‘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
