truce? he wondered. Would Kasim convince Jahangir and Tambal that their best — perhaps only — chance of survival lay in accepting his offer of a peace settlement and an alliance against Shaibani Khan or would they be blinded to the threat of Shaibani Khan by their suspicion of his own motives?
He was with his mother and grandmother when he heard that Kasim had returned. Without explanation, and avoiding Esan Dawlat’s sharp eyes, he hurried to his chambers where he had ordered his ambassador to be brought. Kasim was his usual quiet, self-possessed self, betraying not a hint of excitement or agitation about the news he was carrying.
‘Well?’ It was all Babur could do not to grab him by the shoulders.
‘I bring an answer, Majesty. They accept your terms.’ Now, at last, Kasim allowed himself a faint smile. ‘See, Majesty.’ From a dark-red camelskin bag, fastened with plugs of ivory, he extracted a letter.
Babur scanned it and his heart beat faster. Yes! Passing over the empty courtesies he found what he was looking for. He read the words to himself several times, savouring them. ‘What you propose, my brother, is the only way to save us all from the Uzbek menace. By the time you receive this, my troops will already be preparing to march to Shahrukiyyah. I am sending you four thousand cavalry and a thousand archers, all that I can spare.’ It was signed by Jahangir and stamped with the royal seal of Ferghana.
It cost Babur a pang to run his fingers over the thick wax — the right to affix the royal seal was his: by blood and birth he was King of Ferghana. But he had made his choice and must abide by it. He must also trust Jahangir and his controller, Tambal, to keep their word. If they betrayed him now, they would all be ruined.
Chapter 10
Babur turned to look at the lines of riders strung out behind him, their brilliant yellow banners proclaiming them all warriors of Ferghana. Tribal and dynastic feuds forgotten, they were riding against an ancient enemy. Three hours earlier, in their apartments in the fortress, Esan Dawlat and Kutlugh Nigar had given him their blessing and his mother had pressed her lips to the eagle hilt of his father’s sword, Alamgir, hanging from his metal-studded belt. He was surprised that they had not objected to his bargain with his half-brother — Esan Dawlat had actually commended his vision and daring. Only Khanzada had seemed shaken at the thought that she might never again see her childhood home of Akhsi.
As for Ayisha, he had gone to her last night for one final, brief encounter. If he did not return, he might at least be leaving an heir inside her, he had thought, thrusting energetically but joylessly, his eyes fixed on the wall rather than on her expressionless, half-averted face. As soon as he had reached his shuddering climax, Ayisha had done what she now always did — rolled away from him and pulled the coverlet over her nakedness. He had not looked at her as he dressed hurriedly and left her chamber immediately without either speaking a single word of comfort or farewell. They would never be other than emotional strangers.
At least her father had come to his senses. Towards the rear of the long column, beyond the yellow pennants of Ferghana, were the ranks of mounted Mangligh crossbowmen in black and red. They had arrived at Shahrukiyyah within days of Ibrahim Saru getting wind of the alliance between Babur and Jahangir against Shaibani Khan.
Wazir Khan and Baisanghar were riding by his side and somewhere among the ranks of his cavalry would be Baburi. He had not spoken more than a word or two to his friend since the news of the fall of Samarkand and missed his light-hearted company. But companionship — friendship — was perhaps not for kings, whose minds must be fixed on greater things, Babur reflected.
They were travelling quickly, galloping over ground baked hard by the heat of summer. They were also travelling light. Babur had decided there was no time to transport cumbersome siege engines. He was staking everything on a swift surprise attack. Till now Samarkand had always been in the hands of one Timurid ruler or another. The citizens of Samarkand — those left alive — should be desperate to rid themselves of a cruel, alien predator like Shaibani Khan. When they saw his forces approach, he hoped they would rise against their oppressors.
