Raiders from the North

Chapter 4

How lucky that a winter that had descended so cruelly early had been followed by a premature spring. From the balcony of his chamber Babur watched boys casting stones on to the frozen Jaxartes, saw the ice fissure and the waters surge up. A few unwary sheep that had wandered on to the frozen watercourse were borne away in the chill torrent. Their thin, high-pitched bleating lasted only a few seconds.

On the plains beyond the Jaxartes, his chiefs were again assembled with their men. This time he had sent his messengers even further, calling in the nomad tribes from north, south, east and west and promising them rich booty. With Shaibani Khan still in his winter quarters in the far north, this must be the moment to strike, Babur thought. Soon he would give the command to ride.

But before he embarked on his unfinished business of Samarkand he must pay his respects to his mother. He hurried to her apartments. This time, his reflection in Kutlugh Nigar’s mirror of burnished brass looked very different from when he had gazed on it in the dark, uncertain hours after his father’s death. A few weeks ago he had celebrated his thirteenth birthday. Hairs sprouted on his chin and he was taller and broader. His voice had deepened and Timur’s ring no longer hung loose on his hand.

‘You are becoming a man, my son.’ There was pride in his mother’s voice as she kissed him farewell. Even his grandmother seemed satisfied — and it took much to please the stern old woman, whose face was as wrinkled as a dried apricot but whose shrewd dark eyes missed nothing.

‘When the city is mine I will send for you all.’

‘You promise?’ Khanzada thrust out her chin.

‘I promise.’ He bent to kiss the sister who was now, to Babur’s satisfaction, a good six inches shorter than he.

As he strode away through the harem, he passed an open door. In the windowless chamber within, lit by the soft light of a row of oil lamps, a tall young woman in bodice and wide trousers of pink flowered silk was bending forward, combing her flowing hair. Babur stepped beneath the low lintel.

As soon as she saw him, she knelt before him so that her forehead touched the ground and her hair flowed round her like a pool of shining water. ‘Greetings, Babur, King of Ferghana. May God smile on you.’ Her voice, low but clear, held the cadences of the mountain people of the north.

‘You may rise.’

She got up gracefully. Her eyes were elongated, her figure slender and her skin the colour of honey. In the corner of her chamber Babur noticed two rustic wooden chests with garments tumbling out of them.

‘I was tired after my journey. I ordered my attendants to leave me. .’ She paused and Babur noticed uncertainty in her face, as if she was weighing something up. He turned to go. There was still much for him to see to before the army departed.

‘I thank you, Majesty, for summoning me here.’ She took a step towards him and he caught her musky scent.

‘My father’s concubine is, of course, welcome in my house.’

‘And his son by his concubine?’

Babur felt a flash of irritation. ‘Of course.’ This woman, Roxanna — the daughter of some petty chief — had no right to question him so. He’d only learned of her existence a few weeks ago. For some reason his father had chosen not to bring her to his castle but had left her among her own people to be visited and tumbled when he was away on hunting trips. He had told no one of her. Neither had he revealed that eight years ago, when she could have been no more than fourteen, she had borne him a son, Jahangir.

When, in the first days after the snows had ceased to fall, Roxanna’s father had arrived at the castle, no one had paid much attention to the shabby tribal chief with his straggling beard. Then he had drawn from his sheepskin robes a letter written by Babur’s father acknowledging Roxanna as his concubine and her young son as his seed. It asked that if anything happened to him, they should be admitted to the protection of the royal harem.

Kutlugh Nigar had responded with barely a shrug. It had been her husband’s right to take as many concubines as he wanted and, indeed, three other wives. She knew she had been his great love, his daily companion, the mother of his son and heir. No other couple on earth could have matched the depth of their physical and mental compatibility. The sole shadow in their union had been that only two of their children had survived. The unexpected existence of Roxanna and Babur’s half-brother mattered not to her — or so she had insisted to Babur who, embarrassed like all young people to discuss his parents’ affairs of the heart, had tried to curtail the conversation. ‘Let her come with her brat,’ she had concluded coldly. Later, Babur noticed that she had ordered Roxanna to be given apartments near her own. Out of sympathy for a young woman alone among strangers? No. So that she could keep an eye on her.

