Swords From the East (61 page)

Babar himself is a more familiar figure, closely resembling Henry of Navarre. He had the same high courage and grim humor, and his achievements were greater. His autobiography, written early in the sixteenth century, gives us word for word the adventures of one of the most famous-and certainly the most likable-warrior kings of Asia. It has been said of Babar that he lacked the stately and suspicion-fired artificiality of Asia's monarchs. He told the very human truth about himself and all that happened to him.

And the real story that appeals to us today is that of Babar the man, his gay equanimity in misfortune, his love of danger-and no soldier of fortune faced death in as many forms as this Tiger of India.

He was not called the Tiger at first. His given name was Zahir ed-din; but when his Moghul uncles came out of the desert to view him in his cradle, they were unable to pronounce his Turki name, and dubbed him Babar, the Tiger. After a while everyone called him that.

He was a great-grandson of Timur-i-lang`
and a descendant of that other scourge of Asia, Genghis Khan. The name Moghul is merely a European corruption of Mongol. The Tiger had all the restless energy of the nomad Mongol, and the fire and courage of the Chatagai Turk of the mountains of Central Asia-not at all the same thing as the Osmanli Turk of Constantinople.

He lived at first under the eaves of the world-just under the roof of the world. A very breeding place of mountains, where the Thian Shan, the Celestial Mountains of China, and the Hindu Kush and the Mustagh ranges of Tibet show their snow peaks on the skyline. Two hundred miles to the east lay a gray inlet of the Gobi Desert; to the west, the fertile valleys and great cities of Turkestan; to the north, the wide Mongol steppes. He was a prince of Tartary, one of the scions of Tamerlane, but this mountain kingdom of Ferghana was all the country his father had been able to hold together by the sword.

Now all Asia was at that time ruled by despots. There was no law of succession, except the rule of the reigning monarch. When a ruler died the throne was seized by whoever could take it. There was truth in the proverb, "Only a hand fit to hold a sword may grasp a scepter." The heir selected by the late monarch almost always had to fight for his claim.

Nor was there, as in Europe, a landed nobility. "Spoils to the victor!" Land, mountain castles, valley cities-all were prizes to be fought for. And Central Asia, then as now, was a very furnace of feuds.

Into this cockpit the boy king was plunged-his first act, to leap into the saddle and ride for the castle of his native city. Many of his father's nobles rallied to him. They were hard-riding, hard-fighting men, experts with the sword and bow. Every noble had a following of men-at-arms, gentlemen of good blood and sporting instincts.

In that age and place every mountain man bore weapons and used them. Only the townspeople in the valleys were peaceable folk-comparatively. And these Moghul gentlemen of fortune were cultured chaps, by sixteenthcentury standards. They could quote the poems of Sadi and Hafiz, and any amount of the Koran. They knew the constellations and the omens of the stars; they liked to loaf in the courtyards and well gardens of the great observatories and mosques that Tamerlane had left them.

After a night devoted to horse-stealing they might be found sitting in the sun against a wall on a splendid carpet, listening to the exhortations of some kwajah, or learned man. They slept under tents in the snow of the heights, or plundered palaces in the Mother of Cities-tall and stoutlimbed men, bearded as Allah intended a man should be. They guarded their summer pastures in the uplands, or rode like fiends over the desert floor to avenge a wrong or steal a city. The time of their death, they believed, was written, and life was a joyous thing. They could enjoy the flowers of a garden after a raid. And more often than not their horses went clad in mail, a helmet instead of a turban on the head of the rider.

Babar himself disliked heavy armor and was usually to be found in the thick of a fight without any protection except a light steel cap. The Moghuls had a few cumbersome firelocks that were used with crossbows in siege work; the mace and spear were often carried by the warriors; but the powerful Turkish bow and the tempered scimitar were the favorite weapons. Nearly always the fighting was from the saddle.

And the wars were not like the wars of Europe in 15oo. Europe itself was no more than a name to these Moghul gentlemen-Vasco de Gama was still on the high seas seeking India. Standing armies were unknown. A prince or chieftain assembled his nobles and followers, and as many more as he could persuade to join him-mounted his horse and raced fifty miles or so to surprise an enemy in camp or mountain eyrie. The dash ended in a flashing of curved blades and a flurry of arrows-a thudding of hoofs and the affair was lost or won.

