awaits him in the next world. Dispose of him in the courtyard below and make his end quick out of respect for his daughter’s
bravery. Then hang his body in chains above the Turquoise Gate so the people can see how I have punished the man whose avarice and ambition brought them such hardship and want. His bodyguard may live, provided they swear allegiance to me as their king.’

As Baisanghar’s men dragged the vizier away, Babur suddenly felt deeply weary. For a moment he closed his eyes and stooped to run his fingers over the silkily luxurious carpet that tomorrow he would order rolled up and sent to his mother as a gift. ‘Samarkand,’ he whispered to himself. ‘It is mine.’

T
he Turquoise Gate sparkled as the bright light reflected off the high glaze of its blue, green and gold tiles. Babur felt as if he was riding into the heart of the sun as he approached the gate to make his ceremonial entrance into Samarkand. His green silk robes flowed around him, stirring in the light breeze. Timur’s golden ring, with its snarling tiger, gleamed on his finger, and the necklace of uncut emeralds around his neck rose and fell with his breathing. Conscious that thousands of eyes would be watching him, he forced himself to look stern, though he felt like throwing back his head, filling his lungs and yelling his triumph to the skies.

Behind him rode his chiefs and their men. From the motley collection of tribesmen who had ridden with him from Ferghana, Wazir Khan had fashioned, in just two days, an army to impress and awe as it processed through the city. The chambers of the Kok Saray had yielded many riches in which to dress his rough, nomadic warriors from engraved helmets and cuirasses to bright silks hoarded by the grand vizier while his people lived impoverished.

He would bring prosperity back to this great city, Babur vowed as, to a chorus of trumpets and the echoing
boom
of taut-skinned kettle-drums, he passed beneath the gate above which the vizier’s headless body dangled, already blackening in the sun, in its iron cage. As he moved onward he could see before him the city’s blue
domes and minarets. Soon he was passing one of the great markets with walled caravanserais on either side to accommodate travelling merchants. His father had spoken often of the wealthy caravan trains of Timur’s day – the lines of swaying, snorting camels and fast-trotting mules carrying furs, leather and fine cloth from the west, brocades, china and pungent musk from the east, and, from distant lands across the Indus, fragrant nutmeg, cloves and cinnamon, as well as bright gems.