Raiders from the North

Chapter 5

As dusk fell Babur, with Wazir Khan at his side, addressed a picked band of his men who were ready to set out on foot from their main camp, bellies full, the blades of their weapons honed and oiled, their leather-covered wooden shields strapped to their backs. First they would follow Babur’s footsteps of three nights ago along the stream, but then wait in concealment for a signal to enter Samarkand through the Chaharraha Gate, the entrance to the city where Baisanghar commanded the guard and that he had sworn to open to Babur.

‘My brothers-in-arms, tonight we go to meet our destiny. Let us fill our hearts with warrior spirit and summon all our reserves of courage — not only the physical bravery to fight, which I know you possess, but the resolution of mind to move quietly along the stream and wait silently in hiding for however long it takes until the signal comes for us to attack. Each of us carries the lives of his comrades in his hands. If any one of us betrays his position — whether through impatience or foolishness — he betrays us all. Young as I am, I know I can play my part. Will you swear to me that you have the will to do so, too?’

The immediate response was a chorus of ‘Yes, Majesty.’

Without wasting further words, Babur gave the command for the party to set off. They did so two abreast along the stream bank into the gathering gloom. Keeping as close as they could to the water, they took advantage of every bit of protection the reeds and feathery willows fringing its banks provided. Suddenly, when they had been going a quarter of an hour or so, one of the leading men was seized by a fit of coughing. To Babur his cough was as loud as the bark of any alarmed guard dog. But no sound or movement came from the direction of Samarkand. Babur relaxed once more. Then the man coughed again, seemingly even louder, and continued to do so for what appeared an age but was perhaps just a minute. Still the only other sound was the persistent whine of the mosquitoes, which were now beginning to gorge themselves on every man’s exposed flesh.

‘I’ll send him back, Majesty,’ whispered Wazir Khan.

‘Good.’

Two hours after leaving the camp, Babur recognised the point near the Needlemaker’s Gate where he had scrambled off towards the tunnel to make his reconnaissance of Samarkand. Tonight, however, he and his men would continue along the stream. Flowing tranquilly in the moonlight, it would once more be Babur’s ally as it meandered northwards, passing close, no more than two hundred yards, to the Chaharraha Gate.

Still taking advantage of its protecting reeds and willows, Babur and his men reached the point nearest the gate without further alarms. After a brief consultation with Wazir Khan, Babur whispered the command for the men to conceal themselves in the reeds until the moon was at its zenith — the time they had agreed with Baisanghar he would open the gate.

Babur shifted, trying to get more comfortable. It was difficult. Mosquitoes continued to plague him and he could not stop himself scratching the bites raw. Mud seeped and squelched beneath his squatting form but at least the thick reeds were good camouflage. If he’d guessed the time correctly, from what he could see of the movement of the moon and stars in the small square of sky directly above his head, it must be about ninety minutes since they had concealed themselves.

From where he was crouching, though, he couldn’t see anything like enough of the landscape and sky to be certain of the moon’s position. He had to know more accurately how much longer there was to wait. He raised his head cautiously, disregarding Wazir Khan’s fatherly insistence that he, like the rest of the men, should keep it down and leave the calculation of time to his own more experienced observation. As he poked his head warily through the reeds for a better view, the chain-mail shirt that Wazir Khan had also insisted he wear, but which was too big for him, twisted, and a fold of the overlapping metal circles became wedged under one of his armpits, pinching him. Babur struggled impatiently, reaching inside his clothes and trying to tug the shirt down, but he only succeeded in making matters worse.

A pair of teal shot squawking out of the reeds, just in front of his face. They must have been alarmed by his contortions as he tried to rearrange his garments and equipment. He ducked down guiltily but no sooner was he back among the reeds than he heard rustling just feet away and drawing nearer. Though logic told him it could only be one of his own men, his fingers tightened instinctively on the eagle hilt of his father’s sword, Alamgir. He tensed, ready to spring up and fight for his life. The noise grew louder and Wazir Khan’s mud-smeared face appeared through the reeds as he wriggled towards him on his belly, propelling himself with his elbows. Babur relaxed, and as he did so it occurred to him that with his shield on his back and lying almost flat, Wazir Khan looked like an ill-proportioned tortoise.

