Raiders from the North

Chapter 11

The first frosts had made the delicate outlines of Samarkand’s egg-shaped domes, slender minarets and tiled gateways look as if they had been covered with silver leaf. Now, as bitter winds howled through the leafless orchards and the snow tumbled in earnest, the city seemed to Babur like a bride beneath her veils — her grace shrouded from the eyes of men but not entirely concealed.

His favourite chestnut horse was snorting clouds of misty breath and lifting its hoofs high out of the soft snow. Wolfskin cap on his head, fur-lined robes wrapped tightly round him, and feet in sheepskin boots, Babur was returning from his inspection around the exterior of the city walls. His bodyguards were close behind him. Wazir Khan, ill these past two weeks with a fever, was, for once, not with him, but Baburi was, his face protected from the scouring cold by a swathe of brilliant green cloth.

It was too cold to talk, even if they could have heard each other’s words through the wind and the scarves that muffled their heads. Babur’s lips were so numb he would have struggled to utter a word but as they rode towards the Turquoise Gate, hung with icicles, he forgot how chilled he was. The exhilaration of success pumped an inner warmth through him, like a draught of strong spirit.

Yet as he and his men trotted in through the gateway and headed westward towards the citadel, he felt the stirrings of an anxiety that had seldom left him during the three months since he’d taken Samarkand. For the present, winter’s frozen grip offered protection against attack, but what would happen when the snows melted? Although Shaibani Khan had not immediately laid siege to the city, preferring to return to his northern fortresses to overwinter, he would surely not just accept the loss of Samarkand, and Babur had known from the outset that, given his limited resources, it might be harder to hold the city against Shaibani Khan than to take it from him. Immediately after its capture, he had set his men to strengthen the fortifications by building extra watch-towers and raising the wall itself in places until the frost had virtually ended their work.

Riding into the courtyard of the Kok Saray, Babur wondered whether to go and see his grandmother, mother and sister in the luxurious apartments they’d occupied since arriving in Samarkand soon after his victory. Instead he decided to visit Wazir Khan. He must be improving by now. . Jumping down from his horse and slapping his hands against his sides to warm himself, he strode to the low, stone-built house where Wazir Khan lodged. He missed him and was impatient for his recovery.

Stamping the snow from his boots and pulling off his cap — the long hairs of the wolfskin spiky with ice — Babur went inside. On ducking through the low doorway into Wazir Khan’s chamber, he saw his old friend lying on his back in his bed, an arm flung across his face as if asleep. Coming nearer, he was shocked by how violently Wazir Khan was shaking despite the goatskin coverlets the hakim had piled on him and the fire in the hearth. Yesterday he had been shivering only a little.

‘How is he?’

The hakim was stirring some concoction in a copper pot over the fire. ‘He is worse, Majesty. I am brewing an elixir of wine, herbs and cinnamon to try to drive the fever from him.’ The man’s tone was sombre, his face preoccupied — very different from his respectful jollity at their previous meetings.

A knot tightened in Babur’s stomach as, for the first time, he considered the possibility that Wazir Khan might die. ‘You must save him.’

‘I will try, Majesty, but decisions about life and death are for God alone. All I know is that if he does not improve soon, he will be beyond any powers I have. .’ The hakim turned back to his pot and began stirring vigorously again.

Babur went to Wazir Khan and gently moved his arm from his face, which was covered with a film of sweat. Wazir Khan stirred and, for a moment, his one eye opened. ‘Majesty. .’ His usually strong, deep voice was a thin, painful croak.

‘Don’t try to speak. You must save your strength.’ Carefully, Babur took hold of Wazir Khan’s shoulders, trying to still the shaking, willing some of his own strength to flow into his sick friend. Through the thick fabric of his robe, he could feel the hectic heat of Wazir Khan’s body.

The hakim approached with a clay cup.

