Raiders from the North

Chapter 19

This glorious, mellow, sunlit day in the autumn of 1511 deserved a special mention in his diary, Babur thought, as he rode at the head of his army towards the Turquoise Gate where banners of bright green — not Uzbek black — again bellied in the breeze. Last time he’d entered Samarkand as its king more than a decade ago he’d been just a youth. Now he was twenty-nine, toughened and tempered by all that had happened to him since.

The city had fallen without a struggle. Babur and his army of twenty thousand, swelled by the Persian cavalry, had been too much for the occupying Uzbeks. They had fled, preferring to take refuge in their stronghold of Karshi in the northern mountains than fight a far superior force. On learning of their flight Babur had taken Shaibani Khan’s skull, filled it with blood red wine and drunk deeply, before passing it round to his commanders.

My time has come, he thought exultantly, as he passed beneath the glinting gateway to the deep, echoing boom of kettle-drums. Tonight, he and Maham — travelling with the other women of the royal household in mule carts with trappings of gold and green — would make love. According to his astronomers, the planets were in perfect conjunction for the conception of a son. He would have a further heir and Maham would cease to weep because she had borne him no more children since Humayun.

As he emerged from the purple shadows beneath the gate into the city, the excited, approving cheers of his people — a human rainbow in their brightest robes — burst over him, joyously shouting his name and Timur’s, as if his great ancestor were there by his side. As he rode up the broad avenue leading to the citadel and the Kok Saray he saw that the shopkeepers had draped their stalls with brilliant brocades and the ruby-red velvet for which Samarkand was celebrated. From rooftops and windows, women threw handfuls of dried rose petals that fluttered in the air like pink snowflakes.

But abruptly the happy shouting faltered. A hoarse, angry voice rose above the crowd: ‘Kizil-Bashi! Kizil-Bashi!’ Redheads! Redheads! Glancing back Babur realised that the people were looking at the Persian cavalry as they came through the Turquoise Gate. The cry was now taken up by hundreds of voices. People were pointing and jeering at the Persians with their conical red caps and the long strip of scarlet cloth hanging down behind that showed they were not Sunni Muslims, like the people of Samarkand and Babur, but Shiites, like their master, the shah.

No matter, Babur told himself, staring resolutely ahead. He’d soon be rid of the Persians and his subjects would realise they had had nothing to fear from them or their differing version of Muslim faith. Yet he couldn’t banish the jeers and catcalls from his mind.

This new sombre mood was still on him when, three hours later, he stood alone in his public audience chamber in the Kok Saray, contemplating the gleaming cobalt blue, turquoise, yellow and white geometrically patterned tiles on its walls and domed ceiling that had so astonished him the first time he’d seen them. He’d anticipated this moment for so long, yet the glory of his return felt diminished, tarnished.

The magnificence around him seemed to fade, to be replaced by Baburi’s face. Baburi should have been here, observing him with that quiet irony in his indigo eyes. But what would he have said at this moment? That he’d been right all along, that Babur was not his own master, just another ruler’s toy? As he looked into the future he had assumed would be so glorious, Babur felt truly alone. .

‘Majesty, they are waiting for you.’ The lines on Baisanghar’s grave face were deep. He was no longer the vigorous warrior who had ridden all those years ago to Ferghana to bring him Timur’s ring. It had been right to make him grand vizier, Babur reflected. His long, loyal years of fighting and service deserved such a reward, and Maham was pleased to see her father so honoured.

Did Baisanghar ever feel the frustration that sometimes overcame himself? Did he ever long again to sweep down on a raid from the mountains on a moonlit night with a cold wind scouring his face? Or to sleep on hard ground under the stars, sword by his side, unsure what the next day would bring except that it would be hard and dangerous? Babur’s hankering for action was absurd, he knew, but after only six weeks in Samarkand he was restless. He wanted to get back to Kabul to assure himself that all was well there, even though he had left it strongly garrisoned. He was also eager to recover Ferghana, which, since the Uzbek collapse, had been dismembered by petty local warlords with more fleas than real troops. He could swat them with one blow of his fist if only he were free to leave Samarkand, but he had to establish order in the city. He had summoned the leading citizens to announce how Samarkand was to be governed and now they were waiting — no doubt hoping for lucrative sinecures.

Babur entered his audience chamber and mounted his dais. At Baisanghar’s command, his waiting subjects prostrated themselves on the soft, rich carpets the Uzbeks hadn’t had time to loot. Mechanically acknowledging them, Babur’s mind was elsewhere. The Persian troops should have departed by now. Yet, though some had left as soon as the khutba confirming Babur as king had been read, a thousand were still camped in the riverside meadows outside the Needlemaker’s Gate. With them was the shah’s own priest, Mullah Husayn. Whenever he broached the question of the Persians’ departure with their commander — a cousin of Shah Ismail, haughty and cold — the answer was the same: he was awaiting orders from the shah. As soon as he received them he and his men would ride away.

