Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (26 page)

Wazir Khan looked abashed but Babur was not going to risk his increasingly lame counsellor in street fighting when a man’s ability to run fast might make the difference between life and death.

Shield in front of his head and running bent double, Babur covered the fifty yards to the gatehouse. Inside, he found that the only Uzbek left was the man who had almost lost his hand. He had collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily and cursing in his
pain as his lifeblood pumped from his wound on to the stone floor. The clatter of feet from the stairs leading down to the gate told Babur where the rest of the defenders had gone. He and his men followed cautiously, fearing an attack as they emerged from the staircase, but none came.

‘Smash the lock and open the gate,’ Babur yelled.

Axes ready, two of his bodyguard ran to carry out the order. There was the sound of metal against metal as they slammed their axes into the lock and a final crash showed they had succeeded. Soon, the ancient, iron-studded gate was swinging open to admit the remainder of Babur’s troops, including the Mangligh crossbowmen.

With Alamgir in his hand, Babur glanced about. It was very quiet. Where were the Uzbeks hiding? Babur put caution aside and advanced up the wide street, yelling, ‘Ferghana! Ferghana!’

His shouts echoed in the silence. There was no volley of arrows or even an answering cry of Uzbek defiance. Then, to Babur’s astonishment, doors and shutters began to open. He darted for cover and again reached for his bow and an arrow, but the heads poking out were not those of Uzbek warriors. They belonged to the ordinary people of Samarkand – merchants, shopkeepers, innkeepers – who, recognising Babur, were calling out blessings upon him and his men, thanking them for their liberation. Soon they were pouring from their houses, almost insane in their joy and jubilation

‘Quick! This way!’ a man was calling. ‘I saw one of those Uzbeks run up here.’ He pointed to a narrow alleyway where tell-tale drops of blood were already congealing in the dust. Before Babur could order his men to investigate, two ordinary citizens – one burly enough to be a butcher and the other a smaller, wiry man with a wart on the side of his nose – disappeared in that direction. Within moments they had reappeared, dragging a young Uzbek by the legs so that his head banged along the ground. A Mangligh bolt was protruding from his chest, and as he struggled for breath, he begged for mercy. Before Babur could say anything, the burly man drew his knife and cut the boy’s throat from ear to ear, beaming as the warm blood splashed his boots.

All around, citizens were arming themselves with anything they
could find – stones, pitchforks, blacksmith’s tools . . . A light in their eyes reminded Babur of wild dogs as they ran with him and his troops through the streets, searching for Uzbeks and continuing to stab and club any they found long after they were dead, so great was their hatred, so bad had been the treatment they had received.

But apart from those injured on the walls who had not been able to get far, there were few – and still no resistance. The Uzbeks must be fleeing before them. Reaching the Registan Square, Babur called a halt. Maybe the Uzbeks were convinced he had attacked with a much greater force than he had or perhaps this was a trap and they were waiting in ambush a little way ahead. Babur consulted briefly with his commanders, then ordered detachments of soldiers to advance cautiously into the west, north and east of the city.

By now it was mid-morning and beneath a streaked and brilliant sky more and more people were surging into the square. They were carrying food – bread, fruit, even skins of wine – which they thrust on Babur’s men. A babble of excited voices was rising all around him. This was chaos – what if the Uzbeks were regrouping and about to counter-attack? Babur’s men could not fight amid this throng.

Babur ordered his guards to push back the jubilant people. Making barriers of their spears, his warriors advanced, shoulder to shoulder, and slowly succeeded in driving the crowds back, clearing the entries and exits to the square. That was better. ‘I want all of these buildings searched, and men posted at every high vantage-point around the square,’ Babur ordered. Even now Uzbek archers might be concealed among all the blue-tiled domes and minarets of the palaces, mosques and
madrasas
bounding the square, just waiting their chance.

‘Majesty . . .’ A young soldier, broad face beaded with sweat, was at Babur’s elbow. He sounded as if he had been running hard.

