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.’
