Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (27 page)

As night drew on, Babur watched, and sometimes helped, as the
hakim
hovered around the bed, checking Wazir Khan’s pulse, rolling
back an eyelid to peer into his eye and placing a hand on his forehead to gauge his temperature. Sometimes Wazir Khan lay quietly, though still shaking and shuddering. At other times, he would shout out. Most of his words were incomprehensible but Babur caught something among the ramblings . . .

‘Doves . . . doves with ruby-red blood on their feathers . . . See how they fall, Majesty . . .’

He must be re-living that day on the battlements of Akhsi when Babur’s father and his dovecote had tumbled to oblivion. After all this time Babur could still feel Wazir Khan’s iron-strong hands dragging him back from the edge of the ravine where his father’s broken body had lain . . . He owed so much to Wazir Khan, who had been as a father to him since that time, yet there was nothing he could do to save him.

As Wazir Khan fell silent again, Babur shut his eyes. How would he manage without him?

‘Majesty . . . Majesty . . . Wake up!’

Babur sat up with a start. The room was in almost total darkness except for a flicker of light from an oil lamp the
hakim
was holding high in his right hand.

Blinking, Babur stumbled to his feet. He didn’t want to look at the bed because of what he might see. Instead he fixed his eyes on the
hakim
’s face. ‘What is it?’

‘God has spoken, Majesty.’ The doctor moved over to the bed and allowed the small halo of light from his lamp to fall on Wazir Khan.

He was sitting up against the pillows. He was no longer shivering, his one eye was bright and clear and there was a half-smile on his wasted face. The fever had gone. For a moment Babur couldn’t take in what he was seeing, but then he rushed to the bed and threw his arms round Wazir Khan in a gesture of overwhelming relief and affection.

‘Majesty, please, my patient is weak . . .’ the
hakim
protested but Babur barely heard him, conscious only of the profoundest gratitude. Wazir Khan had been spared . . .

Leaving him to rest, Babur went outside. The cold air stung his bare face but he didn’t care. Released from the sickroom, worries over, he felt his own youth and strength surge up inside him and, with it, the need for young, carefree company. Though dawn was still only a pale sliver on the eastern horizon, he asked for Baburi.

A few minutes later he appeared, bleary-eyed and fastening his sheepskin jerkin. Babur could see his warm breath rising in white spirals as he looked around him, clearly puzzled to have been summoned so early. ‘Come on – we’re going for a ride,’ Babur called to him.

‘What? . . .’

‘You heard me – get a move on . . .’

Ten minutes later, they were galloping out of the Turquoise Gate, the hoofprints of their horses pockmarking the fresh snow as sunlight began to warm the landscape. It was good to be young and alive, whatever was to come.

At first it was hard to be certain. At this time of the year, the pale, almost colourless light played tricks on men’s eyes. Babur stared hard towards Qolba Hill. As he watched, he thought he saw more of them – yes: he was right – the distant black shapes of horsemen.

Wazir Khan was also gazing fixedly at the hill.

‘Uzbeks . . . ?’

‘I fear so, Majesty. Probably scouts.’

Babur turned away. Over the past three weeks rumours – at first vague and insubstantial, then more detailed – had begun reaching Samarkand. The two facts on which all seemed agreed were that Shaibani Khan was in Bokhara, to the west of Samarkand, recruiting mercenaries, and that he was summoning those Uzbek fighters who had wintered with their clans and promising them a rich prize.

On Babur’s orders the armourers of Samarkand, who had laboured hard through the winter, had redoubled their efforts and were working night and day, the sound of clashing metal filling the air as they forged sharp-edged blades and spears in their furnaces and tempered them on their anvils. He would have enough weapons
and he had done what he could to improve the fortifications, but what about men?

He frowned. At the last count he had seven thousand, including the Mangligh crossbowmen who had remained in the city through the winter. Since he had learned that the Uzbeks might be on the move, he had despatched messengers to other chieftains in the region – even to Jahangir and Tambal in Akhsi whose troops had returned after Babur had taken Samarkand – asking their help against the common enemy. So far none had answered.

‘I’m not surprised the Uzbeks are coming, Wazir Khan. I knew it was only a matter of time. While you were ill, Baburi and I sometimes talked about it . . .’

‘And what did the market boy say?’

The unaccustomed sharpness in Wazir Khan’s tone startled Babur. ‘Market boy he may have been, but he still talks sense . . . and he knows Samarkand and its people . . .’

‘He should remember who he is and you should remember who you are, Majesty . . . You are the king . . . It doesn’t look good to be seen to consult an upstart like him rather than older, wiser and better-born men . . . I’m only saying what your father would, if God had spared him . . .’

Babur glared at Wazir Khan. Perhaps his grandmother had been getting at him – Esan Dawlat never hid her contempt for Baburi or her disapproval of Babur’s association with him. Then he remembered how much he owed Wazir Khan and how ill he had recently been. ‘I will never forget I am king and of Timur’s blood. I enjoy Baburi’s company . . . but I ask his advice because it is sound. Like you, he doesn’t tell me what he believes I wish to hear – but says what is in his mind. That doesn’t mean I always agree with him . . . I take my own decisions . . .’

