‘I will lead the men in prayers today at noon. If Allah looks kindly on us, we will shatter the legend of this khan, so that his strength bleeds out. Win here and all those cities that watch and wait will throw in with us to root the man from our land. Lose and he will not be challenged again. Those are the stakes, Nawaz.’
The rajah lowered his head, abashed. He held Jelaudin in awe, even before he had sent the Mongols running across their bridge. More than anything, he wanted to impress this man he had known as a boy, just a year older than him. His gaze swept the lines of men Jelaudin had brought under a single banner. Turkomans, Berbers, Bedouins from the far deserts and dark-skinned warriors from Peshawar, marked from the rest by the armour of his personal guard. There were Afghans too in the ranks, serious men who had come down from the hills with heavy, curved swords. None of them were mounted for the battle to come. Jelaudin had chosen a position that would remove the advantage of the Mongol horses. His army would fight on foot. They would stand or be destroyed.
He had worked hard over the previous days to prepare the position, knowing that the Mongols would not be slow in their response. Nawaz had even laboured with his men to take the stones from Parwan across the river. The rajah hoped they saw that he could put aside his dignity to work with them, though his self-conscious efforts had made Jelaudin laugh. Nawaz flushed as he recalled Jelaudin’s words on the subject of pride. He was a prince of Peshawar! It came naturally to him, though he strove to be humble.
Nawaz wrinkled his nose as he and Jelaudin walked past a latrine strip, flies swarming angrily as men shovelled earth back into it. Even in that, Jelaudin had taken a part, choosing the site of the strip so that when it was filled in, it would make a rough earth bank on their right flank. Nawaz looked away from the men who heaved earth into the trench, but Jelaudin called to them by name and reduced their shame at such unclean work. Nawaz watched him with feverish intensity, trying to learn everything he could. He had spent his father’s gold like water to outfit the army. Somehow it was not enough and he hoped to show Jelaudin that he could command and fight with as much courage as anyone there.
The sun moved across the heavens, throwing shadow onto the army that waited. It would dwindle to nothing as noon approached, but until then, the men were cool. The Mongol tumans would be hot and thirsty by the time they had crossed the river and ridden back. Jelaudin had planned for everything and he nodded with approval at the young boys waiting to run among the men with waterskins when the fighting began. The horses were safe, tethered at the rear where they could not panic and bolt. He saw piles of arrows bound in twine as well as fresh shields and swords by the thousand.
‘I have not eaten this morning, Nawaz,’ Jelaudin said suddenly. ‘Will you share a little food with me?’
In fact, he had no appetite at all, but he knew his men would grin and point to see their leader eating without a care while the feared enemy approached. Nawaz led the way to his own tent, larger than the rest. It was as opulent as the clothes he wore and Jelaudin smiled again to himself at the ostentatious prince. As he reached the entrance, Jelaudin looked over the plain he had chosen to avenge the Shah of Khwarezm, searching for anything out of place or that he might improve. There was nothing. All that was left was to wait.
‘Have your servants bring the food out here, Nawaz,’ he murmured. ‘Let the men see me sitting as one of them, but keep the meal simple, as they would have themselves.’
The rajah of Peshawar bowed his head, hurrying inside the tent to do Jelaudin’s bidding.
The fording place had soaked the tumans as they crossed in a spray of muddy water, but the sun leached moisture away as they rode five miles back to the Panjshir valley. The sun was long past noon when they saw the enemy once more in the distance. Kachiun walked his horse at the head of the three tumans, conserving its strength as Jelme and Khasar rode beside him.
‘This will be a hard fight, brother,’ Kachiun said to Khasar. ‘Follow my orders and put aside all thoughts of an easy victory.’
Khasar shrugged as the valley opened up in front of them. They had found another entrance to the central plain, but it too had a man on a peak and he stood to raise a banner that could be seen for miles. The river ran on their left as they trotted towards Jelaudin’s camp. The three generals could see that his army had formed on foot in a bow across the land. Sixty thousand standing men made a formidable sight and the Mongols rode with grim concentration, looking to their generals for orders.
Kachiun felt his bladder fill as he crossed the plain. On a long ride, he would simply have let the liquid run down the horse’s flank. With the enemy so close, he grimaced and held it rather than have the men think he did it from fear.
When the lines of the enemy were a mile away, Khasar and Jelme rode back across the face of the tumans to their positions. They had attended Kachiun on the ride to and from the river and both men knew what they had to do. In that, at least, Kachiun knew he was well served. He raised his hand and thirty thousand warriors moved into a trot. Ahead of them, Jelaudin’s front rank raised swords and shields, the heavy blades resting on their shoulders and gleaming in the sun as it moved west.
Kachiun stared ahead at the blocks of stone littering the open ground. He did not know if Jelaudin had dug pits in front of his men and he tortured himself trying to guess where they might be placed. Should he leave the centre open and concentrate on the flanks alone? It was maddening to think that Jelaudin knew their tactics. Surely he would expect horns to form, in which case, Kachiun should send the tumans down the centre. That would leave their own flanks vulnerable and he felt his armpits grow cold with running sweat as he rode. His generals knew his plan, but they were ready for anything and he could change the orders, right to the moment they struck the enemy.
Jelaudin had seen Genghis fight, Kachiun told himself. One or both of the flanks would have traps in their path. At half a mile, he was suddenly certain of it. This prince thought he had made himself safe in a position where he could not manoeuvre. Kachiun decided to show him the flaw in his thinking.
‘Swing wide right!’ he roared, raising his arm and jerking it in a circle. The scouts near him raised red banners on their right side and the tumans flowed. They would attack the right flank alone, sending everything they had against that one part of Jelaudin’s army. Let the rest fret as they stood behind their rocks and spikes.
It took years of practice to move so many men without fouling each other’s lines. The Mongols managed it as if it was nothing to them, the tumans sliding into a new formation far out on the wing of the enemy. They increased their speed to a canter to match Kachiun and bent their bows. Behind them, a plume of dust rose high enough to cast a shadow across the valley. With the sun behind, they rode with darkness fleeing ahead.
Kachiun saw the enemy shake their swords in anger as he thundered past the first piles of cut stones on his left. If he had led Jelaudin’s men, he would have already had them coming forward like a door swinging shut on the tumans. Yet they stood, as they had been told to stand.
At four hundred paces, Kachiun counted aloud as the distance shrank at terrifying speed. He rode in the fifth rank, keeping himself alive to direct the battle. His heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry as he forced himself to breathe through his nose, snorting each breath. All three tumans raced towards the enemy. They had run so wide that they would strike almost along the line of hills.