‘Let me.’ Babur took the cup and raising Wazir Khan’s head with one hand, held it to his lips with the other. Wazir Khan tried to drink, but the warm red liquid ran down his stubbly chin. Cursing his own clumsiness, Babur tried again, recalling how, in the dank cave, Wazir Khan had once nursed him through a fever, painstakingly and devotedly trickling drops of water down a strip of cloth into his dry mouth. He raised Wazir Khan’s head higher — that was better. Wazir Khan managed to swallow a little of the hakim’s brew, then a little more. When he had finished, Babur laid his head back on the pillow.

‘I will send word if there is any change in his condition, Majesty.’

‘I will stay.’ Wazir Khan had no one closer to watch over him. It was many years since the smallpox had taken his wife and son, and nearly a decade since his daughter had died in childbirth. Babur gathered up a couple of brocade bolsters, shoved them against the wall next to Wazir Khan’s bed and flung himself down on them. If these were to be Wazir Khan’s last hours on earth, he would be with him.

As night drew on, Babur watched, and sometimes helped, as the hakim hovered around the bed, checking Wazir Khan’s pulse, rolling back an eyelid to peer into his eye and placing a hand on his forehead to gauge his temperature. Sometimes Wazir Khan lay quietly, though still shaking and shuddering. At other times, he would shout out. Most of his words were incomprehensible but Babur caught something among the ramblings. .

‘Doves. . doves with ruby-red blood on their feathers. . See how they fall, Majesty. .’

He must be re-living that day on the battlements of Akhsi when Babur’s father and his dovecote had tumbled to oblivion. After all this time Babur could still feel Wazir Khan’s iron-strong hands dragging him back from the edge of the ravine where his father’s broken body had lain. . He owed so much to Wazir Khan, who had been as a father to him since that time, yet there was nothing he could do to save him.

As Wazir Khan fell silent again, Babur shut his eyes. How would he manage without him?

‘Majesty. . Majesty. . Wake up!’

Babur sat up with a start. The room was in almost total darkness except for a flicker of light from an oil lamp the hakim was holding high in his right hand.

Blinking, Babur stumbled to his feet. He didn’t want to look at the bed because of what he might see. Instead he fixed his eyes on the hakim’s face. ‘What is it?’

‘God has spoken, Majesty.’ The doctor moved over to the bed and allowed the small halo of light from his lamp to fall on Wazir Khan.

He was sitting up against the pillows. He was no longer shivering, his one eye was bright and clear and there was a half-smile on his wasted face. The fever had gone. For a moment Babur couldn’t take in what he was seeing, but then he rushed to the bed and threw his arms round Wazir Khan in a gesture of overwhelming relief and affection.

‘Majesty, please, my patient is weak. .’ the hakim protested but Babur barely heard him, conscious only of the profoundest gratitude. Wazir Khan had been spared. .

Leaving him to rest, Babur went outside. The cold air stung his bare face but he didn’t care. Released from the sickroom, worries over, he felt his own youth and strength surge up inside him and, with it, the need for young, carefree company. Though dawn was still only a pale sliver on the eastern horizon, he asked for Baburi.

A few minutes later he appeared, bleary-eyed and fastening his sheepskin jerkin. Babur could see his warm breath rising in white spirals as he looked around him, clearly puzzled to have been summoned so early. ‘Come on — we’re going for a ride,’ Babur called to him.

‘What?. .’

‘You heard me — get a move on. .’

Ten minutes later, they were galloping out of the Turquoise Gate, the hoofprints of their horses pockmarking the fresh snow as sunlight began to warm the landscape. It was good to be young and alive, whatever was to come.

At first it was hard to be certain. At this time of the year, the pale, almost colourless light played tricks on men’s eyes. Babur stared hard towards Qolba Hill. As he watched, he thought he saw more of them — yes: he was right — the distant black shapes of horsemen.

Wazir Khan was also gazing fixedly at the hill.

‘Uzbeks. .?’

‘I fear so, Majesty. Probably scouts.’