‘You are gracious, Majesty.’ Roxanna was smiling at him now. ‘Your brother thanks you also.’

Half-brother only, Babur thought, and did not smile back. He hadn’t seen him yet. The child was apparently ill with a fever — no doubt bitten by fleas or a sheep tick, Kutlugh Nigar had said on learning of it. ‘May your son soon be blessed by the return of good health,’ Babur said. Courteous words but he knew they sounded cold. He meant them to. Turning on his heel he walked swiftly away, his mind already on the great game that awaited him.

This time he had nearly eight thousand men under arms Babur thought, with pride, as the ranks of his horsemen fanned west across the plains. Behind them rode his liegemen and their forces, then the motley contingents of the tribal chiefs, like the wild Chakraks, who dwelled in the high wilderness between Ferghana and Kashgar with their horses, sheep and the shaggy yaks they preferred to cattle. The baggage wagons, hauled by long-horned oxen, creaked and groaned under the weight of equipment. This time Babur had left nothing to chance. Again and again, in his councils of war, he had gone over everything he would need for a lengthy campaign, from siege engines to ladders to be placed against Samarkand’s walls, to the cooking pots required to feed so many men, to the musicians who would play to lighten their spirits and give them the appetite for victory.

During the inactive winter months Babur, with Wazir Khan, had also considered how best to ensure Ferghana’s safety in his absence. He had decided to leave his vizier Kasim, whose loyalty and competence were beyond question, as regent. There had been no reports of Uzbek incursions, and if any danger should threaten, Kasim would at once send word to him.

What mattered now was to anticipate every move his enemies in Samarkand might make. Babur knew that, once again, the grand vizier — now daring openly to call himself King of Samarkand — would have been warned of his coming. The city’s granaries would still be well stocked with last autumn’s harvest and its gates and walls manned by soldiers whose loyalty the vizier had plenty of money to buy.

After ten days’ hard riding, Qolba Hill came into view. Babur did not wait for the return of the scouts Wazir Khan had sent ahead but kicked his grey horse across the emerald grasslands, still spongy with the moisture from melted snow and dotted with the yellow, pink and white of spring flowers. His horse disturbed one of the pheasants for which the area was famed — it rose into the air with a whir of wings and a cackle of alarm. Babur’s heart leaped at the sight of the great domes and minarets of Samarkand outlined against the sky. Strong, high walls surrounded the city and within them Babur’s sharp eyes made out a second set girdling the inner citadel built by Timur to protect his ultimate stronghold, the four-storey Kok Saray. In the years since his death it had acquired an evil reputation. Babur had grown up with stories of the torture, murder and blindings of ambitious princes and nobles invited to the Kok Saray to feast and never seen again.

He wheeled his horse to a standstill. Even from this distance he could sense the city’s watchfulness, as if it was a great creature, tense and waiting. Many eyes would be looking out, trying to assess when and from which direction Babur would come and how many men he would bring. Spies would have observed every step of their three-hundred-mile journey west from Ferghana.

This time there was no sign of any other army. Babur grinned, wondering how his lovelorn cousin Mahmud was faring. Doubtless he had already found himself another woman to sate his throbbing loins — but if he still wanted her, Babur vowed, the grand vizier’s daughter would be his. He would send her as a gift.

‘You must have patience, Majesty,’ Wazir Khan said, as he had every day for the past five months.

Babur scowled into the basket of glowing charcoals Wazir Khan had lit to warm them as they squatted in the middle of a grove of trees, well beyond the camp with its prying ears and eyes. They needed the warmth. Autumn was coming and the night air was bone-numbingly chill. ‘We have traitors in our midst, I am sure of it. Every time we attack a section of the walls or try to tunnel beneath, the enemy seem to know and to be ready for us.’ Babur poked the charcoal with the tip of his dagger.

‘Every camp has its spies, Majesty. It is inevitable. And don’t we also have our own spies?’

‘But they tell us nothing.’

‘They will, when there is something to tell. We have held the city under siege for five months. We still have food and water but the enemy’s must be running low. Soon they will have to send out foraging parties. We must set our spies to watch for them and learn their secret exits. What cannot be taken by force may be taken by stealth.’

