Ruler of the World

each other again. Both succeeded in making the turn, and this time as they passed Salim flung himself from his horse’s back and managed to pull his opponent from his mount. The two men hit the earth with a thump and the impact sent their swords flying from their hands. Salim tasted blood as he bit his tongue.

However, they quickly staggered to their feet and closed, wrestling each other. As they swayed to and fro, struggling for advantage, Salim’s unknown enemy tried to pull a small dagger from his belt. Salim head-butted him hard. The man’s nose broke with a satisfying crunch and he went reeling backwards. While he was still dazed, Salim grabbed the hand in which the man was still gripping the knife and with a quick twist of his wrist sent it spinning from his grasp. Then he punched him twice in his already bleeding face, splitting his lip and knocking out a tooth before kicking him with his booted foot in the groin with all the force he could muster. As his opponent doubled up, Salim brought both fists down on the back of his neck, knocking him to the ground once more. Glancing round quickly, Salim retrieved his Persian sword and held it to his anguished opponent’s throat. As he did so, he saw that most of the retreating enemy riders were down or had surrendered. As far as he could make out through the bloody mess of his face, his enemy was a young man. ‘Who are you?’ Salim asked, stepping back a pace or two and half lowering his sword. ‘And why did you attack my camp?’

‘I am Hassan, the eldest son of the Raja of Galdid,’ he answered, spitting out pieces of broken tooth as he did so. ‘I attacked your camp because I knew that it must contain some important Moghul dignitary and I wanted to take him hostage.’

‘Why?’

‘To trade for my father who is imprisoned in the fortress of Murzad.’

‘For what crime?’

‘For loyalty to Sikaudar Shah, the rightful claimant to the throne of Hindustan. After Sikaudar Shah’s death at Moghul hands, my father still refused to accept alien Moghul rule. .’ Hassan paused to wipe his bloody mouth and nose with the back of his hand before continuing, ‘He took to the hills, living the life of a nomadic raider. For decades he survived, if he didn’t prosper. But six weeks ago he was lured into a trap by the local Moghul commander and captured.’

‘Couldn’t you see your father’s resistance was futile?’

‘I knew it and I said so, but he is my father. I owe him my existence and my loyalty — however wrong- headed he is — just as I owed it to him to attempt to secure his release as best I could.’

‘His story is true, Highness,’ said Zahed Butt, who had just ridden up. ‘I have many relations in this region and the family is well known.’

‘Highness?’ queried Hassan through a froth of blood. ‘Who are you?’

‘You really don’t know, do you? I am Salim, son of the Emperor Akbar.’

Hearing these words Hassan reacted instantly, twisting and scrabbling towards where his knife still lay on the ground about ten feet away. Before he had covered half the distance, Salim thrust his sharp Persian sword deep into his side, sliding between his ribs. Blood spurted on to the wet ground and moments later Hassan, the loyal son, was dead. Salim was left to continue his journey into the exile inflicted by his own father for his disrespect.

Snow was falling. Though it was only the first week of October, winter seemed to have come early to the lonely rocky passes southeast of Kabul. Soon the snow would block any return to Hindustan, Salim thought, even in the unlikely event that his father should relent. The previous evening a young Afghani wounded at the skirmish on the Indus had suffered frostbite in his left foot after his leg had been immobilised in a splint to allow a fracture to heal. The man — a native of Kabul — had been a fool to insist on continuing towards his homeland rather than remaining in Peshawar to recuperate. However, he had persuaded the hakims to use an old Afghan remedy and pack warm animal dung round the frostbitten member. Much to Salim’s and the hakims’ surprise it seemed to be working. The foot had seemed less white and blotched a few hours later.