‘As your oldest adviser I had to say something. Baburi may be shrewd, but he’s pleased with himself and hot-tempered, too. If you’re not careful, your friendship with him will make others who feel overlooked jealous and resentful . . . Sometimes, I confess, even I’ve not felt immune from this . . .’

Seeing how troubled Wazir Khan looked, Babur touched his
shoulder gently. ‘You are my greatest support, valued above all my other
ichkis
, and I know you only speak for my own good. I will be careful . . . Now, summon the council. They need to know what we’ve seen on the hill . . .’

As Wazir Khan walked quickly away despite his limp, Babur stared towards Qolba Hill again, but the black shapes had vanished. Was Wazir Khan right to warn him about Baburi or was it just that Wazir Khan couldn’t understand his need for company of his own age? Events had already shown him that a king’s life could be as precarious as a market boy’s. If he was going to prosper and triumph, as Timur had done, he needed help wherever he could find it. For the present, survival was what mattered and Baburi knew all about that . . .

Babur hurried to his audience chamber where he saw on a low table inlaid with shimmering mother-of-pearl the plan of the regions around Samarkand he had ordered to be prepared. Half an hour later, his counsellors were clustered round him.

‘There’s no point waiting meekly within the walls. With the men we have it won’t be easy to repel Shaibani Khan’s attacks or to withstand a long siege. We’ll stand a far better chance of success if we take the fight to him in the early spring before he has had time to gather all his forces. Even though we’ll still be outnumbered, we can strike fast and hard when he least expects it. If, as I believe he will, he advances against us direct from Bokhara, his swiftest route is along this river flowing eastwards towards Samarkand.’ Babur traced the almost straight path with the tip of his gold-hilted dagger. ‘But before he reaches Samarkand, he will need to rendezvous with his other troops before moving against us in force . . . This will be our moment to attack.’

His counsellors murmured agreement except for Baisanghar who was looking anxious.

‘What is it, Baisanghar . . . ?’

‘Shaibani Khan is not predictable. That is one of the few things we have learned about him – to our cost. I remember how his barbarians descended out of nowhere to kill your uncle and massacre our men . . .’

‘That is why I am sending spies to Bokhara. I won’t be lured
out of Samarkand by tricks – as we ourselves tempted Shaibani Khan. But as soon as I’ve proof that he is moving against us, I’ll lead our troops westward and surprise him. If he does advance along the river, I propose we lie in wait here.’ Babur drove the tip of his dagger into the map at a place three days’ ride from Samarkand where the river narrowed as it passed through low, stony hills.

Ten days later Babur was riding at the head of his men towards the very place he had described at the council meeting. A week ago his scouts had confirmed that Shaibani Khan’s men were indeed on the move, with great numbers of horsemen, heading for the river. Babur had ordered his armies out from Samarkand, leaving a garrison of just sufficient size to defend it if it came under surprise attack. He and his troops had kept themselves at a distance from the river while scouts had tracked the Uzbeks’ progress towards and along it. That morning they had reported that the Uzbeks had already broken camp and, if they kept up their normal pace, they would reach the narrows about midday.

Babur had given his orders to Wazir Khan, Baisanghar and Ali Gosht, his master-of-horse. Babur and the advance guard, galloping fast in spearhead formation, would slam from the flank into the centre of the Uzbek line of march and punch through, slaughtering as many Uzbeks and causing as much chaos as possible, before regrouping and attacking again from the other side. As soon as they had seen him drive through the Uzbeks, his main forces should advance swiftly under the command of Wazir Khan to attack the front of the column while another detachment under Baisanghar swept round to encircle the Uzbek rear. Ali Gosht should hold the small remainder of the troops in reserve.

Now Babur saw before him the low ridge that overlooked the river. Soon his chestnut horse was at its top and with the men of his advance guard around him he looked down on a long, wide column of Uzbek riders, kicking up clouds of dust along the riverbank, seemingly oblivious to his presence. This was his moment. He ordered the charge down the gentle incline towards his enemy,
about twelve hundred yards away. Almost as soon as he had kicked his horse forward he saw, for the first time, an Uzbek riding at a little distance from the main column, perhaps as a lookout. Simultaneously the man saw him and raised a trumpet, sounding a warning to the main body before himself galloping for its protection.

On hearing the trumpet, the Uzbek column slowed and the riders turned their horses to face the threat. Some had time to grab their bows and unleash a shower of hissing arrows, and several of Babur’s advance guard crashed to the ground before they could reach the Uzbeks. The rest, led by Babur, hurtled onwards, hitting the enemy column at full gallop and slashing around them. The Uzbek lines seemed to buckle and waver and Babur thought victory was surely his.

But then they began to enfold Babur’s men rather than to scatter before them. Babur saw his young standard bearer tumble from his horse in front of him, his head pulped by one blow from a metal-studded Uzbek flail. Pulling his horse’s head hard round, Babur avoided the youth’s body and succeeded in skewering his killer with his spear but then more Uzbeks were hacking at him. Discarding his spear, Babur fought back with Alamgir. The sheer weight and numbers of the Uzbek onslaught around him was forcing him away from his bodyguard and he realised he was all but surrounded. If he were not to die he had to break through. Extending Alamgir before him in his right hand and bending low to his horse’s neck, he made for the only gap he could see in the Uzbeks around him.