Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (29 page)

‘I’m going to Timur’s tomb . . .’ Babur announced suddenly. Baburi looked surprised but said nothing.

Riding into the courtyard before the entrance gate to the tomb, Babur jumped down from his horse and gestured to Baburi to accompany him. Waving aside the tomb attendants, he led the way swiftly across the inner courtyard and down to the crypt where Timur lay.

Babur pressed his hands to the cold stone. ‘This is where Timur lies. When I first came to this place I promised that I would be worthy of him. The moment has come for me to fulfil that pledge. I’m going to lead out my men in one last stand before the city walls. Future generations will not be able to say that I yielded Timur’s city to a barbarian without a fight . . .’

‘It will be a better death than waiting till we are so weak we can no longer grip a sword . . .’

Babur nodded and, as he had once before, lowered his head to kiss the cold coffin.

But as they rode back towards the Kok Saray, Babur sensed a change. There seemed to be more people on the streets and they were talking animatedly, as if they had news to discuss. Many were heading in the same direction as himself, surging about him. Soon his guards had to form a barrier around him and push the people back with the shafts of their spears to let him through.

One of his soldiers came galloping towards him at full tilt. ‘Majesty,’ he shouted, as soon as he was in earshot, ‘a messenger has come from Shaibani Khan.’

Ten minutes later Babur was back in the Kok Saray, hurrying into his audience chamber where his counsellors were waiting.

The Uzbek ambassador was a tall, stout man in a black turban and a dark purple tunic. A battleaxe was slung across his back, a scimitar hung at his side and a silver-hilted dagger was tucked into his orange sash. He touched his hand to his breast as Babur entered.

‘What is your message?’

‘My lord offers you a solution to your predicament.’

‘And what is it?’

‘He is prepared to forgive your theft of the city. If you will
restore his rightful property to him, you, your family and your troops may leave. He offers you safe passage back to Ferghana or, if you prefer, to the west or south. He gives you his word on the Holy Book that he will not attack you.’

‘And what of the city and its people? Will he make more drums from human skin, as he did with my cousin, Prince Mahmud?’

‘My lord says that the citizens must pay for their insult to him – but in taxes not in blood. Again, he gives you his word on the Holy Book.’

‘Are there any conditions?’

‘None, except that you leave Samarkand before the next new moon, two weeks from now.’ The ambassador folded his hands on his ample stomach.

‘Tell Shaibani Khan I will consider his offer and send my reply before noon tomorrow.’

‘And in the meantime I have brought you a present from my lord.’ The ambassador snapped his fingers and one of his attendants, who had been standing discreetly to one side, approached with a large basket. Removing the conical lid, he tipped the contents on to the rugs beneath the dais – melons from the orchards outside Samarkand, honey-ripe and golden, their mouth-watering fragrance filling the chamber. ‘I have brought two mule loads. They are waiting by the Turquoise Gate. My lord hopes you will find the fruit most delicious.’

‘You may tell your master we have no need of such things. The gardens inside Samarkand’s walls drip with ripe fruit. We will feed these to our mules . . .’ Babur rose, and as he swept past the ambassador made sure he kicked one of the melons aside. It rolled across the chamber and hit a stone door frame, so that its golden pulp oozed out.

‘Can we trust him?’ Babur’s eyes searched the faces of his counsellors as, that night, they convened in the candle-lit audience chamber. He had needed time to think on his own before summoning them.

‘He’s a barbarian and the enemy of our blood, but he has given his word,’ said Baisanghar.

‘The word of a cattle thief . . .’ Babur replied grimly.

‘But he’ll lose face if he goes back on a promise so publicly given on the Holy Book.’

‘But why has he made this offer? He vastly outnumbers us and knows the city is starving. Why not wait? Shaibani Khan doesn’t lack patience.’

‘I think I may know the answer, Majesty.’ Baburi stepped forward from where he had been standing, on guard, to one side of Babur’s dais.

‘Speak.’ Babur gestured to him to join the circle of men seated around him, ignoring the surprise of some that their king had invited a common soldier into their midst.

‘There are rumours in the bazaars – from those who spoke to the ambassador’s attendants today – that Shaibani Khan faces a challenge from within the Uzbek clans. They say that a nephew, far away on the steppes, is raising an army against him. Shaibani Khan wants to ride north and smash the rebellion before it grows. If he doesn’t go soon, the weather will be his enemy and he will have to leave it unchecked until next spring . . .’

If that was true, Babur thought, Shaibani Khan had no time to waste on sieges. He would want to reoccupy the city, garrison it and be on his way. It probably also meant he would keep his word not to attack them. He would not want to expend men and resources – or risk stirring up the other Timurid chieftains and rulers of the region – by harassing Babur’s retreating forces.

‘I have decided.’ Babur stood up. ‘I will accept the Uzbek terms – provided that our men are allowed to depart fully armed.’ Then he added, with as much certainty as he could muster, ‘The people will be saved and,
inshallah
– God willing – we shall return.’

Next morning, Babur watched from the walls of the Kok Saray as Kasim, his ambassador, accompanied by two soldiers carrying the green standards of Samarkand, rode slowly through the Turquoise Gate towards Shaibani Khan’s camp.

