Ruler of the World

Chapter 12

‘That is fine carving. The tiger looks as if it could be about to spring upon me,’ Akbar said to the beaming craftsman who was standing by his side with a sharp chisel in one hand and a wooden mallet in the other. The two men were not looking at some of the excellent sandstone carving Akbar had seen on the buildings of Sikri on his return from his conquest of Gujarat. Instead, they were standing on a wooden quay on the bank of the River Jumna at Agra, gazing up at the intricately carved new figurehead of a river boat. ‘With the tiger at the prow, this vessel will make an excellent flagship in my campaign in Bengal.’

Almost as soon as Akbar had reached Sikri, messages had begun to arrive from his chief general in Bengal, Munim Khan. The first said that the young Shah Daud, who now ruled the area as a vassal of Akbar after the recent death of his father, had rebelled and seized the imperial treasuries and one of the main Moghul armouries, but that the general would punish him for his presumption. The second had been short on detail, merely stating that the campaign was proving more difficult than anticipated and asking for more troops. Before these could be despatched, a third message had arrived pleading for Akbar to come himself because there was a stalemate. Daud was occupying the fortress of Patna which the general was besieging but with insufficient forces to make his blockade secure.

Fresh from extending his empire to the western ocean, the idea of securing Bengal and its eastern shores as a full imperial possession had instantly attracted Akbar and without even pausing to consult his advisers he had despatched an immediate response to Munim Khan’s third letter. It had told him to maintain the siege as best he could without unduly hazarding his men while conserving his equipment and supplies until Akbar came. However, he had retained sufficient prudence to tell Munim Khan he would not set out until he had accumulated a sufficient force to make the outcome inevitable, as well as enough river transport to carry his army down the Jumna to Allahabad and then along the Ganges past Varanasi to Patna. This meant that he would not leave for at least three months and possibly more.

He had decided straight away that to impress those of his subjects who lived alongside the two great waterways of his empire, his fleet would be the most magnificent the rivers had ever seen. The very day he had despatched his message to Munim Khan he had called his engineers and shipbuilders to him. He had commanded the engineers to begin designing and building pontoons large enough and stable enough to transport his war elephants downriver, as well as ones strong enough to carry his largest cannon and their ammunition. He had ordered his shipbuilders to acquire as many river boats as possible for conversion into troop transports, and to build further vessels as fast as they could recruit the men and acquire the materials to do so.

Knowing his treasuries were filled not only with booty from Gujarat but also with the increased revenues from his reforms to the methods of tax collection, he had determined to fill his subjects with pleasure as well as awe and had ordered enough vessels to allow one to carry his orchestra of musicians on its deck, ready to play whenever called upon. Two others would be fitted out as floating gardens, full of bright flowers with sweet scents which the river breezes could waft to the shore. A fourth would be equipped as a platform for displays of fireworks by his magicians from Kashgar. For his own pleasure, one boat was to be modified to carry his favourite hunting dogs and leopards as well as his falcons and horses so he could go ashore to hunt whenever he pleased, and the very best craftsmen were to construct a large ship from teak to carry the favourite members of his haram in the greatest luxury and comfort possible. Bathtubs were to be installed in which they could bathe in warm, scented water, and large, intricately carved wooden screens running all around the boat would protect their activities from prying eyes.

Finally, he had commissioned two kitchen boats. To allow his tandoor ovens, cooking cauldrons and roasting spits to operate as safely as possible, one would have part of its interior lined with thin sheets of beaten copper. The other would have holds which could be filled with ice brought down from the mountains to conserve melons, grapes and other fruit. Satisfied that he had thought of everything, Akbar had settled down to wait, not very patiently, for the moment when his campaign could begin.

‘Majesty, we cannot sail today,’ said Ahmed Khan. ‘The monsoon is at its height and the ships’ captains are worried that the force of the flood waters flowing so fiercely downstream will make it hazardous for us to cast off, to manoeuvre our vessels into formation and even to anchor with safety at the end of the day’s journey. Also, the deep mud and swamps on the riverbank will make it difficult for the squadrons of horsemen designated to accompany our passage to keep up with us.’