‘Majesty, it’s time to move. Shall I order the signal to be given?’

Suppressing a smile, Babur nodded.

Wazir Khan slithered away again, still keeping low. Moments later, at his command, a blazing arrow arced across the cloudless sky, its fiery trail like that of a comet. As Babur rose to his feet out of the reeds his guts lurched and he found his legs were shaking with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. All around him, his men were appearing from their hiding-places.

Wazir Khan was at his side. ‘Now we will know whether Baisanghar is a man of his word.’

‘He is.’ Babur was sure of it, but Wazir Khan had been hard to convince, worried that Babur, young and untested, had been deceived.

With Babur and Wazir Khan at their head, the warriors crept out of the reeds, formed up and made swiftly for the Chaharraha Gate over the marshy ground, their leather boots occasionally sticking in the mud and their breath coming softly. As he approached, Babur could see that the gate was smaller than the soaring Turquoise Gate or even the Needlemaker’s Gate. The unadorned, stubby stone towers on either side had been built for strength, not grace, and Babur could see the heavy metal grille of the gate itself barring the narrow passage into the city. It seemed to grin with gap-toothed malevolence at him.

Eyes flicking from side to side, searching for any sign of movement, Babur realised there was nothing — not even a light in the chamber over the gate where Baisanghar should be giving the order to winch up the grille. What should he do if nothing happened? Perhaps it had all been just a trick. Or perhaps the plot had been betrayed and even now Baisanghar was being tortured in some stinking dungeon to make him scream out their plans.

Babur forced himself to think coolly. What were his options? But in his heart he knew he had only one. They must go on. Even now, triggered by the flight of the burning arrow, four hundred of his warriors would be retracing his journey of three nights ago and dropping down into the dank, narrow tunnel that had led him into the city. He could not abandon them. Whatever happened, he would lead his men in an assault on the gate.

But even as these thoughts jostled in his mind, Babur saw a figure appear on the wall to the right of the gate, holding a burning torch, which he waved slowly and deliberately from side to side. Almost at once Babur heard the raw, grating noise of a great wheel being turned. The metal grille shuddered, then slowly began to rise. He shot Wazir Khan a grin of triumph, then gave the low, whooping call that was the signal to attack. He heard it repeated ten, a hundred times as his men took it up. Soft as it was, it seemed to swell, lifting him up and impelling him forward.

His father’s sword in his right hand, dagger in his left, Babur ran the short remaining distance to the gate. The grille was already a third of the way up. With his men surging round him, he flung himself beneath it, curling into a ball to roll under its sharp prongs. Uncoiling himself he leaped to his feet and peered into the darkness, every nerve tense as he listened for the air to move as an arrow took flight or a throwing axe whirled towards him. But there was only the sound of feet running down the stone stairs from the gatehouse. It was Baisanghar, face grim. ‘Welcome. I have kept my word.’ He knelt briefly before Babur. ‘ We must be quick. There are spies everywhere — even now we will be being watched and the alarm may sound at any moment. Twenty of my men are holding this gate but the rest are waiting near the Kok Saray.’ He gestured up the dark lane leading into the city. ‘Come.’

As Baisanghar finished speaking, ahead, high on the battlements of the Kok Saray within the walls of the citadel, spurts of orange light were suddenly piercing the darkness — torches. The garrison had been alerted to their presence. The wailing of a horn and the harsh shouts of officers as they roused their men confirmed that they had lost the advantage of surprise. Babur did not hesitate. Raising his sword, he yelled the battle cry of his people — ‘Ferghana.’ Blood pounding in his ears, he charged forward.

The lane was lined with tall, thin, mud-brick houses whose doors were no doubt being barred. For a second Babur thought of the families cowering behind them, praying the storm would pass over them. They were not to know that he had ordered there was to be no looting or killing of civilians. Though his enemies would pay in full, the beginning of his reign over Samarkand would not be defiled with the blood of its innocent citizens.