Babur turned away. Over the past three weeks rumours — at first vague and insubstantial, then more detailed — had begun reaching Samarkand. The two facts on which all seemed agreed were that Shaibani Khan was in Bokhara, to the west of Samarkand, recruiting mercenaries, and that he was summoning those Uzbek fighters who had wintered with their clans and promising them a rich prize.

On Babur’s orders the armourers of Samarkand, who had laboured hard through the winter, had redoubled their efforts and were working night and day, the sound of clashing metal filling the air as they forged sharp-edged blades and spears in their furnaces and tempered them on their anvils. He would have enough weapons and he had done what he could to improve the fortifications, but what about men?

He frowned. At the last count he had seven thousand, including the Mangligh crossbowmen who had remained in the city through the winter. Since he had learned that the Uzbeks might be on the move, he had despatched messengers to other chieftains in the region — even to Jahangir and Tambal in Akhsi whose troops had returned after Babur had taken Samarkand — asking their help against the common enemy. So far none had answered.

‘I’m not surprised the Uzbeks are coming, Wazir Khan. I knew it was only a matter of time. While you were ill, Baburi and I sometimes talked about it. .’

‘And what did the market boy say?’

The unaccustomed sharpness in Wazir Khan’s tone startled Babur. ‘Market boy he may have been, but he still talks sense. . and he knows Samarkand and its people. .’

‘He should remember who he is and you should remember who you are, Majesty. . You are the king. . It doesn’t look good to be seen to consult an upstart like him rather than older, wiser and better-born men. . I’m only saying what your father would, if God had spared him. .’

Babur glared at Wazir Khan. Perhaps his grandmother had been getting at him — Esan Dawlat never hid her contempt for Baburi or her disapproval of Babur’s association with him. Then he remembered how much he owed Wazir Khan and how ill he had recently been. ‘I will never forget I am king and of Timur’s blood. I enjoy Baburi’s company. . but I ask his advice because it is sound. Like you, he doesn’t tell me what he believes I wish to hear — but says what is in his mind. That doesn’t mean I always agree with him. . I take my own decisions. .’

‘As your oldest adviser I had to say something. Baburi may be shrewd, but he’s pleased with himself and hot-tempered, too. If you’re not careful, your friendship with him will make others who feel overlooked jealous and resentful. . Sometimes, I confess, even I’ve not felt immune from this. .’

Seeing how troubled Wazir Khan looked, Babur touched his shoulder gently. ‘You are my greatest support, valued above all my other ichkis, and I know you only speak for my own good. I will be careful. . Now, summon the council. They need to know what we’ve seen on the hill. .’

As Wazir Khan walked quickly away despite his limp, Babur stared towards Qolba Hill again, but the black shapes had vanished. Was Wazir Khan right to warn him about Baburi or was it just that Wazir Khan couldn’t understand his need for company of his own age? Events had already shown him that a king’s life could be as precarious as a market boy’s. If he was going to prosper and triumph, as Timur had done, he needed help wherever he could find it. For the present, survival was what mattered and Baburi knew all about that. .

Babur hurried to his audience chamber where he saw on a low table inlaid with shimmering mother-of-pearl the plan of the regions around Samarkand he had ordered to be prepared. Half an hour later, his counsellors were clustered round him.

‘There’s no point waiting meekly within the walls. With the men we have it won’t be easy to repel Shaibani Khan’s attacks or to withstand a long siege. We’ll stand a far better chance of success if we take the fight to him in the early spring before he has had time to gather all his forces. Even though we’ll still be outnumbered, we can strike fast and hard when he least expects it. If, as I believe he will, he advances against us direct from Bokhara, his swiftest route is along this river flowing eastwards towards Samarkand.’ Babur traced the almost straight path with the tip of his gold-hilted dagger. ‘But before he reaches Samarkand, he will need to rendezvous with his other troops before moving against us in force. . This will be our moment to attack.’

His counsellors murmured agreement except for Baisanghar who was looking anxious.

‘What is it, Baisanghar. .?’

