Akbar smiled broadly. He had been right in his assessment of Shah Daud, and the heads had indeed saved lives. So much of war was in the mind. ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked.
‘The commander he left in the city with instructions to hold it as long as he could lost no time in sending us an offer to surrender if we would spare his life.’
‘You accepted it, of course?’
‘Yes.’
‘Show that we are not barbarians after all. Make sure the prisoners from the garrison are treated well.’ After a moment Akbar added, ‘After a day or two let a few escape to carry news of their good treatment to their comrades in outlying forts. It should induce more of them to hand themselves over.’
‘Majesty.’
‘Where is Shah Daud headed?’
‘Towards the walled city of Gumgarh at the heart of his family’s ancestral lands.’
‘Where is the city, and how is it fortified?’
‘To the north, Majesty. It is walled, and Shah Daud might hope to hold out there while he recruits more men. Also, his older relations may have greater courage than he and stiffen his resolve, too.’
‘Then we must cut him off before he gets there.’
Although the heavy rain had ceased, the clouds were still low and grey as in the uncertain morning light just a fortnight after the surrender of Patna Akbar looked from beneath the dripping shelter of some tall palm trees at a low hill about three-quarters of a mile away. Shah Daud’s forces were encamped in and around a small town which lay within mud walls on the hill’s top. Despite its modest height, the position offered commanding views over the surrounding marshes. Shah Daud’s men, when they had seen the vanguard of Akbar’s force of twenty thousand of his best men including many mounted musketeers and archers approach late the previous afternoon, had not tried to continue their flight. Instead, throughout the stormy night, by the light of torches guttering in the rain and wind as well as of the almost continual sheet lightning, they had worked hard to improvise what defences they could, overturning baggage wagons to block gaps in the mud walls and trying to shore up those sections which had crumbled in the rain.
To Akbar, his opponents looked to have done a good job in the time they had had available. He was fortunate, he thought, that Shah Daud like himself had been travelling too quickly to bring any but the smallest cannon with him. Nevertheless, his forces which numbered roughly the same as his own seemed to be well supplied with muskets and his barricades, though improvised, looked strong. Akbar’s scouts had reported that the men had even used the townspeople’s beds and cooking pots as well as the doors of their houses as reinforcing material.
Despite his opponents’ fervid work, Akbar knew that an all-out assault was the best means to capture the town and with it Shah Daud and his treasure. By doing so he would put an end to resistance in Bengal and secure this rich and fertile land with its clever, cultured and hard-working people as a new and valuable province for his empire. Ahmed Khan was as usual at Akbar’s elbow and the emperor turned once more to his grizzled khan-i-khanan. ‘Have our horsemen completed the encirclement of the town?’
‘Yes. More than an hour ago.’
‘Then little remains but to order our trumpeters and drummers to give the signal for a simultaneous charge at the town’s defences from all sides.’
‘That’s true, Majesty, but there is one thing I beg of you as an old comrade-in-arms of your father and your chief general. Do not hazard yourself in the way that you did in our attack on the river fort. I remember your father Humayun ordering you to protect yourself for the sake of the dynasty and Bairam Khan advising the same in the fight against Hemu. Your sons are still young. They would be in danger if you fell. So too would the empire.’
‘I know you speak with my best interests in mind, and indeed what you say is good advice. Yet I react and take risks instinctively, perhaps partly because in my heart I feel that it will not be my destiny to die in battle — certainly not so soon, not before I’ve expanded my empire. Indeed, I believe — and sages I’ve consulted confirm this — the greatest dangers to me will not lie on the battlefield.’
‘But as your father came to understand, it is ultimately a man’s own actions that decide his fate, not his visions and feelings about his destiny. . Although confidence and bravery may often allow you to succeed in rash acts where others would fail, you shouldn’t rely on this always being the case.’
Akbar nodded. He must guard against over-confidence in battle, just as much as he tried to when planning his campaigns with his commanders. ‘Sometimes the distinction between setting an example as a leader and foolhardiness is a slim one, I know. I will remember to observe it as best I can. I had already decided that today Muhammad Beg should lead the first attack. Despite all his years he remains as eager for battle as the day he left Badakhshan to fight with my grandfather. I will hold myself and my bodyguard in reserve so that we can add our weight to support the assault wherever it is needed most.’
