Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (34 page)

All that the party had to shelter them were four felt tents and some fleeces rolled together round poles that three men – one behind another with the pole resting on their shoulders – could just about carry. Babur had taken his turn, his back bending as his feet fought for purchase.

After another day, they should be over the pass. In the valleys below there would be villages to provide them with shelter and later with horses. That night, lying beneath the fleeces, Babur took
comfort from that thought, as he did from the companionable warmth of the bodies of Baburi and his men pressed tightly around him.

Caught urinating on the ice of a frozen stream, the boy gawped in amazement two days later at the unkempt party stumbling towards him from the direction of the pass. Then he turned and fled, slipping and slithering to the village a few hundred yards further downhill.

‘Shall I send men ahead, Majesty?’ Baisanghar asked.

Babur nodded. Though he was numb with cold, relief and pride began to pump through him, reviving him. He had done it. He had brought his family and his men safely through the mountains. That they were a ragged few, rather than the armies he had once commanded, didn’t matter for the present.

A few minutes later, Baisanghar’s soldiers returned with what looked – beneath the layers of thick quilted coats and the dark woollen cloth wound round his head – like an elderly man. They must have told him who Babur was for he fell at his feet, touching his forehead to the cold snow.

‘There’s no need for that.’ It was a long time since Babur had received such obeisance. He took the man by the shoulders and helped him gently to his feet. ‘We are weary and have come far. And we have women with us. Will you give us shelter?’

‘Few cross the mountains so late in the year,’ the man said. ‘I am the headman here. You are welcome in our village.’

That night, Babur sat cross-legged by the fire in the headman’s simple, mud-walled house. The lower floor was a single room with bolsters of wool to sleep on – Esan Dawlat, Kutlugh Nigar and the headman’s wife were sharing a small room above, reached by a flight of wooden stairs outside. Baburi was next to him, and both were examining the black marks and blisters on their feet left by frostbite.

‘Sometimes I thought I’d never walk again – even if we survived.’ Baburi winced as he touched a tender spot.

‘We were lucky. We could easily have lost our way or fallen down a ravine.’

‘Was it luck or that mighty “destiny” of yours?’ Baburi smiled. Babur also smiled but made no reply.

Despite the early-morning mist, Babur saw the hare as it jumped out from behind a low bush then froze, ears erect, to snuff the air. He was downwind of it – the hare couldn’t know he was there. Carefully he put an arrow to his bow-string and pulled it back, eyes never leaving the animal that, satisfied it was safe, was enjoying a brisk scratch.

Suddenly behind Babur came the sound of running feet and the hare took off. Cursing, he turned to see one of his men, agitated and panting. ‘Majesty, an ambassador has come from Kabul. He has been seeking you for the past two months, ever since the snows began to melt. He is waiting in the headman’s house.’

Irritation forgotten, Babur secured his quiver, slung his bow over his shoulder and ran down the track towards the village. The message must be from his father’s cousin, the King of Kabul . . . but the two men had been estranged and there had been little contact between them that Babur could recall.

The ambassador, wearing a peacock blue robe, was more grandly dressed than anyone Babur had seen in a long time. Feathers, held by a jewelled clasp, waved from the crest of his dark blue turban and his two attendants were clad in blue trimmed with gold. They must have changed while they were waiting for his men to find him. Babur smiled inwardly. No one would ride about the mountains in such garb . . . All the same, he was conscious for the first time in many months of his own appearance – his long hair, simple yellow wool tunic and buckskin trousers.

But the ambassador didn’t seem perturbed. Relief that his search was over was written in his features as Babur strode towards him.

The ambassador bowed low. ‘Greetings, Majesty.’

‘You are welcome. They tell me you come from Kabul. What do you want of me?’

‘Majesty, I bring news that is sad but also glorious. The king, your father’s cousin, Ulughbeg Mirza, died during the winter leaving
no heir. His last surviving son had already died of a fever two months before. My message from the Royal Council of Kabul is this. The throne can be yours if you will come. The council believes the inhabitants will welcome another ruler from Timur’s illustrious stock, particularly one proven in battle and still young. With the council’s support, which they pledge you on the Holy Book, you will have no rivals.’

Babur could not hide his surprise. Never in his wildest and most desperate moments had he thought of the kingdom of Kabul. It was so far away – more than five hundred miles. To reach it he must cross the broad Oxus and the twisting, knife-sharp passes of the Hindu Kush. Even then it would be a gamble. By the time he arrived much might have changed. The members of the royal council who, for whatever reason, seemed so generously disposed towards him might have been toppled or bribed to support another candidate.

Yet he couldn’t stay here, hunting rabbits and hares, as another year passed him by and also, Babur thought, with growing elation and excitement, Kabul was far from the rapacious Shaibani Khan. It was also rich and powerful. Soldiers would flock to him again. There, he could rebuild his power and plan his next move.

‘Thank you,’ he said, to the messenger. ‘I will give you my answer in a short while.’ But he already knew. He was going to Kabul.