‘Shaibani Khan is not predictable. That is one of the few things we have learned about him — to our cost. I remember how his barbarians descended out of nowhere to kill your uncle and massacre our men. .’

‘That is why I am sending spies to Bokhara. I won’t be lured out of Samarkand by tricks — as we ourselves tempted Shaibani Khan. But as soon as I’ve proof that he is moving against us, I’ll lead our troops westward and surprise him. If he does advance along the river, I propose we lie in wait here.’ Babur drove the tip of his dagger into the map at a place three days’ ride from Samarkand where the river narrowed as it passed through low, stony hills.

Ten days later Babur was riding at the head of his men towards the very place he had described at the council meeting. A week ago his scouts had confirmed that Shaibani Khan’s men were indeed on the move, with great numbers of horsemen, heading for the river. Babur had ordered his armies out from Samarkand, leaving a garrison of just sufficient size to defend it if it came under surprise attack. He and his troops had kept themselves at a distance from the river while scouts had tracked the Uzbeks’ progress towards and along it. That morning they had reported that the Uzbeks had already broken camp and, if they kept up their normal pace, they would reach the narrows about midday.

Babur had given his orders to Wazir Khan, Baisanghar and Ali Gosht, his master-of-horse. Babur and the advance guard, galloping fast in spearhead formation, would slam from the flank into the centre of the Uzbek line of march and punch through, slaughtering as many Uzbeks and causing as much chaos as possible, before regrouping and attacking again from the other side. As soon as they had seen him drive through the Uzbeks, his main forces should advance swiftly under the command of Wazir Khan to attack the front of the column while another detachment under Baisanghar swept round to encircle the Uzbek rear. Ali Gosht should hold the small remainder of the troops in reserve.

Now Babur saw before him the low ridge that overlooked the river. Soon his chestnut horse was at its top and with the men of his advance guard around him he looked down on a long, wide column of Uzbek riders, kicking up clouds of dust along the riverbank, seemingly oblivious to his presence. This was his moment. He ordered the charge down the gentle incline towards his enemy, about twelve hundred yards away. Almost as soon as he had kicked his horse forward he saw, for the first time, an Uzbek riding at a little distance from the main column, perhaps as a lookout. Simultaneously the man saw him and raised a trumpet, sounding a warning to the main body before himself galloping for its protection.

On hearing the trumpet, the Uzbek column slowed and the riders turned their horses to face the threat. Some had time to grab their bows and unleash a shower of hissing arrows, and several of Babur’s advance guard crashed to the ground before they could reach the Uzbeks. The rest, led by Babur, hurtled onwards, hitting the enemy column at full gallop and slashing around them. The Uzbek lines seemed to buckle and waver and Babur thought victory was surely his.

But then they began to enfold Babur’s men rather than to scatter before them. Babur saw his young standard bearer tumble from his horse in front of him, his head pulped by one blow from a metal-studded Uzbek flail. Pulling his horse’s head hard round, Babur avoided the youth’s body and succeeded in skewering his killer with his spear but then more Uzbeks were hacking at him. Discarding his spear, Babur fought back with Alamgir. The sheer weight and numbers of the Uzbek onslaught around him was forcing him away from his bodyguard and he realised he was all but surrounded. If he were not to die he had to break through. Extending Alamgir before him in his right hand and bending low to his horse’s neck, he made for the only gap he could see in the Uzbeks around him.

Moments later, he was in open ground, gasping for breath. Blood was trickling into his right eye from a wound in his temple. An Uzbek warrior had nearly succeeded in driving a spear through his head. Only Babur’s swift, sideways dodge had prevented it and even so the sharp point had caught him. Attempting to brush away the blood and with his vision blurred, he tried to make out which way to ride to get back to his main force.

