Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  Akbar himself had slept fitfully. Images of glory had been interspersed with anxiety not to let either himself or his forebears down. He had given up any pretence at sleep two hours previously. Now he was already clad in his gilded breastplate with his father’s sword Alamgir slung from his studded metal belt. His helmet was encircled at its widest point by a row of rubies and a peacock feather set in gold waved at its crest, but in practical contrast to this show of magnificence a fine mesh of hard steel rings hung down at its back and sides to protect his neck in battle. At Akbar’s side were Bairam Khan and the broad-shouldered, bearded figure of Tardi Beg, both also already armed and helmeted. Akbar had pressed Bairam Khan to allow Tardi Beg to take his place in the battle and have the opportunity to prove himself once more, but it had only been with great difficulty that he had persuaded him. Even now Bairam Khan’s tone was harsh as he spoke. ‘Tardi Beg, I trust you not to let our emperor down. It was his idea that you should lead the right wing. I had my reservations.’

  ‘You made that clear enough at the war council. Haven’t we fought side by side before? Haven’t we called each other tugan, brother-in-arms? Only God knows what our personal fates will be today. Let us not part on bad terms. You need not fear. I will uphold my honour.’ Tardi Beg’s usually resonant voice was quiet.

  Bairam Khan stared deep into the eyes of Tardi Beg, who steadily and unblinkingly returned his gaze. Suddenly Bairam Khan smiled, stretched out his arms and embraced the other man. ‘May God be with you,’ he said. ‘I know you will fight well, my brother.’

  ‘Victory will be ours,’ replied Tardi Beg, before bowing to Akbar. Then without another word he turned, mounted the horse held ready for him by his groom and rode with his bodyguard towards his appointed position.

  An hour and a half later, with his milk-brother Adham Khan beside him, Akbar was riding just behind the vanguard at the very centre of the mile-wide line of his advancing army. Both young men had repeatedly to rein in their horses, which seemed as eager for battle as they were, for as Bairam Khan, riding a short distance from them, had pointed out, the squadrons of horsemen on the flanks and in the vanguard must not outdistance the teams of oxen pulling the small cannon, the majestic, plodding war elephants and the ranks of archers marching behind them. Some of the bowmen had ragged clothes and many were barefoot but, like the elephants, they could still play a role in battle even in the new world of gunpowder. Their very numbers compensated for what they lacked in individual firepower, Bairam Khan had told Akbar.

  The morning had dawned overcast, with scudding low clouds, but as Akbar looked up, a gap opened in them directly above him and the rising sun appeared, shining a beam of bright light on to him and his gleaming armour. Feeling the sudden warmth of its brightness on his upturned face, Akbar shouted to Bairam Khan, ‘This is yet another favourable omen, isn’t it? Spread the word to our men. The rising sun shines on me alone today. Only dark clouds gather over Hemu. Victory will be ours. More victories will follow. Our empire will eclipse all others until like the midday sun no one will be able to contemplate it for more than a moment without being blinded by its magnificence.’

  While Bairam Khan turned to obey, Akbar drew his father’s sword and waved it above his head. As he did so, the beat of his drummers grew more intense and the blare of his trumpets more strident, reverberating inside his head. ‘Victory will be ours,’ Akbar yelled again and heard the cry taken up in ever greater numbers all along his lines.

  Then from in front of him he heard the answering, undaunted shouts of Hemu’s troops. ‘Hemu, Hemu, Hemu Padishah!’ Standing in his stirrups, Akbar saw over the heads and through the fluttering green banners of his vanguard the glinting armour of Hemu’s war elephants, no more than a mile off. He knew what it meant. Confident in his superior numbers, Hemu had scorned to draw up his men around the few low hillocks on which Akbar’s grandfather Babur had positioned his troops to win his great victory all those years ago. Like Akbar, Hemu was staking his all on a frontal attack.

  Excitement rising within him like an exploding volcano, Akbar kicked his tall black horse forward and galloped through the vanguard, whilst Adham Khan and his startled bodyguard followed as best they could. Lost to all thoughts but that of conflict, Akbar continued to cry, ‘Victory will be ours!’