‘What is it?’

‘The main body of Uzbeks are fleeing the city northwards through the Shaykhzada Gate in the hope of re-joining Shaibani Khan – our archers are firing at them as they go. However, the local people have trapped some in the gatehouse of the Iron Gate.’

‘Excellent. We must clear the city of the last of our enemies and
man the walls before Shaibani Khan can return.’ Babur called for his horse and, bodyguard behind him, set out towards the Iron Gate. The fabulous blue dome of Timur’s mosque caught the light, but beyond it smoke was rising and Babur heard screams. As he approached the Iron Gate he saw that flames were pushing through the roof of the gatehouse and that the screams were coming from Uzbeks trapped inside. Drawing nearer, he saw a man try to escape by climbing through a window only to be pushed back into the flames by some citizens of Samarkand, who immediately closed the shutters and barred them from the outside. Another Uzbek, his clothes on fire, plunged from the top floor and crashed to the ground where the crowd immediately surrounded his body, stabbing frenziedly at him to ensure he was dead. Soon the cheering people were flourishing his bloody head as a trophy.

At Babur’s arrival, one of the citizens – his face smoke-blackened – rushed towards him and, recognising the royal standard of Ferghana held by one of Babur’s guards, fell to his knees. ‘Majesty, we have trapped them and are burning them. They are suffering like they made us suffer. None will die an easy death, I promise.’ His shining eyes contained only blood-lust as he looked to Babur for congratulation, but the sweet stench of burning flesh sickened Babur and he simply nodded and waved the man away.

He turned his back on the flaming gatehouse where, already, the agonised cries of the Uzbeks were growing less frequent and rode back slowly towards the Registan Square. Samarkand, it seemed, was his again but he could scarcely believe how quickly and easily it had fallen.

There was a clattering of hoofs ahead and a familiar figure came into view. It was Baisanghar, and among the riders accompanying him, he glimpsed Baburi.

‘Hail, Babur, King of Samarkand!’ Baisanghar shouted, and behind him the other men took up the cry. Babur raised a hand and rode slowly past, still coming to terms with what had happened. He should be ecstatic, but instead he felt a strange detachment. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted space and time to think.

That night in the Kok Saray, Babur ordered pen and paper to be brought to him. When his servant asked whether he also wished for a scribe, he shook his head. He had decided something. He was nineteen, a fully grown man, and he had achieved momentous things. From now on he would keep a diary in which he would speak from the heart. He alone would know what was written there.

He dipped his pen into the ink, thought for a moment then began to write: slowly at first but then more fluidly as his emotions welled up inside him:

For generations Samarkand belonged to the House of Timur. Then the Uzbeks – the alien foe from outside our civilised world on the fringes of mankind – seized and ravaged it. Now the city that slipped from our hands has by God’s grace been given back. Golden Samarkand is mine again.

With a deep sigh, he put down his pen and snuffed out his candle. He lay down and, moments later, was asleep.

T
he first frosts had made the delicate outlines of Samarkand’s egg-shaped domes, slender minarets and tiled gateways look as if they had been covered with silver leaf. Now, as bitter winds howled through the leafless orchards and the snow tumbled in earnest, the city seemed to Babur like a bride beneath her veils – her grace shrouded from the eyes of men but not entirely concealed.

His favourite chestnut horse was snorting clouds of misty breath and lifting its hoofs high out of the soft snow. Wolfskin cap on his head, fur-lined robes wrapped tightly round him, and feet in sheepskin boots, Babur was returning from his inspection around the exterior of the city walls. His bodyguards were close behind him. Wazir Khan, ill these past two weeks with a fever, was, for once, not with him, but Baburi was, his face protected from the scouring cold by a swathe of brilliant green cloth.