After a minute or so his vision began clearing though blood was still oozing from his wound. Hastily Babur cut a strip of cloth from his horse’s saddle blanket with his dagger and tied it round his head. Peering round, he realised that his initial attack had failed and that his terrified horse had carried him off at a tangent into a no man’s land between the Uzbeks and his own remaining forces. He was in imminent danger again. Kicking his chestnut, he galloped quickly back towards his own lines, expecting at any moment to feel the bite of an arrow or a spear. It did not come.

There was no time to discuss fresh tactics with his commanders when Babur regained his lines near where Ali Gosht was sitting on his grey horse overlooking the action, holding his force in reserve as ordered. Even as he reined in his nearly spent mount, Babur heard a great roar and a clashing of swords on shields behind him. A few seconds more and the Uzbeks would be on them. ‘I will take command here,’ Babur yelled to Ali Gosht. ‘Send riders along the lines to Wazir Khan and Baisanghar. They are to forget all previous orders. As soon as the Uzbeks are in range our archers are to fire. Then, at my command, our entire force will charge.’

Sword raised, Babur turned his sweat-streaked horse to face the Uzbeks, who had, in fact, slowed and were now advancing at a canter. In their centre, between two tall purple standards, he made out a rider who could only be Shaibani Khan. He was too far away for Babur to see his features but there was something in his arrogant bearing, his stillness, that drew the eye, just as it had when he had led the sortie out of Samarkand six months previously. As Babur watched, Shaibani Khan slowly raised his left hand as if in salutation and the war-cry of his warriors rose with it — a sound to chill the blood.

Babur’s men yelled their own defiance, but they had barely filled their lungs when, with a wave of his sword, Shaibani Khan signalled the attack and the thunder of Uzbek hoofs drowned all other sounds as they accelerated into a gallop. Around him, Babur’s men struggled to hold their horses in check with one hand while with the other they held up their shields against the volleys of arrows falling from the skies. Babur’s archers were firing back and many of their missiles were finding their mark, but the dark, fast-approaching wave of Uzbeks did not falter even when riders slipped from the saddle to be crushed beneath the hoofs of those galloping behind.

The Uzbeks were close enough now. ‘For Samarkand!’ Babur yelled, and charged, followed by his men. Seconds later, the two lines crashed into each other. The shouts and screams of men and the whinnying of horses mingled with the clash of metal. It was hard — in fact, impossible in the press and confusion of battle — to tell what was happening, but it seemed to Babur as he cut and slashed that his men were gaining ground. Energy flowed through him as he lunged at a tall, mail-clad Uzbek who, instead of trying to fight him, backed his rearing horse away. The Uzbeks easily outnumbered his forces but all round, they seemed to be giving ground, wheeling off to left and right as Babur and his men pushed determinedly forward.

But he needed to see what was happening. Spurring his horse, Babur shot through a gap that had suddenly opened ahead of him. Yelling to those men who were still by his side to follow, he made for a low, scrub-covered hillock, which — so far as he could see — was unoccupied and would be a good vantage-point. There, he looked down on the battle. A pattern began to emerge from among the wheeling, fighting riders. Suddenly everything was obvious, and Babur swore in anguish. He knew what the Uzbeks were about. It was the ancient Mongol tactic of the tulughma. He had read of it but never witnessed it till now.

As they seemed to part before the onslaught of Babur’s men, Shaibani Khan’s troops were in fact forming into two units, one on the right, one on the left. In a moment they would sweep round to cut off Babur’s right and left wings, leaving the centre of his lines isolated and unprotected. Uzbeks would then detach from the two units to encircle and smash the centre. Afterwards they would re-join their comrades to share in the destruction of Babur’s left and right wings. The men under Wazir Khan would be funnelled towards the river and trapped on its steep, sandy banks while Baisanghar’s men would be completely surrounded unless they could break out quickly.

The harsh blasts of a horn from somewhere behind Babur rose above the sounds of battle. A formation of Uzbek warriors was galloping from behind a hill some quarter of a mile away where they must have been waiting, concealed. As they came nearer, their black hide shields with silver bosses told Babur who they were: Shaibani’s crack troops, warriors of his own clan, blood of his blood. They were heading for Baisanghar’s men, no doubt intending to block off their last chance of retreat.