‘Shall I give Muhammad Beg the order to begin the attack, then?’
‘Yes.’
Akbar and Ahmed Khan watched as, to the sound of trumpets, the horsemen began their advance from all sides through the waterlogged fields towards the town on the hill. Although hampered by the glossy black oozing mud and the need to avoid the deepest of the pools of water, the horses slowly picked up speed. Muhammad Beg and his bodyguard were among the foremost, with several green Moghul banners fluttering in the damp breeze behind them. As they came into range, there were occasional puffs of smoke from the muskets of Shah Daud’s men crouched behind the barricades. Here and there, a horse collapsed to lie twitching after throwing its rider. Sometimes a horseman fell from his saddle to disappear beneath the hooves of those following, trampled into the churned mud. Often, the fallen rider’s mount, freed of his weight, outdistanced his fellows in the charge. One riderless black horse was the first to jump the outermost of the barricades that guarded the town before galloping on towards a cluster of single-storey houses above which Shah Daud’s yellow banners were flying.
All seemed to be going well for his troops, Akbar thought. But then there was a sudden crackle of disciplined musketry from the section of the mud walls towards which Muhammad Beg and his men were advancing. One of the carts that blocked a hole in the wall was pushed aside and a squadron of riders emerged to charge down the hill, lances in hand and bobbing heads bent low over their horses’ necks, into Muhammad Beg’s advancing troops who recoiled under the impact, several of their horses being knocked together with their riders into the mud. Then the Bengalis opened further gaps in their barricades for more horsemen to pour through to join the battle. Within minutes many more of Muhammad Beg’s men were down and only one of his green Moghul banners was still being held aloft.
Akbar could hold back no longer — this fight was bound to be crucial to the outcome of the battle and he must be there to lead his men in person. He pulled Alamgir from its scabbard and kicked his horse into a gallop towards the melee, followed immediately by his loyal bodyguard. It took him three minutes at most to cover the distance to the hill, despite his mount’s slipping in the mud on landing after jumping one of the pools of water.
As he began to urge the horse up the hill towards the fighting he came within range of Shah Daud’s musketeers who, recognising him from his gilded breastplate, concentrated much of their fire on him. He heard musket balls and arrows hiss past him. Then his horse staggered for a moment and he felt its warm blood soaking his right thigh. Hit in the flank by a musket ball, the horse’s pace was faltering and its head was dropping. Just before it collapsed Akbar jumped from the saddle to land on his feet on the muddy ground only to slip, arms flailing, as he jerked aside to avoid one of his bodyguards who was riding close behind.
Regaining his balance, he shouted for another of his men to give him his mount. Immediately a rider wheeled round and leapt from his grey horse to offer the reins to Akbar. Within moments he was back in the sa
ddle, thrusting his mud-caked boots into the stirrups. However, the incident had blunted the momentum of his charge and that of his bodyguard. Some of Shah Daud’s horsemen were almost on them. Akbar reacted only just in time to swerve his new mount away from a large Bengali whirling a spiked battle flail above his helmetless head. The man was unable to check his horse’s charge because of its downhill momentum. Despite tugging hard at his reins he careered past Akbar, who slashed at the back of his head with Alamgir, feeling a grating judder in his arm as the sword bit into the man’s skull.
Moments later, Akbar struck at a second man charging down the hill at him but the Bengali ducked and the sword stroke missed. The rider turned to confront Akbar once more. This time, Akbar had the advantage of the slope and before the rider could urge his horse up through the thick black mud towards him, Akbar was on him, battering his lance from his hand with a swing of his sword and then thrusting its sharp blade deep into the man’s groin.
Free of immediate danger, Akbar wiped away some of the sweat dripping down his face with his arm and looked about him. The heavy fighting around Muhammad Beg’s single remaining green banner was now sixty yards to his left. Gesturing to those of his bodyguard who were still with him to follow, Akbar drove the grey onward into the heaving, steaming mass of men and horses. Soon he had broken through the first circle of combatants into a scene of carnage where Muhammad Beg’s charge had been halted by the musketry and cavalry of Shah Daud. The bodies of several horses lay in the mud. Akbar noticed one of them was still kicking its hind legs feebly. Beneath another he recognised the corpse of one of Muhammad Beg’s qorchis — a youth of scarcely more than sixteen whose beardless cheek had been slashed wide open, exposing his jaw bone and perfect white teeth.