Babur couldn’t order them to go but he could insist that they kept off the streets of Samarkand. The populace’s hostility hadn’t died away. In fact, the news that he had become the shah’s vassal had only fed their suspicion, instead of reassuring them that they had a powerful protector as Babur had hoped. He had received several visits from the city’s mullahs, seeking assurances that the shah was not planning to interfere with their religion. An aged priest from one of the madrasas, his thin face nearly as pale as his white robes, had gone further, upbraiding Babur for his dealings with the heretical Persians and demanding he expel them. ‘Even the Uzbeks — wicked defilers of our city though they were — are true believers. .’ he had said. ‘Even the Uzbeks. .’ Babur had never thought to hear words like that. Somehow he must send the Persians on their way. .

‘Majesty,’ Baisanghar interrupted his thoughts, ‘your subjects are waiting to hear you.’

Babur unrolled the piece of paper on which was written the latest list of public appointments — a stout merchant in robes of peacock blue was gazing at him expectantly — but as he did so the velvet-covered, gilded throne on which he was sitting lurched sideways. Babur tried to right himself but he and the throne were flung to the floor. A rumbling, roaring, cracking sound filled the air and everything shook. A lump of masonry, bright tiles still attached, crashed down beside him.

Bitter-tasting dust clogged the air and Babur felt he was choking, but as he gasped for breath, his mouth filled with grit. He couldn’t even open his eyes. Bracing himself, he covered his head with his hands, waiting for a piece of masonry to land on him. But after a few more moments the shaking stopped as abruptly as it had begun. With groans rising from all around, Babur raised his head cautiously and managed to open his streaming eyes a little. Though some stones had been dislodged, the main walls and ceilings of the Kok Saray had withstood the earthquake. Timur’s builders had done a good job. But looking around he saw Baisanghar lying unconscious, his brilliant green robes of office now grey.

‘Guards,’ Babur yelled, not sure who would answer him. Almost at once he heard running feet. Through the drifting, stifling dust he recognised two of his bodyguards who had been on duty in the antechamber. ‘Send for my hakim and fetch any other doctors you can find. The grand vizier is hurt — others too.’ Babur got to his feet, staggered to Baisanghar and put his fingers to the side of his neck as he’d so often done to wounded comrades in battle. Yes, he was alive — he could feel the faint but rhythmic pulsing of his blood. On his forehead a huge bruise was purpling. Baisanghar’s eyes flickered open and he looked up at Babur, confused.

‘It was an earthquake. . The hakim is coming.’ Babur ripped off his outer robe, rolled it up and placed it beneath Baisanghar’s head. ‘I must go to the women’s quarters.’

All around him in the audience chamber dazed men were picking themselves and others up, but a few were lying still. Scrambling over chunks of masonry, Babur ran from the chamber, making for the broad flight of stairs leading to the top storey and the women’s apartments. Hurling himself up them, he saw deep fissures in the dark stonework and that lamps and torches had tumbled from their niches — he kicked them aside — but again Timur’s walls had held.

At the top, he saw that the tall double doors — resilvered and inlaid afresh with turquoises since the day when a youthful Babur and his men had battered them down — were still standing, though a crack gaped in the stone lintel above and part of the elaborately tiled ceiling had collapsed, littering the floor with shards as bright as butterfly wings. Of the attendants who should have been outside there was no sign. They would pay for their negligence, Babur thought, as he threw his weight against the doors and pushed them open.

The first face he saw was Maham’s, her long hair hanging around her. She was standing in the centre of the chamber, which, apart from a few tumbled pieces of furniture, spilled food and broken clay dishes, was untouched. A sobbing Humayun was in her arms but her eyes were bright and clear.

‘See, Humayun? I told you there was nothing to be afraid of. . It was only a foolish giant stamping his feet to annoy us. . I said your father would come.’ Babur kissed her forehead and took Humayun from her, feeling the warmth of his body which, now he was three, was losing some of its puppy fat. The boy’s hazel eyes — so like his mother’s — looked into his own. He stopped crying and smiled.

‘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.

‘Go first. You’re heavier — I’ll take some of the strain.’

The mullah didn’t hesitate. Babur turned his back to the drop and, taking the improvised rope in his left hand, passed it behind his back so that he could grip it with his right hand, then braced himself against it. At a nod from Babur, Husayn lowered himself cautiously over the edge. At once, the material seemed stretched to near breaking point and the knot between the sashes began to slip.

‘Hurry!’ Babur yelled, and felt the rope go slack. He peered down into the street and saw the mullah lying in a tangle of red robes, rubbing his shoulder. The sound of angry, excited voices and of the trapdoor to the roof being pushed open told him he had no more time. He tightened the knot again, gripped the rope and, trusting to fate, leaped. . He braced his feet against the walls, bouncing off them as he descended, but suddenly his hands slipped.

His landing was softened, though not much, by a stack of wood. The mullah was still lying groaning where he had fallen, and flushed faces were looking down on them from the roof. The men were shouting obscenities. Any moment now and they’d be coming down the makeshift rope themselves. As he struggled breathlessly to heave the mullah to his feet, Babur heard the clattering of hoofs. Some of his bodyguard were galloping in single file down the street towards him, two of them already fitting arrows to their bowstrings, ready to fire at Babur’s assailants on the roof who quickly melted from view.

