Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

Akbar ran his eye over Tuhin Das’s sketches of a series of elegant mansions. ‘Which is the one you propose for the Empress Hirabai?’

  ‘This one. See, it has a chattri on the roof where she can go to observe the moon and worship our Hindu gods, just as you ordered, Majesty.’

  Akbar looked carefully at the drawing. Though he hardly saw Hirabai, he wished her to be treated with the honour due to her rank as the first of his wives and the mother of his eldest son.

  ‘Excellent. And my palace?’

  ‘Adjacent to the haram and linked to it by covered walkways and subterranean passages. In front of your palace, set in a great courtyard, would be the Anup Talao or Peerless Pool, twelve feet deep and fed by water from the lake along a series of aqueducts, so that all the time you will hear the refreshing rippling of water.’

  ‘You are certain there will be enough water to supply the entire city?’

  ‘The engineers assure us so, Majesty.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Akbar looked in puzzlement at a large rectangular space to one side of his proposed palace with a strange design drawn upon it.

  ‘This would be your private terrace, Majesty, but instead of just placing ordinary stone slabs on the ground, I suggest the novelty of laying it out like the cruciform board on which we play the Hindustani game of pachisi. It is a little like the game of chess that I understand you play, Majesty. You and your courtiers would be able to relax here and play, using giant pieces.’

  ‘Excellent. You have been very inventive, Tuhin Das. And this?’

  ‘The diwan-i-khas, your hall of private audience. From the outside it appears to have two storeys but in reality there is only a single chamber. Mohan, show His Majesty your drawing of the interior.’

  Looking more confident now, Mohan undid the leather satchel hanging from his left shoulder and drew out a small sheet of paper which he unfolded and placed carefully on the table next to the larger drawings. Akbar saw a single high-ceilinged chamber in the centre of which rose an elaborately carved column, slender at the base then swelling out to support a balustraded circular platform connected by diagonal bridges to the four corners of the room. It was beautiful, but what sort of room was it?

  ‘I don’t understand. What is the purpose of that platform so high above the ground and those narrow hanging bridges?’

  ‘The platform is where you would sit on your throne, Majesty, while giving audience. The bridges signify that you have dominion over the four quarters of the globe. Any man invited to address you would advance along one of the bridges. The rest of your courtiers would watch and listen from the floor of the chamber.’

  Akbar looked intently at the drawing. He had expected Tuhin Das to design an audience chamber fit for an emperor, but he had surpassed himself. The more he studied the design and pondered the ideas behind it, the better he liked it.

  ‘Where does this idea come from? Does the Persian shah have something similar?’

  ‘No other ruler has such a chamber, Majesty. It was my idea. Does it please you?’

  ‘Yes, I think it does . . . But this central column. Presumably it would be carved from wood? Sandalwood perhaps?’

  ‘No, Majesty. To be strong enough to support the bridges we would need to use sandstone.’

  ‘Impossible. The design is too intricate.’

  ‘Forgive me for disagreeing, Majesty, but I know it can be done. The craftsmen of Hindustan are so skilled they can carve sandstone as if it were wood – no design is too detailed for them.’

  ‘If your craftsmen can truly do as you say, then let the entire imperial complex – every column, every balustrade, every window and doorway – be of carved sandstone. We will create a rose-red city that will be a wonder of the world . . .’ In his mind’s eye, Akbar could already see his new capital, exquisite as a jewellery box, as durable as the stone of which it would be built. Not only would it be a fitting tribute to Shaikh Salim Chishti but a memorial to Moghul greatness.

  The number of labourers working on the construction of Sikri was, according to Tuhin Das whom Akbar had appointed as superintendent of construction, already over thirty thousand and still growing. Every day beneath the burning sun, a long line of men and some women toiled up and down the specially constructed road of packed earth leading to the plateau, carrying equipment up to the summit and bearing away rubble and debris in baskets balanced on their heads. From a distance they resembled lines of ants, moving with ceaseless patience and industry from the first pale light of dawn to the crimsoning sunset. They were scantily clad – the men in grimy dhotis and loincloths and the women in cotton saris, sometimes with an infant tied to their back. The camp where they slept on woven mats beneath awnings of dun-coloured sacking and cooked their meals of lentils, vegetables and flat bread over dung fires stretched away across the dusty plain, almost indistinguishable from it.

