Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (5 page)

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 bodyguards 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.

‘Put the poor beast out of its misery,’ he commanded one of his bodyguards, ‘and do the same for any others that cling to life.’ As he gave these orders Akbar saw that in the remains of an elephant’s gilded howdah a few yards away a young man was bending over
the body of a small figure in engraved steel armour which from its magnificence could only belong to Hemu. The youth was using a bloodstained cloth to dab at the left side of the face of the wounded man, who was shouting at him, ‘Leave me to die. I would rather do so now on the battlefield than in some Moghul dungeon in a few days’ time.’

‘Seize that youth,’ ordered Bairam Khan.

Immediately two tall bodyguards strode forward and, grabbing his arms, pulled him backwards from the body. With the attendant out of the way, Akbar could see the wounded man more clearly. The broken-off shaft of an arrow jutted from where his left eye had been, and blood was seeping down his face. His agony must have been extreme, but he looked almost relieved when Akbar asked, ‘Are you Hemu?’

‘Of course. Who else?’

‘What have you to say to your rightful emperor?’

‘That I have no rightful emperor and that I defy you, Moghul invader.’ Hemu aimed a gob of bloody spittle towards Akbar but it fell short.

‘Execute him at once, Majesty,’ said Bairam Khan.

Akbar raised his sword but something made him hesitate to strike at the small, bleeding figure before him. ‘Wait a moment. My father Humayun always taught me that mercy often befitted a monarch better than harsh violence . . .’

Hearing this, Hemu half-struggled to his feet and made towards Akbar, but two of Akbar’s guards seized him at once. With a strength that belied both his puny frame and his severe wound, Hemu bucked and strained and struggled so much that he broke free for an instant. Staggering towards Akbar, he shouted, ‘You blight and ravish our lands. You boast of your family’s descent from the tyrant Timur, yet you cannot even be sure who your own father was. I hear tell your father prostituted your mother to his generals to ensure their loyalty and that she – camel-faced whore that she is – enjoy—’

Hemu got no further. With one slash of his sword, Akbar severed his head. Shaking with rage, his face spattered with Hemu’s hot blood, he could not speak for some moments, but then, wiping his
face with a cloth and sheathing his sword, he turned to Bairam Khan, his voice once more composed. ‘You are right. We should not be merciful to the undeserving. Display this creature’s body around the camp. Send his head to Delhi and set it up to rot in one of the public squares as a lesson to all other potential rebels.’

As Akbar was turning away with Bairam Khan to head back towards his own camp, Adham Khan approached. He had a bandage round the knuckles of his left hand, which had clearly suffered a cut, but seemed otherwise unscathed. Yet he too appeared less elated than Akbar thought might have been likely in this hour of victory. ‘You fought well, my milk-brother. I was watching some of your deeds.’

‘I hear you tasted blood too, killing the head of Hemu’s bodyguard. But I’ve sad news to report to you and Bairam Khan. Tardi Beg is dead.’

‘What? . . . How did he die?’

‘When you instructed me to gather some of his troops to feign flight back towards your position, I and my men fought our way towards his command post. As we reached it, we saw from a distance that all but a very few of his bodyguard were sprawled on the ground, dead or wounded. He himself was unhorsed and surrounded by a group of Hemu’s men whom he was trying valiantly to fight off. As we got nearer, hoping to save him, we heard one of his attackers calling on him to surrender. “No,” Tardi Beg shouted. “I am a man of honour, true to my emperor.” With that he rushed at his enemies a last time and I saw one spear him through the abdomen with a lance. As he lay impaled, twitching and clutching his guts, another of Hemu’s men pulled back his head and slit his throat like a slaughterer does to an animal.’

‘You died bravely, Tardi Beg, my brother, my
tugan
. May your soul rest tonight in Paradise,’ murmured Bairam Khan. ‘I am sorry I ever doubted you.’

After a long pause, Akbar spoke to Bairam Khan. ‘In the case of Tardi Beg it was good not to execute or banish him, wasn’t it? I was wrong to contemplate mercy for Hemu, but it was correct to extend it to Tardi Beg to allow him to vindicate his honour in battle.
My father was right, wasn’t he? Mercy has as much place in the armoury of a great ruler as severity.’

‘Yes, Majesty,’ said Bairam Khan, and Akbar saw that a tear was running down his commander-in-chief’s face.