Suddenly Babur realised that Baisanghar wouldn’t be able to see them because of a fold in the land. But he himself was closer to Baisanghar than the riders. Swiftly he picked one of his men whose horse still looked fresh. ‘Warn Baisanghar — tell him to get his men away and retreat towards Samarkand as best he can. Do you understand?’ The youth galloped away down the hillock. Babur waited until it seemed certain his messenger would beat the swooping line of Uzbeks, then, yelling to the others to keep close, he charged towards the riverbank where Wazir Khan’s men were fighting for their lives.

Circling round to where the lines of attacking Uzbeks looked thinnest, Babur managed to hack his way through, but of the twenty or so men who had ridden with him, only a dozen made it. The situation seemed hopeless. Wazir Khan’s men were indeed being pushed right back to the river by Uzbeks, some continuously firing arrows from the saddle while others, wielding curved swords, plunged into the disorganised and heaving mass of men and horses struggling to stay upright as the sandy banks gave way under them. Babur couldn’t pick out Wazir Khan.

Suddenly, Babur felt his horse shudder beneath him. With a scream of pain, the beautiful chestnut, hit almost simultaneously in its neck and throat by two arrows and already twitching in its death throes as scarlet blood pumped from a severed artery, went crashing to the ground. Babur jumped clear, only just avoiding being pinned to the earth by the thrashing animal. As he scrambled unsteadily to his feet, he still had his sword, Alamgir, in his hand but had lost his dagger and shield. Disoriented and dodging flailing hoofs and slashing blades, he looked around for another horse.

‘Majesty.’ It was Baburi, his face blood-encrusted, eyes desperate. Leaning forward in the saddle, he pulled Babur up behind him on his grey horse.

‘ To the river!’ Babur shouted. Their only hope was to get away with as many men as possible and leave the fight for another day. Waving his sword above his head, he looked round for his other commanders, yelling to them to get their men over the river. He still couldn’t see Wazir Khan.

The river was in full spate with the meltwater from the mountain snows. It was freezing as they plunged in and the currents were strong. Baburi’s horse struggled beneath their double weight as it tried to swim. It would never make it with two of them. Thrusting Alamgir into its scabbard, Babur slid off, avoiding Baburi’s attempt to keep him aboard. But as he struck out for the opposite bank, no more than twenty yards away, the powerful current grabbed him and carried him downstream.

‘Majesty. .’ Babur recognised Wazir Khan’s voice, but with cold water flowing about his ears and threatening to suck him under, he was in no position to look round. Then he felt something thin and hard knock against him in the water. Instinctively he grabbed it. It felt like the shaft of a spear. As the current whirled him against an outcrop of sharp rocks on the far side of the river, he jammed the end of the shaft into a narrow crevice. It bowed but held. Kicking hard against the current, Babur hauled himself along it to reach the rocks and with scratched and bloodied hands heaved himself, gasping, out of the water.

Arrows were falling all around him. Across the river, Uzbek archers lined the banks, jeering at their retreating opponents, some even finding time between shots to gesture obscenely. As he dodged behind a rock for cover, Babur saw Wazir Khan. He was still in the water. His black horse had been hit in the flanks and rump by several arrows and its eyes were rolling in terror and pain. Wazir Khan was urging it on but was still only halfway across. Had he tossed Babur the spear that had saved him? Forgetting his own danger, Babur rose from behind his rock and yelled Wazir Khan’s name. The old soldier looked up.

Then Babur saw an archer on the far bank take deliberate aim and draw back his bow-string. The black-feathered arrow swooped through the air like a hawk on its prey. For some reason, Wazir Khan turned and, as he did so, the arrow embedded itself in his exposed throat with such force that the tip came through the back of his neck. Slowly, he slid sideways from his horse into the roaring, swift-flowing waters. Babur’s desperate, despairing shouts pursued him as the blood-flecked river bore his body away.

