Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (45 page)

It had been purple dusk when the last raft had been secured and unloaded. The wind had already been pushing rain clouds across the sky as he had given the order to make camp immediately among the mud banks and sandy hillocks bordering the great river. Today he would allow his men, tired by the strenuous river crossing, to sleep later than usual before breaking their makeshift camp to begin the next stage of their journey into exile – on to Peshawar and the entrance to the Khyber Pass, places familiar to him only through the tales of his grandmother and those commanders who had served in the region.

Salim’s eyelids were feeling heavy, but just as he began to fall asleep a scream brought him to instant wakefulness. Was it simply some animal meeting its death in the teeth of a predator or was it human? Moments later another cry followed by a shout of ‘To arms’ banished all doubt. His camp was under attack.

Salim flung aside his bedding and was quickly on his feet, struggling into his clothes and grabbing a Persian sword strengthened on either side of the steel blade with gold-inlaid languets that had been a parting gift from Hamida. As he emerged from his tent some of his bodyguards were staring out into the darkness. Others were clustered, with torches guttering in the wind and rain, bending over two of their companions. One was crying pitifully as he clawed at the arrow protruding from his abdomen. The other was still.

‘Extinguish those torches,’ yelled Salim. ‘They only serve to make you targets. More of you will be hit. Try to accustom your eyes to the darkness.’

His instructions were too late for a third guard who was struck in the back by another hail of arrows and collapsed, heels kicking convulsively, into the mud. The torches were quickly doused in some of the puddles.

‘Where are Zahed Butt and Suleiman Beg?’

‘I’m here, Highness,’ shouted Zahed Butt, the captain of his guard.

‘Me too,’ called Suleiman Beg, ducking out of a neighbouring tent and buckling on his sword as he did so. All the time, other men were running up, splashing through the mud and glancing nervously around as they pulled on the last pieces of their equipment.

‘What’s happening? Which direction did the arrows come from?’ demanded Salim.

‘The arrows are coming from the east, from along the riverbank, but it’s impossible to tell the enemy’s strength. I’ve already sent some of the sentries who were guarding your tent to investigate . . .’ said Zahed Butt, but before he could finish speaking two more volleys of arrows crashed into the centre of the camp through the murk and rain. As if in direct contradiction of his words, one came from the west and the other from the north. Another man fell, hit in the back of his left thigh by what could only be a lucky
shot. In the wind and the darkness accuracy was impossible.

Questions raced through Salim’s mind. The unknown, unseen enemy was attempting to surround his camp. Why? If they were mere dacoits wouldn’t they sneak directly towards the baggage wagons and horse lines to make off with what plunder they could before escaping back into the night as quickly as possible? Could he himself be the target of the attack? Salim shuddered. Was it beyond belief that Abul Fazl, with or without his father’s consent, should have sent orders for him to meet with an ‘accident’, just as had befallen Bairam Khan earlier in Akbar’s reign?

Whatever the case, his men were looking to him for orders and they must not look in vain. Thinking quickly, he commanded, ‘Let us push a new perimeter outward from here to make contact with the enemy or with any of our pickets who survive. We mustn’t lose touch with each other, so it is every man’s responsibility to keep his comrade on the right in view. I will lead the centre towards the baggage and horse lines. You, Suleiman Beg, command in the east while you, Zahed Butt, take the west. Make as little noise as possible.’

Quickly Salim’s men sorted themselves into a rough line and drawing their weapons began to fan outwards. The two ends of the line hurried to make contact with the riverbank but the centre, led by Salim, proceeded more slowly as they slipped and scrambled up and over mud banks which suddenly loomed from the darkness in front of them. As Salim breasted the top of one large bank, his foot caught on something soft – the body of one of his sentries, sprawled face downwards. Salim stumbled and in trying to steady himself lost his balance completely and fell backwards, arms flailing, to land awkwardly in the mud. His fall probably saved his life, because as he struggled to get up arrows hissed through the air two feet above him and the men who had been on either side of him and were now on the crest were hit, one to fall forward with a strangled cry down the bank in the direction the arrows came from, the other to slump to his knees with a shaft in his shoulder.

Salim grabbed that man and pulled him down behind the mud bank. ‘Take cover,’ he shouted to the rest of his troops. But a great battle cry from the darkness drowned his words and suddenly assailants
were rushing at his men all along the line. One giant of a man threw himself at Salim, sword outstretched. Salim parried his lunge then seized his sword arm and dragged him down on to the slope of the bank. Rolling over and over, the two men slipped down to its base. The giant had lost his weapon but was grasping with his great hands for Salim’s throat. However, Salim had retained his grip on his Persian sword and as thick fingers tightened on his windpipe he thrust the blade deep into his enemy’s side. Almost instantly he felt warm blood ooze from his assailant whose grip relaxed. Quickly heaving the weight of the dying body off him Salim got back to his feet, clutching his bruised throat and gasping for breath.

