Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (44 page)

B
abur breathed in the familiar smells – the acrid smoky scent rising from the twigs and animal dung of campfires, the aroma of fat lamb roasting on spits and of flat bread baking on hot stones. All around him, in the gathering darkness, his men were cleaning and oiling their weapons, laughing, cooking, pissing, enjoying the rest after the weeks of skirmishing. It was good to know that his force had swelled to at least sixteen thousand. Every day men driven out by the Uzbeks were joining him.

But they couldn’t stay much longer in these sweet grasslands, deep in the mountains of Gharjistan, twelve days’ ride east of Herat. According to reports picked up by Babur’s scouts, Shaibani Khan had quit the city some weeks ago. The accounts were vague and the exact timing of his departure was unclear but all seemed to suggest that he had ridden out through the Qipchaq Gate at the head of a large force and had appeared to be heading north-west. Could it be a device to tempt Babur on to Herat, apparently left only lightly garrisoned? Or was Shaibani Khan planning to sweep north-east to outflank Babur? The Uzbek leader would know by now that Babur had led an army westward from Kabul. He’d also know that if he could take Babur’s force by surprise he’d crush it easily. Or perhaps he was bypassing Babur. Perhaps even now he was leading his Uzbek barbarians through the mountains north towards Babur’s capital, Kabul.

Babur stared deep into the glowing charcoal in the metal brazier outside his tent. The lack of definite news in recent days seemed ominous . . . It was as though Shaibani Khan had vanished . . . He stretched his hands over the heat, frowning at the stiffness he still felt in moving his left wrist. The wound to his forearm was healing cleanly and well – thanks to his
hakim
– but the cut had gone deep and the flesh round it was numb. The loss of suppleness made him impatient: it was his dagger arm and he needed it.

That night, images of Shaibani Khan again stalked his mind and Babur hardly slept. As the pewtery dawn light seeped into his hide tent he was still turning restlessly when he became aware of excited shouting and raised voices coming from some way off at the perimeter of the camp. Tossing back his coverlet he leaped up and threw open the flaps to his tent.

‘Find out what that noise is . . .’ he ordered one of the guards on watch outside. It was probably nothing – a fight over a goat or a sheep. Yesterday he’d had five tribesmen – two Ghilzais and three Pashais – flogged for brawling. But it wasn’t that. Babur could tell from the guard’s surprised expression as he returned at a half-run through the lines of tents.

‘Majesty, it’s an ambassador . . . with a large escort.’

‘From where?’

‘Persia, Majesty, from the great shah himself . . .’

‘Bring him to my tent.’

Hurrying inside, Babur dressed quickly. He unlocked a small, leather-covered chest on a carved wooden stand, took out a jewelled chain and hung it round his neck, then placed Timur’s heavy gold ring on his finger. His jaw was rough with stubble but there was no time to do anything about that now. Anyway, he was a warrior on campaign – the Persian ambassador must take him as he found him . . .

Five minutes later, Babur’s guards ushered in the envoy and four of his attendants. Babur found himself looking at a tall, black-bearded man of about forty in cream robes. A high purple velvet cap topped by an egret’s white feather secured by an amethyst pin made him seem even taller. His four attendants were in tunics of
amber velvet and, like their master, also wearing high caps. One held a large purple velvet bag fastened with gold cord.

The ambassador made a graceful bow. ‘I bring you greetings from the Lord of the World, the great Shah Ismail of Persia. He prays for your long life.’

Babur inclined his head. ‘I am grateful, and may God grant him long life also.’

‘It took us many days to find you, Majesty.’

Babur waited. What could the shah, away to the west, want with him?