  ‘Majesty, our right flank is in chaos,’ an officer gasped out as he rode up to Akbar half an hour later. His face was covered in sweat and dust and he had lost his helmet. His white horse was blowing hard and bleeding from a sword slash to its rump. Bairam Khan, who had eventually succeeded in restraining Akbar from his wild gallop at the head of his troops, was still, like Adham Khan, at his side. All three were sitting on their horses in the middle of a circle of a dozen small bronze cannon which were now being readied for action about a quarter of a mile back from the swaying, heaving front lines of the battle.

  Heedless of protocol, Bairam Khan spoke before Akbar. ‘Has Tardi Beg let us down?’

  ‘Indeed he has not,’ said the officer indignantly. ‘His banner still flutters at the heart of the fight. However, though Hemu’s forces appeared to us to be evenly distributed across his advancing battle line, they were not. Most of his best battle-inured war elephants were concentrated on the flank opposite Tardi Beg, and as the lines neared each other they rushed forward and smashed into Tardi Beg’s men. The bullets of our musketeers seemed to bounce off the elephants’ steel head armour. The initial charge of the elephants was followed by a rush of cavalry, many of them waving the banners of the old Lodi sultans. When I last glimpsed Tardi Beg, he had cut his way into them at the head of his bodyguard. Although hard-pressed, they were holding their own. But elsewhere on the right our horsemen are falling back, some even abandoning their comrades, throwing down their weapons and galloping for the rear. Others, despite being more resolute, are being surrounded and killed.’

  Anxiety gripped Akbar as again, standing in his stirrups, he looked in the direction of the right flank. His cavalry were indeed beginning to scatter. ‘Bairam Khan, we must act quickly. Should I ride with reinforcements?’

  ‘No. That would only cost many lives – perhaps even your own – and gain little. We must draw Hemu’s men on to our centre, which remains strong and can be reinforced from the left.’

  ‘Can we make a strong point here, around these cannon?’ Akbar asked, brain racing.

  ‘Indeed, Majesty. I will send orders to the officers of the foot archers to gather their men within the cannon circle.’ He turned to an officer at his side. ‘Drag as many baggage wagons as you can between the cannon and overturn them to provide protection. Order the soldiers from our vanguard to fall back on us here and summon as many from the left flank as can be spared.’

  Desperate to think of anything that would help rescue the situation, Akbar had another idea. ‘Bairam Khan, should we order the survivors on the right flank to retreat on us here too? If they give the impression of panic Hemu might pursue them too eagerly and expose himself to our counter-attack.’

  Bairam Khan thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘You have learned your military lessons well. We still have more than enough elephants and horsemen unengaged in our rear to hit Hemu and his attackers hard in the flank. Adham Khan, take a dozen men and ride to tell any officers you can find on the right flank to fall back on us here in pretended panic.’

  Adham Khan wheeled his horse and pulling a band of mounted men around him disappeared into the mêlée.

  Ten minutes later, Akbar, still seated on his black horse at the centre of his circle of cannon, saw some of his horsemen riding towards him. At the head was Adham Khan. As if in panic, he threw down a green Moghul banner he had got from somewhere and bending low over his horse’s neck, kicked it into a wild gallop. The other riders straggled out behind him. Then Akbar heard musket shots and saw some of the horsemen fall. To his relief, Adham Khan was not among them. Above the musket smoke and the gritty dust that was drifting over the battlefield, he saw the howdahs of some of Hemu’s
war elephants approaching, swaying violently as their mahouts, sitting behind their ears, urged their mounts into an ungainly but swift trot in pursuit of Akbar’s fleeing men.

  ‘Order the artillerymen to fire when they are ready,’ Akbar heard Bairam Khan shout. ‘Musketeers, try to knock some of those drivers from their perches. Archers, ready your bows to fire in unison when I give the order.’

  At each of the cannon which could be brought to fire towards the attackers, gunners put lighted tapers to the firing holes. Six loud explosions followed, half deafening Akbar and more acrid white smoke filled his nose and obscured his vision. When it had cleared a little, he saw that five of Hemu’s elephants had been hit. The first was trumpeting piteously and trying to stand on three legs, its fourth leg just a bloody stump below the knee. Three others lay still on the ground. One in its death throes had rolled on to the howdah on its back and seemed to have crushed the occupants.

