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
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.
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
