Ruler of the World

Chapter 11

‘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 melee, 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 suddenly 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.

As the Moghuls were tying up their prisoners, Akbar saw Muhammad Beg approaching with some of his troops. One of them held the reins of a grey horse on which sat a slim young man wearing a ruby-encrusted breastplate over white robes. ‘This is Itimad Khan, Majesty. We found him hiding in the corn near his dead horse. His bodyguard had deserted him.’

‘Are you indeed Itimad Khan?’ asked Akbar.

‘I am and I submit myself to your mercy,’ the man answered quietly, keeping his eyes on the ground.

‘Are you prepared to order your armies to cease fighting and to surrender Ahmedabad and all other parts of Gujarat under your control to me? If so, I will spare your life and those of your men and allow you to retire to a small estate in a part of the country of your choosing.’

Relief flooded across Itimad Khan’s smooth face, which scarcely seemed to have known a razor.

‘I will do so willingly. If you release some of these prisoners they can act as my messengers.’

Akbar nodded and some of his men moved towards the captives, but before they could untie them and bring them to their leader to receive his instructions he spoke again. ‘Majesty, you must understand that I do not command the coast and the hinterlands of the ports of Cambay and Surat. My rebellious cousin Ibrahim Hussain holds sway over them.’ Itimad Khan paused, then continued in a low voice, ‘Also, if I speak the truth I fear that not all my own commanders will obey my instructions to lay down their arms.’

‘I know of the situation on the coast and will soon take my army there to force Ibrahim Hussain to accept my rule. As for your commanders, they will do well to heed your orders. Tell them from me that they will have only one chance to surrender. If they do not grasp it they will die.’

Itimad Khan nodded, soft brown eyes downcast once more. Akbar turned away, contempt for the other’s weakness mingling with pity for his situation. He knew he himself had the strength of character never to allow himself to be placed in such a humiliating position, and he gave thanks for it. When his sons and then their sons read of his battles in Abul Fazl’s court chronicles they would see no such shaming weaknesses or failures but rejoice in his victories and power, as he did now.

The ocean was calm, lapping gently on the pale tangerine sands. Soft northerly winds were rippling the leaves of the tall palm trees fringing the beach. However, Akbar could see that about a mile and a quarter further along the shore the forces of Ibrahim Hussain were massing in and around a small fort set on a promontory and designed to protect the land and sea approaches to Cambay, itself another two or three miles up the coast. A number of ships were riding at anchor near the promontory. Akbar turned to Ahmed Khan. ‘You were at Cambay with my father. What are those vessels?’

‘Most are the dhows of the Arabs who transport the pilgrims to Arabia for the haj and at other times trade in spices and cloth. These I have seen often during my previous time in Cambay. However, I have seen nothing before like those three dark, squarer, higher-sided ships with two masts which are nearer to us.’

‘Is that the barrel of a cannon protruding over the stern of one?’

‘I can’t be sure, Majesty.’

As Ahmed Khan spoke, sailors on the closest of the three ships began to unfurl one of its sails. As it dropped from the yardarm, Akbar saw that it had a large red cross painted on it. Other sailors were clambering into a rowing boat that had been lowered from the vessel and remained attached to it by a rope. Soon, with the help of the sailors rowing the small boat and the sail they had rigged on the main ship, the vessel was moving slowly down the coast towards Akbar’s position.

In the six weeks since his defeat of Itimad Khan, Akbar had ridden hard and fast to the ocean. Leaving all his heavy equipment behind, he had defeated and scattered the forces of Ibrahim Hussain wherever he encountered them. The previous day Akbar’s men had overwhelmed another small, half-derelict fort a few miles further south along the coast. Watching the approaching ship, Akbar was pleased that he had ordered draught oxen to be purchased from the peasants in the surrounding villages and the five small ancient cannon he had found inside the captured fort to be brought along in case they were of any use in the attack on Cambay.