If a castle held out against the first surprise, a siege rarely followed-you cannot batter down the walls of a tower on a precipice without artillery. The vanquished fled, each man for himself, and thought it no disgrace. A day or a year or a generation later, they would manage to get back their own. A prince unfortunate enough to be taken captive could anticipate that his skull would be made into a drinking cup, or his eyes would feel the fire pencil. Yesterday or today, the quality of mercy is little esteemed in the hills of Central Asia.

As in all Asia, a monarch's worst enemies were most often his own rel atives. "Kingship knows no kinship," it was said, and this was so. Babar in this respect was utterly different from the rulers of his century, in that he was perfectly willing to risk his own life for sheer delight in conflict, and he was always merciful to his own blood relations-a circumstance that moved his officers and men to vigorous protest more than once.

When he became king of Ferghana, at eleven years, his uncles and cousins promptly came forward to take what they could grasp of his little country.

His younger brother Jahangir was a weakling, a tool of his enemies. Unwarlike and intriguing, Jahangir played John to Babar's Richard Coeur de Lion.

His two nearest uncles were the Moghuls of the north, Mahmud Khan and Ahmed Khan, the Slayer. Babar speaks of them as the big and little khan-true Mongols of the steppes, kindly and hospitable, but avaricious. They intended the boy no personal harm, but it never entered their heads that he could hold his own against the veteran chieftains of Central Asai, and it seemed good to them to take the fertile valleys of Ferghana before others did.

Other uncles and cousins held the great central city of Samarkand-the rightful seat of the scions of Tamerlane, and the ancient cities of Heart, Merv, and Balk, in Khorassan to the far southwest. In these cities were the valley people, the Persians (Tajiks, Sarts~, and Arab merchants-the craftsmen and the mullahs, the beggars and learned men. Caravans from India and far Cathay plodded toward these cities-the heart of Muhammadan Asia. The rulers were the dominant Moghul families, the military caste, sons of Tamerlane.

Of all the Moghuls, Babar had the best claim to Samarkand, the Rome of Central Asia-Samarkand, the golden, with its towering walls ten thousand paces in circuit, its imperial Blue Palace, and mysterious Echoing Mosque, its pomegranate and apple gardens, its pleasant canals and screened pleasure kiosks where the sons of ancient kings had reveled. In Samarkand, founded by Alexander, and given grandeur by Tamerlane, was the observatory of Ulugh Beg. It was a kind of earthly paradise.

And the youthful tiger set his heart on becoming king of Samarkand.

So the boy wandered in the hills with his band of followers who served him for his father's sake and tried to keep from him his birthright. He never gave up hope. He learned to use his weapons in battle-he became one of the finest swordsmen of his day-and the kwajahs schooled him in science and literature when the little band halted in some hospitable but poverty-ridden hill village to rest the horses. He grew to be exceptionally handsome-a straight-standing, fearless youth, reverent and more than generous, ready to fly a falcon or dispute the merits of a song with his officers, or to ride a hundred miles in a day to storm a tempting castle.

But here is his story in his own words.

Chapter I

The King Dies

In the month of Ramazan, in the year of 1494 and in the twelfth year of my age, I became King of Ferghana.

The country of Ferghana is a small one, on the extreme edge of the habitable world. It lies within the mountains, and on the other side of these mountains is Cathay.

Ferghana abounds in fruits and grains and is surrounded on all sides by hills except on the west, toward the valley and city of Samarkand.

Omar Sheikh Mirza, my father, had a rightful claim to the great city of Samarkand, and had several times led an army against it, only to be defeated and driven back, desponding.

My father was of shortish build, with a bushy beard, and very fat. He used to wear his tunic extremely tight, so that he was wont to contract his belly when he tied the strings; when he let himself out again the strings often burst. He was a middling good shot with the bow and had uncommon strength in his fists. He never hit a man without knocking him down.