‘Down here, Majesty.’ Baisanghar grabbed Babur’s arm and jerked him towards a narrow passage winding off to the left. Thrown off balance Babur staggered and almost slipped. For a split second he glanced at Wazir Khan, close beside him. The passage was high — walled and very cramped. One man, or at very best two, could pass down it abreast — a perfect place for an ambush. Who or what might not be waiting for them down there in the murk?

‘It’s a short-cut through to the citadel.’ Baisanghar’s voice was sharp and urgent.

Babur searched the man’s face. He knew that, despite his youth, his men were beginning to look to him for leadership. Now was no time to hesitate, with the shouts of their enemies growing ever closer. He trusted Baisanghar, which made his decision easy. Calling to his warriors to follow and with Wazir Khan at his side, he turned down the passage behind Baisanghar. Babur was surprised that he felt no fear now that the action was under way, only exhilaration. Would every battle feel like this? Suddenly, from away to the east, he heard a great roar. His men must be disgorging from the tunnel and racing into the heart of the city. That should keep the grand vizier’s soldiers occupied.

The passage twisted sharply to the right, then ended abruptly. Looking about him in the gloom, Babur saw he was in a small square, one side of which, the one directly opposite, was bounded by what looked like the high walls of Timur’s citadel. Recalling his previous visit and the plans he had studied, he realised they must be on its southern side. Yes, he was right — within the walls and just a few hundred yards onward, towards the east, he could make out the sharp-toothed battlements of the Kok Saray itself. Baisanghar had guided them well. Even better, Babur could see no defenders on the walls directly above. Presumably they were not expecting their enemy to steal up on them here.

Even so, following the example of Baisanghar and Wazir Khan, Babur quickly crossed the square and flattened himself against the citadel wall. As his men emerged from the passage, he signalled to them to do likewise. They moved quickly, obeying him without hesitation. Baisanghar gave a low call and dark-cloaked, dome-helmeted figures moved quickly from where they had been waiting, concealed behind the steaming midden that occupied the western corner of the square. Baisanghar’s guards. They gathered silently round their commander.

‘Majesty, the citadel wall is lowest near an old blocked-up doorway on its eastern side, just round the corner,’ Baisanghar whispered. ‘That is where we should climb in. My men have brought ladders and I will post archers to provide us with cover.’ Babur and Wazir Khan nodded agreement. Keeping very close to the wall and with Baisanghar leading the way, the party edged towards the corner of the citadel wall. Cautiously, Baisanghar peered round, then stepping back, gestured to Babur and Wazir Khan to do the same.

A swift glance confirmed that all was quiet. The doorway was only some thirty yards ahead. Suddenly the excitement and tension became too much for Babur. Dodging Wazir Khan’s restraining arm, he ran towards the door, yelling to the others to follow him. He did not even remember to keep in the shadow of the wall and immediately he heard the swoosh of one arrow, then another, as archers arrived on the battlements above, no doubt alerted by his wild shouts. A long-shafted arrow grazed his cheek, before slamming into the ground behind him. The stinging pain didn’t matter. Nothing did, except the exhilaration of this moment. He hurtled on towards the doorway. Somehow reaching it unscathed, he pressed his body against the stones with which it was blocked, hoping that the overhanging lintel would provide some cover. Glancing around he noticed a crouching tiger, the emblem of Samarkand, carved into the stone frame beside him, lips curled in a snarl, ears flat against its head.

Baisanghar’s archers were now in place, firing back at the defenders on the walls above. Babur could feel warm liquid dripping down his forehead and into his eyes. Touching it with his fingers he realised it was blood, but not his own. Looking up, he saw, high above, a man with an arrow in his neck leaning over the wall. As his hand clutched at his ripped flesh, he overbalanced. Seconds later, he crashed at Babur’s feet with a soft thud. Spewing blood and phlegm, he twitched convulsively for a few moments and then lay still amid an ever spreading pool of dark blood.

