Ruler of the World

bursting into pink and purple flower on the rolling hillside. Spring came late to Kashmir but when it did its beauty made the wait worthwhile. Scattered among the emerald-green grass, red tulips and mauve and purple irises stirred in the gentle breeze.

The move to Lahore had gone smoothly. Even his mother had found little to complain about in her new quarters, which were as airy as those she had left in Fatehpur Sikri and had the added advantage of overlooking the Ravi river. Taking his courage in his hands once more, he had asked his father whether he might accompany the expedition to Kashmir since at nearly fourteen years of age he wished to learn something of military matters. To his great joy and a little to his surprise, Akbar had agreed, even suggesting that he should choose one of his companions to accompany him. He had picked Suleiman Beg, one of his milk-brothers. Almost the same age as Salim, he had just returned from Bengal with his father who had been deputy governor there for some years. His mother had died in Bengal and Salim had little memory of his milk-mother. Suleiman’s strength belied his slight frame and he was always ready to join Salim in trials of skill or in hunting expeditions. His ready sense of humour could always coax a laugh from the other boy, even in Salim’s darker moods when he was preoccupied with what the future might hold for him.

Despite agreeing to his accompanying him, Akbar still rarely invited him into military council meetings. However, unusually, the previous evening he had done so. When he had entered his father’s great scarlet command tent, he had found Akbar already speaking and the council’s discussion well under way. Scarcely pausing, his father had gestured to him to take a seat at the left-hand end of the circle of commanders sitting cross-legged on some rich maroon and indigo Persian carpets in the middle of the tent.

Even before Salim had sat down, Akbar had continued, ‘. . so from these reports from our scouts and spies we can clearly expect to encounter a vanguard of the Sultan of Kashmir’s army in the next day or two when the valley broadens out a little. We must be ready for them.’ Turning to Abdul Rahman, the tall, muscular officer who several years ago had taken over from the ageing Ahmed Khan the role of khan-i-khanan, Akbar had said, ‘Have the officers check their men’s weapons this evening. Double the sentries round our camp tonight. Deploy a full screen of scouts about our column when we move out in the morning, which we will do much earlier than usual — an hour after dawn. You yourself will command our leading troops, which should include some of our best squadrons of horsemen and mounted musketeers.’

‘Yes, Majesty. I will treble rather than double the number of sentries. And I will ensure that each sentry post has trumpets and drums to warn of any attack under cover of the mist which usually comes up in the morning. I will also order officers to make their rounds of the posts every quarter of an hour.’

‘Do so, Abdul Rahman.’

‘So that I can ensure your protection, Majesty, in what part of the column will you take your place tomorrow morning?’

‘I will lead the war elephants, but the greatest protection should be given to the rear of the elephant column. My son Salim will ride there. It will be his first battle. He, and of course his brothers, are the future of the dynasty, the guarantee that our empire will continue to prosper. I have asked him to join us today so that he can hear us make our plans.’ Salim had felt the eyes of his father’s commanders swivel towards him as Akbar asked, ‘Perhaps you have something to say to the council, Salim?’

Taken by surprise, Salim’s mind had gone blank for a moment but then, taking courage, he had begun. ‘Only that I will do my best in the battle and that I hope I can be as brave as your commanders and of course you, Father. . and live up to what you expect of me. .’

As Salim had stuttered to a halt, the commanders seated around his father had begun to applaud and his father had said, ‘I am sure you will.’

However, as Akbar had turned quickly away from him back to a discussion of the command of the rearguard, Salim had wondered whether he had detected in his father’s tone and expression a disappointment that he had not spoken better and more originally. Then excitement at the prospect of his first battle had eclipsed all other concerns in his mind.

Now, eighteen hours later, the excitement was still there as Salim gazed at the rhododendron-covered hillside. Suddenly, he saw a movement behind one of the most heavily leafed bushes. ‘What’s that? Is it the enemy?’ he asked Suleiman Beg.

‘No. It’s just a deer,’ his milk-brother replied. As if in confirmation, the deer sprinted out from behind the bush, to be shot down by one of the column’s outriders with an arrow hastily drawn from his quiver.

