Ruler of the World

six months after regaining his throne. Now, it seemed that it would be Akbar’s turn to command a Moghul army in battle at Panipat. Young as he was he must do everything to ensure he lived up to his father’s and grandfather’s memories.

‘How many men does Hemu have with him, Ahmed Khan?’ he asked.

‘We estimated more than a hundred and twenty thousand, at least half of them mounted and of good quality. And he also has around five hundred war elephants.’

‘Then as we expected he will outnumber us by about twenty thousand men. How many cannon and muskets does he possess?’

‘They’ve fewer cannon than we anticipated, perhaps thirty in total, many of them small. From what we could see, most of the foot soldiers are equipped with bows and arrows, not muskets, although they do of course have some musketeers.’

‘We’ve got the advantage there then, Bairam Khan, haven’t we?’ Akbar turned to his commander-in-chief. ‘There’s no reason we shouldn’t give battle at Panipat, is there? It is a place of good fortune for our people. Wouldn’t fighting there give added confidence to our troops, even if we are outnumbered?’ Akbar’s expression was almost pleading.

Bairam Khan smiled at his young protege’s enthusiasm. ‘Yes, Majesty, it is indeed a good site for a battle, and we can advance towards it across these barren plains quickly and without fear of ambush.’

Before Akbar could reply, Ahmed Khan interrupted. ‘Your Majesty speaks of Panipat being of good omen for the Moghuls. It certainly is — but perhaps not for Hemu. We heard a story from a merchant we questioned who had been trading in Hemu’s camp. He claimed he got it straight from one of Hemu’s personal attendants, but it seems to be common gossip among Hemu’s men because we later heard it repeated by another captive — a humble foot soldier whose ragged dress suggested he was far from being a member of Hemu’s war council.’

‘What is this story?’ asked Akbar.

‘That a couple of nights ago Hemu’s own war elephant — a huge beast — was killed by lightning in its stable during a brief but violent storm. None of the other elephants was even injured. When Hemu heard the news the next morning, he confessed that he’d had a nightmare that same evening in which he had fallen from his elephant into a swollen river. He was on the point of drowning when a Moghul warrior dragged him to the bank, put him in chains and led him away with a rope around his neck. Hemu explained this away to his followers saying that in his family the reverse of what was portrayed in dreams always came about in life. Thus he would soon strike us from our high howdahs and lead us into captivity. However, he seemed clearly worried, and was later observed making lavish offerings to his Hindu gods.’

This was indeed an omen, Akbar thought. But Bairam Khan was the first to speak. ‘Even if this rumour isn’t true, its circulation around Hemu’s camp will lower morale. It makes me even more certain that we should advance at once to Panipat.’

Two days later, the bright orange flames of cooking fires punctured the grey half-light of the hour before dawn as Akbar’s men grabbed a hasty meal and began to arm themselves. Nervously they tested the sharpness of their sword blades with their fingers and checked and rechecked the tightness of their horses’ girths whilst muttering prayers for their safety and success in the coming battle. Elsewhere, as agreed by the war council, small cannon were being hitched to teams of twenty-four oxen so that they could accompany the army as it advanced. In the elephant lines, the mahouts were feeding their charges with great bundles of hay, fitting their armoured coats of overlapping steel plates and strapping the curved scimitars to their tusks. The howdahs which would carry the troops on their backs were being readied to be loaded on to them once the other preparations were complete. In their tents, the medical men — the hakims — were laying out their ointments and phials of pain-dulling opium and readying their saws and cauterising irons essential for the severe wounds they knew they would encounter.