Fighting was still going on. Several Bengalis were trying to run through with their lances some of Muhammad Beg’s unhorsed men who seemed to be protecting a mud-covered figure propped, legs widespread, head slumped, with his back against a rock. It was Muhammad Beg himself, Akbar realised with horror. Pushing his mount onwards with even greater urgency towards the combatants, who were too preoccupied with the fighting in front of them to detect his approach, Akbar struck the horse of the nearest Bengali across the rump with the flat of his sword. As he intended, it reared up, throwing its rider, who fell beneath the hooves of Akbar’s own mount.
Next Akbar cut another of the Bengalis, who was about to run one of the qorchis through, across the nape of his neck and he fell forward, losing his grip on his lance. By now, Akbar’s bodyguard had accounted for three more Bengalis and the rest, losing stomach for the fight, were turning to try to ride back up the hill through the clinging mud to the protection of the town’s walls. Only one of them made it, and by the time he did so he had a throwing dagger protruding from the muscle of his upper arm.
Pausing for just a moment, Akbar shouted to one of the qorchis, ‘What happened to Muhammad Beg?’
‘The Bengalis recognised him as a general as he rode beneath our green banners. A musket ball hit him in the shoulder. When he fell from his horse he hit his head and later was wounded by a Bengal lance in the thigh.’
‘Get him back to the hakims as soon as you can. He wouldn’t have lived this long if he wasn’t tough. If anyone can survive those wounds it’s him.’
With that, Akbar urged his blowing horse up the hill towards the town’s barricades. Some of his men had already breached them and were now pushing towards the cluster of houses with the yellow flags, dodging from the shelter of one mean mud hut to another, disturbing a few skinny chickens as they did so. Three of his musketeers were crouching behind the brick wall of a well, resting their muskets on its parapet to steady their weapons to provide covering fire for a colleague who was attempting to drag a wounded comrade behind the shelter of a steaming midden. Eventually he succeeded and the musketeers moved forward again.
Before either they or Akbar could reach the houses above which the yellow flags fluttered — surely Shah Daud’s command post — Akbar saw green banners appearing over the hill behind the houses. His men had clearly breached the barricades in many places and were having much the best of the fighting. A moment or two later three men came out of one of the houses. One advanced, arms raised in surrender, towards Akbar’s men. The two others first deliberately threw down the yellow banners into the mud and then raised their hands. Victory was his, thought Akbar, punching the air above his head with his fist. Realising what was happening, his men too began to cheer with a mixture of elation at victory and relief at survival.
‘Order them to bring Shah Daud to me,’ shouted Akbar. A look of consternation crossed the face of the Bengali to whom the command was given but he disappeared back into one of the houses, dipping his head beneath the low lintel as he entered. No one emerged for some minutes and Akbar was about to order his soldiers to force their way in when a tall, distinguished figure with a long thin face appeared in the doorway and began to walk slowly towards Akbar. When he was about fifteen feet away he prostrated himself in the mud. He was clearly at least twice the nineteen years of age Akbar knew Shah Daud to be.
‘Who are you? Where is Shah Daud? If he’s hiding inside, bring him to me immediately.’
‘I am Ustad Ali, Shah Daud’s maternal uncle. I have been his chief adviser throughout his rising. Mine is the guilt and responsibility. I sent my nephew away in disguise last night when I realised our forces faced defeat, however hard we fought. All his treasure is within these houses and I surrender it, and Bengal, to you on his behalf.’
Akbar gazed out across the Bay of Bengal from the deck of a high-prowed wooden dhow. Having gone to sea on the western ocean he had been seized by the desire to do the same on the eastern and today he was fulfilling that wish. As a sudden warm gust caught the triangular red sail, the ship heaved beneath him and he planted his feet wider apart. It was only a little after midday and the sea shone silver, almost too bright to look upon, but he could taste its saltiness on his lips.
