1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Unfortunately, there were fewer contingents of infantry among his followers than he’d like. The Rajputs were the best of his heavy foot, if a bit oblivious to tactics more complicated than charging directly at the foe.

  Most sowar did not generally approve of being told to dismount and fight on foot. And they were even less inclined to assault fixed defenses when dismounted. That said, the prospect of loot and glory would make no few sowar serviceable infantry just as they had on the many sieges and assaults of the campaign to conquer the Deccan.

  Their horse-bows were almost as problematic. Composite weapons did not suffer damp conditions well, and some would certainly delaminate in the coming weeks—the obvious solution to that particular problem being a rapid conclusion to the siege.

  He had less than a thousand musket-armed men under his command, and most of them were scattered amongst the retinues of his umara. Some were sowar but most were infantry of uncertain quality drawn from the various zamindar he’d affirmed in their estates. And here again the wet would prove a detriment to their effectiveness. Damp matchlocks were prone to misfire and failure. But then the defenders would have similar problems.

  He ruled elephants out right away. They were too big, too slow, and too prone to mayhem when injured. And they would be injured—the defenses of Red Fort had been specifically designed to counter any attack on the gates by pachyderms. And any elephant slain at a gate would slow or even prevent the passage of successive waves of attackers, an unacceptable risk.

  The camel corps, on the other hand, might prove useful. Deployed to shoot over the heads of the infantry as they made their way to the walls, the zamburakchi should serve to keep the heads of the defenders down along one wall. He made a note to include them.

  His supply situation was, if not comfortable, acceptable. So much so that he had already considered ridding himself of the troublesome priest, but it was a poor general who thought current circumstances would continue without regard to the efforts of his opponent. Already the fodder coming north was at risk of deteriorating in the wet conditions that would prevail for the next few months. So long as the priest did not repeat his public stupidity, Aurangzeb would continue to accept European assistance and, eventually, have to honor his debt to them.

  A night attack? No. On balance, in the unlikely event Dara proved so incompetent a general that he failed to plan for a night attack, the surprise won by such a move was outweighed by the difficulty of getting troops where they needed to be in order to follow up and exploit any advantage gained from that initial surprise.

  Between the Taj Mahal and Aurangzeb’s camp

  Nur seethed in silence as she was helped into the howdah for the ride back to Aurangzeb and the Red Tent.

  Taking her seat among the pillows and silks, she frowned down at what looked like blood soaking the hem of her sari. The sight made her heart race, casting her mind back to the desperate days following the death of Jahangir and the battle she’d commanded from the back of an elephant no less mighty than the one that bore her now. The howdah she’d ridden in on that day had been far less decorative though no less heavy, weighted as it had been with two of Jahangir’s favorite harem guards in addition to Gargi and herself. With bow and blade, the three of them—Gargi had been untrained at arms—had fought across the river and into her betrayer’s camp. Faithful, deadly, scarred Nadia had bled to death on the floor of that howdah, an arrow through her neck. It had been her blood that soaked Nur’s clothing that fateful day, the battle when she’d lost all control and power over her future.

  Blinking, Nur struggled to control the sudden, sharp surge of revulsion she felt and think clearly.

  Looking closer, she grunted in disgust and tossed the hem back at her feet. The stain was not blood, but some of the paint her mahout had used to decorate the vast bulk of Bheem with great whorls of red and gold to match his livery. The rain must have fouled the art to such a degree the paint had begun to run and, as she was lifted into the howdah, her sari must have trailed along the beast’s flank, soaking up the paint.

  One crisis of misapprehension dealt with, at least for the moment, Nur felt the hooded cobra of her anger rise again. Allowing herself to be bested by that stripling of a girl with all the advantages she’d had going into the meeting? Folly!

  The sole consolation she drew from the outcome was that it was only the two of them who witnessed her failure to control the course of the conversation. That, and, she admitted after a moment’s reflection, the fact that neither party had truly been there to negotiate in good faith.

  She couldn’t even blame Jahanara for her lapse. In fact, Aurangzeb’s eldest sibling had impressed Nur with her skill and nerve. No, Nur was angry with herself for having lost control, for having responded to the verbal goads and barbed tongue of the young princess, however skillfully employed. She should have allowed for each of the gambits Jahanara used, prepared counterattacks and traps to capture her prey. Instead she had barely set foot on the playing board before being slapped down, forced onto the back foot for the rest of the meeting. That their efforts were doomed to failure made no difference. Those they represented had set the price too high for their offerings, and no one wanted to pay again for goods they believed already owed. Nur could scarce remember the last time she’d been bested so handily.

