Raiders from the North

can you send an arrow with this bow?’

‘Five hundred yards, Majesty.’

‘Well, I don’t need to remind a seasoned soldier like you to wait until our enemies are four hundred and ninety-nine yards away before you fire. But perhaps I do need to say that you’ll serve me best by aiming at the riders sitting behind the ears of those elephants I hear preparing over there. Once they are dead, the beasts are directionless and will trample their own men.’

As he rode back to his place in the centre of the barricades, Babur made his final stop before the captain of his Turkish gunners, Ali-Quli. ‘Thank you for travelling so far from your homeland to fight with me. I know that each of your weapons is worth fifty of our opponents’ elephants, however daunting they may seem. Put them to flight and I’ll reward you well.’

Back in his position Babur dismounted and knelt for a moment in prayer. As he finished, images of his father, his mother, his grandmother Esan Dawlat, Wazir Khan and Baisanghar came into his mind. Esan Dawlat’s expression seemed the most warlike of all. Silently he promised, I will do you all honour today and prove I am worthy of you and the blood of Timur and Genghis.

‘Majesty, they’re definitely on the move.’

His qorchi broke into Babur’s thoughts and he stood up, calm and confident in his destiny. His squire fitted on his steel breastplate, buckled on his father’s sword and handed him his domed helmet, with its green and yellow plume, together with a long leather-sheathed dagger that Babur stuck into the top of one of his brown leather riding boots.

He could see that Ibrahim’s forces were advancing swiftly now. As he’d expected, the war elephants were in the lead. Most seemed twice a man’s height and the morning sun reflected off the shiny, overlapping steel plates of their armour. Curved scimitars — six feet in length — were strapped to their scarlet-painted tusks. The drivers were urging their elephants to move more quickly with blows from the large wooden sticks they held in their hands. Already archers were firing from the howdahs — the small castles positioned on the elephants’ backs — but the arrows were falling short: they were still out of range.

Babur hoped his own men would heed his command to hold their fire until they could reach their target. But first let Ibrahim’s men and beasts feel the effect of his new weapon from the west: the cannon. Babur waved Alamgir twice above his head — the prearranged signal to Ali-Quli to open fire. He saw the first artilleryman bend to put a lighted taper to the powder in the firing hole. Then there was a flash, a roar, and white smoke emerged from the barrel as the cannon ball was propelled towards the enemy. Other flashes followed from the rest of the cannon and smoke began to drift across the barricades.

Through it Babur saw one of the leading elephants fall, dislodging its howdah and sending the occupants sprawling to the ground. Then the wounded beast staggered upright again, turned, trunk raised in what looked like a trumpet of pain, and crossed the path of its neighbour, bringing it down, too, before collapsing again, blood pouring from the stump of one of its front legs. As it lay, thrashing its head back and forth in agony, the scimitar on its tusk cut into an elephant following, which — frightened and in pain — bolted. But although such incidents were being repeated the length of the advancing line, Sultan Ibrahim’s forces were still pressing on.

Suddenly, Babur heard the crackling discharge of muskets. More of his enemies fell. Then his archers started to fire, some riding out from behind the barricades to get closer to their targets — the drivers sitting behind the elephants’ white-painted ears. Ibrahim’s front line wavered. More elephants trumpeted in fright and turned to the rear, bringing a crashing halt to those behind, provoking yet more to panic and trample their own men beneath their great feet as they fled.

Babur yelled for more mounted archers to ride out and fire into the swiftly disintegrating enemy ranks. As he did so, he felt, rather than heard, a loud explosion near him and pieces of hot metal showered around him while something warm and soft stuck to his face. Dazed and partly deafened, he could not think what had happened. Then he realised one of his cannon had exploded and Ali-Quli had been blown apart. Raising his hand to his cheek he discovered it was a piece of his master-gunner’s flesh that had struck him. Ali-Quli would now receive his reward in Paradise, not on earth, but his work had been well done. More and more of Sultan Ibrahim’s troops were fleeing when they could, in particular the infantry, many of whom were barefoot, wearing only a loincloth and with just a spear to defend themselves.

