Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (10 page)

‘Majesty, this is insanity.’

‘Perhaps.’ Babur felt a visceral excitement uncurling within him. In a few hours he would be inside Samarkand.

‘At least let me come with you.’

‘No, Wazir Khan. Who’ll pay attention to a ragged youth? But there are men in Samarkand who know you. I’m safer alone.’

For once Wazir Khan seemed nonplussed. The scar across his blind eye looked more puckered than usual. ‘But you are the king,’ he said stubbornly. ‘What will happen to Ferghana if you do not return?’

‘I will return. Now let me go.’

Babur mounted the stocky, sure-footed dark pony he had chosen and, without a backward glance, rode off into the night.

Moonlight silvered the rough track following the westward course of the stream that Babur, Wazir Khan and the farmer had ridden along the previous night. Every inch of the way seemed burned into his brain. He was riding through the Khan Yurti meadow where – as his father had so often told him – Timur had once pitched his pleasure pavilions in summer to lie beneath the silken canopies and listen to the waters, as cool and pure as those coursing through the gardens of Paradise. Now the sound of rippling water seemed to carry the great Timur’s voice: ‘Go forward. Dare everything.’

After an hour the stream branched and Babur followed the left-hand fork, which he knew flowed south within half a mile of the great Turquoise Gate. He must be careful. Keen eyes watching from the battlements might spy even a lone rider if he ventured too close. He would keep to the far side of the stream where he could merge into the shadows of the willow trees along its banks and move insubstantial as a ghost.

Wazir Khan was right, of course. This was insanity. If Babur wished to know the city’s weak spots and the mood of its inhabitants after all these months of siege he should have sent spies into the tunnel, not gone himself – alone. But from the moment the farmer had uttered his few, hesitant words, Babur had felt the hand of destiny thrust him forward.

The sky was cloudless and clear above the drooping willow
branches. Across the stream, he could make out the shadowy outline of the city. A few minutes more and the Turquoise Gate would rear like a dragon out of the darkness. One day soon, Babur promised himself, I’ll ride through that gate at the head of my men, not sneak into my city like a thief in the night.

A small creature – a mouse, perhaps, or a river rat – ran beneath his pony’s hoofs causing it to skitter sideways, neighing in alarm. Babur slipped down and ran his hand soothingly along the pony’s soft, shaggy neck. It would be better to go forward on foot from here. Babur pulled off the bridle and the thick folded blanket on which he had been sitting, then turned the pony loose to find its own way back to the camp, as he had agreed with Wazir Khan. This time tomorrow night Wazir Khan would be waiting for him here among the willows with a fresh mount.

Another eight hundred yards of stealing southwards through the soft darkness and he could see the red pinpricks of torches burning on either side of the Needlemaker’s Gate. Tall and narrow, it was one of the more modest of Samarkand’s six gates. In ordinary times it was the entrance for farmers and tradespeople. Timur would seldom have passed through it. For him there were the mighty Iron Gate and the blue-tiled Turquoise Gate where, in the chambers high above the entrance arches, men would have pounded the kettledrums and blown harsh-voiced trumpets to announce his approach.

It was time to cross the stream which was deep at this point – almost a river. Babur waded in, bracing himself against the surging waters that rose almost to his shoulders. He was nearly across when his feet slipped on the tumbled stones and he lost his footing. Cold waters closed over his head, choking him, and he felt his body being carried along. He managed to thrust an arm out of the water and winced as his hand struck what felt like the branch of a tree. Trying again he managed to grip another branch and, using both arms now, hauled himself on to the bank.

Gasping, he pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes and looked around. At least he was on the right side of the stream. Instinctively he checked for Timur’s ring, which he had secured on a leather thong round his neck. As his fingers came into contact with the
rich, heavy metal he grunted with relief. He crouched in silence, shivering and listening intently. Nothing. Not the crack of a twig or the soft beat of a bat’s wing. He peered towards the dim outlines of the Needlemaker’s Gate. Creeping forward he came to the low, tumbled walls of an old orchard where, amid the pomegranate trees, lay the entrance to the secret tunnel concealed by a heap of dead branches.

