Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (43 page)

Babur brushed the sweat from his face and slipped his feet out of the stirrups to stretch his legs. They’d been riding for six long days now, their pace inevitably slowed by the cumbersome baggage train carrying their equipment. Soon, though, they should be approaching the Shibartu Pass that would take them westward over the mountains towards Khorasan. Once across the pass, they would enter territories where they might encounter Uzbek raiding parties . . . but he must be patient. There was no way he could tackle Shaibani Khan head-on in a pitched battle. He must build confidence among his troops and win new allies by successes gained using the tactics of his adolescent days as a hit-and-run raider from the hills. He must ambush enemy columns and disappear before they could concentrate their forces against him. He must capture isolated fortresses and use the booty and weapons within to win more adherents until gradually he became strong enough to take on large formations of Shaibani Khan’s men.

Reining in his grey horse, Babur called a halt. They would camp for the night on this steep, grassy hillside, with a commanding view that ensured their safety from ambush, He summoned his military council. They were an ill-assorted group – many just tribal leaders
in lambskin jackets whose rule over a mud-brick settlement or two entitled them to sit alongside seasoned commanders like Baisanghar. With fewer than ten thousand troops he needed every man willing to ride with him, even unruly tribesmen. And he needed them to believe in him, despite the odds they were facing.

‘In a few days we’ll be over the pass. With luck, those Uzbek devils won’t be expecting us. That’s our strength. They’ll think we’re meekly awaiting our fate in Kabul, like lambs in the butcher’s pen. Until our scouts and spies can tell us more, it’s too risky to advance to Herat itself. But we are warriors of the hills and mountains, we have the cunning of the wolf who doesn’t rush blindly among the herds of deer but waits, hidden, knowing that if he is patient he can sink his fangs into the flanks of a straggler and taste blood . . . The wolf’s way must be ours. So, tell your men to keep their weapons sharpened and oiled and to stay alert.’

The nodding of heads and exchange of glances showed him his words had met their mark. ‘And remember the words of the Holy Book: “With God’s help, many a small force has defeated a large one.”’

‘About four hundred Uzbeks, Majesty, just three or four miles away on the far banks of a river. It looked like they were preparing to ford, spreading the baggage more equally between the horses and pack-animals to swim them over . . . If we’re quick we can attack while they’re still crossing . . .’ The scout was breathing hard and the coat of his chestnut gelding was damp with sweat.

Babur grinned at Baburi and Baisanghar. At last, after two weeks of edging westward, of keeping beneath the cover of the dense forests that clothed the hills, there was a chance of action. The Uzbeks would be preoccupied, securing their shields to their backs and wrapping their bows and quivers to keep them dry. And their other weapons – swords, daggers and throwing axes – would be useless to them in the water.

‘Baisanghar, assemble the advance guard.’ With Baisanghar’s advice, Babur had selected five hundred of his best warriors and divided them into groups of fifty, each under its own commander. They
would be more than enough to deal with an Uzbek raiding party. The rest of the army and the baggage could stay where it was unless reinforcements were needed.

Ten minutes later, with the scout on a fresh horse beside him, Babur set out with the vanguard along a sheep track leading through softly rolling, clover-clad hills towards the river. Luckily it had rained in the night and the spongy ground would make it harder for listening ears to detect the thud of galloping hoofs. Even so, it was good the scout was taking them to a point a few hundred yards upstream from the Uzbeks where a sharp ox-bow bend beyond a plantation of willows should conceal their approach.

Babur glanced down at the steel breastplate expertly made for him in the foundries of Kabul. His coat of light chain-mail fitted well and his sword Alamgir was at his side. He was ready. The emotions surging up inside him made him want to yell his head off, though he knew he couldn’t . . . not yet anyway . . .

Two miles further on and the track was broadening out – Babur’s men could ride six abreast now – but there was less cover. Babur frowned, conferred briefly with the scout, then raised his hand to halt his men and summoned the youth he had recently chosen as his
qorchi
, his
squire
.

‘Ride quickly down the column. Tell my commanders to keep their men at a trot, bows and quivers ready and their mouths shut. When we’re almost at the bend in the river we’ll halt and I’ll send the scout ahead. If he reports that the Uzbeks are not yet across, we charge. Do you understand?’ The boy nodded and cantered off.

Babur’s heart beat to a thunderous rhythm as they set off again. His senses felt unnaturally acute – he noticed the spiky black hairs on the body of a caterpillar wriggling along a blade of grass and the soft, purple-pink breast of a wood pigeon startled from the tree where it had been resting. The smell of sweat – his own and his horse’s and from the men and animals around him – seemed to rise in a pungent elemental cloud, the essence of life itself. Perhaps a man never felt so alive as when he was about to be in the presence of death.

‘Majesty, you should halt here while I reconnoitre,’ said the scout.

Two hundred yards ahead, Babur caught the gleam of water through the trailing feathery branches of some fine old willows. ‘Very well. Be quick.’

‘Yes, Maj—’ The scout got no further as a black-feathered Uzbek arrow pierced his cheek and a second tore into his throat. A third thudded harmlessly into the ground. As the blood bubbled out, the man’s eyes glazed and he tumbled from his horse, one foot still caught in his stirrup.