Baisanghar’s men were throwing long wooden ladders up against the walls. They were crudely made with rough wooden rungs lashed to the uprights with strips of leather, but they were suitable for the purpose. Men were already climbing them, holding on with one hand and supporting their shields above their heads with the other to deflect the arrows being shot from above.

Babur’s heart was still pounding and he wanted to be into the action quickly. He looked around for a different way up. There was no chance of unblocking the door. At first glance, the stonework of the walls looked smooth, the joints fitting neatly. But he had not grown up amid the wild mountains and ravines of Ferghana for nothing, he told himself. He could see that there were small cracks and fissures that might provide hand- and footholds to someone as lithe and light as himself. Slinging his father’s precious sword across his back, Babur took a deep breath. Glancing round, he saw Wazir Khan watching him. His expression was anxious. Babur turned quickly away and ran along the base of the wall to a point well away from the ladders, dodging an arrow as he did so.

He began to swarm up, his hands exploring the surface, seeking out protruding edges and corners where the mortar had crumbled or the mason’s chisel had left its mark — anywhere he could balance a toe or the edge of a foot or thrust his fingers. He must keep his momentum going or he would fall, and his hands reached up, searching for each new hold. Timur’s masons had built well — hadn’t he brought them specially to Samarkand precisely because they were such good craftsmen? Too good, perhaps, Babur thought as suddenly, twenty feet above the ground, his feet were spinning in empty air and he felt his fingernails cracking as he struggled to cling on with his hands alone.

Mouth dry and dusty as the stone he was trying to hang on to, Babur flailed about, kicking out wildly to right and left as he sought a purchase for his feet but meeting only smooth stone. His protesting arms burned as they took his full weight. Then, just when he felt he must let go and tumble down, he felt his right foot nudge something soft — a tussock of coarse grass that must have seeded itself deep in one of the cracks between the stones. Gasping with relief, Babur pushed his right foot on it to test its strength and as it took some of his weight felt the pain in his arms subside.

For a moment he closed his eyes. He felt like an insect, tiny, vulnerable and exposed, but at least he could rest for a second. Opening his eyes again and looking up through his tumbled hair, he saw the top of the wall was tantalisingly near — perhaps no more than seven or eight feet above him. Cautiously, he stretched up an exploratory right hand and almost laughed out loud as it found a rough, protruding edge he could grip about two feet above his head. Then, still keeping his right foot on the clump of grass that had saved him, he bent his left leg and probed upwards with his foot. Again he found a hold — not much of one — just a narrow, diagonal crack in one of the stone blocks, but enough. With one last great effort he propelled himself upward, reaching for the top of the wall and praying he wasn’t about to feel the slash of a blade across his knuckles.

Heaving himself over the low parapet on to the broad top of the wall, the stone worn smooth by the feet of many sentries, Babur looked round to find to his amazement he was among the first to reach it. He felt he had been climbing for ever, but within moments all around him many more of his men, led by Wazir Khan and grunting with the effort, were dropping from their ladders.

The defenders, it seemed, had fled. Stepping back and wiping the sweat from his face, Babur tripped over a handsome, silver-bound shield that a fleeing soldier had thrown aside. He stooped to pick it up but a noise behind him made him twist around. Less cowardly soldiers of Samarkand were rushing up a steep staircase leading from the courtyard beneath the inner side of the wall. The grand vizier’s personal bodyguard, Babur guessed, noting the bright green sashes of Samarkand round their waists and the green pennants fluttering at the ends of their spears. With a yell, Babur charged towards them, knowing that Wazir Khan and his men would be with him, and found himself locked in a crowd of heaving, swearing, stabbing men. Even though the top of the wall was broad — perhaps ten feet wide — men were soon tumbling from either side of it, some wounded, some simply pushed over the parapet by stronger opponents. The stench of hot, sour sweat filled his nostrils. For ever afterwards it would be for him the scent of battle.