Akbar thought for a moment. Ahmed Khan was growing cautious with age. ‘No, I am determined that we will start today, even if we make slow progress. We will take as many precautions as we can, for example by only manoeuvring a single vessel at a time, but we will go. To set out and head down the river when others would not will only strengthen the impression of invincible power I intend to impart to all who witness our journey and to all those who come to hear of it, especially Shah Daud. Unless he is even more of a fool than I think him, he will have his spies monitoring our progress.’

An hour later, the rain had temporarily ceased and a watery sun was shining through piles of puffy white clouds. Akbar stood in the bow of his flagship, just above the ornately carved tiger’s head. As he watched, rowers naked except for cotton loincloths were sweating profusely as they bent their backs over the oars, rowing against the current to hold the large vessel as still as they could in midstream while, one by one, his riverboats were rowed and pulled by small boats into the current. There had been no incidents beyond a couple of small barges bumping, and he prayed that his whole campaign would go so well. He must make sure of it. It must not falter because he failed to take sufficient care in his planning, or in his oversight of how his commanders put his plans into practice.

The sheet lightning was flickering along the dark clouds piling the horizon as the line of servants carried up the ridged wooden gangplank of one of Akbar’s river boats the trophies of his most recent hunting expedition. The lifeless bodies of eight tigers — one measuring at least seven foot from head to tail — were each suspended from strong bamboo poles supported on the shoulders of groups of four men. Behind them others carried the carcasses of deer, their bellies already slit and their entrails removed, ready to be skinned, spitted and cooked for the evening meal. At the end of the line, the last servants had clutches of brightly feathered ducks hanging limply from their shoulders.

Akbar himself had already washed and changed his rain-soaked and mud-spattered clothes for clean dry ones. Sipping the juice of red-fleshed watermelons, he watched as the final preparations were made for departure. They had become routine to the sailors as Akbar had insisted on hunting expeditions on most afternoons since their departure from Agra, arguing that they were a good opportunity for his horsemen to exercise their mounts and his musketeers to demonstrate their skill, as well as providing sport for himself. He had only varied the routine when, at least once a week, he ordered Muhammad Beg, Ravi Singh and others of his generals to drill his infantry on any dry ground that they could find, and when, ten days ago, he had gone ashore at Allahabad, the holy city at the confluence of the Jumna and Ganges, where he had arranged with the governor to make a ceremonial procession through the streets before his Kashgar magicians organised a show of fireworks from the city walls in the evening.

He turned to Ahmed Khan, at his side. ‘How many more weeks do you think it will take us to reach Patna?’

‘Perhaps a month, but much will depend on the monsoon. We’ve been lucky so far. The only serious accident was that time when two pontoons collided and we lost three cannon to the bottom of the Jumna. However, as the Ganges begins to widen out we’ll encounter more shallows and mud banks and the chances of running aground will increase. Shah Daud may even attempt ambushes to delay us. We know that he tried to bribe some river pirates to attack us.’

‘But they wisely refused, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, Majesty. Some even brought the news to us. We’ll also have to beware of the river forts defending the approaches to Patna. Our scouts tell me they are well manned and well provisioned.’

‘During the passage downriver I have given a lot of thought to how to unsettle young Shah Daud and undermine his men’s confidence in him. Now would seem a good time to make the attempt.’

‘What do you mean, Majesty? How?’ Ahmed Khan looked genuinely surprised.

‘Why don’t I write to him enumerating the strength of our army and offering him the opportunity to send ambassadors to witness the truth of my claims? I will go on to offer to forgo my advantage in men and equipment and to settle matters in single combat with him if he will agree.’

‘But what if he says yes?’

‘I’m sure he won’t, but if he does all the better. I am the equal of any man in battle, never mind a callow youth as he is reputed to be. We will save many lives and much time and trouble that way.’

‘How do you expect him to react, then?’

‘To dismiss our offer with what he means to be a confident smile but — unless he’s a braver man than I think or a better actor — will seem a nervous one to those around him. When his troops come to hear of my proposal — as we’ll make sure they do — they should be impressed by our confidence. His refusal of single combat will make them think their leader something of a coward and thus undermine their morale.’

‘It may work, Majesty,’ said Ahmed Khan, still looking doubtful.

‘It should. My own campaigns have taught me that my grandfather Babur was right when he wrote that as many battles are won in the mind before troops even come in sight of each other as are won on the field of battle itself. In any case, to make the offer costs us nothing.’