  It was an army of quite a different sort from any he had ever commanded, Akbar thought as he rode on one of his frequent tours of inspection with Tuhin Das, who was looking around him with satisfaction. ‘See, Majesty, how much progress has already been made with levelling the land ready for the building to start. Soon we will be able to dig the first foundations.’

  ‘And the quarrying of the sandstone?’

  ‘Two thousand rough slabs have already been cut and next week we will begin transporting them here by bullock cart so that the carvers may begin their work.’

  ‘I’ve an idea that might make the work proceed even faster. We have detailed designs for everything, so why not have the main pieces carved at the quarry, building by building, and then, when they are ready, brought to Sikri to be fitted into place?’

  ‘An excellent thought, Majesty. That should indeed make the buildings quicker to assemble and lessen the clamour and congestion on the construction site itself.’

  ‘I want every worker well paid for their labour. Announce that I am doubling the daily wage and that, if progress continues at a good pace, once a week there will be a free distribution of corn from the imperial granaries. I wish them to go at their work with unflagging vigour, and I also intend to set an example.’

  ‘How so, Majesty?’

  ‘Take me to the quarries. I intend to cut stone alongside my subjects to show them their emperor does not flinch from hard manual labour . . .’

  Two hours later, sweat running down his naked torso and a frown of concentration on his face, Akbar swung his pickaxe. Just as when he flung a battleaxe or a spear, his aim was good. The sharp tip found its mark again and again, biting into the line drawn with charcoal across the slab and creating a furrow into which the skilled stonemasons would then be able to hammer their chisels to cut a clean edge. It was exhausting work – tomorrow his muscles would be as tight and stiff as after a hard-fought battle – but he had seldom felt happier. Destiny intended great things for him, but for once it was good just to be an ordinary man, glorying in his youth and strength and with no worry for the future.

  Chapter 11

  The Pewter Sea

  ‘Majesty, by the time you return from your campaign in Gujarat the city walls will be nearing completion,’ Tuhin Das told Akbar as, together with Abul Fazl, they rode around the walls of Sikri – which currently stood only six feet high – to inspect the progress of construction.

  ‘Take care what you promise,’ Akbar responded. ‘I intend my campaign to be a short one. I have learned much from Ahmed Khan and others who accompanied my father on his conquest of Gujarat nearly forty years ago. It was only because of Sher Shah that we were forced to relinquish the territory. This time I intend that Gujarat will remain Moghul for ever.’

  ‘The holy pilgrims who cross from Cambay and Surat to Arabia will shower great praise on Your Majesty if they can travel in safety. The lawlessness that attends the rivalries in the Gujarati royal family has made life difficult for travellers, whether their purpose be spiritual or worldly,’ Abul Fazl’s mellifluous voice broke in. ‘Once Gujarat rests in Moghul hands again, I am sure that
port taxes will provide a bountiful source of revenue.’

  ‘You are right, Abul Fazl. Gujarat is still a rich state. I intend to bring back much wealth and booty to assist in your ornamentation of Sikri, Tuhin Das.’

  ‘Thank you, Majesty, and may good fortune accompany you on your campaign,’ Tuhin Das replied.

  ‘I trust so too, but I hope I have left little to providence in my preparations.’

  With that Akbar turned, leaving Tuhin Das and Abul Fazl to decide what to record in the chronicle, and rode down towards the wide plain where his army was encamped beneath the ridge on which his new city was rising. As he approached, he could see puffs of smoke emerging from the long weapons of his musketmen as their officers drilled them to fire in mass volleys for maximum effect. Off to one side his artillerymen were toiling in the hot sun under the watchful eye of the Tajik officer Ali Gul, training to speed up their firing and reloading of the large new bronze cannon and siege mortars Akbar had ordered to be produced in his foundries. Always eager for any advantage from new innovations, he had experimented with a mortar so large and heavy that Ahmed Khan had told him it would require a team of a thousand oxen to move it. Even though Akbar knew that to be an exaggeration, he had decided not to take the monster weapon with him to Gujarat. If all went well – and he must make sure it did – any siege would be over long before it arrived and could be brought into action.