His forces had secured all the major towns and cities of Bengal, and even though they had not yet captured Shah Daud, that would be only a matter of time. Bengal was already his.
That morning he had received more good news in a despatch from Abul Fazl, his chronicler in Agra. The western part of his empire remained peaceful and the construction of Sikri was proceeding apace. Akbar smiled as he watched the waves. It was as if one part of his reign was closing. He had successfully extended his empire beyond his grandfather’s, his father’s and even his own ambitions. Although he would continue to expand his territories, not least to satisfy his followers’ desires for booty and action, his main task now would be to consolidate his rule over his vast dominions. The empire he would one day bequeath his heir must be unassailable. To do that he knew he needed all his subjects — new and old, Hindu or Muslim — to respect him as their ruler rather than resent him as a barbarian conqueror or alien enemy of their faith. It was easier to say than to achieve, but he would rise to this new challenge.
Part III
The Power and the Glory
Chapter 13
City of Victory
‘To honour our great victories in Bengal and Gujarat for posterity, I rename this city “Fatehpur Sikri”, “Sikri, City of Victory”. In future years those who gaze on its high red sandstone walls will remember the Moghul warriors whose deeds it commemorates. All of you here today have shared in those deeds. Your sons, your grandsons and the generations yet unborn will rejoice in the knowledge that your heroic blood runs through their veins also.’ From his carved balcony overlooking the marble Anup Talao — the Peerless Pool whose lotus-strewn waters shone with a metallic brilliance in the late afternoon sun — Akbar, equally brilliant in a diamond-and-ruby encrusted cream silk tunic, looked down on the ranks of his commanders and officers filling the great courtyard, over which vast canopies of green silk had been erected to shade them.
A drawn Muhammad Beg was in the front row, leaning heavily on a carved ebony stick that Akb
ar had sent him. Thanks to the hakims the old warrior was well on the way to recovery, though his wounds were so severe his long years of campaigning were over. By his side stood Ahmed Khan, his long wispy beard for once carefully combed, the bulky, red-turbaned figure of Raja Ravi Singh and Akbar’s brother-in-law Raja Bhagwan Das of Amber wearing diamonds in his ears, his favourite triple-stranded pearl necklace round his neck and a close-fitting orange silk coat with coral buttons. Behind Akbar’s senior commanders were the other officers, positioned according to rank. Scanning the tens of rows, Akbar’s sharp eyes picked out the tall, broad-chested Ali Gul, resplendent in robes of scarlet and gold brocade rather than his usual plain cotton or wool tunic and trousers, standing among his fellow Tajiks. The Badakhshani officers next to them looked just as imposing in their bright steel breastplates, with their green standards in their hands.
As the voices of his men rose in a great roar of approbation, their faces reflected the pride welling within Akbar himself. Success was sweet. Three days ago, preceded by drummers and trumpeters riding black horses with jewelled bridles and diamond-encrusted headguards and a detachment of horsemen each bearing a yak’s tail standard, and riding aboard the tallest and most stately of his war elephants in a gem-covered howdah, he had led his immaculate, victorious armies into his new capital of Sikri along a road sprinkled with rose and jasmine petals by attendants running ahead. Every blade of every weapon had been honed and shining, every bronze cannon polished and gleaming, and he had ordered the tusks of his thousand war elephants to be painted gold to show they were returning in glory from battle.
Since his return Akbar had been preparing his speech, seeking and memorising the words that would do justice to what he hoped would be a pivotal moment in his reign. He had achieved great things but he wanted his men to understand that an even more glorious future awaited the Moghul empire. Instinctively he glanced at his three sons standing to the right of his throne. Since his return he’d had little time to spend with them but he knew that some time in the future — and he hoped it would be long delayed — they would be the dynasty’s upholders. Seven-year-old Salim was looking excited, his fine-boned face beneath his green silk turban eager and vital. Six-year-old Murad was also clearly enjoying himself. Of the three boys, he was the one who had changed most during Akbar’s absence. He was now as tall as Salim. The left cheek and chin of his square face was bruised — the result, so his tutor had informed Akbar, of a fall from a mango tree while looking for birds’ eggs. Little Daniyal was still plump and his eyes were round as he took in the mass of men below.
Ruler of the World eotm-3 Page 18