with sweat and dust but what struck Babur most was his utter exhaustion beneath the grime. This was no ruse. Disregarding Wazir Khan’s caution, he stepped forward. ‘I am Babur, King of Ferghana. What has happened to my uncle?’
‘The king was on his way to Your Gracious Majesty in Ferghana to offer you his . . . protection. He and his forces had camped overnight by a fast-flowing river and were building a temporary bridge over it when Uzbeks ambushed us not two hours after dawn. In the surprise and confusion all was lost – the war elephants,camels and our baggage animals ran off in terror, trampling anyone or anything that stood in their path. Our men fought bravely but many were killed. Some tried to escape back over the half-built bridge but it collapsed under them and they were swept away. The waters of the river soon ran red with blood – Uzbek as well as ours, it’s true – but we were overwhelmed.’
‘And my uncle?’
‘When the attack began he was in his scarlet tent on the riverbank. He managed to mount his horse and ride against the enemy but an arrow struck him in the throat and he fell to the ground where he lay, his heels drumming the earth in his agony. We managed to reach him and drag him from among the horses’ hoofs. But there was nothing the doctors – the
hakims
– could do for him. They could not staunch the loss of blood. He was dead within the hour. As the news spread among our forces some of the chieftains, fearing what was to come, called off their men and turned for their home villages.’ Baisanghar’s voice was bitter with contempt.
‘And why have you come here?’
‘It was your uncle’s dying wish. He believed that God was punishing him for coveting Ferghana. As his last breath bubbled through the blood in his throat he asked me to seek your forgiveness so that he may rest in tranquillity in Paradise.’
That didn’t sound at all like his uncle, Babur reflected, but perhaps the proximity of death changed men.
‘What proof have you of what you say?’ Wazir Khan’s one eye was still alive with suspicion, and Babur noticed he had not ordered his men to stand down. Even now three had their bows raised, trained on Baisanghar.
‘Here is my proof.’ Baisanghar thrust his hand deep inside his hide jerkin and pulled out a small, stained pouch. Loosing the plaited thong around its neck he extracted a piece of brocade. Carefully, reverently, he unrolled it to reveal what lay inside: a heavy, blood-smeared gold ring.
Babur gasped as Baisanghar held it out. ‘See,’ his voice was almost a whisper, ‘the ring of Timur the Great.’ The snarling tiger etched into the yellow metal seemed to writhe and spit.
The atmosphere at the council of war was very different this time. As Babur entered, flanked by his vizier and Wazir Khan, the chiefs were noisily debating the astonishing turn of events.
‘The message is clear, Majesty.’ Tambal’s eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘The king has named you his heir – he had no sons. Others will try to claim it, but Samarkand is yours if we move quickly.’
Babur could not resist an ironic smile. ‘And the Uzbeks? A few days ago you were afraid of them. And you were right – they have just butchered my uncle, ravaged his armies and looted his baggage train. Suppose they, too, now have their eyes on Samarkand?’
‘But it’s almost autumn. The seasons are our friend. Every year it’s the same. As winter approaches Shaibani Khan withdraws north to his lair in Turkestan and does not move again until the snows melt.’
‘What do you say, Ali Mazid Beg?’ But Babur already knew. The man’s whole body exuded ebullience and confidence and his eyes were brilliant at the thought of the glories and booty ahead. Samarkand was rich but, more than that, it had been the centre of Timur’s empire, the glorious place every Timurid prince and noble ached for. Babur felt the same longing. While still so young, fortune had handed him an
‘The king was on his way to Your Gracious Majesty in Ferghana to offer you his . . . protection. He and his forces had camped overnight by a fast-flowing river and were building a temporary bridge over it when Uzbeks ambushed us not two hours after dawn. In the surprise and confusion all was lost – the war elephants,camels and our baggage animals ran off in terror, trampling anyone or anything that stood in their path. Our men fought bravely but many were killed. Some tried to escape back over the half-built bridge but it collapsed under them and they were swept away. The waters of the river soon ran red with blood – Uzbek as well as ours, it’s true – but we were overwhelmed.’
‘And my uncle?’
‘When the attack began he was in his scarlet tent on the riverbank. He managed to mount his horse and ride against the enemy but an arrow struck him in the throat and he fell to the ground where he lay, his heels drumming the earth in his agony. We managed to reach him and drag him from among the horses’ hoofs. But there was nothing the doctors – the
hakims
– could do for him. They could not staunch the loss of blood. He was dead within the hour. As the news spread among our forces some of the chieftains, fearing what was to come, called off their men and turned for their home villages.’ Baisanghar’s voice was bitter with contempt.
‘And why have you come here?’
‘It was your uncle’s dying wish. He believed that God was punishing him for coveting Ferghana. As his last breath bubbled through the blood in his throat he asked me to seek your forgiveness so that he may rest in tranquillity in Paradise.’
That didn’t sound at all like his uncle, Babur reflected, but perhaps the proximity of death changed men.
‘What proof have you of what you say?’ Wazir Khan’s one eye was still alive with suspicion, and Babur noticed he had not ordered his men to stand down. Even now three had their bows raised, trained on Baisanghar.
‘Here is my proof.’ Baisanghar thrust his hand deep inside his hide jerkin and pulled out a small, stained pouch. Loosing the plaited thong around its neck he extracted a piece of brocade. Carefully, reverently, he unrolled it to reveal what lay inside: a heavy, blood-smeared gold ring.
Babur gasped as Baisanghar held it out. ‘See,’ his voice was almost a whisper, ‘the ring of Timur the Great.’ The snarling tiger etched into the yellow metal seemed to writhe and spit.
The atmosphere at the council of war was very different this time. As Babur entered, flanked by his vizier and Wazir Khan, the chiefs were noisily debating the astonishing turn of events.
‘The message is clear, Majesty.’ Tambal’s eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘The king has named you his heir – he had no sons. Others will try to claim it, but Samarkand is yours if we move quickly.’
Babur could not resist an ironic smile. ‘And the Uzbeks? A few days ago you were afraid of them. And you were right – they have just butchered my uncle, ravaged his armies and looted his baggage train. Suppose they, too, now have their eyes on Samarkand?’
‘But it’s almost autumn. The seasons are our friend. Every year it’s the same. As winter approaches Shaibani Khan withdraws north to his lair in Turkestan and does not move again until the snows melt.’
‘What do you say, Ali Mazid Beg?’ But Babur already knew. The man’s whole body exuded ebullience and confidence and his eyes were brilliant at the thought of the glories and booty ahead. Samarkand was rich but, more than that, it had been the centre of Timur’s empire, the glorious place every Timurid prince and noble ached for. Babur felt the same longing. While still so young, fortune had handed him an
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