‘Speak.’ Babur gestured to him to join the circle of men seated around him, ignoring the surprise of some that their king had invited a common soldier into their midst.
‘There are rumours in the bazaars — from those who spoke to the ambassador’s attendants today — that Shaibani Khan faces a challenge from within the Uzbek clans. They say that a nephew, far away on the steppes, is raising an army against him. Shaibani Khan wants to ride north and smash the rebellion before it grows. If he doesn’t go soon, the weather will be his enemy and he will have to leave it unchecked until next spring. .’
If that was true, Babur thought, Shaibani Khan had no time to waste on sieges. He would want to reoccupy the city, garrison it and be on his way. It probably also meant he would keep his word not to attack them. He would not want to expend men and resources — or risk stirring up the other Timurid chieftains and rulers of the region — by harassing Babur’s retreating forces.
‘I have decided.’ Babur stood up. ‘I will accept the Uzbek terms — provided that our men are allowed to depart fully armed.’ Then he added, with as much certainty as he could muster, ‘The people will be saved and,
Next morning, Babur watched from the walls of the Kok Saray as Kasim, his ambassador, accompanied by two soldiers carrying the green standards of Samarkand, rode slowly through the Turquoise Gate towards Shaibani Khan’s camp.
Despite his fine words to his people, this was surrender — something he’d never done before, never believed he would do. The knowledge sickened him. Yet he had known from the beginning of the campaign that the odds were stacked against him. In the end he had had no real choice other than to agree to Shaibani Khan’s terms. It had clearly been the right thing to do for the sake of the citizens of Samarkand but the thought of retreat — of ceding the city to a hated foe — left a bitter taste in his mouth, like almonds left too long on the tree. Even so, this way he, too, would be free and have the opportunity to re-build his fortunes and those of his family, provided he retained his self-belief and determination which he knew he would. He was still a young man and had not been born or brought up to fail but to achieve great things. He would fulfil his destiny.
Babur mounted his horse and, without a backward glance at the tall Kok Saray, rode out. His bodyguard, Baburi among them, was behind him and at the back, well protected by cavalrymen and screened by leather curtains, his mother, sister and grandmother were with their attendants in a bullock cart.
His wife and her women were in another cart, escorted by the Mangligh crossbowmen who would now return to Zaamin. Ayisha had asked Babur whether she might go with them to visit her father and he had agreed. As far as he was concerned, it was the only bright spot in one of the darkest moments of his life.
The rest of Babur’s forces were already riding northwards through the city towards the Shaykhzada Gate through which, Shaibani Khan had decreed, Babur must make his exit. In just a few hours’ time, Shaibani Khan himself, flanked by his dark-robed Uzbek warriors, would ride in through the glorious Turquoise Gate.
The city was sullen and still. The windows and doors of the houses were mostly shuttered and barred as Babur and his party passed by, though occasionally a citizen would stick out his head and spit audibly. Babur didn’t blame them. He would have liked to declare that he would be back, that this was just a temporary setback in what would be a golden future for Samarkand under a Timurid ruler, not a vile Uzbek, but why should they believe him? However straight his back as he rode, however stern his countenance, their eyes could not penetrate his body and see the steely determination in his heart to succeed.
It was midday and the sun was beating down. They would not ride far today, Babur thought. They would circle to the east and make camp on the far side of Qolba Hill. At least from there he would not have to gaze on Samarkand. Tomorrow he and his counsellors would consider where best to go. Esan Dawlat was urging him to seek out her people far to the east beyond Ferghana. Perhaps she was right, though Babur’s instincts were to retreat to the mountains to some quiet hideaway not so far away and bide his time. .
Ahead, he could see the high curved arch of the Shaykhzada Gate. As he approached, Baisanghar rode towards him. He looked gaunt and drawn. Of course, this was his city — he had been born here: surrendering it to the Uzbeks must hurt him deeply. His sense of loss would be no less than Babur’s.
‘The men are drawn up in the meadows beyond the gate, Majesty, but there is more. Shaibani Khan’s ambassador requests a further audience of you.’
‘Very well. Bring him before me once I have re-joined my men.’
Babur’s forces — no more than two thousand now — were a wretched, ragged bunch compared to the army with which he had taken Samarkand. Death, wounds, desertions, starvation and the disease it had brought in its wake, had taken their toll. And there were no bright pennants in yellow or green proclaiming them warriors of Ferghana or Samarkand. They were neither any more.
The men were silent as Babur rode towards them. How many, now that they were clear of the city, would slip back to their tribal lands or go in search of other rulers able to reward them better?
He watched as the stout Uzbek ambassador approached on horseback over the parched ground. What did he want? To gloat on behalf of his master?
‘Well?’
‘ To mark the new understanding between you and my lord, he has come to a joyous decision. He will take Her Royal Highness, your sister, as a wife.’
‘What?’ Babur’s hand reached instinctively for his sword. For a second he thought of the ambassador’s head bouncing away, spurting blood as the melon he had kicked had leaked its juice.
‘I said that my lord, Shaibani Khan, has decided to marry your sister, Khanzada. . He will take her now. .’
‘Majesty. .’ Babur heard Baisanghar call in alarm.
Babur looked up to see lines of dark-clad Uzbek riders, bows at the ready, come sweeping round from the direction of the Iron Gate. In a moment, Babur and his men were surrounded on three sides. On the fourth they were hemmed in by the stout city walls. An ambush. .
‘So, this is how Shaibani Khan keeps his word. .’ Babur sprang from his horse, pulled the ambassador from his and had his dagger to the man’s throat. The Uzbek was strong and tried to pull away but Babur allowed his blade to pierce the man’s skin. As a bead of dark red blood welled up, the man ceased his struggling.
‘My lord has not broken his word,’ the ambassador gasped. ‘He promised you safe passage and you will have it. All he seeks is a wife.’
‘I’ll see my sister dead before I give her into the hands of savages,’ Babur yelled, and released the man, who tumbled to the ground.
‘It will not only be your sister who dies.’ The ambassador held the end of his turban to his neck to staunch the wound. ‘If you reject my lord’s offer he will take it as an insult and you will all die — you, your family and your pitiful army. And he will destroy the city and rebuild it over the citizens’ bleached bones. It is your choice. .’
Babur looked at the Uzbek arrows trained on him and his men. He also looked at the pale faces of Baisanghar and Baburi who, the moment Babur had attacked the ambassador, had rushed forward, swords drawn. The anger and powerlessness he felt were written on their faces. Again, he had no choice. It would have been one thing to lead out his men in one last glorious sally, quite another to submit them to pointless butchery, like animals in the hunt when beaters drive them into a circle to be shot down at will.
Scanning the Uzbek lines, Babur looked for the commanding figure of Shaibani Khan, wild thoughts of offering him single combat running through his mind. But, of course, the Uzbek leader was not there: he would be preparing to ride back into Samarkand. A meeting with a throneless king would be beneath him.
Babur walked towards the bullock cart, two hundred yards away, where his unsuspecting sister was sitting with their mother and grandmother. He hesitated, then pulled back the leather curtains that concealed them. They looked up at him with alarm. Then, as they heard what he had to say, they cried out in disbelief. Tears welling in his eyes, he turned away, but Khanzada’s pleas not to abandon her to the desires of a wild Uzbek and the cries of Kutlugh Nigar to spare her daughter followed him. ‘I will come for you, Khanzada. I promise you. . I will come. .’ Babur shouted.
But Khanzada was past hearing.
Chapter 12