‘My master knows what brought you from Kabul. He, too, has been insulted by the Uzbek mongrels who have dared to encroach upon his eastern borders. In his arrogance Shaibani Khan led his army from Herat and six weeks ago attacked a rich caravan bringing goods to our city of Yazd that were destined for my master. When Shah Ismail demanded the return of his goods, the Uzbek sent him a pilgrim’s staff and bowl, signifying that my master is a beggar. In return Shah Ismail sent a distaff and spindle and the message that Shaibani Khan, a sheep-rustler, would do better to spin wool than insult his betters. But, unknown to the Uzbek, my master also immediately despatched an army bearing a further message for him: “When a wild dog foaming at the mouth attacks in his madness there is only one solution. The dog must die.” My master, whose magnificent armies are numberless, has dealt with the mad beast and he wishes you to know it.’

‘Shaibani Khan is dead?’

‘Yes, Majesty. Seventeen thousand Persian cavalry ambushed his main army as it was returning towards Herat and annihilated it.’

Babur’s mind was racing. If this was true . . . He searched the envoy’s face, whose long, dark eyes reminded him of Ayisha’s people, the Mangligh.

‘Majesty,’ the man bowed again but clearly had more of importance to say, ‘my master has charged me to deliver this gift to you.’ He took the purple velvet bag from the attendant and pulled out an oval object mounted in gold. ‘It is not as richly decorated as my master would have wished but there was little time. He hopes you
will find it acceptable.’ He held out the object carefully in both hands.

Babur examined it curiously. It was shaped like a large, round drinking cup. The outside, smooth and gleaming, looked as though it had been dipped in liquid gold and on the bottom were four little golden prongs on which it could rest. The inside was pale grey and – Babur ran a finger over it – hard. Horn, perhaps? No, it didn’t have the warmth, the mellowness of horn. It was bone . . . Babur looked again at the round shape, the size . . . Big as the crown of a man’s head . . .

‘Yes, Majesty. It is the skull of Shaibani Khan, boiled clean of its flesh and made into a drinking cup. The skin was also put to use. My master had it stuffed with straw and sent as a curiosity to his ally Bayazid, Sultan of Ottoman Turkey.’

Babur found it hard to believe what he was hearing. His greatest enemy was dead and he was holding his skull in his hands. Babur looked down at it but as he did so something of his exultation faded. He had wanted to kill Shaibani Khan himself, to ignite fear in the cold eyes he’d never seen at close quarters, to tell him, as he plunged his sword or his dagger into his guts, that this was for Khanzada. Instead someone else, a far richer, more powerful ruler, had done it . . .

‘I am grateful to Shah Ismail for his . . . gift.’

‘My master has sent further gifts for you. They are outside. If you will allow me to lead you, I will show you.’

‘Very well.’

Babur’s guards, weapons ready in case the Persian emissary had intended harm to Babur, parted to allow them out of the tent. As they made their way through the camp some men who had not heard of the Persians’ arrival were yawning, scratching and going about their morning ablutions. Several hundred yards beyond the perimeter of the camp, beneath a grove of oak trees, the rest of the ambassador’s men – as well armed as they were dressed – were waiting. Their hobbled horses were grazing beneath the trees or drinking from a nearby stream. However, one horse – a stallion with a long back, powerful flanks and shining coal-black coat –
was moving restlessly between two grooms, who were having difficulty controlling it as it jerked its head and snorted through dilated nostrils. It was the most magnificent beast Babur had ever seen.

‘This is Sohrab, a stud stallion from the stables of my master who sends him to you – and the mares of Kabul – as a gift.’

‘I thank the shah for his generosity.’ Babur was puzzled. Shaibani’s skull made some sort of sense but why should the shah make him a present like this? What did he want from him? Persia was not only one of the earth’s most powerful nations, it was a wealthy centre of culture, its poets and painters celebrated everywhere. Both Ferghana and Samarkand had been too far from its borders for any direct contact between their rulers but now Babur was in Kabul the two lands were almost neighbours. Shah Ismail was a strong new ruler who, a few years previously, had deposed the previous dynasty and established his own. A devout man, he had also imposed the Shia form of the Muslim faith on his subjects. Some called the Shiites heretics, since they believed – unlike the majority of Muslims, including Babur, who followed the Sunnis – that only the Prophet Muhammad’s cousin and son-in-law, Ali, was his rightful heir . . . But the shah’s faith seemed scarcely relevant to his gift . . . Babur pulled himself from his reverie.

