Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul by Alex Rutherford Page A

opportunity that might never come again. He had no wish for a long life and a peaceful death propped on silken cushions if his last living thoughts were to be of missed chances. His road to Paradise must not be paved with regrets.
    Ali Mazid Beg did not disappoint him. ‘I say we should ride quickly, before the winter comes.’
    ‘And you, Wazir Khan, what is your view?’
    Babur had had no time to discuss plans with him. Would he say something to quell the excitement pumping so violently through him that his body was almost vibrating? Wazir Khan’s single eye was gazing intently at him, considering. Here it comes, Babur thought, the words of cold reason to slow my pulses. He will tell me I am just a youth, that defending my kingdom is one thing but conquests are another. He will counsel me to wait, tell me prudence must be allied with courage, patience with ambition.
    ‘Tambal is right. Having tasted blood, Shaibani and his Uzbeks should now be riding north, away from Ferghana along the Jaxartes river. I will send out scouts to make sure. But even without the Uzbek menace our armies are too few for such a venture. We need allies, paid men – mercenaries, if you will. We must persuade the mountain tribes to ride with us. If we pay they will come, and if they come we may – God willing – be victorious.’
    Babur gazed at Wazir Khan as if he had never before appreciated him properly. ‘You will be my commander-in-chief. Do whatever is necessary. We ride in two weeks.’
    ‘Majesty.’ Wazir Khan bowed his head.

    Hoofbeats pounded the cold earth, over and over again, so that their rhythm seemed the only reality. Babur twined his fingers in his horse’s mane to steady himself as he swayed with fatigue. Since leaving his fortress at Akhsi, he had ridden ahead each day with the advance guard, leaving the heavily laden pack-beasts carrying tents and cooking equipment to follow and meet up with them at nightfall. Four days ago his entire force had crossed from Ferghana into lands belonging to Samarkand but had encountered nothing more threatening than a few herdsmen.
    Babur looked up. In an hour the sun would be sinking in their faces but before then their three-hundred-mile journey west between high mountain passes and across foaming rivers should be over. The domes of the city of Samarkand itself would lie before them like an offering. Perhaps even tonight he would occupy Timur’s capital. Babur indulged himself by picturing the grateful populace thronging round him, overcome that a new Timurid king had come to save them.
    At the thought, he kicked on his horse once more and, despite its fatigue, the animal shot forward up the slope of a hill. There in the distance, across the shining waters of the Zarafshan river, Samarkand lay silhouetted against a vibrant sky. Babur stared as if mesmerised. His breath caught in his throat. Perhaps, until this moment, he had not quite believed that Samarkand really existed. Now there was no doubt. This was no fable, no haunt of phantoms, but a place, inhabitedby men of flesh and blood, that he had come to claim as his own.
    Babur let out a whoop but his cry of jubilation died on his lips. To the south, several miles from the city, was an encampment among the nearly leafless tress of Samarkand’s fabled orchards that, just a few weeks earlier, would have dipped under their burden of fragrant apples and golden pomegranates. Banners flew in the chill breeze and smoke spiralled from cooking fires. As he watched, Babur saw a detachment of riders gallop into this camp, swerving expertly between the tents to be greeted by the metallic blare of trumpets.
    So, despite all his haste, he was not the first would-be king to reach Samarkand. Someone had forestalled him. Disappointment sharp as physical pain skewered him.
    Wazir Khan was beside him, cursing vividly as he, too, stared at the scene ahead. ‘I will send scouts, Majesty.’
    ‘Is it Shaibani Khan?’
    ‘I don’t think so. The camp