Читать книгу O’TKAN KUNLAR - Абдулла Кодирий - Страница 22

The day marked the fifty-first of Tashkent’s blockade. The cold weather turned a bit mild as the sun crossed a clear blue sky.

The earth began its thaw; mud abounded throughout the length and breadth of the land, and white frost covered the clusters of towers while wisps of steam rose into the air.

At dawn, an attack from the Qoqan contingent against Tashkent’s Samarqand Gates handed the aggressors a bloody defeat. Sepahi fighting on behalf of Qoqan had retired to their yurts to mend their wounds and rest up for the next attack on the battlements. The sight of the battle was too grim to gaze upon and subdued the witnesses to silence. No one wished to recall the scene.

The span between the Kamolon and Samarqand Gates, under the fortress walls, an area of approximately five hundred paces, was full of the dead – headless, stripped to the waist, and coated in thick black blood.

Tashkent’s defenders, exhausted and warming themselves in the sun, sat on the battlements in turbans or peaked fur hats while observing with great pleasure the open cemetery stretching out before them. There were two human conditions represented between the two gates: Those under the battlements, spread about, headless, smeared with congealing blood, bereft of clothing in a hellish display, and those others manning the walls, who swam in an ocean of worldly pleasure, reveling in their recent victory.

One of the gallant soldiers on the fortress battlements laughed when he retold the tale of how he had shot a Qipchaq officer with his rifle: “When I shot the coward, damn his father, he rose three meters above his horse and crumpled to the ground!”

Another singled out a body from the corpses and said, “You see that one? Look at him! That Qipchaq was suffering from a gunshot wound, moaning aloud in pain. I cut off his head with my sword and claimed his gold belt and gilded robe for myself.”

Everyone bragged about the day’s courageous acts and how they heroically obtained trophies of gold belts, ruby rings, otter skin jackets, and swords sheathed in silver, among other spoils.

Suddenly a voice sang out from the top of the fortress:

Let your reign be a golden age. Let our dear Bek remain safe.

Let you deny him a cure for his pain, my friend. Let your fate be to burn Normat alive!

If we pass by the fortress, making our way through the stench of corpses and moving a bit farther along, we come to a stop at the Samarqand Gates. They are built six meters high, five meters thick, and flanked by two battlement walls that are eight meters thick and face the setting sun. Since we fear the enemy suddenly attacking from any direction, we will knock on the gate, impatient to enter.

“Bek-aka, open it, please! Be quick, please.”

The gate guards continue to sit, ignoring us. After we plead for fifteen excruciating minutes, one of the bored guardsmen slowly rises to the top of the gate tower and cautiously looks down to survey our predicament. If we convince him that we are truly from Tashkent, he opens the lock the size of a camel’s head and unravels the chain with great difficulty.

After we enter, the guard murmurs all that decorum permits him and starts to close the gates. Finally, we can view the soldier’s appearance: he wears a tanned sheepskin jacket, a cheap fabric belt from which dangles about half a meter of keys, and a Turcoman fur cap.

After noting his features, we walk to the right of the gate. Fifteen paces closer to the gates, there are more guards sitting at a fire and smoking a chilim under an awning. As we proceed into the fortress, we can survey the defenders from inside: wearing all makes and sizes of clothing, some holding swords, some rifles. The defenders sit on the roofs of the fortress, leaning against the tower walls and warming their heads in the sun. The battlements up to the Kamolon Gates are also full of defenders, offering us a new perspective. Under the walls of the fortress, one bek with a gilded robe, a glorious turban, and a silver belt displaying a sword is speaking to a young soldier. He is pointing to a mound. If we take another fifty or sixty steps we will reach the place where the beks are conversing. The horrible gristmill we saw outside would pale in comparison to the scene before us: our eyes fall upon a gruesome mound that will sink us into oblivion for hours on end. A hill of three to four hundred heads! There are beards of a pious hand’s length, their thin hair mingled with blood, and pale, waxen faces with, instead of black pupils, milky-white eye sockets dotted with blood, half open as if damning the world of the living.

One particular head stands out, its owner not even twenty. Beardless under thick, dark, blood-caked brows, his eyes are half- open, seeking someone in his moment of death… His white teeth, visible in his mouth, are frozen in horror, clenching his tongue, damning himself for his birth into such a frivolous land and life.

The fortress commander, lingering in front of the mound of heads, shows a nearby soldier a head of one of the slain and informs him that it was indeed once owned by one of the beks he knew well. At that moment, three armed horsemen appear at the Kamolon Gates, riding forward, and a commotion begins among the fortress’s defenders. “Hudaychi, Sulayman Hudaychi!” they shout. Sulayman Hudaychi rode to the fortress commander and informed him of Azizbek’s impending visit, then turned his horse’s head, trotting back to his retinue.

The news spread to all the soldiers, and the fortress commander, worked into a frenzy, ran back and forth as if he had a worm in his boot.

“Fellow warriors, those of you manning the fortress! Ready yourselves, straighten your lines! Bek is coming! Husseinbek, hurry to the gatekeepers, tell them to prepare themselves! Ganibek, put your soldiers in order! Sergeant of the guards, assemble your men!”

Those standing on the top of the fortress, as well as those on guard below, started moving. They descended to the ring of assembly points, making a uniform line. During the racket, the fortress commander rode from one side of the wall to the next. “Be prepared, men! Put yourselves in order. Be ready to greet Azizbek!” he shouted.

The heroes of the day stood in line, holding rifles, swords, halberds, scimitars, and pikes. A green banner flew from the middle of the line. In this manner everyone readied themselves for the audience of Aziz Parvanchi, according to the honor and ceremony due to him.