At that moment, a crack of thunder erupted overhead from the leaden clouds that had continued to fill the sky as they spoke and the warm monsoon rain began to pour down once more, millions of fat drops splashing into the Ganges and on to Akbar’s fleet as it completed its preparations to cast off.

Akbar stood with Ahmed Khan on the muddy banks of the Ganges looking towards one of the forts protecting the approaches to Patna. Its strong fifty-foot-high walls, stone at the bottom and brick further up, towered over them and Akbar could see the long barrels of bronze cannon on the battlements. The weapons would have a clear field of fire over the river and across the paddy fields, bright green with rice shoots, which covered most of the banks of the Ganges at this time of year. His troops would need to cross them as fast as possible as they moved to assault the fortress’s walls.

Shah Daud had — as Akbar expected — made no response to his offer of single combat. Akbar’s flotilla, moving as quickly as the monsoon would allow, had reached this point on the Ganges two days ago. The previous night, after a brief war council, he had ordered part of his fleet under the command of Ravi Singh to sail under cover of darkness past the fort, and braving its guns, to land a powerful force downstream ready to attack the fort from that direction. Akbar knew how lucky he had been that the monsoon clouds had covered the moon and the rain had been incessant, so that his ships had come undetected almost abreast of the fort. However, an alert sentry had then given the alarm and the fort’s cannon had begun to fire.

A pontoon carrying five war elephants had been hit and begun to sink. Amid the cannon smoke and with the river running at full spate downstream, a large boat bearing some of Akbar’s best archers, recruited from his father’s homelands around Kabul, had collided with the semi-submerged elephant pontoon and been holed in the prow below the waterline. As the vessel began to take in water and the intricately carved peacock at its bow dipped below the surface, the musketeers and artillerymen on the walls of the fort had started to find their range.

More cannon balls had hit the sinking pontoon, killing two of the elephants. Another, wounded in the belly, had fallen into the river where it floated on its back, thrashing its shackled legs and trumpeting in pain, blood from the gaping wound in its stomach mingling with the muddy river water. At the same time, the vessel carrying Akbar’s archers had been holed again and was now itself half submerged.

Several archers had fallen dead or wounded from the stricken barge into the water. Others, stripping off their breastplates and throwing aside their weapons, had jumped into the river in an attempt to swim ashore or to other boats. Suddenly sinuous shapes had appeared in the dark waters — bright-eyed crocodiles attracted by the smell of blood. High-pitched screams had mingled with the sounds of battle as men had begun to disappear beneath the water despite the attempts by musketeers on other ships to shoot the crocodiles, whose sharp teeth had quickly reduced the wounded elephant to a hunk of bloody, mangled red meat.

At first light, Akbar’s men had found dozens of partly dismembered bodies of archers, a half-eaten limb here, a bloody torso there, which had floated into the shallows downstream. They had even had to drive off packs of scrawny pariah dogs intent on finishing the feasting the crocodiles had begun. Yet despite the losses the good news had reached Akbar that the rest of Ravi Singh’s ships had succeeded in avoiding the collision and passing downstream of the fort with relatively few casualties, and had soon begun transporting men and equipment ashore. The strategy agreed at the war council to encircle the fort and then to attack it from all sides was working.

‘Ahmed Khan, how much longer before the forces we landed upstream will have joined up with those advancing from downstream?’

‘Perhaps another hour. There’ve been no sorties from the fort to try to disrupt them.’

‘Good. Are the pontoons carrying cannon ready to float down past the fort firing as they go when I order the attack?’

‘Yes. The artillerymen are aboard. The first round of shot is already loaded and the powder is being protected as best we can from the rains by oiled awnings. The troops that are to assault the river gate into the fort are in their rowing boats.’

An hour later Akbar gave the word and the sailors aboard the ten pontoons bearing the cannon cut the anchor ropes that had been holding them in midstream. Guided by the sailors’ long oars, the large wooden vessels moved quickly downstream. As soon as he was in range of the fort, the officer on the leading pontoon — a tall, bushy-bearded man dressed entirely in red — signalled to the teams manning the two cannon under his command to open fire.