Last night there had been no guard. Babur prayed it would be the same tonight. Also that he would not encounter anyone in the tunnel. He must be quick – but, above all, careful. Suppressing the urge to dart forward towards the opening, he forced himself to find a hiding-place in the hollow of an old tree and sit still, watching and listening. You were named for the tiger, Babur told himself, so be like him tonight. Shun the open, love the shadows and master your impatience.

After a while, a young fox trotted by. Its sharp nose twitched as it caught Babur’s scent but it ran lightly on. The animal’s composure reassured him that no other human was close by and he uncoiled from his hiding-place. His coarse brown cotton robe and sheepskin jerkin – the garb of a humble peasant – were still sodden and cold against his skin. He shook himself like a wet dog, then rubbed himself vigorously.

Heart pounding, he approached the entrance to the tunnel and pushed aside the branches. Then he wriggled forward on his stomach and pulled the branches back into place behind him. Stretching out his hands he felt for the edge of the wooden trapdoor covering the tunnel entrance. There it was! As he gripped it some tiny creature – an ant or an earwig – ran across his fingers. Carefully, Babur raised it and felt inside. The narrow shaft was lined with bricks and wooden supports had been driven into the sides. He climbed in, and bracing his feet on two of the supports ducked his head and pulled the door back in place over him.

He was in pitch darkness and a dank, unwholesome, earthy smell filled his nostrils as if something – or someone – had died in here, which perhaps they had. Samarkand had had a glorious past but also a violent one. Who had first burrowed this passageway? he
wondered. Had they been digging their way in or fleeing a terrible fate?

Cautiously Babur lowered himself to the bottom of the shaft, which he knew, from his previous night’s exploration, was only about ten feet deep. But where did the tunnel lead? He felt his way forward, keeping his hands pressed to the walls on either side of him. The ground squelched beneath his feet and seemed to slope down. He slipped and slithered and was relieved when, after a few paces, he felt hard stone.

The roof was low and Babur bent his head as he moved on through the darkness. This would be no place to encounter an enemy. How could a man defend himself when he could not stand upright and had no room to swing a sword? Not that he had brought his father’s eagle-hilted sword with him. That would hardly be a weapon to be found on a peasant boy if by any ill twist of fortune he was captured. But without it he felt vulnerable.

It was also getting hard to breathe, hunched as he was in the dank, fetid air. He hurried on, counting the paces – ten, twenty, thirty. He had calculated that six hundred would bring him to the city walls but he had no idea how far the tunnel extended. He tried to keep counting. Ninety, a hundred. Sweat dripped from his brow and ran into his mouth. Impatiently he flicked away the salty beads with his tongue. A hundred and fifty . . . The passageway was broadening now, wide enough for two men to pass. Babur went faster. He was almost running. Four hundred . . .

Then he stopped. What was that noise? He caught the unmistakable rumble of male voices and a raucous laugh. All of a sudden the passage ahead was lit by an orange glow. Babur could make out the rough walls and see that, a few yards ahead, it twisted sharply to the left. The voices were growing louder, echoing in the confined space. In a moment their owners would round the corner and see him. Babur turned to flee into the darkness. Almost sobbing with frustration he ran back and flattened himself in an alcove. But the voices were dying away now. If the men were guards sent to check the tunnel they had not been very thorough. He allowed himself a grim smile. Had they been Wazir Khan’s men they’d be flayed alive for their negligence.

Babur waited. Darkness again and silence. He breathed more deeply and after a few moments moved on again. He had lost count of his paces now but surely he must be near the city walls. He edged round the sharp, left-hand bend and onwards. After another five minutes he could make out pale light ahead, not the orange glow of a torch but the chill radiance of the moon and stars.

