‘All is well, Majesty,’ called the scout, long hair hanging in wet tendrils. ‘The Bijapurans are still in the jungle and as far as we can tell have no idea of our presence. Now that the rain is stopping they’ve begun lighting their cooking fires — look.’
Sure enough thin trails of smoke were spiralling from several points within the jungle. The Bijapurans’ bivouacs seemed to be scattered rather than concentrated in one large encampment. ‘If they want to eat they’d better be quick — it’ll be the last food they’ll taste. Continue to keep watch. If you see anything suspicious send word at once. Otherwise we will advance into the jungle as soon as we have surrounded it.’
Quickly Shah Jahan issued his final orders to his commanders. ‘Deploy your men around the forest. I will join those entering from its northern edge and will send my orders along the line from there. Aurangzeb — you stay here. Vikram Das — I am making you responsible for my son’s safety.’ The officer nodded, then glanced a little nervously at Aurangzeb as if doubting his ability to control the young prince. Shah Jahan saw the look. ‘Aurangzeb — do I have your word of honour that you will remain here and not attempt to join the fight?’ His son hesitated a moment, then nodded.
Shah Jahan kicked his horse onward, his bodyguard around him, as he joined the horsemen fanning out to surround the forest. The musketmen mounted behind the riders had their long-barrelled weapons and ram rods strapped to their backs while their powder horns were slung from their shoulders. So much moisture dripped from the trees as Shah Jahan and his men pushed through the branches that it seemed still to be raining. Water was trickling down their necks and running beneath their breastplates and the forest floor was sodden. The horses were soon sinking up to their hocks in places as they struggled to pick their way through and around the deep puddles and soft oozing mud. All the time the vegetation was growing denser.
Shah Jahan listened hard, but above the squelching of the horses’ hooves and their occasional blowing and snorting could hear nothing. The Bijapurans must still be too far off to be aware of his advancing forces, but not for much longer. Shah Jahan raised his sword. At the sign, Ashok Singh flung back his head and yelled the ancient war cry of the Rajputs, ‘Onward, children of fire, sun and moon, to glory or to death.’ All around men began shouting, clashing weapons, sounding trumpets and banging drums. As the cacophony rolled around the jungle, samba deer barked their alarm call and doves and pigeons whirred in panic from the shelter of the trees. Soon it would be time for the musketmen to drop to the ground and set up their weapons ready to shoot down any Bijapurans who tried to break out of the circle into which the horsemen were driving them. Heart pounding, Shah Jahan scanned the dripping foliage, right hand fingering his sword hilt.
Within moments shouts of alarm rose ahead. Suddenly over an area of lower bushes slightly to his left, Shah Jahan made out a clearing with a number of tents and some horses tethered nearby. ‘Musketeers, dismount and take up your positions. Pass the order along,’ he yelled. ‘Horsemen, keep the line as you advance — let no one through.’ To his right and left, Ashok Singh’s riders, their lances at the ready, pushed their mounts on through the thinning undergrowth, picking up speed despite the cloying mud.
As he burst with them into the clearing Shah Jahan felt something graze his cheek. A black-flighted arrow embedded itself in the mud close by him. Glancing around he spotted the archer — a long-haired youth — standing in the doorway of a tent not thirty yards away and fumbling with nervous fingers to fit a second arrow to his bow. In a single movement, Shah Jahan pulled one of his two steel-bladed daggers from its scabbard and sent it spinning through the air with all the force he could muster. The dagger tip hit the youth in the throat and he dropped to his knees, blood spurting through his fingers as he clawed at his neck.
Around Shah Jahan, his horsemen were making swift work of the Bijapurans, of whom there appeared to be no more than thirty. As he watched, Ashok Singh, bending low from his saddle, scythed another bowman’s head from his shoulders with a single sweep of his weapon, sending the head rolling away to rest, mud-covered, among the roots of a tree. The torso remained upright for a few moments before toppling sideways with a splash into a puddle. Other Bijapurans were attempting to flee deeper into the jungle while the smell of powder and the crackle of muskets behind him told Shah Jahan that a few had been foolish enough to attempt to break through the cordon of his musketmen. ‘Set fire to their tents and turn their horses free,’ he shouted, but at almost the same moment he heard a cry of ‘Bijapurans, over here, to me!’
Wrenching his horse round, Shah Jahan saw a group of thirty or forty well-armed riders led by a tall man in a gilded helmet crash through the scrub on the far side of the clearing. They’d obviously had more time to prepare than their comrades here in the encampment, where red blood now stained the muddy ground. ‘Regroup,’ shouted Shah Jahan to his men. ‘Re-form your line.’ There might be more Bijapurans concealed in the trees beyond and he didn’t want his soldiers rushing into a trap.
From Shah Jahan’s right and left, out of his range of vision, came the sounds of battle as his men clashed with other pockets of Bijapurans. He could not tell precisely what was happening but he trusted his men to maintain discipline and remember their orders. The important thing was to keep the encircling cordon tight and intact and continue the advance, driving his enemies into a tightly packed, disordered mass where they would be easier to destroy.
The Bijapuran riders, seeing they were outnumbered, knew better than to stand and fight in the clearing. Instead, pulling two or three survivors from the conflict up behind them, they were already turning their horses and disappearing deeper into the jungle.
Urging his own mount after them, Shah Jahan realised that the vegetation ahead was growing less dense — nearly all scrubby bushes rather than trees — and that the ground, now lit here and there by shafts of sunlight, was growing even more sodden. At first the tracks of the retreating Bijapurans were easy enough to follow. With luck they would lead to the main encampment. As the sun began to shine more strongly, reflecting mirror-like from the puddles, the air grew humid and sweat ran freely down between Shah Jahan’s shoulder blades. With mosquitoes whining in his ears, he glanced around, on the lookout for any Bijapurans lying in ambush amid the brush and fallen branches. He could see none.
Suddenly Shah Jahan’s mount slithered and plunged forward, nearly throwing him. He struggled to keep the animal upright and succeeded, but as the horse tried to walk on it stumbled again. Raising an arm to halt the advance on either side of him, he quickly dismounted and ran his hand over the horse’s front fetlocks. As he touched the left one the beast whinnied in pain. ‘My horse has lamed itself,’ he called to Ashok Singh. As he waited for a spare mount to be brought, a lone rider appeared on a low hillock about fifty yards away. His gilded conical helmet gleamed in the sunshine. It was the officer who had come to the aid of the Bijapurans in their camp. In his hand was a banner of golden yellow silk — the colour of Bijapur — obviously intended as a flag of truce. The officer shouted with all the power of his lungs, ‘I bring a message from our commander. Majesty, we know that your forces have encircled us. To spare further bloodshed on both sides we wish to surrender.’