Carefully shielding the lit taper with their cupped hands against rain blowing under the awning, two of the artillerymen put the flame to the touchholes. Both cannon fired despite the damp, their recoil sending the pontoon swaying up and down in the fast-moving current and causing one gunner to fall into the water, only for a comrade to pull him out before any lurking crocodile could grab him. As the men tried desperately to reload on the bobbing vessel, the cannon on the other pontoons fired and a swirling layer of white smoke soon lay over the river, mingling with the rain.

Akbar was standing in an advanced position on a low mud promontory jutting out into the river. Through one of the occasional gaps in the smoke he could see that some damage had been done to the fort’s water gate, which seemed to have been dislodged from one of its great hinges. Now was the time to attack, before the defenders could reinforce the damaged portion. ‘Send in the boats,’ he shouted, struggling to make himself heard over the din of his own cannon firing and the answering shots from Shah Daud’s men within the fort.

From where he stood, Akbar could also see that on land his war elephants were trampling through the muddy water of the rice paddies towards the fort, crushing the delicate green plants beneath their large feet. Musketeers were firing from the howdahs swaying on their backs, attempting to pick off those manning the cannon on the walls. More of his soldiers ran behind the elephants, fighting the suction of the deep mud on their feet and taking what cover they could from the animals’ bulk as they did so. Some carried between them long, roughly fashioned scaling ladders to assault the walls. One elephant hit in the head by a cannon ball had collapsed into a rice paddy and Moghul infantry were now using its body as a protective barricade to assemble behind before rushing to the final assault on the walls. All was going well, at least for the present.

Suddenly, turning back to the action on the fast-flowing Ganges, Akbar saw one of the rowing boats packed full of his troops going forward to attack the water gate approach within a few yards of the shore. Avoiding Ahmed Khan’s restraining hand he rushed instinctively through the shallows towards it, careless of the presence of any crocodiles in his eagerness to join the attack. Recognising him by his gilded breastplate, his men cheered as they hauled him over the boat’s wooden side.

Quickly scrambling to his feet, Akbar stood in the bow urging the rowers on towards the gateway. Moments later, however, he was propelled backwards as if by a giant hand pushing him in the chest. He landed awkwardly across one of the wooden struts in the bottom of the boat and lay there, winded and confused. What had happened? He could feel no running blood but his right side felt numb and he explored his breastplate with his hand. There was no hole in it but a dent beneath which a dull pain was now spreading. He must have been hit by a half-spent musket ball.

Brushing aside the attentions of his men clustering around him, he sat up to see that the boat was now only a few yards from the watergate, and that some fortunate or very well-aimed shots from his floating cannon had broken down the iron grille protecting the ten-foot-high entrance and splintered the wooden gate itself. Troops from another of his boats were already running towards it, zigzagging as they did so to put the musketeers and archers on the wall above off their aim. However, as Akbar watched, several of them fell and the rest retreated, some dragging wounded comrades with them to what little protection was afforded by a small stone hut at the end of a little jetty about ten yards from the gate.

Scrambling over the prow of the boat without waiting for it to be fully grounded, Akbar jumped into a foot of water and splashed ashore, yelling, ‘Follow me into the gateway. The faster we run the less the danger.’ Waving his sword he charged forward, keeping as low as he could. He was followed immediately by thirty of his men, musket balls and arrows hissing through the air around them. Seeing Akbar, the men sheltering in the hut on the jetty charged forward again too. Having a shorter distance to cover, one of them — an officer wearing a green turban — was first through the damaged gate, sword in hand, but a musket ball hit him in the forehead as he shouted to his men to follow. Spun round by the force of the impact, he collapsed just inside the fort. However, his men obeyed his last command and by the time Akbar reached the gateway himself there were a dozen or so men already there, flattening themselves against the wall to present the lowest profile to the defenders. Yet more were running up, feet sometimes slithering and sliding on the mud, from more boats which had just grounded on the shore.

Glancing upward to the walls as he caught his breath, Akbar realised that the defenders were becoming increasingly preoccupied with the assault from the landward side to have much time to spare to combat those entering through the watergate. Pointing to a stone staircase leading up to the walls about forty yards away, Akbar shouted, ‘Let us climb that and take some of the defenders in the rear,’ and ran forward himself, taking what cover he could by staying close to the wall. An arrow hit an infantryman running behind him in the throat and another clattered off his own breastplate but Akbar remained unscathed as, breathing hard again, he reached the base of the steep stairway and without pausing began to climb.

