Ruler of the World

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