What really counted, though, were Shaibani Khan’s plans. With autumn almost upon him, did he intend to winter in Samarkand? Babur frowned as he rode, his chestnut’s hoofs beating a rhythmic tattoo, trying to put himself inside the mind of his enemy. What did he really want? To rape and loot Samarkand and then return with his pack of marauders back to the northern steppes to enjoy his booty, or did he have grander ambitions? Was his attack on Samarkand simply a sustained raid or had he come to stay to establish a dynasty and empire of his own?
If the stories Babur had heard in his boyhood were true, Shaibani Khan bore Samarkand a grudge. He recalled his father’s tales of how, as a boy, Shaibani Khan had been captured during a raid by the King of Samarkand’s forces on an Uzbek settlement. His father and brothers had been killed but, at scarcely more than ten, he had been dragged at a camel’s tail, a leather thong round his neck, as a slave to Samarkand. Quick-witted and clever, he had survived the harsh conditions in the blacksmiths’ workshops, where the symbol of the slave had been burned into his left cheek, and had come to the attention of a courtier in the Kok Saray.
The nobleman had had him educated and given him a good position as a scribe, but had also forced him to share his bed. One night the young Shaibani Khan had slit his master’s throat. Dipping his finger in the murdered man’s blood, he had written his final missive as a scribe; a message scrawled on the wall, calling down a curse on the city. He had vanished back to his own people. Reunited with his clan, he had risen to become overlord of all the Uzbeks and still nursed a brooding hatred for the royal House of Timur. He was now a man of some thirty-five summers and in his prime, a formidable enemy who cast a dark shadow before him and left death in his wake. Defeating such a man would not be easy. .
Guile rather than force might be the answer. Within some four days, if they could keep up their pace, they would be within striking distance of Samarkand. To retain any advantage of surprise, he would have to attack at once. But perhaps it would be better to make Shaibani Khan uncertain of his intentions — or, best of all, to mislead him. If he could convince him he was trying to break out of Ferghana — to bypass Samarkand and travel west — he might draw his enemy away from the city.
That evening, as Babur sat at a campfire with Wazir Khan and Baisanghar, he stared into the flames, still seeking inspiration. The ground where they had made camp was sandy. Suddenly he rose, picked up a stick and traced the outline of Samarkand — the five-mile girdle of walls pierced by the six gates, the surrounding patchwork of meadows, orchards and gardens, the tracery of streams and rivers on the eastern and northern sides. ‘What if we sent a detachment of our men along the far side of the Ab-i-Siyah river, parallel with the northern walls of Samarkand. . They would be visible to those guarding the Iron and the Shaykhzada gates but still too far off for the Uzbeks to gauge their strength accurately. We might make them think it was our entire army. .’
‘And then, Majesty?’ Baisanghar asked.
‘If we are lucky, the Uzbeks will ride out in pursuit — and we will have our chance. If we conceal the remainder of our men in the scrubland that borders the Kan-i-Gil meadow, east of the Iron Gate, we’ll be able to see what is happening and — if God is with us and the Uzbeks are indeed deceived — attack the eastern walls of the city by the Turquoise Gate.’
Wazir Khan was staring thoughtfully at the map in the sand, through which a line of long-bodied ants, disciplined as soldiers, was tramping, some carrying leaf shreds, to their nest. ‘The detachment that tries to lure the Uzbeks out of the city must be our best and fastest horsemen. They must be able to outride their pursuers, circle round and re-join the main force to help in the attack on the city.’
‘Yes.’ Baisanghar nodded vigorously. ‘They would need to work their way south and east like this. .’ With his left hand, he picked up the stick Babur had thrown down and scratched arrows in the sand, sweeping past the Chaharraha Gate round the southern walls and up past the Needlemaker’s Gate towards the Turquoise Gate. In so doing he disturbed and killed some of the marching ants, but the remainder re-formed and continued as though nothing had happened.
‘But it would be risky, Majesty.’ Baisanghar looked anxious. ‘We have little knowledge of how many Uzbeks are in the city or of their defences. Even if we succeed in tempting some out of the city, the defenders may still be too many for us to overwhelm. Perhaps we should first try to send in spies.’
