Babur felt as dazed as he had on the day when he had seen his father fall from the walls of Akhsi. He sank to the ground and closed his eyes.
‘Majesty, we must get away. .’ It was Baburi’s voice. When Babur didn’t respond, Baburi shook him, then yanked him roughly to his feet. ‘Come on. . don’t be an idiot. .’
‘Wazir Khan. . I must send a search-party downstream. . He may be washed up alive.’
‘He is dead. . Let the dead care for themselves. You can’t do anything for him except save yourself. . That’s what he would have wanted. You know that. . Come on. .’
‘The granaries are almost empty, Majesty.’ Babur’s vizier, Kasim, meticulous as ever, was consulting the red leatherbound book in which, since the siege had begun, he had recorded the state of Samarkand’s provisions.
‘How many days’ supplies are left?’
‘Five days’ worth. A week at most.’
There was no point cutting the ration again. Even now it was only three cups of grain for soldiers, two for male civilians and one for each woman and child. The people were already devouring anything they could find, from crows they shot with catapults to the carcasses of asses and dogs that had died of hunger or been killed for their meat. In the royal stables, all pack animals had long since been slaughtered for meat for the garrison. His men were already feeding their precious riding mounts on leaves from the trees and sawdust soaked in water, and their condition was growing daily more wretched. Soon they would have to start killing them. Once the horses were gone, they would not even be able to send out raiding parties to run the Uzbek blockade around the city walls and forage for provisions.
Every day for the past three months Babur had wondered whether Shaibani Khan would attack. But why should he? He must know it was only a matter of time before Babur would be forced to surrender. And he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the city’s suffering, feasting his men before the walls and burning food pillaged from the surrounding villages before the besiegeds’ eyes as if to say, ‘I have so much I can waste it — you, however, have nothing.’
Worse, three weeks ago he had captured six deserters from Babur’s forces who had slipped over the city walls and had ordered them to be boiled alive in oil in great copper cauldrons set up in full view of the city walls. At least their shrieks had put paid to any further desertions.
Babur dismissed Kasim, descended to the courtyard and called for a horse and escort. The loss of Wazir Khan still hurt — he missed him not only as a loyal friend but as a wise counsellor, especially in these bleak times. But Baburi, as usual these days, was among those riding with him, his high cheekbones even more pronounced through hunger. He was a good gauge of what was going on and prepared to speak frankly.
How different Samarkand seemed compared with those days of celebration when Babur, hung with emeralds, had sat on the dais beneath silken awnings, to be hailed in the Registan Square. Even Samarkand’s fabulously tiled and sparkling buildings seemed diminished.
The thoroughfare Babur was riding along was deep with stinking refuse that no one had the energy to move unless to sift through it in the hope of finding something to eat. Baburi had reported that some desperate citizens were even sieving dung, searching for seeds to cook. Others were boiling any leaves or grasses they could find. Wherever he looked, Babur saw pinched faces and dull, sunken eyes. Where once people had cheered him, now they turned away.
‘Baburi, what’s in their minds?’
‘Little but how to appease their hunger, but those few times they do think of anything else, it is to fear what Shaibani Khan will do if he takes the city which they think is near. The Uzbeks killed and raped and destroyed last time when they had no cause. This time Shaibani Khan will recall how the citizens welcomed you, how they fell on his men, and he will want revenge.’
‘I’m going to Timur’s tomb. .’ Babur announced suddenly. Baburi looked surprised but said nothing.
Riding into the courtyard before the entrance gate to the tomb, Babur jumped down from his horse and gestured to Baburi to accompany him. Waving aside the tomb attendants, he led the way swiftly across the inner courtyard and down to the crypt where Timur lay.
Babur pressed his hands to the cold stone. ‘This is where Timur lies. When I first came to this place I promised that I would be worthy of him. The moment has come for me to fulfil that pledge. I’m going to lead out my men in one last stand before the city walls. Future generations will not be able to say that I yielded Timur’s city to a barbarian without a fight. .’
‘It will be a better death than waiting till we are so weak we can no longer grip a sword. .’
Babur nodded and, as he had once before, lowered his head to kiss the cold coffin.
But as they rode back towards the Kok Saray, Babur sensed a change. There seemed to be more people on the streets and they were talking animatedly, as if they had news to discuss. Many were heading in the same direction as himself, surging about him. Soon his guards had to form a barrier around him and push the people back with the shafts of their spears to let him through.
One of his soldiers came galloping towards him at full tilt. ‘Majesty,’ he shouted, as soon as he was in earshot, ‘a messenger has come from Shaibani Khan.’
Ten minutes later Babur was back in the Kok Saray, hurrying into his audience chamber where his counsellors were waiting.
The Uzbek ambassador was a tall, stout man in a black turban and a dark purple tunic. A battleaxe was slung across his back, a scimitar hung at his side and a silver-hilted dagger was tucked into his orange sash. He touched his hand to his breast as Babur entered.
‘What is your message?’
‘My lord offers you a solution to your predicament.’
‘And what is it?’
‘He is prepared to forgive your theft of the city. If you will restore his rightful property to him, you, your family and your troops may leave. He offers you safe passage back to Ferghana or, if you prefer, to the west or south. He gives you his word on the Holy Book that he will not attack you.’
‘And what of the city and its people? Will he make more drums from human skin, as he did with my cousin, Prince Mahmud?’
‘My lord says that the citizens must pay for their insult to him — but in taxes not in blood. Again, he gives you his word on the Holy Book.’
‘Are there any conditions?’
‘None, except that you leave Samarkand before the next new moon, two weeks from now.’ The ambassador folded his hands on his ample stomach.
‘Tell Shaibani Khan I will consider his offer and send my reply before noon tomorrow.’
‘And in the meantime I have brought you a present from my lord.’ The ambassador snapped his fingers and one of his attendants, who had been standing discreetly to one side, approached with a large basket. Removing the conical lid, he tipped the contents on to the rugs beneath the dais — melons from the orchards outside Samarkand, honey-ripe and golden, their mouth-watering fragrance filling the chamber. ‘I have brought two mule loads. They are waiting by the Turquoise Gate. My lord hopes you will find the fruit most delicious.’
‘You may tell your master we have no need of such things. The gardens inside Samarkand’s walls drip with ripe fruit. We will feed these to our mules. .’ Babur rose, and as he swept past the ambassador made sure he kicked one of the melons aside. It rolled across the chamber and hit a stone door frame, so that its golden pulp oozed out.
‘Can we trust him?’ Babur’s eyes searched the faces of his counsellors as, that night, they convened in the candle-lit audience chamber. He had needed time to think on his own before summoning them.
‘He’s a barbarian and the enemy of our blood, but he has given his word,’ said Baisanghar.
‘The word of a cattle thief. .’ Babur replied grimly.
‘But he’ll lose face if he goes back on a promise so publicly given on the Holy Book.’
‘But why has he made this offer? He vastly outnumbers us and knows the city is starving. Why not wait? Shaibani Khan doesn’t lack patience.’
‘I think I may know the answer, Majesty.’ Baburi stepped forward from where he had been standing, on guard, to one side of Babur’s dais.