Babur grunted. Wazir Khan, so wise and level-headed — the man who since the time Babur first stood unaided had tutored him in the arts of war — was good at reminding him how much he still needed to learn. All the same, the last months had taught him much. In the scorching heat of summer, he had learned that grass growing brighter and taller than anywhere else was a sign of hidden water channels. He had learned how to drill his men and keep them active and high-spirited when there was no fighting to be done. He had ordered them to play polo insolently close to Samarkand’s high walls and, braving the city’s best archers, had joined in, thundering over the ground to swipe his mallet at the sheep’s-head ball, which — when they had finished — they had lobbed contemptuously over the battlements.

Babur knew now how to move silently through the darkness with his men and to position long ladders, the tops wrapped in sheep’s wool to deaden any sound, against the high walls. He had climbed with them, only to be met by missiles, clouds of arrows and buckets of burning pitch, and forced to retreat. He had crept along dark, sandy tunnels dug by his men towards the walls, hoping to burrow beneath them but encountering foundations as unyielding as the mountains of Ferghana.

Babur had also attacked by day, his sweating men dragging up the great siege engines which had hurled massive rocks. But Samarkand’s metal-bound gates and thick walls had withstood these barrages, and the pounding of his battering rams.

‘I don’t understand. The King of Samarkand was my uncle. I’m directly of the blood of Timur. I’ve sent assurances that I’ll not put the city to the sword. Why don’t the people open their gates to me of their own accord? Why do they prefer the rule of a usurping vizier?’

Wazir Khan’s patient half-smile again told Babur that he had spoken with the ignorance of youth, not the wisdom of maturity. ‘Perhaps he rules them by fear. Remember also that the people do not know you. Since Timur died, Samarkand has been besieged by many chiefs and kings hungry for glory and gold, claiming kinship with the great conqueror. Your own uncle seized the city by force. Why should the citizens look kindly on any aggressor? With the grand vizier they at least know what they have.’

The hoot of an owl made them look up at the sky, in which the stars were already fading.

‘We should return, Majesty.’ Wazir Khan pushed the brazier over and kicked earth over the still burning charcoal.

It wasn’t only the loss of their heat that made Babur shiver. ‘Wazir Khan, I’m worried. If we don’t take the city soon, winter will be upon us and my armies will melt away once more. I’ll be forced to return a second time to Ferghana without victory. Then what will my people say about me?’

Wazir Khan gripped his arm. ‘We still have time. The sun has yet to enter the sign of the balance. God willing, Samarkand will fall.’

He was right, Babur reflected. His father had endured many setbacks but had never despaired. What was it he used to say? ‘If your soldiers see you falter, then all is lost. They look to you for leadership and discipline.’ Yes, it was a king’s duty to be strong. He must remember that.

They mounted their horses and rode back towards the camp. As they drew nearer, Babur heard, above the rhythm of galloping hoofs, a man shouting in anger. Not another dispute between the lawless rogues who made up so much of his army? he thought wearily as the sounds grew louder and more strident and oaths split the air.

The commotion was coming from near the bathhouse tents. As he and Wazir Khan rode up, Babur saw that one of his mercenary commanders — a nomad from the wildernesses — was examining the contents of two sacks with a couple of his scar-faced warriors. Another man, a simple farmer by his clothes, was watching. ‘You’ve no right to steal from me. How will I feed my family this winter when you’ve taken everything — my grain, even my sheep?’ The man gestured at the small flock of shaggy, brown-fleeced animals tethered close by. He was almost weeping with anger.

There could have been something ludicrous about this thin, insignificant peasant stamping in rage and frustration before warriors who could have flattened him with a swipe of their hard fists, but his defiance was impressive, Babur thought.

‘Get back to your midden and think yourself lucky you go with your life. And when you see your wife, give her another kiss from me and tell her I enjoyed her,’ grinned one of the warriors who then launched a kick at the peasant, sending him sprawling. When the man tried to get up, he kicked him again.

‘What is happening here?’

Taken by surprise, the men stared up at Babur.

‘Answer His Majesty,’ rapped Wazir Khan. Still no answer came.