A giant of a man with a long black beard tinged with grey singled Babur out, a voracious sneer spreading over his fleshy face as he took in Babur’s slight stature and his youth. Babur had seen just such a look on the face of a cat about to devour a mouse and the utter disrespect stung him. Wazir Khan had insisted that Babur should wear nothing to identify him as Ferghana’s king but he would still prove his pedigree to this arrogant, fat pig.

‘Old man, you should be at home, dribbling by the fire and calling for your servants to mop up your leaking piss.’

The stout warrior looked startled for a moment but then, as he took in what Babur had said, rage suffused his features. He advanced towards Babur, balancing his spear in his large, leathery hands. ‘You cheeky little rat, I’ll shut you up.’ In a move so sudden that Babur hardly had time to register it, he reversed his spear and jammed the blunt end into the pit of Babur’s stomach.

Babur felt his feet lift off the ground as the impact flung him backwards. As his arms flailed, he was afraid the blow would hurl him off the wall but instead he felt his head snap back as it hit the low stone parapet. For a second his world dissolved into stars, not the pure, silvery starlight he’d gazed up at earlier from the reeds but a chaos of bright, jagged shapes tinged with red which seemed to ooze blood. His mouth was full of salty fluid and instinctively he spat it out. Yet still he couldn’t breathe — the blow had crushed the air out of him.

The bearded man was advancing on him again. ‘That was just for starters. You’ll suffer more for that sneer before you die,’ he spat and simultaneously jabbed at Babur’s groin with his spear. Just in time, and still struggling for breath, Babur rolled sideways and the spearhead hit the stone, striking sparks. His opponent cursed. For all his weight, he was surprisingly light on his feet. Moving like a determined great bear, he lunged at Babur, who, half bent, was clutching his winded and aching belly with one hand while still holding his sword in the other. His breath was coming just a little more easily now and he took comfort from it.

‘Well, rat spawn — soon you’ll be on the dung heap with the rest of your kind,’ the man said, repositioning his spear so that the tip was pointed directly towards Babur’s face. Babur stared at it, half hypnotised by the diamond bright, coldly gleaming point. For a moment, he felt strangely paralysed, powerless to react, but as the warrior thrust his spear at him again, he knew instinctively what he must do. Summoning all his agility and his speed he flung himself to the ground and rolled not away from his assailant but towards him, underneath his jabbing spear. As his body crashed into the man’s legs, he slashed at the back of one of his knees with his long-bladed dagger, severing the tendons. With a howl, his opponent collapsed sideways, and blood gushed from the wound. Babur scrambled to his feet and struck again. This time he aimed for the man’s ribs, at a spot just below his left armpit that the breastplate didn’t cover. He felt his blade penetrate the tough muscle and thick cartilage, then slide between the man’s ribs. The giant gave what sounded like a low sigh and slumped forward. As Babur pulled out his dagger blood spurted everywhere. He gazed, fascinated, at the first man he had killed in hand-to-hand combat.

‘Majesty, look out!’ Wazir Khan’s shout came only just in time. Turning and dropping back to his knees, Babur thrust wildly at another attacker who had been about to bring an axe biting into the back of his neck. Suddenly Babur knew fear again. What an idiot to allow himself to be taken by surprise from behind. In the nick of time, Wazir Khan kicked Babur’s new assailant to the ground and, with a single, powerful sweep of his curved sword, sent his head skidding across the battlements.

Grateful for the second chance that he knew so many inexperienced warriors did not live to enjoy, Babur was already back on his feet again, dagger and sword ready, but looking around he saw that the vizier’s guards had all been killed or fled. They lay in ones and twos, slumped over each other or spreadeagled on the stone in unnatural postures, their once bright sashes dark with blood. Babur caught the stench of spilled guts and slashed intestines.

‘Come.’ Baisanghar was beside him, blood seeping from what seemed a deep wound to his shoulder, his face taut with pain. Yet he gestured insistently to the crenellated outline of the Kok Saray just a few hundred feet away. ‘That is where the grand vizier will be hiding — if I know him, he will have taken refuge in the women’s quarters.’