As cries to take cover rose around him, Babur flung himself low over his horse’s neck expecting at any moment to feel the cold tip of an arrow embed itself in his flesh. Gripping his reins in his left hand, with his right he reached round to grab his metal-bound leather shield and hold it over his head for protection. But no more arrows came. Babur cautiously raised himself. To his left, through the swaying golden willows – the direction from which the arrows had come – he saw a trio of Uzbek horsemen making off along the bank towards the point at which the river took its sharp turn.

Perhaps they were scouts spying out the land while the others were still crossing. He mustn’t give them time to get back and raise the alarm. Kicking his horse, Babur threw back his head and yelled the order to charge.

The willow branches whipped his face as he burst through and he tasted blood from a cut in his lip. Reaching the wide bank, he saw the Uzbeks disappearing round the bend and cursed. Taking an arrow from his quiver and pulling his bow off his shoulder, he dropped his reins. Half standing in his stirrups and holding his horse steady with his knees, he fitted the arrow to the string and pulled it back. It sped straight and fast, embedding itself in the rump of one of the Uzbek horses. Babur heard its whinny of pain and watched it skitter sideways into the river, taking its rider with it. Baburi had also fired but the other two Uzbeks had vanished.

As Babur and his close-packed riders thundered round the sharp curve, turf flying up, his heart leaped. The two surviving Uzbek riders were yelling and gesticulating but few of their comrades had noticed. A small group, still on the far bank, had seen that something
was wrong and were running for their weapons but most were in the water, concentrating on getting themselves and their animals across the fast-flowing river.

Only a handful of sodden, shivering men had already reached the bank. Babur and his troops fired a first volley of arrows from the saddle, felling many. Then Babur gave the order to dismount and to maintain a steady fire of arrows from the cover of trees and rocks. Even on the far bank some Uzbeks were falling to the ground while in the blood-flecked river the bodies of dead and dying men and animals were forming a solid, tangled mass that even the current could barely shift.

‘Majesty!’ Baburi’s clear voice rang out above the screams and groans.

Babur glanced round just in time to see one of the two mounted Uzbeks, whose existence he’d completely forgotten, galloping towards him. Something bright gleamed in his hand – an axe. The man threw back his arm and sent it whirling towards Babur with such force that he could almost hear the air whisper as it parted. Babur leaped sideways as the axe flew past his right ear to stick in the mud behind him.

Grunting he turned, yanked it out and weighed it in his hand – it felt good, well-balanced. The Uzbek was only a few yards away now, curved sword in hand and determination on his face beneath his pointed steel helmet as he bent low in the saddle. Baburi rushed forward.

‘No – I want him,’ Babur yelled. Dropping his bow he stood, the axe in his right hand, waiting, judging the moment. With the man just a few paces from him, Babur threw it. The shaft – not the blade – smashed into the warrior’s face, pulping his nose, but he was still in the saddle. Babur felt the hot breath of the man’s snorting horse as the Uzbek bore down on him. Throwing himself forward, Babur grabbed the rider’s left leg just above the knee. The rings of his chain-mail tore the flesh of Babur’s fingers but it only made him hold on tighter and pull harder. The Uzbek, blood streaming from his shattered nose, fell sprawling on the ground but rolled clear of his horse’s thrashing hoofs and sprang up.

He and Babur faced one another, balancing on the balls of their feet like wrestlers, watching for the chance to make the first move. If the blood-smeared Uzbek felt any pain he wasn’t showing it. His cold eyes were narrowed, weighing up his opponent. Babur was wearing nothing to denote him as a king – the Uzbek was just sizing him up warrior to warrior.

Dagger in his left hand now and Alamgir in the right, Babur darted forward in a feint, then jumped back nimbly as the Uzbek lunged. Circling his opponent, Babur tried the same trick a second, then a third time. Each time the Uzbek reacted, slashing with his sword only to have Babur skip teasingly away. Muscles tensed, Babur jumped forward for the fourth time. The Uzbek hesitated, convinced that Babur was still playing with him – that he wouldn’t follow through. But this time, instead of leaping away, Babur lashed at the man’s exposed throat with his sword and kicked his right foot hard into his groin. The Uzbek slid to his knees, hands between his thighs, blood pouring from his throat.

But as Babur stepped forward to finish him off, his right foot slipped on the sticky clay of the riverbank and he crashed down, dropping his dagger and trapping his sword beneath him. The wounded Uzbek saw his chance of reprieve. Pulling himself upright, he recovered his sword and lunged forward. Babur raised his left arm to protect himself and immediately felt a stinging pain. Glancing down, he saw blood pouring from a deep cut in his lower forearm and running down so that his left hand was scarlet and dripping.

Instinctively, he struggled to his feet and, as he did so, twisted away from the Uzbek who, weak from his own wound, reacted slowly. Freeing Alamgir, Babur drove the sword with all his force through the man’s throat and out through the back of his neck. Blood from a severed artery spurted over Babur, mingling with his own.

Looking around, Babur saw the fight was over. The Uzbeks were either dead or had fled. Holding his left hand high above his head to lessen the blood flow, with his right he untied a cotton cloth from round his neck and handed it to Baburi. Then
lowering his left arm, which he already felt to be stiffening, he extended it towards him. ‘Bind it tightly . . . We may need to fight again today . . .’

The euphoria was already leaving him – but why? Perhaps because to Shaibani Khan the death of upwards of three hundred of his men would be no more than a mosquito bite in the night . . . Babur would still have to ride a long, hard road before this was over . . .