He was a pleasant companion, and played a good deal of backgammon. Though he had a turn for poetry, he did not write, but read insatiably; his whole soul was kindly, and brave withal.

In the thirty-ninth year of his age a singular thing happened. My father was particularly fond of pigeons and used to teach them to do tricks in the air. His favorite pigeon-house was built on the edge of a steep precipice. On a day when he was within it, he fell from the cliff with his pigeons and house and took flight from this world.

When the fatal accident befell my father, I was in one of the garden palaces of Andijan.

Andijan is the stronghold of Ferghana-a pleasant city abounding in melons and grapes. Its citadel is near the outer wall, and separated from the rest of the town by a broad moat.

Only a few servants were with me when word was brought that my fa ther had passed to the mercy of God. Although I was older than my brother Jahangir Mirza by two years, my father had many enemies among the neighboring princes of our family, and I did not know how many of his nobles and officers would be faithful to me.

I immediately mounted my horse and set out to secure the citadel, taking with me such followers as were at hand. As soon as I had entered one of the town gates, an old nobleman who had served my father seized my horse's bridle and led me toward an open terrace far from the citadel.

An idea had entered this officer's head that the nobles of Andijan might decide to give up both the country and me into the hands of my enemies. So he was all for riding away toward the hills, where I could join the Khans, my Moghul uncles.

But when the officers who were in the citadel heard of my movements they sent a learned kwajah, who had served my father from infancy, to dispel my fears. He rode swiftly and overtook us at the terrace and made me turn, leading me to the citadel where I alighted and faced the Begs*
and officers, who greeted me with affection.

We talked together and decided to put the fortress with its ramparts and towers in shape to stand a siege. The next day other officers arrived to render allegiance.

Among them was Kasim Beg, one of the oldest leaders of the warriors, and Master of the Household. He was a brave man, distinguished by his use of the scimitar. His judgment was uncommonly good. Though he could neither read nor write, he had a quick and pleasant vein of wit.

Another was Kamber Ali, called the "Skinner"-a daring man. Once he had worked at the trade of skinner, but now he was a Beg. Dignity made him contrary-minded. He talked a great deal, and very idlyindeed, a great talker must often say foolish things, but Kamber Ali had a muddy brain.

A third was Ahmed Tambal, the Moghul, one of the best of the soldiers but a man of a restless mind.

All of them set to work with heart and soul to defend me in Andijan. And I gave to every Beg and officer some district or piece of land in Ferghana.

Of all my nobles I had placed greatest trust in Hassan Yakub Beg, who was frank, good-tempered, and untiring. He was a man of courage, an excellent archer, and remarkable for his skill in games of polo and leap-frog. After the death of my father he became my minister-lord of Andijan and Master of the Household.

That year there came an ambassador from the sultan of Samarkand, bringing me gifts of almonds and pistachios, of gold and silver, and openly claiming kindred to Hassan Yakub. Secretly, the officer from Samarkand exerted himself to turn Hassan Yakub from his allegiance to me.

In the next few months Hassan Yakub's manners visibly changed; he began to quarrel with those who were most faithful to me, and to stir up disaffection among the men-at-arms. His object in reality was to depose me and make my younger brother, Jahangir Mirza, king in my place.*

When Hassan Yakub's behavior was past bearing, I talked with Kasim Beg and others and decided to put an end to his treason by dismissing him. As soon as I reached this decision I went to the citadel where he had his quarters. But he had mounted and gone hunting, and when word reached him of what was taking place he posted off for Samarkand, to my enemies. The officers in his interest were taken prisoners, and I allowed most of them to go off to Samarkand.

My former Master of the Household was not quite done with me. On the road to Samarkand he turned off to make an attempt to seize Akhsi-the city where my father's tomb had been placed. My officers took to horse at once to fall on him.

They had halted the second night and sent on an advance party to keep watch, when Hassan Yakub came down in the darkness upon the outpost. He surrounded their quarters with his followers and began to send flights of arrows against the house and the garden wall.

But the darkness was almost impenetrable, and he was wounded in the hind parts by a shaft shot by one of his own men, and was unable to join them when they drew off. So he fell a sacrifice to his own misdeed-he whom I had honored and trusted.