Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (47 page)

‘How bad is the damage?’

‘Bad enough. Many houses and granaries have been destroyed, Majesty. They were not as sturdily built as the Kok Saray About a hundred are dead and nearly three hundred injured.’ Beneath his great turban of office, Baisanghar’s face was still heavily bruised though he had recovered quickly.

‘The royal treasuries will pay for the rebuilding – tell the citizens so – and distribute grain from our stores to anyone in want . . . With winter approaching, my people must not starve.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

After Baisanghar had left him, Babur sat alone in the octagonal gilded room he used as his chamber of private audience. He had been lucky. Both of his wives – Maham and Gulrukh – and his two sons, Humayun and Kamran, were unharmed. Khanzada was safe in Kabul with Kutlugh Nigar. But for this to have happened so early in his reign was a bad omen. The people were already blaming the catastrophe on the presence of the Persians. The insistent, repetitive cry of the muezzin calling all to midday prayer interrupted his bleak thoughts. It was Friday and he would go to the Great Mosque to pray in public. It would please the people and he himself might find some spiritual balm, something to quell his restlessness and unease.

Twenty minutes later, regally dressed in a green brocade tunic with a tasselled dark green woollen sash, a fur-lined cloak, an enamelled gold chain around his neck, yellow deerskin boots on his feet and Alamgir hanging at his side, Babur rode out from the Kok Saray towards the soaring recessed arch, the
iwan
, that led into Timur’s mosque. His guards had to use their spears to clear a path through the thronging streets but, unlike the usual babble of people hurrying to Friday prayers, the crowds today seemed sullenly silent.

On reaching the paved courtyard outside the mosque, Babur dismounted amid drifts of golden leaves that had fallen from the
trees and, followed by his guards, entered. The mullah – the old man who had come to beseech him about the Persians – was in his carved marble pulpit to one side of the
mihrab
, preaching. Babur knelt in the space allotted to the king at the very centre of the mosque and bent forward to touch his forehead to the floor. The mullah was speaking of the transitoriness of human life and offering consolation to those who had suffered in the earthquake. Babur, conscious of hundreds of eyes upon him, listened attentively.

Suddenly the mullah fell silent. Looking up in surprise, Babur saw that he was gazing towards the entrance. Turning he saw what the mullah had seen – the tall, stout, extravagantly bearded figure of the shah’s priest, Mullah Husayn. He was wearing the pointed red cap and sweeping red robes of the Shiite. His escort of six Persian cavalrymen were also in the unmistakable insignia of the
Kizil-Bashi
. The elderly mullah in the pulpit watched as the Persian advanced towards him, ignoring the hisses rising from all around.

Husayn looked directly at Babur. ‘As a guest in your city, may I have Your Majesty’s permission to deliver a sermon on this the day of prayer for all believers, Shiite and Sunni.’

Concealing his anger at what could only be a deliberate act of provocation and was certainly a breach of etiquette, Babur gave a curt nod and gestured to the old mullah to step down.

Husayn took his place. ‘I am grateful for the king’s permission to speak. May God’s manifold blessings be upon him. Several months ago, with the help of the Lord of the World, the mighty Shah Ismail of Persia, you were delivered from a great evil. Your enemies, the Uzbeks, were forced to flee and you have your king again. The shah is pleased that this is so. He is also pleased that His Majesty King Babur has acknowledged him as his overlord . . . The shah welcomes your king as his brother. But, of course, brothers should be of the same faith. The shah has asked me to receive your king as a faithful Shiite so that he may, in turn, bring all his subjects to share the light . . .’

There was a collective gasp . . .

‘No!’ Babur was on his feet. ‘I gave the shah my allegiance but
my religion is my own. I will never convert or allow the forcible conversion of my people. For centuries they have been ruled by the House of Timur. They cannot be coerced. Neither can I. Tell that to your master . . .’

Husayn’s dark eyes flashed and his hands clutched the edge of the pulpit. Clearly, he was unaccustomed to being gainsaid, even by kings. ‘My master has been generous. Do not forget that you owe him more than a kingdom.’

Babur chose his next words with care. ‘I am indebted to the shah for many things. I also know he is an honourable man who would never impose impossible conditions on a loyal friend. Clearly there has been a misunderstanding. I will send messengers immediately to Persia to resolve it. I suggest that you return there too. Your master will be missing your spiritual guidance and is doubtless anxious for your presence.’

