side.
‘Go first. You’re heavier — I’ll take some of the strain.’
The mullah didn’t hesitate. Babur turned his back to the drop and, taking the improvised rope in his left hand, passed it behind his back so that he could grip it with his right hand, then braced himself against it. At a nod from Babur, Husayn lowered himself cautiously over the edge. At once, the material seemed stretched to near breaking point and the knot between the sashes began to slip.
‘Hurry!’ Babur yelled, and felt the rope go slack. He peered down into the street and saw the mullah lying in a tangle of red robes, rubbing his shoulder. The sound of angry, excited voices and of the trapdoor to the roof being pushed open told him he had no more time. He tightened the knot again, gripped the rope and, trusting to fate, leaped. . He braced his feet against the walls, bouncing off them as he descended, but suddenly his hands slipped.
His landing was softened, though not much, by a stack of wood. The mullah was still lying groaning where he had fallen, and flushed faces were looking down on them from the roof. The men were shouting obscenities. Any moment now and they’d be coming down the makeshift rope themselves. As he struggled breathlessly to heave the mullah to his feet, Babur heard the clattering of hoofs. Some of his bodyguard were galloping in single file down the street towards him, two of them already fitting arrows to their bowstrings, ready to fire at Babur’s assailants on the roof who quickly melted from view.
‘Majesty, we’ve been searching for you ever since we became separated. Quickly! There are mobs all over the city. .’
One of his men dismounted to offer him his horse. Wearily Babur staggered to his feet and jumped up. With two of his men riding double and the mullah, still moaning, behind another guard, the little group made swiftly for the safety of the Kok Saray.
‘I have withdrawn my armies westwards to protect my own borders and cannot offer you the assistance you seek. Indeed, why should I? You have spat in the face of my generosity and insulted my religion. Mullah Husayn has told me what passed in Samarkand — how he was reviled, insulted and hunted through its streets like a dog. In spurning him and the true way, you and your people have spurned me. May God the merciful forgive your crimes against him.’
Babur stared down at Shah Ismail’s letter. It looked as if the mullah hadn’t told him that Babur — in person — had saved his miserable neck. Slowly, deliberately, he ripped the dark red wax seal stamped with the lion — the personal emblem of the shah — from the bottom of the letter, which he tore into small pieces. Then he thrust the lot into the heart of the bright green flames of the wormwood fire, kept burning day and night in his chamber in an attempt to defeat the chill that, at the height of winter, with snow drifting against the city walls, seemed to seep from the very stones of the Kok Saray.
‘It is only as we expected, Majesty. .’ Baisanghar said quietly.
‘I know — but I still can’t believe the shah will let the Uzbeks take the city. . I didn’t think his malice would extend that far. .’ Babur watched the wax melt and the paper flare and burn, taking with them his hopes.
‘He is used to being obeyed. Once he had you in his power he expected you would yield to everything he wanted.’
‘That is just as Baburi warned. . I’ve been naive. But I did not believe the shah was dishonest. . he never said that I or my people must convert and he must know he could not have coerced them without spilling blood. As it was, it took us a month to quieten the city after Mullah Husayn’s sermon.’
‘At least the Persians have gone, Majesty. .’
‘Yes, but at the wrong time. I should have rid myself of them as soon as I became king. Then the people would have been less suspicious of me. Instead, I let them stay long enough to undermine me and then, just when I needed them to protect Samarkand, they left. The Uzbeks have already retaken Bokhara. As soon as the winter ends they will fall on us. Even though the system of messengers I have introduced tells me that Kabul and its territories are quiet, I cannot summon reinforcements from there or I will leave it vulnerable to attack or rebellion, just as when I first took Samarkand and unthinkingly hazarded Ferghana. I will, of course, fortify and provision the city but do I have the support of the people? I can never hold the city if I face enemies within the walls as well as outside.’
‘I don’t know, Majesty.’
‘No, Baisangar, neither do I. .’
What was the point of looking back? Already Samarkand’s wondrous, fantastical outline was fading into the pinks, mauves and oranges of a spectacular sunset. It was as if Nature herself was celebrating his departure. Perhaps tomorrow an equally glorious dawn would unfurl to welcome the Uzbeks as they swept in from their encampment five miles north of the city.
Who would have thought that, with Shaibani Khan dead, they’d have found new leaders and organised themselves so well? The Uzbeks were like a column of ants: when some were crushed, others surged forward and their relentless advance never faltered. .
Not only had the shah refused to help him — damning Babur as a heretic king — but he had enraged the citizens of Samarkand yet further. Almost a month ago, during the first days of spring, Persian troops had overrun an isolated Uzbek encampment west of Bokhara where many women and children, as well as warriors, had been living out the winter. Rounding up their prisoners, the Persians had quickly made clear that they were not simply punishing the Uzbeks for their past attacks on the shah and his territories, but for the divisions between Shiite and Sunni. In the mosques of Persia, at Shah Ismail’s urging, the mullahs were now declaring all Sunnis enemies of God. And the Uzbeks — like Babur and the people of Samarkand — were Sunni. The Persians had offered the Uzbek men, women and children the chance to become Shiite then killed brutally and in cold blood those who did not immediately accept.
The inhabitants of Samarkand had made their feelings clear to Babur: if the Uzbeks wanted to return, let them. Better the enemies of their blood than the enemies of their faith. The brutal truth was that they trusted the Uzbeks to protect them from the shah and Shiitism — they didn’t trust Babur. He was fatally compromised by his previous dalliance with the shah. In vain Babur had reminded them of the horrors perpetrated by Shaibani Khan but it seemed they had short memories. Faced with near rebellion and demands from the Uzbeks, galloping down in their tens of thousands from Karshi and other strongholds in the north, to relinquish the city, Babur had issued an ultimatum to his citizens: ‘Help me defend the city — our civilisation and culture — or I shall return to Kabul.’ They had refused his call.
At least his hold on Kabul remained firm and his family were safe there. He had sent Maham, Gulrukh and his sons ahead with a strong escort. Now he must follow. As so often in recent weeks, he thought of Baburi. His friend had been right all along. Babur’s passion for Samarkand — which had never truly belonged to him — had blinded him. Now he must pay for his folly, forget Samarkand and begin again from Kabul to seek other lands in which to satisfy his ambition for empire.
But he had one small consolation. He had returned the shah’s stud stallion — gelded.
Part IV
Chapter 20
On a day of shimmering heat in the summer of 1522, Babur’s sons were in the meadows beneath the walls of the citadel of Kabul. Fourteen-year-old Humayun was galloping his horse — a chestnut mare with shining coat and