‘Get up.’ Babur gestured to the farmer, who rose slowly and painfully, clutching his stomach, his lined face apprehensive. If he hated the soldiers, plainly he had no faith in kings either. He backed away from the imperious youth on the horse with the jewelled bridle.

‘Stay where you are.’ Babur leaped down and surveyed the tableau. The two jute sacks lolled before him, their pathetic contents spilling out. Babur ripped off his leather gauntlet, plunged his hand into one and pulled out some dun garments, a wooden cup and a couple of cotton bags. Opening the bags he found only some mouldy-looking grain intermixed with dark mouse droppings. The other sack felt heavier. Inside were half a dozen skinny chickens, necks newly wrung, and a round cheese, the rind clotted with feathers and chicken blood.

Babur pushed the sacks aside but noticed the farmer gazing at them as if they represented everything he held dear in this life. ‘Where did this come from?’ Babur demanded. Silence. ‘I said where did this come from?’ The second time of asking he looked straight into the farmer’s face.

‘From my village, Majesty, across the Zerafshan river.’

‘And all of it was taken from you?’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

‘By force?’

‘Yes, Majesty. By these two men.’

‘And your wife. They took her by force?’

The man hung his head.

Babur turned to the commander. ‘I gave orders that there was to be no looting from the villagers, that we would pay our way. Timur’s heir does not come to ravage poor people and spill their blood upon on the earth.’

The nomad glared at him. ‘We’ve been here many weeks. We’ve taken nothing. No booty worth a fly’s arse. My men are weary. They needed some sport. And all they’ve taken is a few paltry things from this maggot of a farmer.’

‘And raped his wife.’

‘They say she was not unwilling.’ The chief grinned, showing gaps in his broad, tombstone teeth.

Anger surged through Babur. He would have liked to run these men through with his sword, here and now, like the animals they were, and kick their brainless heads on to the dung heap. ‘Arrest the two looters, Wazir Khan. They are guilty of plunder and rape. They know the penalty. I wish it to be carried out immediately in the presence of the other members of their tribe.’

Wazir Khan raised his hand and guards stepped forward to seize the tribesmen who, instead of resisting, stood blinking stupidly as if what was happening was beyond their comprehension.

‘As for you.’ Babur turned to their chief who was smirking no longer. Babur noticed his fingers feeling for his dagger in the greasy swathe of brown woollen cloth wrapped round his waist, and tensed his body, ready in case the fool should lash out. ‘You swore an oath of allegiance to me that on this campaign you would be bound by my laws or suffer the consequences. If you cannot control your men in future you will suffer the same fate.’ Babur’s voice was laden with menace. ‘You will acknowledge publicly that this is justice — royal justice. I will have no blood feuds in my camp. Summon all your men here, now!’

The chief’s eyes swung between Babur, Wazir Khan and the guards gripping the arms of the two now desperate-looking looters. Babur read murder in his gaze and in his heart but, with a muttered oath, the chief slowly lowered his hand from his dagger and bowed his shaved head in submission.

Ten minutes later, the twenty other members of the small clan were gathered in a silent circle around the condemned men. At a nod from Babur the chief cleared his throat and addressed the prisoners: ‘You have broken laws that I had sworn to uphold. I, as your chief, give you up to suffer justice. Your bodies will be hewn to pieces and left for dogs and carrion. Let every man here understand that it is my will that this should happen. There will be no blood feud against the executioners.’

Wazir Khan signalled a detachment of his guards to step forward. Swords drawn they advanced on the quivering prisoners and forced them to their knees. The men’s screams rose in the cold early morning air as the shining blades cut into them.

Babur felt his gorge rise and breathed deeply to steady himself. This was the law. He had only done what any leader must to maintain discipline and respect. He did not allow himself to turn away until the screaming had stopped and all was quiet except for the cawing of birds of prey quick to spot a feast.

‘Take your possessions and this.’ Babur held out a purse of camel leather filled with silver coins to the dazed farmer who stared at it for a moment then grabbed it. Babur had already turned his back when he heard the man clear his throat and hesitantly begin to speak.

