Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (36 page)

Before Babur’s eyes, the star vanished in the paling sky but the message was good. A sign of fortune was exactly what he needed and he felt his spirits rise. He became even more cheerful when, eight hours later, snow and ice yielded to pastures. For the first time in three days they could pitch their tents, take off some layers of clothing and ease off their boots.

But Babur was horrified as, with Baisanghar and Baburi, he inspected the condition of some of the men. Despite his orders, many had been ill-prepared for the mountains. The Mongols, faces burned by the sun, looked healthy enough, but Mirza Khan’s soldiers were in poor condition. The hands and feet of at least a dozen were black and swollen with frostbite.

Babur had seen such severe frostbite before. There was only one remedy if the men were to live. Soon fires were burning and swords were being sharpened on stones. With no strong spirits to deaden their pain, all that could be done for the men whose fingers and toes or hands and feet were to be amputated was to place a folded cloth between their teeth to stop them biting off their tongues.

Mirza Khan’s cup-bearer – a slim, handsome youth of sixteen whose right hand was black, swollen to the size of a small melon and oozing yellow pus from beneath the nails – was struggling unsuccessfully to hold back tears as he watched a soldier test the sharpness of his blade.

‘Courage.’ Babur knelt beside him. ‘It will be over quickly and at least you will live . . . Keep your eyes on mine and don’t look down.’ Babur gripped him by the shoulders while another man held the frostbitten arm tight above the elbow and a second man held his feet.

‘Now – quickly!’ Babur ordered. The boy’s eyes, wide with fright, stayed fixed on his face. As the sword sliced down on his wrist his body arced in pain but though he bit hard on the rag between his teeth he didn’t utter a sound. Still gripping the boy, Babur moved aside to allow another soldier to kneel down and cauterise the bleeding stump with a blade red hot from the fire. This time, though muffled by the rag, the boy did cry out but struggled to control himself.

Mirza Khan was watching, curious but detached. He had come
through the mountains unscathed – he still even looked plump – but he didn’t seem to care a fart for his men. Babur wanted to smash his face. ‘What is this youth’s name?’ he asked.

‘Sayyidim.’

‘I would like to take him into my service.’

‘As you wish.’ Mirza Khan shrugged as if to say ‘What use is a one-handed cup-bearer to me?’

Babur stood up and watched as the boy’s arm was wrapped in strips of cloth torn from a cloak. ‘Take him to my tent and bring him some broth,’ he ordered. ‘He’s shown courage.’

The Aq Saray Meadow, the meeting-place on the borders of the kingdom of Kabul that the ambassador had appointed, was pleasant enough, with its lush, sweet grass. So was Babur’s camp, the neat lines of tents radiating out from his own in the centre. It was encouraging that his army had encountered no hostility from the people in the villages on the mountainsides and in the valleys they’d passed through on their journey south-west, only curiosity that they had dared to come over the mountains.

It was September now. The harvest was gathered and the granaries were full so the villagers were more than willing to sell them food. It was good to sit around a fire at night to eat fat, juicy lamb, then ripe apples and plums, new picked from the orchards and sweetened with honey from the hives. Blackbirds, thrushes and doves fluttered in the branches and at night Babur heard the call of the nightingale. This was a prosperous, abundant land and when he was king in Kabul he’d keep it so.

But his first priority was to enforce discipline in his camp. Though he had forbidden looting, six men had disobeyed him, raiding a farm and killing two peasants who had tried to defend their livestock. Babur had had the culprits found and flogged to death, watching stony-faced as the sentence was carried out in front of the murdered peasants’ family. Then he had ordered the men’s flayed bodies, more pulp than substance, to be thrown into a common grave dug on scrubland. It would be good when
messengers arrived from Kabul. The longer he was kept waiting, the more chance there was for mischief in his army.

On the third day, as he was sitting outside his tent, watching Baburi fletch arrows, Babur saw a small party of horsemen galloping through the meadow towards them.

‘What d’you think? Is it the ambassador?’ Babur narrowed his eyes. The figures were too far off to distinguish properly but that so few men should ride into his camp suggested they must be friends. As they came closer, Babur saw the peacock blue of the ambassador’s tunic and the sun flashing on the jewelled pin securing the tall feathers to his cap.

‘Greetings, Majesty. I rejoice to see you have made a safe journey and that you have gathered so many warriors to your cause. The royal council salutes you.’

Babur nodded. ‘When may I enter the city?’

The ambassador’s hazel eyes flickered. ‘There is a problem, Majesty. A usurper – Muhammad-Muquim Arghun – has seized Kabul and the citadel above it. The council escaped to Karabagh, outside the city, with a few loyal troops but could do nothing to take back Kabul.

‘Who is this man?’

‘A chieftain of the Hazara tribe. He forced his way into the city with his troops.’

‘Has he declared himself king? Has the
khutba
been read in his name?’

‘No, Majesty, not yet. There are many rivalries between the tribes.’

‘How many soldiers has he?’