Babur felt as dazed as he had on the day when he had seen his father fall from the walls of Akhsi. He sank to the ground and closed his eyes.

‘Majesty, we must get away. .’ It was Baburi’s voice. When Babur didn’t respond, Baburi shook him, then yanked him roughly to his feet. ‘Come on. . don’t be an idiot. .’

‘Wazir Khan. . I must send a search-party downstream. . He may be washed up alive.’

‘He is dead. . Let the dead care for themselves. You can’t do anything for him except save yourself. . That’s what he would have wanted. You know that. . Come on. .’

‘The granaries are almost empty, Majesty.’ Babur’s vizier, Kasim, meticulous as ever, was consulting the red leatherbound book in which, since the siege had begun, he had recorded the state of Samarkand’s provisions.

‘How many days’ supplies are left?’

‘Five days’ worth. A week at most.’

There was no point cutting the ration again. Even now it was only three cups of grain for soldiers, two for male civilians and one for each woman and child. The people were already devouring anything they could find, from crows they shot with catapults to the carcasses of asses and dogs that had died of hunger or been killed for their meat. In the royal stables, all pack animals had long since been slaughtered for meat for the garrison. His men were already feeding their precious riding mounts on leaves from the trees and sawdust soaked in water, and their condition was growing daily more wretched. Soon they would have to start killing them. Once the horses were gone, they would not even be able to send out raiding parties to run the Uzbek blockade around the city walls and forage for provisions.

Every day for the past three months Babur had wondered whether Shaibani Khan would attack. But why should he? He must know it was only a matter of time before Babur would be forced to surrender. And he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the city’s suffering, feasting his men before the walls and burning food pillaged from the surrounding villages before the besiegeds’ eyes as if to say, ‘I have so much I can waste it — you, however, have nothing.’

Worse, three weeks ago he had captured six deserters from Babur’s forces who had slipped over the city walls and had ordered them to be boiled alive in oil in great copper cauldrons set up in full view of the city walls. At least their shrieks had put paid to any further desertions.

Babur dismissed Kasim, descended to the courtyard and called for a horse and escort. The loss of Wazir Khan still hurt — he missed him not only as a loyal friend but as a wise counsellor, especially in these bleak times. But Baburi, as usual these days, was among those riding with him, his high cheekbones even more pronounced through hunger. He was a good gauge of what was going on and prepared to speak frankly.

How different Samarkand seemed compared with those days of celebration when Babur, hung with emeralds, had sat on the dais beneath silken awnings, to be hailed in the Registan Square. Even Samarkand’s fabulously tiled and sparkling buildings seemed diminished.

The thoroughfare Babur was riding along was deep with stinking refuse that no one had the energy to move unless to sift through it in the hope of finding something to eat. Baburi had reported that some desperate citizens were even sieving dung, searching for seeds to cook. Others were boiling any leaves or grasses they could find. Wherever he looked, Babur saw pinched faces and dull, sunken eyes. Where once people had cheered him, now they turned away.

‘Baburi, what’s in their minds?’

‘Little but how to appease their hunger, but those few times they do think of anything else, it is to fear what Shaibani Khan will do if he takes the city which they think is near. The Uzbeks killed and raped and destroyed last time when they had no cause. This time Shaibani Khan will recall how the citizens welcomed you, how they fell on his men, and he will want revenge.’

‘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.

Babur walked towards the bullock cart, two hundred yards away, where his unsuspecting sister was sitting with their mother and grandmother. He hesitated, then pulled back the leather curtains that concealed them. They looked up at him with alarm. Then, as they heard what he had to say, they cried out in disbelief. Tears welling in his eyes, he turned away, but Khanzada’s pleas not to abandon her to the desires of a wild Uzbek and the cries of Kutlugh Nigar to spare her daughter followed him. ‘I will come for you, Khanzada. I promise you. . I will come. .’ Babur shouted.

But Khanzada was past hearing.