As the howling wind began to buffet and bow the heavy fabric of his tent Salim, in an effort to distract himself from such depressing thoughts, started to plan his onward journey. Yesterday he and his three hundred and fifty men had crossed the cold churning waters of the Indus at Attock. A young pack elephant had panicked when the raft on which it was standing had collided with another in midstream. It had tumbled in and the strong currents had carried it away, still trumpeting in terror, together with its load of precious cooking equipment. Yet despite the dangers the remainder of the party had crossed safely to the north bank.
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.