  The fifth elephant had a gash in its belly from which its blue-grey intestines were protruding. As Akbar watched, its howdah fell from its back, spilling one man on to the ground but the howdah itself remained attached by some leather straps to the elephant. Still containing at least three half-conscious archers, it was dragged along behind the beast as it ran away. The elephant in its panic crossed the path of some of its fellows who were loping to the attack. One of them – a large beast with long, pointed, curved scimitars on its tusks – crashed into the wounded elephant’s side, impaling it on its scimitars before both animals fell. The elephant next to them stumbled over the trailing howdah, crushing any remaining life out of the occupants before also collapsing head first to the ground, shedding its own howdah and precipitating its mahout over its head as it did so. More of Hemu’s elephants began to slow in their charge, struggling to avoid their fallen brothers.

  ‘Archers, fire!’ Bairam Khan yelled above the noise of battle. Almost immediately arrows began to rain on to Hemu’s troops. Akbar saw several men tumble, arms flailing, from the howdahs. One arrow caught an elephant in an unprotected part of its lower face just beneath its eye and it lurched across the path of its fellow, further disrupting the attack. Then thick smoke from the second round of cannon shots obscured everything once more and the sound of their discharge rendered Akbar wholly deaf for some moments. He could see Bairam Khan’s mouth moving, shouting orders, but could not hear them. However, when the acrid smoke cleared he saw what the orders must have been. His archers were firing one last volley and his own war elephants and horsemen were riding to attack Hemu’s increasingly disorganised forces in the flank. He watched some green-turbaned musketeers fire from the canopied howdah on one of his own elephants and the mahout fall from the neck of one of Hemu’s beasts to land, arms outspread, in the dust. The man twitched convulsively for a moment, clawing at the ground, and then lay still.

  Elsewhere, Akbar saw a Moghul horseman, armed only with a lance, bravely charge one of Hemu’s largest war elephants head on, ignoring the already bloodied scimitars on its tusks. Tugging on the reins with one hand so that his horse swerved aside at the last moment, with his other hand he thrust the lance deep between the elephant’s jaws as it raised its trunk to trumpet in anger. Red blood gushing from its mouth, the beast turned and ran towards the rear.

  Akbar was now bursting to join the fight and to exceed the exploits of Adham Khan, whom he could still see slashing with his sword in the middle of the action. ‘Bairam Khan, shouldn’t we lead our men into the battle?’

  ‘No, you must curb your impatience. A good general, and even more a good emperor, must know when to head the charge and when, like now, to wait behind to see its effect and direct its follow-up. Battles are won by the brain as well as the sword that your milk-brother Adham Khan is wielding so mightily. See how Hemu’s army is falling into confusion. Their attack has lost all impetus.’

  ‘How can we exploit our advantage and destroy Hemu’s forces?’ asked Akbar, his own mind still devoid of any idea other than to charge directly into the fray.

  ‘We should order our left wing to move across our front and encircle as many of our opponents as they can. They haven’t seen much fighting as yet and should be fresh and eager. If we keep cool heads, with their help we will win a great victory where minutes ago we might have lost all. It’s often so in battle.’

  Akbar nodded and Bairam Khan gave the command. Soon Akbar could see movement as battalions of his cavalry and groups of his war elephants crossed from the left to attempt the encirclement. Even as they did so, green banners billowing and trumpets blaring, groups of Hemu’s horsemen were already turning to flee, some stopping to pull up behind comrades who had lost their mounts. As Akbar continued to watch, a complete troop of Hemu’s war elephants numbering about twenty in total also began to retreat, the archers and musketeers in their howdahs swivelling round as they did so to fire from the rear. Others simply threw down their weapons in surrender. However, Akbar could see that a little over half a mile away about a thousand of Hemu’s troops – mostly horsemen – were fighting stoutly around some fallen elephants, using the carcasses as barricades and making sorties to push the Moghul attackers back. Victory was not yet his.

  Before Bairam Khan could say anything, Akbar kicked his horse into a gallop and made for the group. As he galloped nearer, his bodyguard trailing behind him, some of Hemu’s men seemed to recognise him. Led by an orange-turbaned officer on a tall white horse, they rode out from behind the protection of the corpses of the elephants to attack him. Akbar did not attempt to turn aside but galloped harder towards them, blood singing in his ears. Moghul musket fire brought down some of his enemies but the officer came on unscathed.