Pulling himself together, Babur waved his sword in a gesture for his best cavalry to follow, kicked his heels into the flanks of his black horse and led them at a gallop through the smoke and dust the half-mile into the heaving, shouting mass of fleeing, frightened men.

Some of Ibrahim’s troops were made of more determined stuff and were putting up a brave fight, grouping themselves tightly into defensive formations. Babur made for a small hillock on which one such group of cavalry — about a hundred men all wearing gold turbans — were succeeding in driving off all attacks.

‘It’s Ibrahim’s bodyguard,’ one of his men yelled. Babur rode directly towards the tall officer who appeared to be commanding them. Swerving to the left at the last minute to pass him, Babur slashed with his sword in his right hand but the officer raised his shield in time to deflect the blow and, with his other hand, cut deep into the rump of Babur’s black stallion with his sword. The animal reared in pain and Babur was thrown to the earth. As he struggled to regain his feet, he saw the officer urge his white horse towards him, bent on finishing him off.

Babur stood his ground until the last minute, then jumped to the side slashing wildly with Alamgir as he did so. The sword skimmed along the left side of the white horse’s neck and then penetrated deep into the thigh of its rider. However, he was clearly an expert horseman and despite his wound stayed in the saddle, controlling his horse and wheeling it — bright red staining its white coat — ready to attack Babur once more.

This time, Babur ducked low as the officer swung his sword with the aim of decapitating him, and cut with Alamgir at the back of the white horse’s foreleg. He hit his target and the horse fell, trapping its rider beneath it and causing his sword to fly from his grasp. As the officer struggled to reach for it, Babur put his foot on his wrist and Alamgir to his throat. ‘Surrender. You deserve to live for your bravery.’ As he spoke, more of his men assembled around him, having at last killed or put to flight the rest of the gold-turbaned warriors. Seeing further resistance was useless, the officer lay still. ‘I will give you my word not to renew the fight,’ he said.

‘Help him to his feet. . What was it you and your fellows were struggling so bravely to protect?’

‘The body of Sultan Ibrahim. It lies over there. He was mortally wounded by the sting of one of your new weapons. They have rendered bravery useless.’

‘No weapon is more powerful than he who aims it.’

All the while they had been speaking, the officer’s white horse had been neighing and thrashing in pain, blood running from the cut on its neck and unable to support itself on the foreleg where Babur had slashed its tendon. Now, bleeding from the mouth and speaking with increasing difficulty — probably from the effect of being crushed by his mount — the officer said, ‘Allow me to have my sword to put my stallion to rest. I have ridden him in many battles. He will face death more calmly if I am the one to inflict it.’

Babur signed to one of his men to return the sword. The officer — scarcely able to walk from the wound in his own thigh as well as his shortage of breath — moved over to the horse. Taking its gold leather bridle he stroked its nose, cradled its head and whispered into its ear. His words seemed to calm it. Then he quickly drew his sharp sword across its throat severing its windpipe and artery and more red blood spurted. The horse collapsed instantly and within moments was still, its blood welling up into the dust. However, the officer was not finished. He thrust the sword into his own abdomen. ‘I can no more survive crippled than can my horse.’

‘May your soul rest in peace.’

‘I pray so, but remember that to subdue Hindustan you’ll need to subdue many men braver than I.’

As the last words bubbled scarcely audibly through the froth of blood in his throat, he too died, his body slumping across that of his stallion while his gold-turbaned head hit the bloodstained earth.

‘Majesty, the battle is yours.’

The words of his qorchi roused Babur from contemplation of the scene before him. Looking around, he realised that the battlefield was falling silent, that the fighting was over. . He had triumphed. ‘Praise God.’ He felt an enormous sense of relief. Then at the thought of what his victory meant, he punched the air in joy. He — like Timur — would enter Delhi in triumph. .

Dragging his mind back to the present, Babur addressed the riders around him. ‘We have done well. Let us hope that Humayun and Baburi succeed in capturing or thoroughly dispersing Ibrahim’s retreating forces. At least with him dead they will have no leader to rally round. Bury Ibrahim — and indeed this brave officer — with due