Husayn was shaking his big, bearded head from side to side. Enough, Babur thought. Signalling to his guards he walked from the mosque. Until that moment the worshippers had been passively watching and listening, but now he could hear murmuring behind him – like an approaching swarm of hornets it was growing louder and louder. As he walked across the courtyard and mounted his horse, people spilled out of the mosque, some shouting angrily against the shah and his mullah, others, Babur realised, shouting insults against himself.

The worshippers were quickly joined by others, drawn from their houses by the disturbance and eager to know what was going on. Despite the best efforts of his guards – and despite the royal green banner of Samarkand held high by Babur’s
qorchi
to command respect – as he and his men turned down the avenue that led back to the Kok Saray they were soon buffeted by the press of people making for the mosque.

This was becoming a riot. The Persians in the mosque must be protected or the shah would have every excuse to wage war against Samarkand. ‘Ride to the Kok Saray for reinforcements. Hurry!’ Babur ordered two of his men. Then, calling to the rest to follow, his hand on his sword hilt, he turned his horse back through the
heaving mass towards the mosque. Halting before it, he addressed the angry crowds.

‘You have my word on the Holy Book that not a single man, woman or child will be forced to convert!’ he shouted. But no one was listening. Instead an angry roar went up. Over his shoulder, Babur saw Mullah Husayn emerging from the shadows beneath the entrance to the mosque, the Persian soldiers close behind him, swords drawn. A rotten melon flew through the air towards Husayn, who made no attempt to dodge it. It fell at his feet, spattering his robes with soft orange flesh and pips. It was followed by what looked like a fistful of dung. Then a piece of stone whirled past the mullah’s left ear to hit the tiled wall of the mosque, chipping off a shard of the delicate blue glaze.

Emboldened, people began picking up whatever missiles they could find and surged forward, yelling obscenities. Their faces were ugly with hatred, lips drawn back, eyes bulging. Drawing his sword, Babur gestured to his men to form a barrier between the mob and the Persians. Then, urging his horse a few paces forward, he made a last desperate attempt to speak to his people, but it was no use. Determined to get at the Persians, they surged past him. A huge man in an orange turban grabbed the bridle of his horse. Whether he meant to push him out of the way or to attack him wasn’t clear but Babur reacted instinctively and, drawing his dagger, slashed at the man’s arm. Roaring with pain, he let go and stumbled forward. Babur’s frightened horse reared and one of its hoofs kicked the man hard in the face. He fell like a stone.

Others were now yanking at his bridle, trying to bring down his horse. Did they even know who they were attacking? Babur slashed around him, trying to force a way through to rejoin his guards, but his assailants were determined. One was clutching what looked like a butcher’s knife. Instead of trying to stab Babur, he plunged it into the throat of his horse. The beast gave a great shuddering sigh and slipped to the ground, front legs crumpling.

Tugging his feet from the stirrups Babur leaped sideways. He heard voices shouting, ‘Traitor!’ and ‘Heretic!’ then felt hands grabbing at him as he managed to wriggle away through the mass of legs
until at last it seemed to be thinning. With the mob between him and his men, all he could do was get himself back to the Kok Saray. Taking a deep breath, Babur jumped to his feet and ran for it, head down, weapons in both hands.

Turning a corner, he found himself in a small square, empty and strangely silent after the mayhem he had just escaped and could still hear behind him. On two sides the houses had been badly damaged in the earthquake: their metal-bound doors hung crazily from twisted hinges and there were jagged cracks in their brickwork, a few big enough for a man to squeeze through. Their owners must have abandoned them, and others, whose houses still stood, had gone too.

In one corner, beneath the eaves of an old house that had been almost completely destroyed – each storey had collapsed neatly upon the one below – there was a well. Babur ran to it, dipped in the leather bucket and drank the brackish water. Wiping his mouth, he looked around, assessing what to do with the same deadly sense of purpose as on a raid or on the battlefield. Strange to think how he’d been hungering for action but he’d never expected his wish to be granted so soon or in this way.

He must get away. At any moment the shouting, baying mob – just a street or two away – would find him. A narrow alleyway led off the square to his right. He started towards it, only to discover that it was blocked with rubble from the earthquake.