  Akbar had by now outdistanced his bodyguard by at least fifty yards. Sword extended in front of him, he rode for the officer. The man swerved out of the way and slashed at Akbar, who ducked in his turn. The steel sword hissed just over Akbar’s head, severing the peacock plume from his helmet. Both men turned their horses as tightly as they could and rode hard at each other again. This time, the officer’s sword skidded off Akbar’s gilded breastplate, and Akbar was knocked sideways. He lost one of his stirrups and only just managed to stay in the saddle. Hemu’s officer wheeled his rearing horse to face him once more. Seemingly confident that he was getting the upper hand, he rashly tried to finish the fight at once, attempting to decapitate Akbar by aiming a swinging sword stroke at his throat.

  Anticipating his move, Akbar dodged aside at the last moment, but the very tip of the sword nicked his throat above his Adam’s apple. Oblivious of this wound, Akbar thrust his sword deep into the officer’s right armpit, which he had left exposed as he lifted his arm high to slash wildly at Akbar’s neck. The man fell from his white horse and lay on the ground, scarlet blood seeping from his armpit into the stony dirt. Sweating and breathing hard but relieved to be alive, Akbar looked round and saw that his bodyguard had accounted for the rest of the men who had accompanied the officer on his courageous but hopeless charge. Ahead of him some of Hemu’s troops were kicking their horses and turning to flee from behind the barricades, while others were surrendering.

  Akbar jumped from the saddle and ran over to the orange-turbaned officer who was still alive. Kneeling, he raised him slightly in his arms. ‘You fought well,’ he said.

  ‘I recognised you as the young Emperor Akbar. I wanted to revenge my master Hemu on you,’ the officer responded, the words coming with difficulty.

  ‘How do you mean, revenge Hemu on me?’

  The wounded man drew a wheezing breath and tried to speak, but at first only blood, not words, came from his mouth. Finally he succeeded in saying, ‘One of your archers’ arrows wounded my master in the eye just after we had vanquished your right wing. He lies mortally stricken over there, tended by the last of those who, like me, formed his personal guard.’

  More blood oozed between the man’s teeth and dribbled from his lips, and his head lolled back. He was clearly dead. Akbar laid his body gently back on the ground. His own bo
dyguards were now surrounding him, and he told them, ‘See to it that this man receives the proper funeral rites according to his religion. Even if misguided in his loyalty, he fought well.’

  As he realised that total victory was his, a broad smile creased Akbar’s dirt-streaked face. He had succeeded in his first test. His future – the empire’s future – was bright. His next campaigns would be of conquest as he expanded his empire. Akbar could see Bairam Khan riding towards him but as he drew nearer he saw that the khan-i-khanan’s expression was less triumphant than he might have expected.

  ‘Why, Akbar, did you join the fight when I said we should stay where we could direct the action?’ Bairam Khan began unceremoniously.

  Akbar’s face fell and he felt resentment surge within him. He was the emperor, even if Bairam Khan was his regent and his commander-in-chief. How dare the man speak to him like that, spoiling his moment of victory in this, his first battle as emperor? His grandfather Babur had led armies at his age. Yet how could he forget how much he owed to Bairam Khan? He bit back his anger and replied simply, ‘Would you rather have an emperor who in battle felt the chill of cowardice rather than the exhilaration of hot blood and the impulse to action?’

  A smile did now lighten Bairam Khan’s stern features. ‘No, Majesty, I dare say not.’

  ‘This officer told me before he died that Hemu lies wounded over there, concealed behind the bodies of some of his war elephants. Let us investigate.’

  Flanked by bodyguards with drawn swords, Bairam Khan and Akbar walked over to the corpses of the elephants. A foul stench was already coming from the body of one whose intestines had been mangled by a cannon ball. As Bairam Khan and Akbar passed another it suddenly moved its head and lashed its trunk in pain. Akbar’s hand instinctively went to his sword but then he saw that the animal was in its death agonies from a great gash in its neck around which blue-green flies were clustering.