‘
Y
ou followed me far from your homes, braving danger and hardship out of loyalty to me and your hatred of our blood enemy, the barbarous Uzbeks. I led you over high mountains and through icy passes. Our bodies warmed each other in our tents at night as the winds tried to blow us to oblivion. We shared our meagre food equally. Never in the nine years since I became a king have I felt so proud. You may be few in number but you have the tiger’s spirit.’ Babur’s green eyes glinted as he looked round the circle of faces before him. His men were so few that he knew each by name, his clan, where he had earned his scars. He had spoken only the truth. He was proud of his ragged little army.

‘Soon I will be able to reward your devotion. My father’s cousin, the King of Kabul, has died. Respecting both my royal lineage and the reputation I have – with your help – built as a courageous, undaunted leader, the people of Kabul have chosen me as their new ruler, if I will come. And I will – even if I have to go alone. But I know that you will trust me once more and come with me. But, more than this, will you send word to your villages so that others may join us to share in our good fortune and fulfil the destiny that is the birthright of us all?’ Babur raised his arms as if he was already celebrating a great triumph.

From all around a mighty cheer arose. Who would have thought
that just a few dozen voices could raise such a sound? Babur glanced at Baburi, Baisanghar and Kasim beside him, roaring with the rest. A fresh energy was rising inside him . . .

A month later Babur was in his tent, the flaps thrown open to the sun and the fresh, warm breeze. Word of his changed fortunes had carried swiftly, as he had hoped. The ragged party he had led from Ferghana now numbered more than four thousand warriors from Mongol nomads whose chiefs tied the
tugh
, or yak-tail standard, to the tails of their horses in battle, to Timurid chiefs displaced by Shaibani Khan. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe that many felt any great loyalty to him or his cause: they were with him for reward. But their readiness to undertake such a long, hazardous journey showed a pleasing confidence that he would succeed. His reputation had spoken for him.

Babur had already put the gold the ambassador had brought from the royal council in Kabul to good use, buying weapons, strong horses, herds of fat sheep and tents of supple hides lined with felt that kept out the draughts. He and his army had crossed the smooth, broad Oxus with ease, loading horses, pack-mules, camels and baggage carts on to the flat-ended, shallow-draughted boats that the skilful rivermen had, over two days and nights, ferried to and fro, digging their long wooden poles into the sandy riverbed to propel their craft. Some of these boatmen – impressed by the size of Babur’s army – had thrown aside their poles and joined him.

His advance south-west had begun to feel like a triumphal procession but he must not became complacent. Though Shaibani Khan and his forces were far behind, Babur knew from the accounts he had studied of Timur’s expeditions and from the stories of the old woman, Rehana, that many dangers lurked among the frozen peaks of the Hindu Kush, which lay between him and Kabul. He was glad he had left his mother and grandmother, with soldiers to protect them, behind the sturdy walls of the fortress of Kishm, given to him by one of his new allies. Once he had taken Kabul
he would send for them, but until then they would be safe. He wished the same was true of Khanzada, whose anguished face he often saw in his dreams.

‘Majesty.’ A bodyguard entered his tent. ‘Your council is waiting.’

It felt odd to have a council of advisers again. They were assembled beneath the spreading branches of a plane tree – Kasim in a long green quilted robe, Baisanghar and Baburi in new tunics of fine-woven wool, but also Hussain Mazid, who had come from Sayram with fifty men, and three others. Two were Mongol chieftains with round hats of black sheepskin, their broad faces shiny with battle scars. The third was a distant cousin of Babur’s, Mirza Khan, a fleshy, middle-aged man with a cast in his left eye, who had been pushed out of his own lands by the Uzbeks’ advance and had brought Babur three hundred well-equipped cavalrymen, extra horses and wagonloads of grain. Babur had no very high opinion of his brains or his valour – his status and wealth had won him his place.

Signalling to his council to sit on the carpets laid on the ground, he went straight to the point: ‘We still have nearly two hundred miles to go to reach Kabul. Between us and the city lies the Hindu Kush. None of us has ever seen those mountains, let alone crossed them. We know them only in our imaginations but they will be formidable, even in summer . . . The question is, do we cross them or do we seek another way . . . ?’

‘What alternative is there?’ asked Mirza Khan.

‘We could avoid the worst of the mountains by circling round, along the river valleys, as the ambassador did when he came seeking me . . .’

‘But that would take a long time – perhaps too long,’ said Baburi. ‘Delay could be a much greater risk to us than the mountains . . .’

Baisanghar nodded. ‘I agree. We should cross the mountains. But to do so we’ll need guides, men who know the passes and can lead us over them by the best and safest route. Men we can trust . . .’

The Mongol chiefs were looking impassive as though a journey over the roof of the world was nothing to them. Babur had the feeling that if they believed the booty would be great enough,
they’d follow him into the furnaces of hell – but if disappointed in their hopes of bounty would leave him there . . .