Suddenly the body of one of the defenders on the wall above fell, transfixed by a spear. With a thud and a crunch of bone it hit the stone staircase just above Akbar. He only just managed to dodge aside as the broken body rolled down the rest of the steps past him, skull banging on each sharp-edged step as it came. Then leaping up the remaining steps two at a time Akbar was on the battlements. He thrust at a small man who was using all his puny strength to try to dislodge one of Akbar’s scaling ladders. He fell with a jagged slash to the base of his neck and Akbar cut hard at a second who was bending over the battlements to fire on the Moghuls climbing the scaling ladders. The sword stroke took him across the back of his knees, severing his tendons, and he fell over the wall, arms flailing. A third man turned to face Akbar, who easily parried his first clumsy sword swing with his own weapon and then slid the long slim-bladed dagger he held in his other hand into the man’s side, deep between his ribs. As Akbar wrenched his blade free, the man collapsed, and immediately red blood frothed and welled up between his lips as well as from the wound.

Looking round, Akbar saw that by now so many of his men were either running up the staircase from the courtyard or clambering off the scaling ladders on to the battlements that they outnumbered the defenders, who for a while continued to fight bravely. But then, isolated and often wounded, more and more of them were throwing down their weapons and surrendering.

‘The fort is ours,’ shouted Akbar in triumph. ‘Make sure none of the defenders gets away.’ Another victory was his.

Towards dusk that day Akbar stood in the fortress courtyard and slapped at one of the host of mosquitoes which filled the air at that time of day, infuriating man and beast alike with their sharp bites and whirring whine. Turning to Ahmed Khan at his side, he asked, ‘Have we learned anything of significance from our interrogation of the prisoners?’

‘One of the most senior officers told us of Shah Daud’s discomfort when he received your offer of single combat. He said that the shah read it two or three times, on each occasion turning paler, before crumpling the paper, throwing it into a fire and wiping away some beads of perspiration from his forehead. It was only when one of the copies of the message that you distributed was shown to him a day or two later that he made any comment. It was to dismiss single combat as better fitting squabbles between leaders of gangs of common dacoits than disputes between rulers. However, the officer told us that Shah Daud doubled the number of his bodyguard just in case you should attempt to ambush him.’

‘If young Shah Daud is susceptible to our testing of his resolve and courage, we must think how to frighten him some more.’ As he spoke, Akbar’s eye was caught by a party of his men under the command of a junior officer who were slinging the bodies of some of their dead enemies on to untidy piles of corpses in one corner of the courtyard. Suddenly an idea occurred to him and he went on, ‘The souls of those dead men over there have already passed from their bodies so they can no longer serve them any useful purpose, can they, Ahmed Khan?’

‘So our religion teaches us, Majesty.’

‘Nevertheless, they may yet save the lives of some of their comrades by helping to persuade Shah Daud to surrender earlier than he might have done.’

‘How?’

‘Have fifty of the bodies decapitated and the heads placed in a large copper cooking cauldron. Have the cauldron covered with a fine brocade secured tightly round the rim. Then send it under a flag of truce into Patna with a message once again inviting Shah Daud to face me in single combat and telling him that if he still refuses more of his men will needlessly lose their heads and he will be their executioner.’

‘Won’t such an action make us appear the barbarians our enemies so often claim we are?’ Ahmed Khan looked appalled.

‘So much the better. We know we’re not and the more fear we can induce in Shah Daud and his men the sooner they will surrender. Start hacking the heads now.’

‘The cauldron of heads did its task, Majesty. By the time they reached Shah Daud they were putrefying in the heat. When he had the tie around the brocade cut and lifted the material to peer inside, a cloud of black flies burst out together with an unimaginable stench. Shah Daud turned away and retched from the pit of his stomach, and he was not the only one to do so. Immediately afterwards, he gave the order for the best regiments of his army, in particular his horsemen and his mounted musketeers and archers, to prepare to leave. Only two hours later he was himself in the saddle riding through the gates of Patna.’

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 saddle, 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.