Akbar himself had slept fitfully. Images of glory had been interspersed with anxiety not to let either himself or his forebears down. He had given up any pretence at sleep two hours previously. Now he was already clad in his gilded breastplate with his father’s sword Alamgir slung from his studded metal belt. His helmet was encircled at its widest point by a row of rubies and a peacock feather set in gold waved at its crest, but in practical contrast to this show of magnificence a fine mesh of hard steel rings hung down at its back and sides to protect his neck in battle. At Akbar’s side were Bairam Khan and the broad-shouldered, bearded figure of Tardi Beg, both also already armed and helmeted. Akbar had pressed Bairam Khan to allow Tardi Beg to take his place in the battle and have the opportunity to prove himself once more, but it had only been with great difficulty that he had persuaded him. Even now Bairam Khan’s tone was harsh as he spoke. ‘Tardi Beg, I trust you not to let our emperor down. It was his idea that you should lead the right wing. I had my reservations.’

‘You made that clear enough at the war council. Haven’t we fought side by side before? Haven’t we called each other tugan, brother-in-arms? Only God knows what our personal fates will be today. Let us not part on bad terms. You need not fear. I will uphold my honour.’ Tardi Beg’s usually resonant voice was quiet.

Bairam Khan stared deep into the eyes of Tardi Beg, who steadily and unblinkingly returned his gaze. Suddenly Bairam Khan smiled, stretched out his arms and embraced the other man. ‘May God be with you,’ he said. ‘I know you will fight well, my brother.’

‘Victory will be ours,’ replied Tardi Beg, before bowing to Akbar. Then without another word he turned, mounted the horse held ready for him by his groom and rode with his bodyguard towards his appointed position.

An hour and a half later, with his milk-brother Adham Khan beside him, Akbar was riding just behind the vanguard at the very centre of the mile-wide line of his advancing army. Both young men had repeatedly to rein in their horses, which seemed as eager for battle as they were, for as Bairam Khan, riding a short distance from them, had pointed out, the squadrons of horsemen on the flanks and in the vanguard must not outdistance the teams of oxen pulling the small cannon, the majestic, plodding war elephants and the ranks of archers marching behind them. Some of the bowmen had ragged clothes and many were barefoot but, like the elephants, they could still play a role in battle even in the new world of gunpowder. Their very numbers compensated for what they lacked in individual firepower, Bairam Khan had told Akbar.

The morning had dawned overcast, with scudding low clouds, but as Akbar looked up, a gap opened in them directly above him and the rising sun appeared, shining a beam of bright light on to him and his gleaming armour. Feeling the sudden warmth of its brightness on his upturned face, Akbar shouted to Bairam Khan, ‘This is yet another favourable omen, isn’t it? Spread the word to our men. The rising sun shines on me alone today. Only dark clouds gather over Hemu. Victory will be ours. More victories will follow. Our empire will eclipse all others until like the midday sun no one will be able to contemplate it for more than a moment without being blinded by its magnificence.’

While Bairam Khan turned to obey, Akbar drew his father’s sword and waved it above his head. As he did so, the beat of his drummers grew more intense and the blare of his trumpets more strident, reverberating inside his head. ‘Victory will be ours,’ Akbar yelled again and heard the cry taken up in ever greater numbers all along his lines.

Then from in front of him he heard the answering, undaunted shouts of Hemu’s troops. ‘Hemu, Hemu, Hemu Padishah!’ Standing in his stirrups, Akbar saw over the heads and through the fluttering green banners of his vanguard the glinting armour of Hemu’s war elephants, no more than a mile off. He knew what it meant. Confident in his superior numbers, Hemu had scorned to draw up his men around the few low hillocks on which Akbar’s grandfather Babur had positioned his troops to win his great victory all those years ago. Like Akbar, Hemu was staking his all on a frontal attack.

Excitement rising within him like an exploding volcano, Akbar kicked his tall black horse forward and galloped through the vanguard, whilst Adham Khan and his startled bodyguard followed as best they could. Lost to all thoughts but that of conflict, Akbar continued to cry, ‘Victory will be ours!’

‘Majesty, our right flank is in chaos,’ an officer gasped out as he rode up to Akbar half an hour later. His face was covered in sweat and dust and he had lost his helmet. His white horse was blowing hard and bleeding from a sword slash to its rump. Bairam Khan, who had eventually succeeded in restraining Akbar from his wild gallop at the head of his troops, was still, like Adham Khan, at his side. All three were sitting on their horses in the middle of a