The emissary was looking at him almost slyly. ‘And this is also a gift from my master.’ Beyond Sohrab, Babur could see a large bullock cart, drawn by a team of six creamy-coated oxen, its contents concealed by yellow hangings, bright as the yellow of Ferghana. Ferghana . . .

Babur walked slowly towards it, his breathing suddenly ragged. Though the air was cool, he was sweating. He knew what or rather who was in the cart – or hoped he did – but never in all his twenty-seven years had he felt as fearful as he did now. Reaching the cart, whose driver knelt respectfully before him, Babur paused. Slowly he put out a hand to touch the hangings, feeling for the opening. Then he paused and looked round at the group gathered close behind him – the Persians, his own men.

‘Step back.’ His voice was sharp. He waited till they were a good
few paces away, then took the hangings, pulled them apart and peered inside. In the far corner, against the cushions, a woman was hidden by a heavy black veil. As a shaft of sunlight fell on her, a tremor seemed to run through her. ‘Khanzada . . . ?’ Babur’s voice was a whisper.

He jumped into the cart and closed the hangings behind him. In the half-light filtering through the thin silk, he saw the woman move a little towards him. Unable to restrain himself, he reached out, took hold of the veil and pulled it from her. Khanzada’s brown eyes looked into his . . .

Fifteen minutes later, Babur climbed out again. With so many eyes upon them, even in the privacy of the cart, this was not the moment to open their hearts. Babur was not even sure he could – this had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly he could still hardly comprehend it. He summoned the emissary to his side. ‘Your master has done me a very great service,’ he said simply.

‘We have treated your sister with every honour due to her. Two attendants have been with her throughout the journey and will remain to serve her, if you so wish.’

Babur nodded. ‘You are our honoured guests. I will order tents to be pitched for you and your people near my own in the centre of the camp.’

It was hard not to be able to be alone with Khanzada at once, but courtesy to the shah demanded that Babur play host to the Persians. As soon as he had arranged living quarters for his sister and for the Persians, he ordered a pavilion to be constructed from ten hide tents and spread with sheepskins where he could hold a feast. To sophisticated Persian eyes his hospitality would no doubt seem poor and primitive, but he could compensate for the lack of fine carpets, ornate dishes and rich hangings with roasted sheep and the barrels of strong wine his men had seized during their raids.

Two hours into the feast, Babur congratulated himself. The emissary, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, was already far gone, muttering verse couplets through his black beard. Soon, his head
began to nod, his dark eyes closed and he slipped lower on his cushion.

The celebrations would go on far into the night throughout the camp. The Uzbek defeat and the death of Shaibani Khan were welcome news to all. Hatred of the Uzbeks had united even those who would otherwise be enemies but Babur was free at last. Waving away the guards who automatically formed up behind him, he ran through the camp, sidestepping drunken, singing men and ignoring their roars of invitation to join him at their fires.

Khanzada’s tent had been erected in a secluded area of the camp and she was sitting cross-legged, alone, at a low table, writing by the light of oil lamps. As soon as she saw him she rose. In the flickering light she was still the young woman he remembered from nine years ago, but as he came closer he saw lines on her face he didn’t recall and a white scar running from the right corner of her mouth towards the tip of her right ear he’d not noticed earlier.

‘I was writing to our mother . . . the first letter I’ve been able to send her for so many years. Come and sit by me . . .’

‘Khanzada . . .’ He was bursting with the need to tell her how sorry he was . . . how bitterly he felt all those years when she’d been a helpless prisoner, how guilty that he had been powerless to do anything . . . but somehow now he had the opportunity the words wouldn’t come. Only when she reached out and gently stroked his face did his tongue free itself. ‘I should have protected you better. I was young and arrogant . . . I should have used my head . . . I should never have let him take you . . .’