‘Deploy the cannon so that they can fire on that ship if need be. Have the musketeers prime and load their weapons,’ he ordered. Half an hour later, when the dark ship with the red cross on its sail was more or less opposite Akbar’s army and only a quarter of a mile offshore, it anchored again. A tall man in a shining breastplate climbed down a rope ladder into the rowing boat which had been helping to pull the ship along, followed by a white-turbaned figure in flowing lilac robes. When both men had seated themselves in the stern, the sailors cast off the rope attaching the boat to the bigger vessel and began rowing strongly for the shore. As soon as the boat reached the shallows, the tall man and his lilac-clad companion climbed over the side and splashed their way out of the water up the beach. Both had their arms outstretched, presumably to show they were unarmed.

Akbar looked on, intrigued. What was their purpose in approaching him at a time when they must know battle was imminent? ‘Search them for weapons and bring them to me,’ he instructed the captain of his bodyguard. The captain ran quickly over to the two men, who allowed themselves to be searched. Satisfied that they were indeed unarmed the captain led them towards Akbar. As they came closer he could see that the man in lilac looked like a Gujarati but the other was paler and his eyes were dark and round. His long nose jutted over a full mouth and a thick and curly brown beard. His plain steel breastplate covered his chest, but on his lower body he wore some kind of baggy pantaloons striped in black and gold which ended just above the knee. He was wearing red stockings and on his feet calf-length, salt-marked black boots of a design Akbar had never seen before.

‘Who are you?’ he asked as the two men bowed low before him.

‘I am Saiyid Muhammad, originally from Gujarat,’ replied the man in lilac, ‘and this is Don Ignacio Lopez, the Portuguese commander of those three large ships you see in the bay, whom I serve as translator.’

So the brown-bearded man was Portuguese — one of the travellers from far-off Europe who had arrived some years ago to found a trading post at Goa, a thousand miles further south down the coast, thought Akbar as he carefully appraised the newcomer. He had heard of the Portuguese, of course. They were acquiring a reputation for the supply of weapons of all sorts, and also for the fighting ability of their ships and sailors, but this was the first time he had encountered them.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

The interpreter spoke briefly to the Portuguese in a tongue Akbar had never heard before, and listened to his reply. Then he bowed again to Akbar. ‘Don Ignacio acknowledges you on behalf of his own king as a great general and mighty emperor of whose brave deeds he has heard much. Even though his three ships out there in the bay are powerful and equipped with many cannons, and despite Ibrahim Hussain’s offer of chests full of jewels and gold if he would aid him against you, my master wishes to assure you of his neutrality in the battle that looms between you and Ibrahim Hussain.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Is there any favour he requests in return?’

After another consultation, the translator said, ‘The ability to trade through Cambay, once it is yours.’

‘When the port is mine, he should approach me again and expect a favourable answer. Now you must depart. I can delay my attack on Ibrahim Hussain no longer.’

The two men bowed, turned and retraced their footsteps back down the beach and through the shallows before clambering back into the rowing boat. There were many questions Akbar would have liked to ask them but now was the time for action not reflection and he turned to Ahmed Khan. ‘Order the attack. We will ride along the beach near the tree line where the sand is firmer. Ibrahim Hussain and his men will be apprehensive, knowing their approach to the Portuguese for help has been rebuffed and that we have consistently defeated their forces and now outnumber them.’

Half an hour later, Akbar was thundering along the beach, sand flying from the hooves of his black stallion. Around him were his bodyguard, four of them holding green Moghul banners, two others sounding brass trumpets. As they neared Ibrahim Hussain’s defences, Akbar could see that these consisted mainly of makeshift trenches and barricades, swiftly dug from the surrounding sandy ground. The brick walls of the fort behind them were low and crumbling. However, Ibrahim Hussain clearly had some cannon, for Akbar saw orange flashes and then white smoke billowing from a two-storey building inside the fort. The first shot decapitated one of his trumpeters, sending his head rolling along the sand until it came to rest a few feet from where his instrument had fallen.

Other riders fell too, hit by arrows and musket balls, but Ibrahim Hussain’s men were slow in reloading their cannon and Akbar was already jumping his stallion over the first barricade and across one of the trenches while they were still ramming the next round of cannon balls down the barrels. As his stallion leapt the trench Akbar slashed down at one of the Gujaratis hiding within, who was pulling back the taut string of his double bow ready to fire. Akbar’s sword caught the archer full across the mouth and he subsided, teeth exposed and face covered in blood.

