Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (15 page)

Babur yawned and stretched. His mother would be all pleasure and delight when she reached Samarkand, and Khanzada would be dizzy with excitement and curiosity. But he wasn’t so sure about Esan Dawlat. His grandmother was hard to please. He could imagine her small dark eyes scrunching up in her wrinkled face as she shook her head and told him not to get carried away with his initial victory but to think about what next.

Yet he had claimed his prize well, Babur thought. Fate had held it out to him in an open hand and he had grabbed it. He clapped, and instantly an attendant appeared with a ewer of warm, rose-scented water that he poured into a large silver bowl. Carrying it carefully, he approached Babur, intending to wash him with the cloth he was also holding, but Babur waved him away, still unused to having someone to do everything for him, and asked him to place the bowl and cloth on the stand as his side. As he gazed at his reflection in the smooth surface of the water he felt an unexpected yearning to dip his head into the chill waters of one of Ferghana’s mountain streams.

But then he caught the delicious scent of new baked bread and roasting partridges. He was a fool to feel wistful or homesick when he was in Paradise. His men, too, seemed content – which was rare, he mused, as he scrubbed his neck and shoulders. But, after all, they had the booty he’d promised. The coin-stuffed coffers of Samarkand had proved deep enough for him to be generous. He had given each of his chieftains a hundred thick gold pieces and their men had been well rewarded with silver. Neither had he forgotten to send some of the bounty back to Ferghana to his regent Kasim, to reward him and Babur’s other followers and to assist him in retaining the allegiance of the fractious surrounding tribes. Many of Babur’s men had acquired new wives too. As he anticipated, the young women of the grand vizier’s harem had gone to them willingly enough. A victorious warrior with a bag of money was not a bad bargain.

It was time to dress. Suppressing his impatience, he allowed his attendants, swarming sycophantically round him, to clothe him in a white silk shirt, and trousers of soft deerskin. Then, from the many they held out to him, he selected a brocade tunic – brilliant green in deference to his new people, but striped with the yellow of Ferghana – with enamelled clasps. The exquisitely stitched garments, the best that Samarkand’s tailors could provide, felt very different from the practical sheepskins and coarser cloth of Ferghana. An attendant wound a fringed sash round his waist, arranging the folds with mathematical precision, and another knelt to guide his feet into gold-tooled, knee-length leather boots. Then, finally, from a sandalwood casket, Babur selected some jewels. He had no interest in such things but later he would pray in public in the Bibi Khanym mosque and he must appear to his watching subjects every inch a king whose riches – and consequently his bounty – were, in a world of ever-shifting alliances and loyalties, inexhaustible.

With his mace-bearer ahead and four tall bodyguards behind, Babur walked along a marble path to where his counsellors were waiting for him in the gardens, sitting cross-legged on carpets beneath a flowered awning. Babur found these endless meetings irksome but there was much to be done. The uncertainty and strife
after his uncle’s death, and the siege, had done a great deal of damage. Though the fields and meadows around Samarkand were fertile enough, the farmers had been too afraid to tend them, and much of this year’s harvest had been lost. Babur had ordered seed corn from his own supplies, brought from Ferghana, to be distributed among them for the next spring. Also, many of the herdsmen had fled, driving their flocks westward and away from the fighting. They would need to be coaxed back.

But at least he had good men to help him, Babur thought. Wazir Khan, of course, was chief among his
ichkis
, his inner circle of counsellors. But there was also Baisanghar, who commanded much respect among the soldiers of Samarkand. Only after the city had fallen had Babur realised just how much the weak resistance he had encountered had been due to Baisanghar’s cajoling, subverting and bribing. In gratitude he had given him overall command of the defences of Samarkand.

His eyes fell on the weathered face of Ali Mazid Beg. He had been wise to make him a counsellor. It was partly a reward for past loyalty – the chief had been one of the few to support Babur unequivocally from the outset – but it was also shrewd. Ali Mazid Beg was one of the most influential tribal leaders of Ferghana. That he had remained with Babur in Samarkand had helped in persuading others – including some who Babur had feared might return at once to Ferghana – to stay.

But, of course, many had not. Loot was what they had come for, and once they had it, they were restless for their homelands. The wild, unruly Chakraks, whose reputation for fickleness and brutality was notorious even in a world where treachery and cruelty were common, had melted away to their inaccessible mountain fastnesses and more were following each day as autumn drew on.

Babur’s counsellors knelt at his approach but he waved them to their feet, eager to get on with the business of the day. He had already learned that a king’s duties were not concerned merely with great matters. Only yesterday he had arbitrated in a tedious dispute between two hawk-featured carpet dealers, squabbling like children over the value of a red, pink and blue
rug from Tabriz in far-distant Persia. It had cost him much to keep a straight face.

‘Majesty, here are today’s petitions.’ His chamberlain presented him with a silver dish piled with papers weighted down by a square of brass to prevent them flying away in the breeze.

Babur’s heart sank as he looked at the dense scrawl covering the topmost document. Probably an argument about a sheep or a goat or grazing rights on a barren hillside. ‘I’ll look at them later.’ He wished he could go hunting instead. He waved to his council to be seated and took his own place on an ivory-inlaid stool on a low wooden dais. It was much less comfortable than sitting cross-legged on the floor as they were.

‘When will the review of the city’s fortifications be complete?’ he asked Baisanghar.

‘Soon, Majesty. The final count has been made of the weapons in the armouries but the masons are still checking the condition of the outer walls and ramparts. They say that the earthquake two years ago left some cracks in the foundations that may need attention.’

Babur nodded. ‘Any repairs must be made quickly. That Samarkand fell so easily will not have escaped attention. Wazir Khan, have there been any signs of Shaibani Khan’s men?’