Everywhere the fighting was fierce and hand-to-hand. Looking up, Salim saw just to his left and above him on the top of the mud bank a tall man, obviously a commander, waving a scimitar to urge more of the enemy into the attack. Yanking a foot-long serrated throwing dagger from his belt, Salim took careful aim, pulled back his arm and sent the knife whirling end over end through the damp air towards the officer who, seeing it at the last moment, tried to dodge aside, only for it to catch him a glancing blow to the flesh of his upper left arm. Undaunted, he rushed headlong down the mud bank towards Salim, slashing with his curved sword as he came and parting the air just in front of Salim’s face as he in turn leapt backwards. As the officer’s impetus carried him onwards, Salim stuck out his foot to trip him and he sprawled head first into the mud. Gripping the hilt of his Persian sword with both hands, Salim brought it down vertically into the nape of his opponent’s neck, killing him instantly.

Twisting out his sword and in the process severing the officer’s head, Salim paused only to grab the man’s scimitar to replace his throwing dagger. Then, a weapon in each hand, he ran towards where, in the growing grey light of dawn, he saw one of his Rajput bodyguards trying to hold off two attackers. Flinging himself forward, his Persian sword stretched out like a lance before him, he stabbed the first of the men in the fleshy part of his buttocks. Turning, the wounded man slashed wildly with his knife at Salim, ripping the sleeve of his tunic and grazing his right forearm. Salim swung the scimitar in
his left hand. Although it was a clumsy stroke with the wrong hand with an unfamiliar weapon, the scimitar’s balance was good and its blade sharp. It bit deep into the man’s side and he collapsed, to be finished off by the Rajput who had in the meantime disposed of his other opponent.

By now, many of the attackers were turning to flee, and as he scrambled to the top of one of the mud banks Salim saw that some of them were heading for the horse lines about a hundred yards away, where the first arrivals were already desperately trying to cut through ropes to steal mounts to hasten their flight.

‘Follow me! We must drive our enemies away from the horses to prevent as many of them escaping as we can,’ shouted Salim as he slipped and skidded down the steep mud bank and ran, legs pumping, through the puddles towards the long lines of horses.

Seeing him approach, a short, stocky, purple-turbaned man who had already cut the tether of a black and white horse and was struggling to sever the rope hobbling its front legs, pulled his double bow from his shoulder, fitted an arrow to the string and fired. The arrow missed Salim by inches. As the man fumbled with nervous fingers to fit another, Salim was almost upon him, but before he could grab him to grapple him to the ground he threw aside his bow and ducked beneath the horse’s belly. Salim thrust at him with his sword as he went but missed.

Spooked by the noise and commotion around it, the horse skittered in fright. Suddenly the hobble on its front legs, already half cut through, snapped. Immediately the animal reared up on its hind legs, front legs lashing out wildly. One flailing hoof caught the purple-turbaned man in the pit of his stomach and he fell doubled up, only to receive another hoofblow to the back of his head which knocked off his turban, fractured his skull and left him unconscious and bleeding heavily. A quick glance showed Salim that his opponent’s life was ebbing and he posed no further threat. Taking care to avoid the flailing hooves, he succeeded in grabbing the black and white horse’s halter. Holding on to its threshing head with one hand and stroking its neck with the other, he spoke softly to the animal which quickly calmed. After what
could have been no more than a minute or two Salim was able to scramble on to its back.

Guiding the animal as best as he could with his hands, knees and feet, he urged it after a group of his enemies riding bareback like himself towards a range of low hills two or three miles away. He was quickly joined by a dozen of his bodyguards. At first they seemed to be making no headway in closing the gap between them and their hard-galloping opponents, but then one of the leading riders’ horses slipped slightly as it jumped a small stream. Since the rider had no saddle or reins it was enough to propel him over the horse’s head on to the ground, where he rolled over and over. Instead of galloping on, at a shouted command from another of the foremost riders – who appeared to be the leader of the little force of no more than eight or nine men – they wheeled their mounts as best they could to attempt to rescue their fallen comrade before confronting Salim and their other pursuers.

The leader drew his sword and kicked his mount – a chestnut – towards Salim. As the two riders closed, each swung his sword at the other. Both missed and they strove to bring their mounts round in a wide circle to face 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.