Signalling to his men to follow, Babur stumbled after Baisanghar towards the staircase leading down from the wall. As he scrambled over fallen bodies, half-slipping in the gore, one face caught his eye. It belonged to a youth perhaps no older than him. Drained of blood, his lips were drawn back over the gums in a silent scream of pain and his large, dark but unseeing eyes seemed filled with fear beneath their long lashes. Babur shivered and looked quickly away. It could easily have been himself had it not been for Wazir Khan’s warning shout.

The citadel was quiet and still as Babur, Wazir Khan and their men followed Baisanghar across the courtyard. After the fight on the wall there was no reason for them to keep silent — their presence within the citadel could hardly be a secret. But Babur’s men moved as quietly and stealthily as the sheep- and cattle-rustlers so many of them were. Where were the grand vizier’s remaining guards and troops? Babur expected a rush of arrows at any moment, but there was nothing.

As they stole up to it, the four-storey Kok Saray was also eerily silent, its gleaming brass doors with their dragon handles open and unguarded. Timur’s fabled stronghold. What confidence it must have taken to build something so magnificent. Its very stones exuded power and authority. Babur remembered his father’s sinister stories. ‘All of Timur’s offspring who raised their heads and sat on the throne sat there. All who lost their heads in quest of the throne lost it there. To say “They have taken the prince to the Kok Saray” meant he was already dead.’

Wazir Khan and Baisanghar were conferring. Impatient to enter, Babur joined them. ‘Majesty, we must be cautious,’ Wazir Khan said quickly, seeing Babur’s eagerness. ‘This may be a trap.’ Babur nodded. He was right. Only a careless fool would rush inside. He forced himself to curb the impetuousness that had so nearly cost him dear when he had run for the blocked doorway. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help constantly shifting from foot to foot while Wazir Khan ordered six of his men to take torches from the brackets where they were burning and enter cautiously to check for signs of an ambush.

After what seemed an age to Babur but was, in fact, just a few minutes, they returned, signalling that all seemed quiet. Babur’s heart leaped and he stepped inside, his men clustering behind him. Beyond the brass doors they found a cavernous, vaulted entrance chamber and beyond that, straight ahead, a flight of broad, shallow steps. Slowly, warily, they began to climb, guided by flickering torchlight, eyes straining into the darkness ahead. Thirty steps brought them to the second storey. Ahead rose another flight. Babur’s foot was already on its first step when he heard a shout.

‘Majesty, down, get down!’ Babur ducked as a spear flung out of the darkness above hurtled over his head, so close that he felt his hair stir. The next moment, two dozen more of the grand vizier’s men were rushing down the stairs towards them. Babur found himself twisting and slashing. In the confusion his dagger was of more use than his sword. He darted beneath his enemies’ shields, stabbing upwards with his blade, feeling warm blood spurt down his hands and arms as he found his mark. All around him his men, swearing and grunting, were pushing forward.

The grand vizier’s troops began to waver, struggling to maintain the momentum of their charge down the stairs. Soon they were being pushed ever backwards. Suddenly they lost discipline and began fleeing back up, slipping and crashing on the steps in their desperate eagerness to get away and not to have to die in a lost cause. Babur’s men came after them, slashing and hacking at the forms disappearing up the second flight of stairs, then retreating part-way up a third.

In the rush, Babur slipped on an uneven step and slithering sideways fell. One of his advancing men was so close behind that he couldn’t stop himself stumbling over Babur and in the process standing hard on the small of his back, winding him once more. As the fight receded up the third staircase, Babur scrambled painfully to his feet. For a moment he felt sick and found it hard to focus. Putting his hand against the wall he steadied himself and forced himself to take deep breaths, though his bruised ribs and strained stomach muscles made it painful.

‘Majesty.’ Wazir Khan was rushing down the stairs towards him.

‘Are you hurt?’

Babur shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine.’

‘The last of the grand vizier’s men — those we did not kill — have taken refuge at the top of the building. It’s nearly over.’ Wazir Khan allowed himself a rare smile and touched Babur’s shoulder. ‘Come.’