‘Majesty, we’ve been searching for you ever since we became separated. Quickly! There are mobs all over the city. .’

One of his men dismounted to offer him his horse. Wearily Babur staggered to his feet and jumped up. With two of his men riding double and the mullah, still moaning, behind another guard, the little group made swiftly for the safety of the Kok Saray.

‘I have withdrawn my armies westwards to protect my own borders and cannot offer you the assistance you seek. Indeed, why should I? You have spat in the face of my generosity and insulted my religion. Mullah Husayn has told me what passed in Samarkand — how he was reviled, insulted and hunted through its streets like a dog. In spurning him and the true way, you and your people have spurned me. May God the merciful forgive your crimes against him.’

Babur stared down at Shah Ismail’s letter. It looked as if the mullah hadn’t told him that Babur — in person — had saved his miserable neck. Slowly, deliberately, he ripped the dark red wax seal stamped with the lion — the personal emblem of the shah — from the bottom of the letter, which he tore into small pieces. Then he thrust the lot into the heart of the bright green flames of the wormwood fire, kept burning day and night in his chamber in an attempt to defeat the chill that, at the height of winter, with snow drifting against the city walls, seemed to seep from the very stones of the Kok Saray.

‘It is only as we expected, Majesty. .’ Baisanghar said quietly.

‘I know — but I still can’t believe the shah will let the Uzbeks take the city. . I didn’t think his malice would extend that far. .’ Babur watched the wax melt and the paper flare and burn, taking with them his hopes.

‘He is used to being obeyed. Once he had you in his power he expected you would yield to everything he wanted.’

‘That is just as Baburi warned. . I’ve been naive. But I did not believe the shah was dishonest. . he never said that I or my people must convert and he must know he could not have coerced them without spilling blood. As it was, it took us a month to quieten the city after Mullah Husayn’s sermon.’

‘At least the Persians have gone, Majesty. .’

‘Yes, but at the wrong time. I should have rid myself of them as soon as I became king. Then the people would have been less suspicious of me. Instead, I let them stay long enough to undermine me and then, just when I needed them to protect Samarkand, they left. The Uzbeks have already retaken Bokhara. As soon as the winter ends they will fall on us. Even though the system of messengers I have introduced tells me that Kabul and its territories are quiet, I cannot summon reinforcements from there or I will leave it vulnerable to attack or rebellion, just as when I first took Samarkand and unthinkingly hazarded Ferghana. I will, of course, fortify and provision the city but do I have the support of the people? I can never hold the city if I face enemies within the walls as well as outside.’

‘I don’t know, Majesty.’

‘No, Baisangar, neither do I. .’

What was the point of looking back? Already Samarkand’s wondrous, fantastical outline was fading into the pinks, mauves and oranges of a spectacular sunset. It was as if Nature herself was celebrating his departure. Perhaps tomorrow an equally glorious dawn would unfurl to welcome the Uzbeks as they swept in from their encampment five miles north of the city.

Who would have thought that, with Shaibani Khan dead, they’d have found new leaders and organised themselves so well? The Uzbeks were like a column of ants: when some were crushed, others surged forward and their relentless advance never faltered. .

Not only had the shah refused to help him — damning Babur as a heretic king — but he had enraged the citizens of Samarkand yet further. Almost a month ago, during the first days of spring, Persian troops had overrun an isolated Uzbek encampment west of Bokhara where many women and children, as well as warriors, had been living out the winter. Rounding up their prisoners, the Persians had quickly made clear that they were not simply punishing the Uzbeks for their past attacks on the shah and his territories, but for the divisions between Shiite and Sunni. In the mosques of Persia, at Shah Ismail’s urging, the mullahs were now declaring all Sunnis enemies of God. And the Uzbeks — like Babur and the people of Samarkand — were Sunni. The Persians had offered the Uzbek men, women and children the chance to become Shiite then killed brutally and in cold blood those who did not immediately accept.

The inhabitants of Samarkand had made their feelings clear to Babur: if the Uzbeks wanted to return, let them. Better the enemies of their blood than the enemies of their faith. The brutal truth was that they trusted the Uzbeks to protect them from the shah and Shiitism — they didn’t trust Babur. He was fatally compromised by his previous dalliance with the shah. In vain Babur had reminded them of the horrors perpetrated by Shaibani Khan but it seemed they had short memories. Faced with near rebellion and demands from the Uzbeks, galloping down in their tens of thousands from Karshi and other strongholds in the north, to relinquish the city, Babur had issued an ultimatum to his citizens: ‘Help me defend the city — our civilisation and culture — or I shall return to Kabul.’ They had refused his call.

At least his hold on Kabul remained firm and his family were safe there. He had sent Maham, Gulrukh and his sons ahead with a strong escort. Now he must follow. As so often in recent weeks, he thought of Baburi. His friend had been right all along. Babur’s passion for Samarkand — which had never truly belonged to him — had blinded him. Now he must pay for his folly, forget Samarkand and begin again from Kabul to seek other lands in which to satisfy his ambition for empire.

But he had one small consolation. He had returned the shah’s stud stallion — gelded.