‘What is it?’ Babur felt wearied and disgusted — even by the farmer, so skinny and abject. Nothing that had happened had been his fault but had he been more of a man and stood up to the looters when they came to his village. . Babur dismissed the thought as unworthy. The man was a toiler, not a warrior, and he had had the courage to come to the camp to seek justice.

‘Majesty. . there is something you should know. . something I saw with my own eyes just three nights ago when the moon was full.’

‘What?. . speak.’

‘I saw men — spies, perhaps — leave the city. I waited, hidden behind the trees, while my sheep grazed, and many hours later I watched them return. There is a passage leading into Samarkand — beside the Needlemaker’s Gate. I can show it to you, Majesty.’

Babur’s heart leaped. ‘If you’re telling the truth, you’ll have more than that paltry bag of silver — you’ll have your weight in gold.’

‘Majesty, this is insanity.’

‘Perhaps.’ Babur felt a visceral excitement uncurling within him. In a few hours he would be inside Samarkand.

‘At least let me come with you.’

‘No, Wazir Khan. Who’ll pay attention to a ragged youth? But there are men in Samarkand who know you. I’m safer alone.’

For once Wazir Khan seemed nonplussed. The scar across his blind eye looked more puckered than usual. ‘But you are the king,’ he said stubbornly. ‘What will happen to Ferghana if you do not return?’

‘I will return. Now let me go.’

Babur mounted the stocky, sure-footed dark pony he had chosen and, without a backward glance, rode off into the night.

Moonlight silvered the rough track following the westward course of the stream that Babur, Wazir Khan and the farmer had ridden along the previous night. Every inch of the way seemed burned into his brain. He was riding through the Khan Yurti meadow where — as his father had so often told him — Timur had once pitched his pleasure pavilions in summer to lie beneath the silken canopies and listen to the waters, as cool and pure as those coursing through the gardens of Paradise. Now the sound of rippling water seemed to carry the great Timur’s voice: ‘Go forward. Dare everything.’

After an hour the stream branched and Babur followed the left-hand fork, which he knew flowed south within half a mile of the great Turquoise Gate. He must be careful. Keen eyes watching from the battlements might spy even a lone rider if he ventured too close. He would keep to the far side of the stream where he could merge into the shadows of the willow trees along its banks and move insubstantial as a ghost.

Wazir Khan was right, of course. This was insanity. If Babur wished to know the city’s weak spots and the mood of its inhabitants after all these months of siege he should have sent spies into the tunnel, not gone himself — alone. But from the moment the farmer had uttered his few, hesitant words, Babur had felt the hand of destiny thrust him forward.

The sky was cloudless and clear above the drooping willow branches. Across the stream, he could make out the shadowy outline of the city. A few minutes more and the Turquoise Gate would rear like a dragon out of the darkness. One day soon, Babur promised himself, I’ll ride through that gate at the head of my men, not sneak into my city like a thief in the night.

A small creature — a mouse, perhaps, or a river rat — ran beneath his pony’s hoofs causing it to skitter sideways, neighing in alarm. Babur slipped down and ran his hand soothingly along the pony’s soft, shaggy neck. It would be better to go forward on foot from here. Babur pulled off the bridle and the thick folded blanket on which he had been sitting, then turned the pony loose to find its own way back to the camp, as he had agreed with Wazir Khan. This time tomorrow night Wazir Khan would be waiting for him here among the willows with a fresh mount.

Another eight hundred yards of stealing southwards through the soft darkness and he could see the red pinpricks of torches burning on either side of the Needlemaker’s Gate. Tall and narrow, it was one of the more modest of Samarkand’s six gates. In ordinary times it was the entrance for farmers and tradespeople. Timur would seldom have passed through it. For him there were the mighty Iron Gate and the blue-tiled Turquoise Gate where, in the chambers high above the entrance arches, men would have pounded the kettledrums and blown harsh-voiced trumpets to announce his approach.

It was time to cross the stream which was deep at this point — almost a river. Babur waded in, bracing himself against the surging waters that rose almost to his shoulders. He was nearly across when his feet slipped on the tumbled stones and he lost his footing. Cold waters closed over his head, choking him, and he felt his body being carried along. He managed to thrust an arm out of the water and winced as his hand struck what felt like the branch of a tree. Trying again he managed to grip another branch and, using both arms now, hauled himself on to the bank.

