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

seldom have passed through it. For him there were the mighty Iron Gate and the blue-tiled Turquoise Gate where, in the chambers high above the entrance arches, men would have pounded the kettledrums and blown harsh-voiced trumpets to announce his approach.
    It was time to cross the stream which was deep at this point – almost a river. Babur waded in, bracing himself against the surging waters that rose almost to his shoulders. He was nearly across when his feet slipped on the tumbled stones and he lost his footing. Cold waters closed over his head, choking him, and he felt his body being carried along. He managed to thrust an arm out of the water and winced as his hand struck what felt like the branch of a tree. Trying again he managed to grip another branch and, using both arms now, hauled himself on to the bank.
    Gasping, he pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes and looked around. At least he was on the right side of the stream. Instinctively he checked for Timur’s ring, which he had secured on a leather thong round his neck. As his fingers came into contact with therich, heavy metal he grunted with relief. He crouched in silence, shivering and listening intently. Nothing. Not the crack of a twig or the soft beat of a bat’s wing. He peered towards the dim outlines of the Needlemaker’s Gate. Creeping forward he came to the low, tumbled walls of an old orchard where, amid the pomegranate trees, lay the entrance to the secret tunnel concealed by a heap of dead branches.
    Last night there had been no guard. Babur prayed it would be the same tonight. Also that he would not encounter anyone in the tunnel. He must be quick – but, above all, careful. Suppressing the urge to dart forward towards the opening, he forced himself to find a hiding-place in the hollow of an old tree and sit still, watching and listening. You were named for the tiger, Babur told himself, so be like him tonight. Shun the open, love the shadows and master your impatience.
    After a while, a young fox trotted by. Its sharp nose twitched as it caught Babur’s scent but it ran lightly on. The animal’s composure reassured him that no other human was close by and he uncoiled from his hiding-place. His coarse brown cotton robe and sheepskin jerkin – the garb of a humble peasant – were still sodden and cold against his skin. He shook himself like a wet dog, then rubbed himself vigorously.
    Heart pounding, he approached the entrance to the tunnel and pushed aside the branches. Then he wriggled forward on his stomach and pulled the branches back into place behind him. Stretching out his hands he felt for the edge of the wooden trapdoor covering the tunnel entrance. There it was! As he gripped it some tiny creature – an ant or an earwig – ran across his fingers. Carefully, Babur raised it and felt inside. The narrow shaft was lined with bricks and wooden supports had been driven into the sides. He climbed in, and bracing his feet on two of the supports ducked his head and pulled the door back in place over him.
    He was in pitch darkness and a dank, unwholesome, earthy smell filled his nostrils as if something – or someone – had died in here, which perhaps they had. Samarkand had had a glorious past but also a violent one. Who had first burrowed this passageway? hewondered. Had they been digging their way in or fleeing a terrible fate?
    Cautiously Babur lowered himself to the bottom of the shaft, which he knew, from his previous night’s exploration, was only about ten feet deep. But where did the tunnel lead? He felt his way forward, keeping his hands pressed to the walls on either side of him. The ground squelched beneath his feet and seemed to slope down. He slipped and slithered and was relieved when, after a few paces, he felt hard stone.
    The roof was low and Babur bent his head as he moved on through the darkness. This would be no place to encounter an enemy. How could a man defend himself when he could not stand upright and had no