Despite his fine words to his people, this was surrender – something he’d never done before, never believed he would do. The knowledge sickened him. Yet he had known from the beginning of the campaign
that the odds were stacked against him. In the end he had had no real choice other than to agree to Shaibani Khan’s terms. It had clearly been the right thing to do for the sake of the citizens of Samarkand but the thought of retreat – of ceding the city to a hated foe – left a bitter taste in his mouth, like almonds left too long on the tree. Even so, this way he, too, would be free and have the opportunity to re-build his fortunes and those of his family, provided he retained his self-belief and determination which he knew he would. He was still a young man and had not been born or brought up to fail but to achieve great things. He would fulfil his destiny.

Babur mounted his horse and, without a backward glance at the tall Kok Saray, rode out. His bodyguard, Baburi among them, was behind him and at the back, well protected by cavalrymen and screened by leather curtains, his mother, sister and grandmother were with their attendants in a bullock cart.

His wife and her women were in another cart, escorted by the Mangligh crossbowmen who would now return to Zaamin. Ayisha had asked Babur whether she might go with them to visit her father and he had agreed. As far as he was concerned, it was the only bright spot in one of the darkest moments of his life.

The rest of Babur’s forces were already riding northwards through the city towards the Shaykhzada Gate through which, Shaibani Khan had decreed, Babur must make his exit. In just a few hours’ time, Shaibani Khan himself, flanked by his dark-robed Uzbek warriors, would ride in through the glorious Turquoise Gate.

The city was sullen and still. The windows and doors of the houses were mostly shuttered and barred as Babur and his party passed by, though occasionally a citizen would stick out his head and spit audibly. Babur didn’t blame them. He would have liked to declare that he would be back, that this was just a temporary setback in what would be a golden future for Samarkand under a Timurid ruler, not a vile Uzbek, but why should they believe him? However straight his back as he rode, however stern his countenance,
their eyes could not penetrate his body and see the steely determination in his heart to succeed.

It was midday and the sun was beating down. They would not ride far today, Babur thought. They would circle to the east and make camp on the far side of Qolba Hill. At least from there he would not have to gaze on Samarkand. Tomorrow he and his counsellors would consider where best to go. Esan Dawlat was urging him to seek out her people far to the east beyond Ferghana. Perhaps she was right, though Babur’s instincts were to retreat to the mountains to some quiet hideaway not so far away and bide his time . . .

Ahead, he could see the high curved arch of the Shaykhzada Gate. As he approached, Baisanghar rode towards him. He looked gaunt and drawn. Of course, this was his city – he had been born here: surrendering it to the Uzbeks must hurt him deeply. His sense of loss would be no less than Babur’s.

‘The men are drawn up in the meadows beyond the gate, Majesty, but there is more. Shaibani Khan’s ambassador requests a further audience of you.’

‘Very well. Bring him before me once I have re-joined my men.’

Babur’s forces – no more than two thousand now – were a wretched, ragged bunch compared to the army with which he had taken Samarkand. Death, wounds, desertions, starvation and the disease it had brought in its wake, had taken their toll. And there were no bright pennants in yellow or green proclaiming them warriors of Ferghana or Samarkand. They were neither any more.

The men were silent as Babur rode towards them. How many, now that they were clear of the city, would slip back to their tribal lands or go in search of other rulers able to reward them better?

He watched as the stout Uzbek ambassador approached on horseback over the parched ground. What did he want? To gloat on behalf of his master?

‘Well?’

‘ To mark the new understanding between you and my lord, he has come to a joyous decision. He will take Her Royal Highness, your sister, as a wife.’

‘What?’ Babur’s hand reached instinctively for his sword. For a
second he thought of the ambassador’s head bouncing away, spurting blood as the melon he had kicked had leaked its juice.

‘I said that my lord, Shaibani Khan, has decided to marry your sister, Khanzada . . . He will take her now . . .’

‘Majesty . . .’ Babur heard Baisanghar call in alarm.

Babur looked up to see lines of dark-clad Uzbek riders, bows at the ready, come sweeping round from the direction of the Iron Gate. In a moment, Babur and his men were surrounded on three sides. On the fourth they were hemmed in by the stout city walls. An ambush . . .

‘So, this is how Shaibani Khan keeps his word . . .’ Babur sprang from his horse, pulled the ambassador from his and had his dagger to the man’s throat. The Uzbek was strong and tried to pull away but Babur allowed his blade to pierce the man’s skin. As a bead of dark red blood welled up, the man ceased his struggling.

‘My lord has not broken his word,’ the ambassador gasped. ‘He promised you safe passage and you will have it. All he seeks is a wife.’

‘I’ll see my sister dead before I give her into the hands of savages,’ Babur yelled, and released the man, who tumbled to the ground.

‘It will not only be your sister who dies.’ The ambassador held the end of his turban to his neck to staunch the wound. ‘If you reject my lord’s offer he will take it as an insult and you will all die – you, your family and your pitiful army. And he will destroy the city and rebuild it over the citizens’ bleached bones. It is your choice . . .’

Babur looked at the Uzbek arrows trained on him and his men. He also looked at the pale faces of Baisanghar and Baburi who, the moment Babur had attacked the ambassador, had rushed forward, swords drawn. The anger and powerlessness he felt were written on their faces. Again, he had no choice. It would have been one thing to lead out his men in one last glorious sally, quite another to submit them to pointless butchery, like animals in the hunt when beaters drive them into a circle to be shot down at will.

Scanning the Uzbek lines, Babur looked for the commanding figure of Shaibani Khan, wild thoughts of offering him single combat running through his mind. But, of course, the Uzbek leader was
not there: he would be preparing to ride back into Samarkand. A meeting with a throneless king would be beneath him.