Gasping, he pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes and looked around. At least he was on the right side of the stream. Instinctively he checked for Timur’s ring, which he had secured on a leather thong round his neck. As his fingers came into contact with the rich, heavy metal he grunted with relief. He crouched in silence, shivering and listening intently. Nothing. Not the crack of a twig or the soft beat of a bat’s wing. He peered towards the dim outlines of the Needlemaker’s Gate. Creeping forward he came to the low, tumbled walls of an old orchard where, amid the pomegranate trees, lay the entrance to the secret tunnel concealed by a heap of dead branches.

Last night there had been no guard. Babur prayed it would be the same tonight. Also that he would not encounter anyone in the tunnel. He must be quick — but, above all, careful. Suppressing the urge to dart forward towards the opening, he forced himself to find a hiding-place in the hollow of an old tree and sit still, watching and listening. You were named for the tiger, Babur told himself, so be like him tonight. Shun the open, love the shadows and master your impatience.

After a while, a young fox trotted by. Its sharp nose twitched as it caught Babur’s scent but it ran lightly on. The animal’s composure reassured him that no other human was close by and he uncoiled from his hiding-place. His coarse brown cotton robe and sheepskin jerkin — the garb of a humble peasant — were still sodden and cold against his skin. He shook himself like a wet dog, then rubbed himself vigorously.

Heart pounding, he approached the entrance to the tunnel and pushed aside the branches. Then he wriggled forward on his stomach and pulled the branches back into place behind him. Stretching out his hands he felt for the edge of the wooden trapdoor covering the tunnel entrance. There it was! As he gripped it some tiny creature — an ant or an earwig — ran across his fingers. Carefully, Babur raised it and felt inside. The narrow shaft was lined with bricks and wooden supports had been driven into the sides. He climbed in, and bracing his feet on two of the supports ducked his head and pulled the door back in place over him.

He was in pitch darkness and a dank, unwholesome, earthy smell filled his nostrils as if something — or someone — had died in here, which perhaps they had. Samarkand had had a glorious past but also a violent one. Who had first burrowed this passageway? he wondered. Had they been digging their way in or fleeing a terrible fate?

Cautiously Babur lowered himself to the bottom of the shaft, which he knew, from his previous night’s exploration, was only about ten feet deep. But where did the tunnel lead? He felt his way forward, keeping his hands pressed to the walls on either side of him. The ground squelched beneath his feet and seemed to slope down. He slipped and slithered and was relieved when, after a few paces, he felt hard stone.

The roof was low and Babur bent his head as he moved on through the darkness. This would be no place to encounter an enemy. How could a man defend himself when he could not stand upright and had no room to swing a sword? Not that he had brought his father’s eagle-hilted sword with him. That would hardly be a weapon to be found on a peasant boy if by any ill twist of fortune he was captured. But without it he felt vulnerable.

It was also getting hard to breathe, hunched as he was in the dank, fetid air. He hurried on, counting the paces — ten, twenty, thirty. He had calculated that six hundred would bring him to the city walls but he had no idea how far the tunnel extended. He tried to keep counting. Ninety, a hundred. Sweat dripped from his brow and ran into his mouth. Impatiently he flicked away the salty beads with his tongue. A hundred and fifty. . The passageway was broadening now, wide enough for two men to pass. Babur went faster. He was almost running. Four hundred. .

Then he stopped. What was that noise? He caught the unmistakable rumble of male voices and a raucous laugh. All of a sudden the passage ahead was lit by an orange glow. Babur could make out the rough walls and see that, a few yards ahead, it twisted sharply to the left. The voices were growing louder, echoing in the confined space. In a moment their owners would round the corner and see him. Babur turned to flee into the darkness. Almost sobbing with frustration he ran back and flattened himself in an alcove. But the voices were dying away now. If the men were guards sent to check the tunnel they had not been very thorough. He allowed himself a grim smile. Had they been Wazir Khan’s men they’d be flayed alive for their negligence.