  A flash of memory: Gargi advising her to avoid mentioning certain matters to Mumtaz, and Nur, so certain of her course and power, ignoring her servant’s caution only to regret it later. A fresh wave of loss and regret washed over her. Had Gargi been here to help her prepare, things might have been different. Then again, Nur was forced to admit to making an occasional habit of ignoring sound advice during her long career at the pinnacle of Mughal politics.

  Shaking off thoughts of what could never be again, Nur began to plan how best to make her report to Aurangzeb.

  One thing Nur had gleaned from the experience: Dara—or at least Jahanara—blamed Nur and Aurangzeb for Shah Jahan’s death. Jahanara would not be shifted from certainty on that one point, despite Nur’s efforts to convince her otherwise. While she admitted to some fault for the creature’s anger, Nur had not directed Mullah Mohan to act against Shah Jahan. As far as she knew, that had been purely motivated by the Mohan’s fanaticism. A fanaticism that had, as such religious fervor often did, driven the man to respond violently to the perceived threat to his religion posed by Shah Jahan’s lifting of the jizya. Nur had maneuvered Mullah Mohan into attacking the Englishman as they departed under Shah Jahan’s protection, true, but when Mullah Mohan had struck back at her by having Gargi murdered in Agra, Nur had possessed neither the means nor the inclination to treat with the fanatic. Indeed, she’d feared Aurangzeb would punish her for interfering with his supporters.

  Nur ground her teeth in frustration, the pressing need to focus on casting her report in the best light possible warring with a strong desire to wallow in dark memories and attempts to justify her loss of control. Perhaps it was her long exile from the halls of power that had rendered her so sentimental, so vulnerable.

  She sighed.

  Or perhaps it was just growing old that made her maudlin. Shah Jahan. Mumtaz. Jahangir. And now her brother Asaf, every single opponent, every foe she’d contested with—and learned from—in her quest for power over her own fate was now gone to dust.

  Shah Jahan’s children, just now coming into their own, would render her irrelevant if she let them.

  Somehow she must find a path that would allow her to avoid such an ignoble destiny. Once already she had been cast into the shadows. She would not suffer it to happen again.

  Two days south of Agra

  Tent of Carvalho

  Methwold started, nearly spilling his wine, when one of Carvalho’s men shouldered his way into the tent.

  The scarred veteran barely waited to be recognized before letting loose a rapid stream of Portuguese Methwold was hard-pressed to understand: “My captain! The priest is making a scene again. He ordered his tent to be
taken down and sent his messenger boy to command an audience with the Sultan Al’Azam.”

  Carvalho glanced at Methwold, who shrugged helplessly. “Thank you, Fernando. We will see to it.”

  The gun captain nodded, turned, and left the tent almost as quickly as he’d entered.

  “Jesus Christ, but that man’s temper is an embarrassment to my people. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more intemperate countryman in my life!”

  Knowing precisely what the artillery captain meant with his outburst, Methwold did not think it politic to mention that De Jesus was not likely to share any of the Jewish blood flowing through Carvalho’s New Christian veins. Besides liking Carvalho a great deal more than the priest, it simply would not do to offend the man who’d seen them safely to this point.

  “I wonder what set him off this time?” Methwold wondered, drinking more of the wine he’d barely saved from spilling.

  “Most likely fresh news and orders from the Estado.”

  Methwold bit back his own urge to blaspheme. Despite repeated attempts to get De Jesus or the messengers employed by the Portuguese to wait until he or Carvalho were present to hear firsthand the news from Goa, the priest continued to receive and read orders from his superiors in Goa privately. Methwold understood why the priest’s superiors might want him to receive such orders and news alone, but as their ally and compatriot in this endeavor he resented being saddled with an intemperate priest they were forever winding up with their unreasonable demands.

  So much so he’d been driven to report De Jesus’ various imprecations and errors to the viceroy in no uncertain terms. Methwold discarded the unlikely possibility that De Jesus’ current fit of temper was a result of learning of his report, as the viceroy’s response had been rather terse. Only very slightly paraphrased, it left the message quite clear: Deal with it, Englishman.

  Carvalho finished his own glass and set it down on the silver camp table with an air of resigned finality. Taking his cue from his host, Methwold did the same.