Just then came shouts from below and the sound of many feet pounding the stone steps towards them. Babur swung round to meet the new menace. But surging up the stairs from the dark shadows, he recognised some of the men who had come through the tunnel and, at their head, Ali Mazid Beg, the muscular chieftain from the west of Ferghana he and Wazir Khan had chosen to lead them.

‘Majesty, the citadel and the fortress are ours — as is the city.’ Ali Mazid Beg looked exhausted but beneath the filth and sweat his almond-eyed face beamed triumph.

‘You have done well.’

‘Majesty.’ Though he was still out of breath, Ali Mazid Beg’s voice was full of pride at what he and his troops had achieved.

‘Have you or your men seen the grand vizier?’

Ali Mazid Beg shook his head regretfully.

‘Then it must be as Baisanghar thought. He is hiding among his women, here in the Kok Saray, unless he has escaped from the city.’

‘Where would he go, Majesty? Who would hide him?’ Wazir Khan asked.

With Wazir Khan at his side Babur climbed the remaining steps to the top storey of the Kok Saray. Directly opposite the staircase, through a crowd of his jubilant warriors, he could see a pair of shining silver doors inlaid with turquoises.

‘The women’s quarters?’ Babur asked.

Baisanghar nodded.

In his mind’s eye, Babur suddenly pictured his sister Khanzada wide-eyed with fear. How would he feel if she was hiding behind such a door, defenceless before warriors high on victory? He turned to the men clustered around him. ‘The women are not to be touched. I come to Samarkand as its new king, not as a marauder in the night.’

He read angry disappointment on many of the men’s flushed faces. They’d probably believe he’d spoken as he had because he was still a boy with an incomplete understanding of a man’s needs and frustrations. But they could think what they liked. Glancing at Wazir Khan he saw approval on his commander’s face and felt he’d passed yet another test.

The silver doors shuddered under the impact of a battering ram carried up from one of the courtyards below and the turquoises shattered, bright shards falling to the floor. Yet the doors held. Beneath the shining silver, the wood must be thick and the bolts strong, Babur thought as, for the fourth time, his men hurled the metal-tipped tree trunk at them. But at last the doors’ silver covering buckled and the wood beneath splintered. Two warriors used their axes to hack a hole big enough for a man to enter.

For a few seconds Babur and his men waited, fingering their weapons. He was sure that at any moment they would hear the cry of guards rushing to defend the harem or be forced back from the opening by arrows fired from within. Instead the only response was silence and the rich, heavy scent of sandalwood, which reminded him of the last time he had sat with his mother. It curled around them, mingling with the odour of their sweat.

Signalling to his men to keep silent, Babur moved towards the opening, again determined to be the first inside. ‘No, Majesty.’ Wazir Khan’s restraining hand gripped him hard. ‘Let me enter first.’

I owe him this, Babur thought. Hiding his disappointment, he watched Wazir Khan and two of his guards ease themselves cautiously through, weapons ready. A few moments later he heard Wazir Khan say, ‘You may enter, Majesty.’

Babur climbed through the shattered door and stepped on to rugs of a velvet softness he had never felt before. The carpets of Ferghana were like worn blankets in comparison.

Wazir Khan signalled to him to be wary. As the rest of his men pushed through behind him, Babur moved forward, scanning the corners of the large chamber, alert for any movement. The chamber was well lit by hundreds of candles burning in mirrored niches. The amber light played over woven wall hangings depicting tulips, irises and other flowers of Samarkand, and plump cushions of velvet or shimmering satin. Six smaller silver doors, three on each side, led to what Babur guessed were the women’s private rooms. Ahead another door was covered with gold leaf into which was etched the tiger of Samarkand.

Feeling his men’s eyes upon him once more, Babur cleared his throat. ‘Vizier!’ he shouted towards the golden door, his voice young, but firm and clear. ‘You cannot save yourself but you can at least make your death quick and honourable.’ He thought he detected a fumbling sound from behind the door but then all was quiet again. ‘Vizier, have you no dignity or shame?’ Babur persisted.