Babur waited. Darkness again and silence. He breathed more deeply and after a few moments moved on again. He had lost count of his paces now but surely he must be near the city walls. He edged round the sharp, left-hand bend and onwards. After another five minutes he could make out pale light ahead, not the orange glow of a torch but the chill radiance of the moon and stars.

He dragged the back of his hand across his sweating forehead and moved slowly forwards, back against the wall, exposing the smallest surface of his body in case a guard lurked at the far end, bow-string taut, arrow ready to sing out. But ahead was nothing but silence. The city would be sleeping. There was enough light for him to make out his damp, muddy clothes and hands. No need to fear that anyone would take him for a Timurid prince. Inside the city he could blend into the populace, just another ragged youth anxious for a piece of yesterday’s bread.

The tunnel ended in a huge circular pit filled with a few inches of putrid water, like the shaft of a disused well, Babur thought. Peering up, he could see the star-pricked canopy of the night sky. Quietly he began to climb up the side of the shaft where metal spikes had been driven into the wall. How many of these tunnels were there? No wonder the enemy had seemed to know his every plan. Spies had been creeping out like rats to infest his camp and steal home with his secrets. But now, Babur thought, it’s my turn. I’m the rat.

Gripping the carved stone parapet around the top of the well he heaved himself out and dropped down into the shadows. He was in a courtyard, empty but for two pale skinny dogs asleep in the moonlight. Babur saw the rhythmic motion of their ribs and heard their soft whimpers. What a way for Timur’s heir to arrive in mighty Samarkand — stinking and ragged, with only mongrels for company.

And where exactly was he? Babur wished he knew. All he could do was hide and wait for people to rise and begin to move about. He needed their camouflage. Shivering, he spied a pile of woven matting against a wall. That would do. He slid underneath it and pulled it over him, concealing himself. Samarkand, he thought. Samarkand! Then, without warning, sleep claimed his exhausted body.

‘This is my patch! Take your stinking carrots somewhere else.’

Babur jolted awake and peered through the matting. The place that, just a couple of hours earlier, had looked so desolate now thronged with people. In the half-light of dawn, they seemed to be setting up a market. The voice that had woken him belonged to a tall, skinny old man flapping about in dark, dusty robes. Having secured the piece of ground he wanted, he squatted and pulled some mouldy looking onions from his pockets.

Cautiously, Babur slid out of his hiding-place. Ragged, pinched-looking people were arranging small piles of equally shrivelled vegetables on pieces of cloth — carrots that were mottled and sprouting, a few wrinkled radishes. An elderly woman, veil slipping carelessly from her furrowed face, arranged a rat with the care of an embalmer preparing a body for burial. Others, without anything to sell but clearly too poor to buy, were standing around miserably and hungrily.

These people are starving, Babur thought, in astonishment. The siege had been going on for months and he hadn’t expected food stocks to be high, but this. . A baby’s thin mewling caught his attention. A young woman too emaciated to have milk in her breasts and with hopelessness in her eyes dipped a corner of her veil into a jar of water and thrust it between her child’s questing lips.

‘It’s alright for them holed up in the citadel,’ the old man said, then spat venomously, the phlegm narrowly avoiding his stack of seven onions. ‘They’ve taken everything from us. They can last out for years, filling their bellies beneath their fine silk robes with our food. Where’s the justice in that?’

‘Silence, old man, you’ll get us all into trouble. It will be as the grand vizier says. When the winter comes, the aggressors will leave as they did last time.’

‘And then what? Pay more taxes to the vizier in gratitude! That thieving son of a whore! And they say he’d like our wives and daughters as well. His harem is twice the size of the last king’s, may his soul rest in Paradise. I’ve heard tell he enjoys three women a night.’

‘Be at peace, old man, your pockmarked wife and daughter are too ill-favoured even for that randy goat,’ another man jibed.

As the onion-seller’s voice rose angrily in defence of the beauty of his womenfolk, Babur slipped from the square and down a side alley. Everywhere it was the same. Pale people, with hunger etched on their faces, moving slowly, wraithlike, as if every reserve of energy had been drained from them. He watched an old woman grin in toothless delight as she scooped up the body of a dead cat, holding its limp form as tenderly as if it had been a baby. He was surprised that the two dogs he had seen asleep by the well had survived so long.