‘We are on constant alert against their return but the many scouts we have about our borders report no trace of Uzbek patrols. Shaibani Khan will know he has little time to mount a campaign before winter.’

‘But he will come,’ Babur said thoughtfully. Shaibani Khan had already killed one king of Samarkand: why should he hesitate to destroy another, especially one who was just a youth and newly on his throne?

‘Yes, Majesty, I’m sure of it. We all are. But he won’t be here until the spring. By then we will be prepared for him and his scum.’ Wazir Khan’s confidence warmed Babur.

The sudden sound of voices made them all look round. Across the gardens, with their beds of bright orange marigolds and pink roses, Babur saw a small, stooped figure following a guard towards them. He was dressed in travelling clothes and, as he came closer,
he unwound the purple scarf he had wrapped around his head so that he did not breathe in the dust of the road and Babur recognised the lined face and thin white hair of his grandmother’s elderly steward, Walid Butt. To Babur it seemed he looked distressed, not just by his long journey in the saddle – itself a considerable trial to a man of his age – but by the import of the message he was carrying.

For a moment, despite the late summer warmth, Babur felt a chill pass over him. Was Esan Dawlat dead? Rising to his feet, he stepped swiftly from the dais and put an arm round the old man’s shoulders. ‘Speak, steward. What news do you bring?’

Walid Butt hesitated, as if he was not sure how to begin. Babur wanted to shout at him to get on with it, but out of respect for a man he had known his whole life he curbed his impatience.

‘Forgive me, Majesty, for appearing before you like this, but my journey has been a hard and a hasty one.’ The steward fumbled beneath his cloak for a leather bag that hung from his neck on a short strap and produced a letter impressed with the royal seal of Ferghana.

Babur grabbed it and tore it open. He recognised his grandmother’s writing and breathed more easily, but his relief was short-lived. Esan Dawlat’s first words danced before his eyes. ‘If you do not answer our call of distress, we face ruin.’ He scanned the rest quickly, his shock growing as he took in what his grandmother was saying.

‘What is it?’ asked Wazir Khan.

‘I have been betrayed. My bastard half-brother Jahangir sits on the throne of Ferghana – a child puppet put there by my cousin Tambal, who has bribed the tribal leaders with promises of reward . . . He is using Jahangir for his own advantage . . .’ Babur let the letter slip from his fingers to the ground where the breeze blew it a short distance until it caught on one of the rose bushes. I have lost the throne of my homeland, he thought.

While Wazir Khan retrieved the letter and read it swiftly, another even darker concern gripped Babur. Again he took Walid Butt by the shoulder, this time so firmly that the old man, who had scarcely an ounce of flesh on his frame, winced. ‘My grandmother, my
mother and my sister, when did you last see them? Where are they? Are they safe?’

Walid Butt gazed sorrowfully at him. ‘They and your vizier Kasim are prisoners in the castle. Your grandmother managed to smuggle this letter to me and ordered me to bring it to you. But whether they are alive or dead, I do not know. I have been travelling these past two weeks.’ His voice cracked.

Suddenly realising he was hurting him, Babur relaxed his grip. ‘You have done well, steward. You must eat and rest. Thank you for your service.’ As Walid Butt was led away, it seemed to Babur that, if the breeze strengthened only a little, his frail form would be blown away.

Babur’s mind was reeling, his initial disbelief giving way to anger. How dared Tambal take his kingdom and imprison his family . . . ? But he struggled to master himself. Everything could depend on the decisions he was about to take. He looked up to see his council watching him expectantly and took a deep breath.

‘Wazir Khan, prepare my bodyguard. We will ride at once for Ferghana. Baisanghar, assemble a force. Call up my chiefs and their men – two thousand should be enough to deal with Tambal and his indisciplined tribal levies. I expect most of the citizens of Ferghana to return to my side as their rightful ruler when I arrive at Akhsi. However, leave enough troops here to defend this city should Shaibani Khan return, and follow us within the week. Also, have battering rams, siege engines and catapults made ready in case I send for them. Ali Mazid Beg, you will be regent of Samarkand in my absence. Guard it well.’

The three older men nodded. Babur turned away, already ripping off his jewelled fripperies and calling for his riding clothes and his arms.

As he rode shoulder to shoulder with Wazir Khan, galloping over meadows still baked hard by the summer heat, Babur was in torment. Guilt, fear for his family and fury against those who thought they could supplant him with a nine-year-old battled
inside him. What a fool he had been these last weeks, wandering around Samarkand lost in a dream, planning how to show off his fairytale city to his family.

He had neglected what was most important, arrogantly assuming that in Ferghana he would now be a hero whom no one would dare challenge. Instead Tambal and his supporters had bided their time, like wolves waiting until the shepherd’s back was turned to run in among the flock. And they had surely been cunning or Kasim, his grandmother and his mother would have suspected a plot and warned Babur earlier. If anything had happened to the women of his family . . . If Roxanna should use her power as mother of Ferghana’s new king to rid herself of enemies and rivals . . . He could not bear to think of it.

Each night when, exhausted from long hours in the saddle, they made camp, Babur found it hard to sleep. He grudged every second that he was not riding eastward and became angry with Wazir Khan for insisting he must rest. But on the fourth night, there was no question of sleep. As he lay on the ground, his body began shaking violently and his brow was clammy with sweat. By the time dawn broke, his teeth were chattering so much that he could barely speak. When he tried to stand, his legs gave way and he fell helplessly to the ground. At once Wazir Khan was beside him, feeling his pulse and pulling back his eyelids to check his pupils. ‘Majesty, you cannot ride today.’

For once, Babur lacked the strength to argue. He felt Wazir Khan cover him with thick woollen blankets, but as he tried to look up at him, the world swam before him and grew dark. Then it went black.