‘Perhaps a thousand, Majesty, maybe a few more, or maybe a few less.’

‘I have four thousand men eager for a fight. Tell your council that. No – take me to Karabagh. I did not bring my army across the Hindu Kush so that others might profit.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’ The ambassador knelt before him and touched his forehead to the ground. It was the first time, Babur reflected, that he had treated him as his king.

‘W-w-we advise you to w-w-wait,’ said Bahlul Ayyub, his stammer exacerbated by his anxiety. The grave old man stroked his long, silken beard. His age and status as grand vizier of Kabul demanded respect, if not his views, Babur thought impatiently, even though the other equally venerable members of the council, Wali Gul, guardian of the Royal Treasuries, and Haydar Taqi, keeper of the Royal Seal, were nodding their agreement.

‘What benefit is there in delay? It will only encourage the Hazara upstart and make him believe I am afraid of him. I have the authority of the royal council. I have royal blood. I have an army. What more do I need?’

‘W-w-we fear for the c-c-citizens of Kabul. Muhammad-Muquim Arghun has taken some of the principal citizens hostage – members of our families among them – and holds them in the c-c-citadel.’

‘If he hurts them, he will pay. I shall make that clear to him. I shall also make clear that I am no bandit come to challenge him but the new King of Kabul come to take possession of his own.’

The three old men looked at each other. His words had struck home, Babur thought. Perhaps they had forgotten who they were dealing with: a man who – though fate had robbed him – had by his ingenuity and daring already been a king.

‘W-w-we are yours to command, Majesty. That is understood.’

The thick mud walls around the city of Kabul glowed apricot in the ripe autumn sun. Behind the encircling walls, Babur could see a jumble of houses, palaces, caravanserais and mosques. This was no Samarkand but he would use its wealth to create a place of beauty and magnificence. And Kabul was rich, an important trading post well placed on the caravan routes to and from China, Turkey, Hindustan and Persia. The royal councillors had told him with pride that caravans of as many as twenty thousand horses, camels and other pack animals passed through, bringing cloth, gems, sugar and spices.

Above the city to the north, on a spur of barren rock, was the
citadel, its plain walls pierced by small apertures. Babur knew that many eyes – including those of Muhammad-Muquim Arghun – would be watching, which was as he intended. He had ordered his men to arm themselves as heavily and obviously as possible. Swords, spears and axes glinted. Bows hung from their shoulders and their quivers were full. He wished his enemy to be in no doubt about his overwhelming strength.

His men spread out behind him in battle formation, Babur advanced slowly past the walls of the city towards the citadel, then halted. Ordering his men to stay ready for battle in case of any sudden sortie from the city or the citadel, he called Kasim to his side. ‘You will once more be my ambassador. Take an escort and ride up to the citadel with my ultimatum to Muhammad-Muquim Arghun. If he frees his hostages unharmed and withdraws from the fortress and the city by sunset he may depart free and unmolested. If he refuses, I will give him no quarter.’

Babur watched Kasim gallop up towards the citadel with four of his soldiers. Ambassadors were always vulnerable but Kasim had proved his courage before in such a situation and Babur was confident he would not be put to the test this time . . . Muhammad-Muquim Arghun would not dare to harm him. Meanwhile, other things must be done. He summoned Baisanghar. ‘I want the people in the city to know what I’ve said. I have ordered the scribes to make copies of my message. Tell your best archers to tie them to arrows and shoot them into the city where people can find them and read my words.’

Now he must wait. A pity there were so many flies. They were making his grey restive and it was flicking its dark tail from side to side. He slid from his saddle, hobbled the horse so that it could graze but not wander far, and sat cross-legged on the stony ground. High above, a flock of cranes flew over, the birds of heaven. A sign that God was with him.

‘What do you think he’ll do?’ Baburi flung himself down beside him, still holding his horse’s reins.

‘That Hazara bandit? He’s no Shaibani Khan. I doubt he has any support among the people – he should be grateful I’m prepared to let him go.’

‘You’ve altered. D’you remember that fight we had when I accused you of self-pity?’

‘What you said was right. I was feeling sorry for myself. You convinced me to keep my belief – that anything could happen . . . Surviving on the streets has made you wiser than I. Perhaps princes should be turned out of doors to fend for themselves when they are young . . .’

‘Perhaps – though I wouldn’t recommend the food . . . or the dirty old men who try to get you into an alley.’

Babur laughed.

The sun was barely a spear’s height above the western horizon and the time was nearly up when Kasim returned. He looked pleased. ‘The Hazaras argued among themselves, even coming to blows – but Muhammad-Muquim Arghun accepts your terms. He is preparing to lead his men out of the citadel and head north. He is also ordering his troops in the city to join him. He asks that you remain here two hours but then Kabul, and the hostages, are yours . . .’

‘He is more afraid of me than I thought. You have done well.’

As the news spread among Babur’s troops, a great roar went up as men beat their swords against their shields and there was other noise as well. Though faint and far off, it was unmistakable – voices rising clamorously within the city. The citizens must have learned what had happened.