Salim’s emerald-green face cloth slipped for a moment and the bitter wind nipped his own exposed flesh. Despite his thick, pustin, sheepskin jacket, he felt chilled to the core and Suleiman Beg’s lips looked blue with cold beneath the luxuriant dark moustache he had grown over the past weeks, of which he was inordinately proud. Snow was beginning to fall thickly now, the flakes whipping around them. The head of Salim’s grey horse went down as its forelegs slipped on the frozen ground, almost unseating him. Leaning back in the saddle he pulled hard at the reins and the weary animal managed to right itself just as Salim caught what he thought was the sound of hoofbeats ahead.

‘Halt. I heard something. Zahed Butt, take a detachment forward to investigate,’ he yelled to the captain of his guard. ‘Order the rest of the column to take up defensive positions around the baggage wagons.’

‘Who do you think it is?’ Suleiman Beg asked.

‘I don’t know, but we can’t take any risks.’

As Zahed Butt cantered off into the snow at the head of a dozen soldiers, Salim frowned. Lawless bands infested these passes but surely even they might baulk at attacking an imperial force increased to five hundred well-armed men by the addition of recruits from the clans around Peshawar. War was these clansmen’s trade. All were well mounted on shaggy-haired ponies bred to withstand the winter conditions, and well armed. Most carried long-barrelled muskets strapped to their saddles beside their lances. He checked his own weapons — his Persian sword and two daggers, one a throwing weapon, all slung round his waist, and a double battleaxe strapped to his saddle. A qorchi was carrying his musket and his bow and arrows, though in the blinding blizzard gun and bow alike would be almost useless with only fleeting indistinct shadows to aim at.

The wind was growing fiercer, howling down the narrow pass. Salim’s shivering horse whinnied its discomfort and, lowering its head once more, pressed closer to Suleiman Beg’s mount. Salim tightened his grip on the reins again. If anything was amiss ahead he must be ready — better prepared to meet an attack than on the Indus. . Anxious minutes passed as he peered into the whiteness, straining his eyes and ears for any sight or sound which might betray what lay ahead. Then, above the wind, he thought he faintly made out three short blasts of a trumpet — the agreed signal that all was well. A minute or two later he heard them again, nearer and more distinct, and soon afterwards his soldiers re-emerged from the whirling snow. As they drew closer, Salim saw about a dozen newcomers riding close behind them.

‘Highness.’ Zahed Butt trotted up, his bushy beard and his sheepskin cap alike crusted with snow and his breath rising in frosty spirals. ‘Saif Khan, the Governor of Kabul, has sent an escort to guide you on the final stages of your journey.’

Salim’s shoulders dropped as he relaxed. His long ride into exile was nearly ended.

Chapter 25

The Treasurer of Kabul

The citadel’s massive walls — at least ten feet thick in most places — were a good defence against the winter storms that had continued unabated since Salim’s arrival in Kabul two days ago, and a fire of crackling khanjak logs was burning in the hearth, now and then spitting showers of red-gold sparks. All the same Salim felt chilled to his very bones. He drew closer to the fire to warm his hands as he waited for Saif Khan, who had gone to give instructions to his steward, to return.

While attendants piled yet more wood on the fire, Salim turned his head to gaze at the low platform at the far end of the long room and the throne which stood on it. Its red velvet cushions were faded and its gilded feet and high curved back a little tarnished. In the distant Moghul palaces of Lahore or Fatehpur Sikri far beyond the frozen passes such a shabby item would be unthinkable, but Salim looked at it with respect. This was where his great- grandfather, the future first Moghul emperor, had sat as the King of Kabul to dispense justice. Perhaps it was from this very seat that he had announced his intention to invade Hindustan and claim it for the Moghuls. In the flickering light of torches in sconces high on the rough stone walls, Salim could almost conjure an image of Babur deep in thought, his sword Alamgir at his waist. If Babur could leave Kabul to satisfy his ambitions perhaps it was still possible for his great-grandson to do the same and fulfil the Sufi seer’s prophecy, Salim comforted himself. Just as soon as these snows eased he would visit Babur’s grave in its hillside garden above Kabul. .