It was too cold to talk, even if they could have heard each other’s words through the wind and the scarves that muffled their heads. Babur’s lips were so numb he would have struggled to utter a word but as they rode towards the Turquoise Gate, hung with icicles, he forgot how chilled he was. The exhilaration of success pumped an inner warmth through him, like a draught of strong spirit.

Yet as he and his men trotted in through the gateway and headed
westward towards the citadel, he felt the stirrings of an anxiety that had seldom left him during the three months since he’d taken Samarkand. For the present, winter’s frozen grip offered protection against attack, but what would happen when the snows melted? Although Shaibani Khan had not immediately laid siege to the city, preferring to return to his northern fortresses to overwinter, he would surely not just accept the loss of Samarkand, and Babur had known from the outset that, given his limited resources, it might be harder to hold the city against Shaibani Khan than to take it from him. Immediately after its capture, he had set his men to strengthen the fortifications by building extra watch-towers and raising the wall itself in places until the frost had virtually ended their work.

Riding into the courtyard of the Kok Saray, Babur wondered whether to go and see his grandmother, mother and sister in the luxurious apartments they’d occupied since arriving in Samarkand soon after his victory. Instead he decided to visit Wazir Khan. He must be improving by now . . . Jumping down from his horse and slapping his hands against his sides to warm himself, he strode to the low, stone-built house where Wazir Khan lodged. He missed him and was impatient for his recovery.

Stamping the snow from his boots and pulling off his cap – the long hairs of the wolfskin spiky with ice – Babur went inside. On ducking through the low doorway into Wazir Khan’s chamber, he saw his old friend lying on his back in his bed, an arm flung across his face as if asleep. Coming nearer, he was shocked by how violently Wazir Khan was shaking despite the goatskin coverlets the
hakim
had piled on him and the fire in the hearth. Yesterday he had been shivering only a little.

‘How is he?’

The
hakim
was stirring some concoction in a copper pot over the fire. ‘He is worse, Majesty. I am brewing an elixir of wine, herbs and cinnamon to try to drive the fever from him.’ The man’s tone was sombre, his face preoccupied – very different from his respectful jollity at their previous meetings.

A knot tightened in Babur’s stomach as, for the first time, he
considered the possibility that Wazir Khan might die. ‘You must save him.’

‘I will try, Majesty, but decisions about life and death are for God alone. All I know is that if he does not improve soon, he will be beyond any powers I have . . .’ The
hakim
turned back to his pot and began stirring vigorously again.

Babur went to Wazir Khan and gently moved his arm from his face, which was covered with a film of sweat. Wazir Khan stirred and, for a moment, his one eye opened. ‘Majesty . . .’ His usually strong, deep voice was a thin, painful croak.

‘Don’t try to speak. You must save your strength.’ Carefully, Babur took hold of Wazir Khan’s shoulders, trying to still the shaking, willing some of his own strength to flow into his sick friend. Through the thick fabric of his robe, he could feel the hectic heat of Wazir Khan’s body.

The
hakim
approached with a clay cup.

‘Let me.’ Babur took the cup and raising Wazir Khan’s head with one hand, held it to his lips with the other. Wazir Khan tried to drink, but the warm red liquid ran down his stubbly chin. Cursing his own clumsiness, Babur tried again, recalling how, in the dank cave, Wazir Khan had once nursed him through a fever, painstakingly and devotedly trickling drops of water down a strip of cloth into his dry mouth. He raised Wazir Khan’s head higher – that was better. Wazir Khan managed to swallow a little of the
hakim
’s brew, then a little more. When he had finished, Babur laid his head back on the pillow.

‘I will send word if there is any change in his condition, Majesty.’

‘I will stay.’ Wazir Khan had no one closer to watch over him. It was many years since the smallpox had taken his wife and son, and nearly a decade since his daughter had died in childbirth. Babur gathered up a couple of brocade bolsters, shoved them against the wall next to Wazir Khan’s bed and flung himself down on them. If these were to be Wazir Khan’s last hours on earth, he would be with him.