He dragged the back of his hand across his sweating forehead and moved slowly forwards, back against the wall, exposing the smallest surface of his body in case a guard lurked at the far end, bow-string taut, arrow ready to sing out. But ahead was nothing but silence. The city would be sleeping. There was enough light for him to make out his damp, muddy clothes and hands. No need to fear that anyone would take him for a Timurid prince. Inside the city he could blend into the populace, just another ragged youth anxious for a piece of yesterday’s bread.

The tunnel ended in a huge circular pit filled with a few inches of putrid water, like the shaft of a disused well, Babur thought. Peering up, he could see the star-pricked canopy of the night sky. Quietly he began to climb up the side of the shaft where metal spikes had been driven into the wall. How many of these tunnels were there? No wonder the enemy had seemed to know his every plan. Spies had been creeping out like rats to infest his camp and steal home with his secrets. But now, Babur thought, it’s my turn. I’m the rat.

Gripping the carved stone parapet around the top of the well he heaved himself out and dropped down into the shadows. He was in a courtyard, empty but for two pale skinny dogs asleep in the moonlight. Babur saw the rhythmic motion of their ribs and heard their soft whimpers. What a way for Timur’s heir to arrive in mighty Samarkand – stinking and ragged, with only mongrels for company.

And where exactly was he? Babur wished he knew. All he could do was hide and wait for people to rise and begin to move about. He needed their camouflage. Shivering, he spied a pile of woven matting against a wall. That would do. He slid underneath it and
pulled it over him, concealing himself. Samarkand, he thought. Samarkand! Then, without warning, sleep claimed his exhausted body.

‘This is my patch! Take your stinking carrots somewhere else.’

Babur jolted awake and peered through the matting. The place that, just a couple of hours earlier, had looked so desolate now thronged with people. In the half-light of dawn, they seemed to be setting up a market. The voice that had woken him belonged to a tall, skinny old man flapping about in dark, dusty robes. Having secured the piece of ground he wanted, he squatted and pulled some mouldy looking onions from his pockets.

Cautiously, Babur slid out of his hiding-place. Ragged, pinched-looking people were arranging small piles of equally shrivelled vegetables on pieces of cloth – carrots that were mottled and sprouting, a few wrinkled radishes. An elderly woman, veil slipping carelessly from her furrowed face, arranged a rat with the care of an embalmer preparing a body for burial. Others, without anything to sell but clearly too poor to buy, were standing around miserably and hungrily.

These people are starving, Babur thought, in astonishment. The siege had been going on for months and he hadn’t expected food stocks to be high, but this . . . A baby’s thin mewling caught his attention. A young woman too emaciated to have milk in her breasts and with hopelessness in her eyes dipped a corner of her veil into a jar of water and thrust it between her child’s questing lips.

‘It’s alright for them holed up in the citadel,’ the old man said, then spat venomously, the phlegm narrowly avoiding his stack of seven onions. ‘They’ve taken everything from us. They can last out for years, filling their bellies beneath their fine silk robes with our food. Where’s the justice in that?’

‘Silence, old man, you’ll get us all into trouble. It will be as the grand vizier says. When the winter comes, the aggressors will leave as they did last time.’

‘And then what? Pay more taxes to the vizier in gratitude! That
thieving son of a whore! And they say he’d like our wives and daughters as well. His harem is twice the size of the last king’s, may his soul rest in Paradise. I’ve heard tell he enjoys three women a night.’

‘Be at peace, old man, your pockmarked wife and daughter are too ill-favoured even for that randy goat,’ another man jibed.

As the onion-seller’s voice rose angrily in defence of the beauty of his womenfolk, Babur slipped from the square and down a side alley. Everywhere it was the same. Pale people, with hunger etched on their faces, moving slowly, wraithlike, as if every reserve of energy had been drained from them. He watched an old woman grin in toothless delight as she scooped up the body of a dead cat, holding its limp form as tenderly as if it had been a baby. He was surprised that the two dogs he had seen asleep by the well had survived so long.