  Directly in front of him Akbar saw Ahmed Khan and the bulkier figure of Muhammad Beg deep in conversation beside one of their command tents. As the two men talked, Ahmed Khan was as usual twisting the hair of his thin beard, now mostly silver, while the equally grizzled Muhammad Beg was waving his hand excitedly. Seeing Akbar ride up, the two veterans bowed.

  ‘What are you two arguing about?’

  ‘When we will have enough supplies to begin the campaign,’ said Ahmed Khan.

  ‘I was proposing a month’s delay, Majesty,’ said Muhammad Beg, ‘until we can be sure we have enough grain.’

  ‘In turn, Majesty, I was arguing that if we ride fast and light, as you intend, our requirements will be less. In any case, since we’ve already had promises of help from dissatisfied members of the divided Gujarati royal family, like Mirza Muqim, surely they can be counted on for some supplies. Besides, if the worst came to the worst we could live off the land.’

  ‘I’m with you, Ahmed Khan,’ said Akbar. ‘Prince Muqim’s call for me to intervene has already added legitimacy to our invasion – even if my father’s previous conquest of Gujarat wasn’t sufficient reason in itself – and I’m prepared to plan on his providing provisions and indeed troops. On that assumption when is the earliest we can move out?’

  ‘In a week’s time, Majesty,’ Muhammad Beg admitted.

  ‘So be it, then.’

  ‘Majesty, do you see that cloud of dust on the horizon? It must be a large body of men on the move,’ Ahmed Khan called as he rode with Akbar at the head of an advance detachment of his army through the ripening cornfields not far from the Gujarati city of Ahmedabad.

  Akbar shaded his eyes with his gauntleted hand and stared at the billowing dust. It could only be the forces of Itimad Khan, self-styled Shah of Gujarat. It seemed Mirza Muqim had been right when at their rendezvous he had suggested that if Akbar rode hard he could intercept the shah near Ahmedabad as he set out to confront the Moghul forces. ‘It’s Itimad Khan’s men, I’m sure of it. If so, just as Mirza Muqim said, we have the advantage of surprise . . .’

  ‘We’ll soon find out, Majesty. Shall I give the order to draw weapons and deploy into battle formation?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Minutes later Akbar was galloping on his black stallion at the head of a tight phalanx of his men towards the dust cloud, flattening the golden corn as they rode. He had his domed helmet with the peacock feather at its crest on his head, gilded breastplate on his chest and his sword Alamgir in his hand. Just behind him rode two of his qorchis, holding great green Moghul banners which streamed out behind them. With each stride of his horse the shapes of the Gujarati horsemen in the dust cloud became more distinct. It was clear to Akbar that they had recognised that it was his forces that were approaching and had decided to meet them head on rather than retreat to the protection of the walls of Ahmedabad.

  ‘How many of them do you think there are, Ahmed Khan?’ shouted Akbar over the drumming of their horses’ hooves.

  ‘It’s difficult to say. Perhaps five thousand, Majesty.’

  ‘They must think they outnumber us sufficiently to be sure of victory, but we know better, don’t we?’

  The two columns were now less than a thousand yards apart and closing fast. At a command from Akbar his mounted archers stood in their stirrups and loosed a volley of arrows towards the Gujaratis. As they flew through the air they met an answering storm of Gujarati shafts. Ahead of him, Akbar saw the horse of one of the leading Gujaratis crash to the ground, two arrows protruding from its neck. As it fell, it catapulted its rider head over heels into the waving corn. Simultaneously another rider slipped from his saddle with an arrow in his cheek. Behind him Akbar heard a crash and an agonised shout. At least one of his own men had been hit. However, Akbar had no time to look round as the two lines of mounted men smashed into each other at speed. At the last moment one of the Gujaratis – seemingly having recognised Akbar by his gilded breastplate – swerved his chestnut into the path of Akbar’s black stallion in a self-sacrificing attempt to unhorse him.