Akbar heard another cannon shot and was showered with gritty sand as the ball hit the barricade in front of him. The Gujarati artillerymen had tried to depress the barrels of their weapons to fire on their advancing enemy but had only succeeded in destroying their own defences. Pulling hard on his horse’s reins, Akbar was through the new gap in the barricade and past the dismembered bodies of two Gujarati musketeers that lay bleeding into the sand.

Glancing sideways, he saw that other detachments of his horsemen had likewise got into the defences. He urged his stallion forward to where a band of Moghul soldiers had already dismounted and were attempting to climb over the crumbling brick wall into the fort itself. As he approached, some of them succeeded in pushing over the top section of a stretch of the wall and scrambling through. Akbar jumped from his horse and followed, grazing his left hand on a piece of metal inserted in the wall for support as he pulled himself over. He ran, legs pumping, as hard as he could after his men who were dashing towards the two-storey strongpoint which he could now see was the only building within the fortifications.

Another burst of flame. At least one cannon remained in action in the building. One of his men fell but then staggered up again, clearly having tripped rather than been hit. Breathing hard, Akbar was by now right on the heels of the foremost of his soldiers and together they ran into the strongpoint through a doorway left open by the fleeing gunners. Struggling to adjust their eyes to the darkness inside, they made out a steep stone staircase in one corner and charged up it. At the top, a single Gujarati officer, made of stronger stuff than his comrades, was desperately trying to lift a cannon ball and roll it down into the barrel of a small bronze cannon. Hit in the back by a foot-long dagger thrown by one of Akbar’s men the officer collapsed over the wooden gun carriage.

‘Quickly,’ Akbar shouted to two of his bodyguards behind him, ‘you, plant our green banner on the roof of this building to show we occupy the fort. You, find Muhammad Beg. Tell him to order our remaining troops to ride round the fort walls as fast as they can to prevent the Gujaratis fleeing north back to Cambay.’

The excitement of battle was still on Akbar, mingling with his exultation that Gujarat was now securely annexed to his growing empire, when towards evening that day he stood on top of the small sandstone watchtower at the end of the inner breakwater protecting the port of Cambay. The green Moghul banner flew above the chief buildings of the port, whose inhabitants had opened the wooden gates as soon as news of Ibrahim Hussain’s defeat had been brought back by fugitives from the battle down the coast. Ibrahim Hussain, wounded in the shoulder by a battleaxe, had surrendered and was now in a dungeon awaiting his fate.

How beautiful the sea was, rippling pewter-coloured beneath a sky in which the late afternoon sun was becoming obscured by purple clouds gathering on the western horizon. Suddenly Akbar decided he must experience the ocean himself, something he had never done before.

An hour later, he was standing in the prow of a fifty-foot-long dhow which was bucking up and down in waves which were increasing in height all the time. The dhow’s captain had warned Akbar that the dark clouds he had seen piling the horizon from the watchtower presaged a storm but Akbar had insisted on his putting to sea. Now the captain, a short, bandy-legged man, was shouting orders for sails to be furled and for men to lean on the tiller to keep the bows into the wind to allow the ship to ride out the squall. Beside Akbar, one of his young qorchis was being violently sick, his sour vomit speckling his own clothes and those of another squire next to him. A third, pale-faced and white-knuckled, was clinging for dear life to the base of the mast while muttering prayers for God’s protection.

Suddenly a particularly large wave shattered over the bows, soaking Akbar and Ahmed Khan at his side, with warm foaming water. Ahmed Khan himself was looking distinctly nervous as he turned to Akbar. ‘Majesty, let us move to a less exposed position. It would only be wise.’

Akbar, wet black hair blowing out behind him and legs slightly apart, braced against the unfamiliar motion, shook his head. ‘The pulsing ocean fills me with awe. Besides, the captain tells me the storm will soon abate. Ignorant of the ocean’s full strength I wanted to test myself on its waters and now, despite the dangers and discomforts, I am learning. . The crashing waves and seemingly limitless power of the ocean are a salutary reminder to me not to become vainglorious and over-confident. Although I have led great armies, won great victories, filled my treasuries and come to reign over vast millions — many more than any other ruler — I am still just a man, insignificant and transitory in the face of eternal nature.’