‘At least some of the men will eat well tonight, Suleiman Beg.’

Ten minutes later, Salim thought he again detected movement, this time on the tree-lined crest of a ridge about a mile away. Chastened by his previous mistake he tugged at Suleiman Beg’s arm, pointed to the ridge and whispered, ‘Do you see anything up there?’

Before Suleiman Beg could answer, it became clear that there was something and it wasn’t another deer for tonight’s pot. There was a blast of a trumpet from one of the Moghul scouts. Soon he appeared over the crest, hands and heels working frantically as he urged his horse down between the trees and shrubs. A musket shot crackled out from behind him. Then several other riders appeared in hot pursuit. One, on a black horse, was gaining fast on the scout despite his zigzagging, ducking and dodging beneath and through the bushes and branches. When he was only about twenty yards from the scout, the rider — without doubt a Kashmiri — pulled back his arm and moments later the Moghul fell, presumably hit by a throwing dagger.

By then, many more Kashmiri horsemen were pouring over the crest and charging towards the column, crashing down through the vegetation. The Moghul cavalry on the flanks were turning their horses to face the threat and mounted musketeers were jumping from their saddles to prime their weapons and ready their firing tripods. Somehow the Kashmiris must have evaded Abdul Rahman’s screen of scouts, or perhaps killed all of them before they could get a signal away except for the man who had just fallen so bravely.

Salim’s heart began to beat faster and he felt all his senses heighten. Behind him in the howdah of his war elephant, two of his bodyguards were preparing their muskets. He could see others doing the same on the elephants immediately ahead, while on each the two mahouts sitting behind the elephants’ ears were striking the beasts’ skulls to make them turn to face the attack, at the same time trying to make themselves as small a target as possible in their exposed position. Suddenly one fell, arms flailing, from the elephant two ahead of Salim’s and crashed to the ground with an arrow in his neck. The following elephant carefully avoided his prone body although the man was probably already dead.

Moments later, Salim heard an arrow hiss through the air close beside him. Then he saw a phalanx of Kashmiri horsemen with steel breastplates and domed helmets ornamented with peacock feathers come crashing into the line of flanking Moghul cavalry. They unhorsed several of their rivals by the impetus of their downhill charge. Penetrating swiftly towards the elephant column, they were followed by more and more of their comrades galloping down the green hillsides, some with turquoise battle banners billowing behind them. From time to time a Kashmiri or his horse fell, hit by musket balls or arrows.

Once, a thick-set, green-turbaned Moghul officer charged at a Kashmiri banner bearer and slashed him across the eyes with his sword as they clashed, even succeeding in grabbing the Kashmiri’s banner before the now sightless rider dropped from the saddle. However, a second Kashmiri thrust his lance into the officer’s abdomen as he attempted to wheel his horse to re-join his comrades. With the turquoise banner flapping around him, the Moghul fell from his horse, but his foot caught in his stirrup and he was dragged head bumping along the ground a little way behind the bolting animal before his body caught beneath the hooves of some charging Kashmiri cavalry. Freed from the stirrup, it was left sprawling bloody and mangled on the stony earth.

Other Kashmiri riders were now within fifty yards or so of Salim’s elephant, kicking and urging their mounts forward through the Moghul cavalry, slashing around them with their swords as they advanced. Both Salim and Suleiman Beg put arrows to their bows and fired, while behind them the muskets of their two bodyguards crackled. Salim saw his target — one of the leading Kashmiris — fall from his horse, a white-flighted arrow embedded in his cheek. Salim was exultant. That was his arrow, wasn’t it? He’d brought him down. But his delight was short-lived. One of the bodyguards behind him — a black-bearded Rajput named Rajesh who had guarded him and his brothers for many years — uttered a strangled cry and fell from the howdah clutching at his throat. Moments later, one of the two mahouts behind his elephant’s ears too collapsed to the ground. The elephant in front, turning in obedience to its own mahouts’ urging to face the Kashmiri horsemen, couldn’t help trampling the body, releasing a rank, nauseating smell as the man’s stomach and intestines ruptured, bursting under the pressure of the elephant’s foot.