‘There he is – the bastard who would make heretics of us.’ Stepping back against the wall of the alleyway, and glancing back into the square, Babur saw some nine or ten men, clothes torn, faces blood-smeared, with crude wooden implements in their hands. They’d obviously been running hard and their expressions were both crazed and exultant. Babur had seen that look many times before, on the faces of warriors who had just killed. These artisans or shopkeepers – whatever they were – had tasted blood and liked it.

But they weren’t looking towards him – in fact, they hadn’t noticed him. They were staring at something high up and out of Babur’s sight. Cautiously, he edged back towards the square. Then
he saw what had caught their attention. The ‘bastard’ they were after was Mullah Husayn, who was peering down from the upper storey of a tall house on one side of the square that was still intact. He’d lost his red cap and his face above the thick dark beard was pale, but as he surveyed his pursuers his eyes burned.

‘All Sunnis are heretics,’ he bawled. ‘Not one of you will reach Paradise. Your souls will be consigned to the dungheap. Kill me if you dare. Make a martyr of me, and tonight I will dine in Paradise with my Shiite brothers . . .’

The men needed no encouragement and ran towards the wooden doors of the house, which someone – probably Husayn himself – had barred. They began to look for something to batter down the door. Much as Babur hated the mullah, he could not allow him to be murdered. Glancing up, he saw that the houses on the two sides of the square left standing were interconnected by wooden rooftop walkways, a device introduced in Timur’s day to allow the ladies of the city to take the air and visit one another unseen.

Keeping close to what remained of the walls and trying not to stumble over the debris, Babur made for a plane tree growing about thirty yards to the right of the house where Husayn was still raving, thereby providing a useful distraction from his own activities. The tree’s spreading branches would give him the leg-up he needed, and though it had shed most of its papery red-gold leaves, enough remained to camouflage him as he climbed. Grunting, Babur leaped into the tree and was soon on the flat roof of the house next to the one where the mullah was still holding forth.

Keeping low and praying it would take his weight, he crossed the swaying wooden slats of the little bridge connecting the two houses. Then, treading softly so that he did not alert Husayn, he raised the wooden trapdoor he found and climbed cautiously down the narrow flight of stairs into a small, white-painted attic. In one corner another broader staircase led down to where Husayn must be. Drawing his dagger, Babur crept catlike towards it and slowly descended. After a few steps he peered down. The mullah was standing at the window, declaiming angrily. Babur stepped forward and pressed the tip of his blade into the small of the man’s back.

‘Don’t do anything to show them I’m here,’ he hissed. ‘Just step back from the window. Come on – now!’ He would have liked to drive his dagger into the arrogant fool or throw him to the crowd below – he deserved it. But for the sake of Samarkand that mustn’t happen.

Somewhat to Babur’s surprise, Husayn obeyed.

‘Turn round.’

As the mullah did so and saw who it was, relief flickered briefly in his eyes. Perhaps he was not as intent on martyrdom and his dinner in Paradise as he had said. Almost at once, a mighty thump, followed by a raucous cheer and shouts of encouragement, showed that the crowd were close to breaking down the door.

‘Up the stairs to the roof – quickly.’

The mullah gathered his robes and half ran, half stumbled up them.

Tucking his dagger back into his sash, now he was sure that Husayn would give him no trouble, Babur followed. Up on the roof, he closed the trapdoor, then tried to decide which way to go. They’d be caught if they climbed down the tree and he wasn’t sure the mullah would make it anyway.

Babur ran across the roof to the opposite side and peered down. Below, a wide street was lined with what looked like workshops – the street of the armourers. As it was Friday, they were shuttered and no one was about. The distance to the paved ground was about twenty-five feet and the mud-brick walls offered little purchase. But another crash from below told him he had little time to ponder. The entrance door wouldn’t hold for much longer. He made his decision. ‘Take off your sash – quickly.’

Blinking, the mullah obeyed, unravelling from his waist a length of thick, heavily embroidered red silk at least nine feet long. Pulling out his dagger and sticking it into his boot, Babur unwound his own sash, a more modest seven feet of thick, strong wool. They’d still have to jump but it was the best he could think of . . . He tied the two sashes together, secured the woollen end – the strongest he guessed – to a metal pulley projecting from the roof that was used to haul grain and other supplies up there for storage. Then he threw the other end over the side.