But had they really been so foolish? Babur wondered. They had preserved their charmed existence until now. It was a shock to realise that with Samarkand, Ferghana, Kunduz and Khorasan all beneath the Uzbek yoke, he was now the only Timurid ruler left alive. It was a great responsibility, a sacred trust. Whatever the condition of his army, whatever the state of his supplies, before long he must march out against Shaibani Khan to defend what was left of Timur’s world or die in the attempt.
The reports of the Uzbek mistreatment of the royal family, particularly of the women — probably true though they had a certain formulaic quality — yet again concentrated his thoughts painfully on Khanzada. Was she still alive? He had long comforted himself that she was more useful to the Uzbek as a live bargaining counter than dead. That was the argument he advanced time and again to put heart into his mother. With her own mother dead, now more than ever Kutlugh Nigar needed to believe that she would see Khanzada again. He could never share with her his darker thoughts — that Shaibani Khan’s desire to avenge the abuses he had suffered as a boy in Samarkand was unabated, that he seemed to glory in humilating others and might particularly relish debasing a Timurid princess.
‘Majesty. .’ Baisanghar’s anxious voice interrupted his bleak thoughts.
Babur drew himself up. ‘I’m not going to wait for Shaibani Khan to bring his army to Kabul. In a week’s time we ride against him with whatever forces we can muster. How many troops do we have already?’
‘About eight thousand.’
It was nothing compared with the size of the Uzbek horde but what had Esan Dawlat always said?: ‘Never despair while you still breathe.’
‘I must bring forward the plans I have long been forming to oppose Shaibani Khan once more. Send messengers at once — tonight — to all the tribes, even the Kafirs. Tell them that any who come will be free of all levies on grain and livestock for five years and that I will pay them well. Tell them what has happened in Herat and remind them that Shaibani Khan is the enemy of us all. He destroys anyone who is not an Uzbek. .’
That night, with only Baburi for company, Babur climbed up to the battlements. It was one of his favourite places and usually brought him peace. In the meadows below, cooking fires glowed red in the darkness as shepherds and travelling merchants prepared their evening meal. Babur could hear voices calling and laughing, the bleating of sheep and the coughing of camels. Beyond, Kabul lay quiet within its girdle of walls. What was going through the citizens’ minds? The caravan trains pouring into the city from the west must be bringing as many rumours as trade goods. The people must know of the catastrophe that had overtaken Khorasan and that Shaibani Khan would soon be moving in their direction.
Baburi, too, was sombre.
‘What are you thinking?’ Babur was curious.
‘I was wondering where we’ll both be a month, maybe a year from now. .’
‘You mean you’re wondering whether we’ll still be alive?’
‘Partly, but also what will have happened.’
‘Are you afraid?’
‘I’m not sure — that’s another thing I was thinking about. . Are you?’
It was Babur’s turn to ponder. ‘No, I’m not afraid. I’m anxious but that’s not the same thing. I’m worried what will happen to my family. The world I was born into — the world my father and his father knew — is changing. These past years, since I lost Ferghana, I have been a wanderer. Even here, though I am a king again, all I have, all I am, is trembling in the balance. If I cannot defeat Shaibani Khan, everything I’ve ever done will have been pointless and everything I want preserved will be swept away. .’
‘You’re worried no one will remember you?’
‘No, it’s more than that. I worry that I won’t deserve to be remembered. .’
It was so dark now that Babur couldn’t see Baburi’s face but he felt him gently lay a hand on his shoulder — a rare gesture that did something to lessen his sense of an awesome burden. Baburi was reminding him that in the coming conflict he wouldn’t be alone. .
Babur brushed the sweat from his face and slipped his feet out of the stirrups to stretch his legs. They’d been riding for six long days now, their pace inevitably slowed by the cumbersome baggage train carrying their equipment. Soon, though, they should be approaching the Shibartu Pass that would take them westward over the mountains towards Khorasan. Once across the pass, they would enter territories where they might encounter Uzbek raiding parties. . but he must be patient. There was no way he could tackle Shaibani Khan head-on in a pitched battle. He must build confidence among his troops and win new allies by successes gained using the tactics of his adolescent days as a hit-and-run raider from the hills. He must ambush enemy columns and disappear before they could concentrate their forces against him. He must capture isolated fortresses and use the booty and weapons within to win more adherents until gradually he became strong enough to take on large formations of Shaibani Khan’s men.
Reining in his grey horse, Babur called a halt. They would camp for the night on this steep, grassy hillside, with a commanding view that ensured their safety from ambush, He summoned his military council. They were an ill-assorted group — many just tribal leaders in lambskin jackets whose rule over a mud-brick settlement or two entitled them to sit alongside seasoned commanders like Baisanghar. With fewer than ten thousand troops he needed every man willing to ride with him, even unruly tribesmen. And he needed them to believe in him, despite the odds they were facing.
‘In a few days we’ll be over the pass. With luck, those Uzbek devils won’t be expecting us. That’s our strength. They’ll think we’re meekly awaiting our fate in Kabul, like lambs in the butcher’s pen. Until our scouts and spies can tell us more, it’s too risky to advance to Herat itself. But we are warriors of the hills and mountains, we have the cunning of the wolf who doesn’t rush blindly among the herds of deer but waits, hidden, knowing that if he is patient he can sink his fangs into the flanks of a straggler and taste blood. . The wolf’s way must be ours. So, tell your men to keep their weapons sharpened and oiled and to stay alert.’
The nodding of heads and exchange of glances showed him his words had met their mark. ‘And remember the words of the Holy Book: “With God’s help, many a small force has defeated a large one.”’
‘About four hundred Uzbeks, Majesty, just three or four miles away on the far banks of a river. It looked like they were preparing to ford, spreading the baggage more equally between the horses and pack-animals to swim them over. . If we’re quick we can attack while they’re still crossing. .’ The scout was breathing hard and the coat of his chestnut gelding was damp with sweat.
Babur grinned at Baburi and Baisanghar. At last, after two weeks of edging westward, of keeping beneath the cover of the dense forests that clothed the hills, there was a chance of action. The Uzbeks would be preoccupied, securing their shields to their backs and wrapping their bows and quivers to keep them dry. And their other weapons — swords, daggers and throwing axes — would be useless to them in the water.
‘Baisanghar, assemble the advance guard.’ With Baisanghar’s advice, Babur had selected five hundred of his best warriors and divided them into groups of fifty, each under its own commander. They would be more than enough to deal with an Uzbek raiding party. The rest of the army and the baggage could stay where it was unless reinforcements were needed.
Ten minutes later, with the scout on a fresh horse beside him, Babur set out with the vanguard along a sheep track leading through softly rolling, clover-clad hills towards the river. Luckily it had rained in the night and the spongy ground would make it harder for listening ears to detect the thud of galloping hoofs. Even so, it was good the scout was taking them to a point a few hundred yards upstream from the Uzbeks where a sharp ox-bow bend beyond a plantation of willows should conceal their approach.
Babur glanced down at the steel breastplate expertly made for him in the foundries of Kabul. His coat of light chain-mail fitted well and his sword Alamgir was at his side. He was ready. The emotions surging up inside him made him want to yell his head off, though he knew he couldn’t. . not yet anyway. .
Two miles further on and the track was broadening out — Babur’s men could ride six abreast now — but there was less cover. Babur frowned, conferred briefly with the scout, then raised his hand to halt his men and summoned the youth he had recently chosen as his
‘Ride quickly down the column. Tell my commanders to keep their men at a trot, bows and quivers ready and their mouths shut. When we’re almost at the bend in the river we’ll halt and I’ll send the scout ahead. If he reports