The pale orange disc of the rising sun was a welcome sight — it would give him his bearings. Babur knew that if he kept his back to the sun he should come to the walls of Timur’s citadel. It seemed he was right. As he hurried on he noticed the streets becoming broader, the buildings more elegant. He passed bathhouses inlaid with vibrant mosaics in floral and geometric designs, domed mosques and exquisitely carved madrasas where scholars studied and prayed.

Youthful pride that his ancestor had created a city so beautiful welled inside him. When he was King of Samarkand, the markets would again be full of fruit and vegetables from the gardens and orchards encircling the city. The bakeries and cookhouses — empty and forlorn now — would once more scent the air. The people, plump and prosperous, would praise his name. And, as in Timur’s time, men of talent — poets, painters, scholars — would flock here from across the civilised world. Overcome by the glory of it all, Babur closed his eyes.

‘Out of our way, boy.’

Something hard jabbed Babur in the small of his back. Instinctively his hand went to his waist, seeking the weapon that wasn’t there. He wheeled round to see two soldiers, wearing emerald green sashes, the colour of Samarkand. There was plenty of room for them to pass but again one struck at Babur with the butt of his spear, this time catching him in the ribs and sending him spinning against the wall. Laughing, the men swaggered on.

Babur stared after them cat-like and unblinking, but they didn’t look back. As soon as they had turned a corner he began to follow. From the direction they had taken, they must be making for the Kok Saray. As he tracked them, keeping a cautious distance, he began to find himself among more and more soldiers, some clearly on patrol through the quiet, cowed streets, others returning from sentry duty on the city walls. Learning by experience, he tried to keep out of their way, dodging into doorways or behind piles of refuse at their approach.

And then, looking up, he saw Timur’s citadel, snug within its walls, and, at its heart, the tall facade of Timur’s fortress, the mighty Kok Saray. Green silk banners fluttered from the pointed battlements. My palace, Babur thought. Unconsciously he felt for Timur’s ring and clenched it in his hand.

The sound of marching feet on the stone-paved street broke his reverie. A detachment of troops was returning to the citadel. Keeping well back, Babur observed them and their weapons critically. Tall, muscular men, they showed no sign of malnutrition and carried themselves like warriors. Again, they wore the bright green sashes of Samarkand. How much was the usurping vizier paying them for their loyalty?

Suddenly a hand closed on his shoulder and Babur tensed, ready to tear himself free, but the grip was like iron. Helpless, he was swung round to face his attacker.

‘Greetings. I had not looked to see you so soon in Samarkand. The siege is not yet over.’

Babur gasped. ‘Baisanghar!’ The last time he had seen the man had been in Ferghana when he had presented him with Timur’s blood-smeared ring.

‘You’ve been careless. I’ve been following you for the last thirty minutes.’

Babur’s mouth was too dry for speech and he looked down. What he saw made him gasp again. Though Baisanghar was still holding him tightly with his left hand, his right arm hung stiffly by his side and ended in a raw-looking stump.

Baisanghar had followed his gaze. ‘The penalty for obeying your uncle’s final command and bringing you Timur’s ring. I was lucky to keep my head, but the grand vizier decided he needed me to help in the defence of Samarkand.’

As he tried to calm his racing heart and looked around to assess what chance of escape there might be, Babur was dismayed to see a group of soldiers watching. They must be wondering what their commander had to say to a grimy peasant boy. If he tried to run, they would be on him in a second. ‘What now?’ He had found his voice.

‘It is simple. If I give you up to the grand vizier, my fortune is made. I can take my ease in a luxurious palace where fountains flow with rosewater and beautiful houris fulfil my every whim.’ Baisanghar’s eyes searched his face. ‘But life is not so simple. Your uncle was a good ruler and warranted my loyalty to his last command, whatever the price. The vizier has wounded my honour and my pride. If you will promise me his head, I will give you Samarkand.’

Babur’s eyes burned. ‘You have my word. The word of a king in whose veins the blood of Timur flows.’

‘Majesty.’ With a gesture so tiny that no one observing them would have noticed, Baisanghar lowered his head in submission.