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

the wisdom of maturity. ‘Perhaps he rules them by fear. Remember also that the people do not know you. Since Timur died, Samarkand has been besieged by many chiefs and kings hungry for glory and gold, claiming kinship with the great conqueror. Your own uncle seized the city by force.Why should the citizens look kindly on any aggressor? With the grand vizier they at least know what they have.’
    The hoot of an owl made them look up at the sky, in which the stars were already fading.
    ‘We should return, Majesty.’ Wazir Khan pushed the brazier over and kicked earth over the still burning charcoal.
    It wasn’t only the loss of their heat that made Babur shiver. ‘Wazir Khan, I’m worried. If we don’t take the city soon, winter will be upon us and my armies will melt away once more. I’ll be forced to return a second time to Ferghana without victory. Then what will my people say about me?’
    Wazir Khan gripped his arm. ‘We still have time. The sun has yet to enter the sign of the balance. God willing, Samarkand will fall.’
    He was right, Babur reflected. His father had endured many setbacks but had never despaired. What was it he used to say? ‘If your soldiers see you falter, then all is lost. They look to you for leadership and discipline.’ Yes, it was a king’s duty to be strong. He must remember that.
    They mounted their horses and rode back towards the camp. As they drew nearer, Babur heard, above the rhythm of galloping hoofs, a man shouting in anger. Not another dispute between the lawless rogues who made up so much of his army? he thought wearily as the sounds grew louder and more strident and oaths split the air.
    The commotion was coming from near the bathhouse tents. As he and Wazir Khan rode up, Babur saw that one of his mercenary commanders – a nomad from the wildernesses – was examining the contents of two sacks with a couple of his scar-faced warriors. Another man, a simple farmer by his clothes, was watching. ‘You’ve no right to steal from me. How will I feed my family this winter when you’ve taken everything – my grain, even my sheep?’ The man gestured at the small flock of shaggy, brown-fleeced animals tethered close by. He was almost weeping with anger.
    There could have been something ludicrous about this thin, insignificant peasant stamping in rage and frustration before warriors who could have flattened him with a swipe of their hard fists, but his defiance was impressive, Babur thought.
    ‘Get back to your midden and think yourself lucky you go with your life. And when you see your wife, give her another kiss from me and tell her I enjoyed her,’ grinned one of the warriors who then launched a kick at the peasant, sending him sprawling. When the man tried to get up, he kicked him again.
    ‘What is happening here?’
    Taken by surprise, the men stared up at Babur.
    ‘Answer His Majesty,’ rapped Wazir Khan. Still no answer came.
    ‘Get up.’ Babur gestured to the farmer, who rose slowly and painfully, clutching his stomach, his lined face apprehensive. If he hated the soldiers, plainly he had no faith in kings either. He backed away from the imperious youth on the horse with the jewelled bridle.
    ‘Stay where you are.’ Babur leaped down and surveyed the tableau. The two jute sacks lolled before him, their pathetic contents spilling out. Babur ripped off his leather gauntlet, plunged his hand into one and pulled out some dun garments, a wooden cup and a couple of cotton bags. Opening the bags he found only some mouldy-looking grain intermixed with dark mouse droppings. The other sack felt heavier. Inside were half a dozen skinny chickens, necks newly wrung, and a round cheese, the rind clotted with feathers and chicken blood.
    Babur pushed the sacks aside but noticed the farmer gazing at them as if they represented everything he held dear in this life. ‘Where did this come from?’ Babur demanded. Silence. ‘I said where did this come from?’ The second time of