  Akbar reacted quickly. Pulling hard on the reins he managed to turn his mount sufficiently to lessen the impact, but his horse’s shoulder still caught the chestnut in the flank, knocking it over and sending its brave rider flying. Snorting with pain from the impact, the stallion reared up and Akbar leaned forward on its neck while gripping as hard as he could with his knees, struggling to remain aboard. He almost succeeded, but as his horse dropped its forelegs back to the ground it skittered sideways and became entangled in one of the green Moghul banners which had fallen from the dying hands of one of Akbar’s qorchis who lay in the corn, transfixed by a Gujarati spear. This time Akbar, who had lost a stirrup in the previous struggle, could not retain his seat and slid from the saddle, but still managed to hang on to his stallion’s reins with his left hand.

  Within moments another Gujarati swerved towards him, aiming to run him through like his qorchi. At last dropping the reins, Akbar jumped aside, just avoiding the rider’s lance and the hooves of his onrushing horse. As he leapt away, Akbar gave a great backhand slash with Alamgir. Despite the firmness of his grip he felt the sword judder in his gauntleted hand as it struck his opponent’s mount in the flank before crunching into the bone and sinew of the rider’s knee, precipitating him too from his saddle. For a moment the Gujarati attempted to stand, but his damaged knee would take no weight and as it gave way he collapsed again into the flattened corn beneath the hooves of one of Akbar’s advancing cavalrymen’s horses which shattered his skull.

  The Moghuls’ initial charge had pushed the Gujaratis back and Akbar’s bodyguard were now surrounding him. His winded stallion was only a few yards off. Sheathing Alamgir and grabbing the shaft of the fallen Moghul banner, he ran to the horse and pulled himself back into the saddle. ‘Forward, men. We must exploit the advantage,’ he yelled. The black stallion responded to his urging and with the Moghul banner flying behind him Akbar once again charged into the mass of Gujarati horsemen. Gripping the reins in his teeth he slashed with Alamgir at a burly rider but saw the sword glance off the enemy’s breastplate. His next stroke cut deep into the flesh of another Gujarati’s upper arm and then he found himself on the other side of mêlée, soon to be joined once more by most of his bodyguard.

  Handing the green banner to one of them, Akbar looked round as he caught his breath. The fighting was still intense, particularly near one of the Gujaratis’ red flags about two hundred yards to his left. Hastily wiping away the sweat that was dripping into his eyes, he kicked his horse towards it. As he did so he sudde
nly saw an unhorsed, red-turbaned Gujarati stagger up from a patch of untrampled corn. He had a long dagger in his hand and pulling his arm back sent it spinning towards Akbar. His aim was good but Akbar ducked low over his horse’s neck just in time and the tip of the dagger caught his helmet a glancing blow before falling harmlessly to the ground. Leaving others to deal with his assailant, Akbar urged his black stallion onwards. Soon he was pushing into the turmoil around the red banner, striking vigorously to left and right as he did so.

  A tall Gujarati mounted on a brown mare charged towards him, lance extended in front of him. Seeing him only at the last moment, Akbar deflected the lance with his sword, knocking it up into the air. Pulling hard on his reins the Gujarati wheeled his horse to attack once more, but this time Akbar was ready. Swerving across the rider’s charge, he plunged his sword deep into the tall man’s left side, toppling him from the saddle to sprawl in the dust.

  Breathing hard, Akbar reined in and saw that under the onslaught of the superior Moghul numbers he had led into the battle the Gujaratis were beginning to give way, slowly at first but then in increasing desperation, turning their horses’ heads and attempting to escape back towards the safety of the walls of Ahmedabad. Akbar set off in pursuit of a group of fleeing opponents but at first his winded and blowing stallion seemed unable to gain on them. Then one of the Gujaratis’ horses slipped in the mud on landing after jumping one of the small irrigation ditches that criss-crossed the cornfields. Another stumbled over it, and then another, and another. As a rider struggled to his feet to defend himself, the sword of one of Akbar’s bodyguards caught him in the throat and he fell backwards into the ditch, red blood flowing from his wound into the green water over which mosquitoes were buzzing. Akbar himself closed in on a Gujarati who like several others had slowed down and was turning back to try to rescue his unhorsed comrades.

  ‘The battle is over. Save your lives. You are surrounded by my bodyguard, and there is no shame in surrender having fought so well,’ shouted Akbar. After a moment’s hesitation, during which he glanced round at his remaining companions, the Gujarati, who had blood oozing from a wound to his cheek, threw down his weapon. His companions began to do likewise.