I
n the palace fortress of Lahore, Akbar looked down from the marble dais. He was sitting on the high-backed throne that at Bairam Khan’s suggestion he had ordered to be cast from melted-down gold coin from Hemu’s treasure chests. The throne had accompanied Akbar everywhere during his six-month-long imperial progress through Hindustan. The idea of showing himself to his people in the aftermath of his triumph had been his own, but Bairam Khan had helped him orchestrate an awesome display of Moghul power.

The progress had delivered everything Akbar had hoped. How powerful, how proud, he had felt to ride at its head on his favourite black stallion with the gold-mounted saddle and bridle, wearing his father’s gleaming breastplate and Alamgir at his side. Next to him had been Bairam Khan and immediately behind them those commanders who had especially distinguished themselves in the battle against Hemu, including Adham Khan his milk-brother. After that – keeping in time with the martial cacophony of trumpets and kettledrums – had come the squadrons of horsemen, green pennants fluttering and steel-tipped lances erect, then the archers, musketmen and artillerymen, some mounted and some on foot. Behind had rumbled the wagonloads of booty seized from Hemu’s camp – sacks of coin, chests of jewels, bales of silks – protected by a special detachment of guards.

A quarter of a mile further behind, so that the dust rising from the road should not dim the spectacle, had followed the swaying glittering trumpeting mass of Akbar’s war elephants in their steel-plate armour, some with blunted scimitars tied to their red-painted tusks. In battle those blades would be honed to a deadly sharpness, but these were merely for show. With the elephants captured from Hemu, Akbar now had over six hundred. Next trundled the gun carriages and the bullock wagons bearing Akbar’s bronze cannon, then the huge baggage train carrying all the paraphernalia – tents, cooking pots, food and fuel – for the imperial encampment.

Often the crowds jostling for a sight of the Moghul procession as it passed had been so numerous that soldiers had had to hold them back with their spear shafts. Even in the remote countryside, people had come running from their fields to view the spectacle and make their obeisance. All the same, Akbar had been glad when it was finally over. It had been his particular wish that it should end here, in Lahore – the city which two years ago, on a balmy February day in 1555, his father Humayun had entered in triumph on his way to reconquer Hindustan. Akbar had been at his side and could recall everything, from the gleam of the gold thread and pearl-encrusted saddlecloth of the elephant on which they had been riding to the exultant expression on his father’s face as he had turned to smile at him.

Out of respect for his father, he had ordered every detail replicated for his own entrance into Lahore, which he had made last night as the sky had crimsoned to the west. Now, gazing from his high throne on the rows of chieftains prostrated before him in the formal greeting of the
korunush
, Akbar felt a deep satisfaction. As news of the Moghul victory over Hemu had spread, they had not been able to declare their allegiance to him fast enough. Every day riders had arrived bearing unctuous messages and extravagant gifts – matched pairs of hunting dogs, doves with jewelled collars and feathers dyed in rainbow hues, jade-hilted daggers, muskets with ivory-inlaid stocks, solid gold emerald-studded incense burners and tortoiseshell boxes of fragrant frankincense – even a great ruby that its owner ingratiatingly explained had been a family heirloom for over five centuries.

He had accepted these treasures graciously but he was already shrewd enough to know that often the more lavish the present, the greater the treachery the giver had probably been contemplating. After consulting Bairam Khan, Akbar had decided to summon these supposedly loyal allies to await him at Lahore.

‘You may rise.’

The sixty or so men, some sleek and plump in robes of silk and brocade in every colour from sapphire blue to saffron yellow, others – chieftains from the mountains – in coarse-woven tunics and trousers, got to their feet and waited, hands folded and heads bowed.

‘I thank you for answering my summons and for your oaths of loyalty. I recall the oaths made to my father when he too passed through Lahore not long ago. Indeed, I recognise many of you.’ Akbar allowed his gaze to roam slowly along the lines. Bairam Khan had briefed him well. He knew that among these chieftains were at least ten who had sworn allegiance to his father but on his death had immediately ceased sending the tribute they owed. Two had even made approaches to Hemu. They must be wondering how much Akbar knew. Did that pockmarked, pot-bellied chieftain from near Multan, who had just presented him with a fine chestnut stallion and was now regarding the carpet beneath his feet so studiously, suspect that in Akbar’s possession was proof of his treachery? Ahmed Khan’s men had intercepted one of his officers carrying a letter to Hemu.