This time there was the unmistakable sound of a scuffle and voices raised in anger. Suddenly the golden door swung open to reveal two of the grand vizier’s bodyguards, one with a sabre slash across his cheek, dragging their protesting master by his arms, his bright green brocade coat billowing behind him. Without ceremony they hurled him at Babur’s feet, then knelt before him themselves in subjection. Other guards, following nervously, also prostrated themselves. Babur gazed at the scene with contempt. ‘Baisanghar, disarm them.’

As Baisanghar’s men went briskly to work, a young woman in pale blue silk darted through the golden door, deftly evaded Baisanghar’s men and ran to the grand vizier. Falling to her knees beside him, she tried to put her arms round him but, with an oath, he pushed her slim form away violently. After regaining her balance, the girl looked up at Babur. He saw an oval face and eyes that, though puffy with tears, were still beautiful. ‘Let my father live. He is an old man.’ She spoke without fear though confronted by a crowd of battle-stained warriors from whom she must know she could expect little sympathy or even mercy.

‘He has no right to live. His ambition exceeded his breeding,’ Babur replied curtly. ‘Where are the other women?’

The girl hesitated then said, ‘In their rooms.’ She gestured towards the six small doors. Babur nodded to Wazir Khan. ‘Search them. Make sure no soldiers are hiding there. Then lock the women in until we have time to deal with them.’ Wazir Khan quickly detailed groups of soldiers to break down the doors. Almost at once Babur heard wails of dismay and screams of protest from deep within the harem, but he knew his orders would be obeyed. He could not prevent the women being frightened but they would not be violated.

The vizier’s daughter was still looking directly at him, a challenging expression in her chestnut eyes. He turned away from her accusing stare. ‘Take her to her private quarters and lock her in also.’ He had no intention of sparing the vizier but found he wanted to save the young woman from witnessing her father’s end. Before a soldier could take hold of her, she rose of her own accord and disappeared through one of the doors, her head held high on her slender neck, without any final entreaty or even a backward glance. Babur stared after her, wondering what it had cost her to show such dignity.

‘Well, vizier, it seems your daughter is braver and more loyal than your bodyguard. You do not deserve such devotion.’ Babur realised that he felt angry for the girl about the way her father had publicly humiliated her by pushing her away.

‘You have no right to the throne of Samarkand.’ The grand vizier had dragged himself to a sitting position and was looking at Babur with a malevolent expression on his pockmarked, square-jawed face, seemingly unconcerned that he faced inevitable death.

‘I am of Timur’s blood, the nephew of the last king. Who has greater claim?’

The grand vizier narrowed his bloodshot eyes. ‘You may think you have taken Samarkand but you’ll never hold it,’ he sneered. ‘Ponder that, dregs of the mountains. Go back to Ferghana and your life among the stinking sheep. Perhaps one of them would make you a good wife — I’ve heard your people are not particular. .’

‘Enough!’ Babur was shaking with what he recognised as adolescent fury but hoped his men would interpret as kingly rage. ‘Baisanghar,’ he rapped.

The captain stepped towards him. ‘Majesty?’

‘As well as usurping a throne, this man did you a shameful wrong because you followed your true king’s last command.’ Babur saw Baisanghar glance down to where his right hand should have been. ‘You shall have the task of despatching this wretch to whatever awaits him in the next world. Dispose of him in the courtyard below and make his end quick out of respect for his daughter’s bravery. Then hang his body in chains above the Turquoise Gate so the people can see how I have punished the man whose avarice and ambition brought them such hardship and want. His bodyguard may live, provided they swear allegiance to me as their king.’

As Baisanghar’s men dragged the vizier away, Babur suddenly felt deeply weary. For a moment he closed his eyes and stooped to run his fingers over the silkily luxurious carpet that tomorrow he would order rolled up and sent to his mother as a gift. ‘Samarkand,’ he whispered to himself. ‘It is mine.’