  He held out a hand across the open space between them and, when the heavier mercenary took it, they levered one another up to stand facing each other.

  Methwold stepped back and retrieved his sword belt from one of the tent poles. Carvalho snapped his fingers, the sound summoning a slave from the back of the tent, a pale puce over-robe held at arm’s length for his master. Freshwater pearls glistened in the subdued light as the slave dressed his master. A gift from Aurangzeb, the robe of honor was worth a good deal more than Methwold’s annual salary from the English Company. Intricately carved ivory toggles inlaid with silver wire closed the garment over Carvalho’s wide chest. Impatient, Carvalho waved the slave away and finished closing the robe himself.

  “Let’s see what set him off this time, shall we?” he said, picking up his own baldric and blade.

  Methwold nodded and, with the last wistful look at his empty glass, led the way from the tent.

  The sky above the camp was overcast, the air hot, and humid, and it was very soon to rain if the ache in his joints was any indication. Still, the contrast between the shaded darkness they’d come from and the afternoon light was enough to make Methwold first squint and then sneeze.

  “Health!” Carvalho said in his native Portuguese, already striding toward the tent being disassembled some thirty yards away.

  Methwold set out after him. Already beginning to feel the heat, the Englishman spared a thought for the sweating slaves and servants toiling to set up the tent only to have the priest command they take it down scarcely an hour later.

  A red-faced and sweating De Jesus appeared from behind a pair of horses.

  “Father De Jesus, what has you out in this heat?” Carvalho said pleasantly, neither voice nor expression betraying the angry frustration he’d displayed just moments before. “The guns will move no farther today, much as I wish they would.”

  De Jesus looked at the approaching pair and visibly steeled himself for a confrontation.

  “What news, Father?” Methwold added, hoping to discover what had the priest so agitated.

  “I am required to meet with Aurangzeb and secure the promised rewards pledged to my superiors,” the priest said as the pair stopped before him.

  “What—now?” Carvalho asked, incredulous.

  De Jesus’ eyes narrowed. “Immediately, yes.”

  Beside him Carvalho had gone very still, only the faint rattling of pearls betraying his unease.

  “May we see these orders?” Methwold asked.

  “Certainly.” The priest recovered a packet from his horse and handed it over, saying, “I have already sent a messenger to Agra, so please do not attempt to dissuade me from seeking redress for the complaints. My superiors insist upon them.”

  “Please tell me you did not demand an audience with Aurangzeb,” Carvalho said.

  The obstinate priest lifted his chin. “I did. Moreover, I did it at the express command of the archbishop himself.”

  “One does not demand anything of a Mughal emperor, least of all when the only outcome for your demand is to waste more of the man’s time whilst he prepares for the battle he must win in order to secure that which he promised us in the first place!” Carvalho’s even, reasonable tone was replaced by an ever-increasing volume and anger as he delivered his opinion of De Jesus’ actions.

  “Perhaps it is not too late to—” Methwold began.

  De Jesus cut him off. “I will not allow you to countermand the orders of the archbishop.”

  “Be reasonable, Father.”

  “I believe the same was said to the Lord our Savior before he entered the temple and cast down the moneylenders for their perfidy. I can do no less than follow his example.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Carvalho grated. Hands balled into fists, Carvalho looked down at his own robes and then back up at the priest, shaking his head as if the desperate need to knock the man flat warred with the instinct to preserve his rich, courtly dress.

  Methwold considered putting a restraining hand on his friend’s arm but decided he wanted the priest shut up more than he cared for the already-frayed alliance between them. If Aurangzeb thought Carvalho and Methwold involved in these demands, they were at risk of being punished along with the priest. Then again, Carvalho was at least protected by the fact that his guns and crews were necessary to Aurangzeb’s plans. An English merchant named Methwold was most definitely not.

  “Blaspheme as much as you want, but I will not do other than I have!”

  Carvalho’s punch was, to Methwold’s experienced brawler’s eye, nearly perfect in its execution. It certainly lifted the thin priest from his feet. De Jesus was unconscious before he hit the ground.

  Chapter 37

  The Western Ghats

  Salim quieted his horse and returned his gaze to the outcropping above, only to see the lookouts signaling.

  He raised the sword Jahanara had given him. A curving length of beautifully worked wootz steel, the sword was the finest he’d ever held, much like the woman who’d given it to him. The responsiveness of the blade to his hand made him feel powerful, strong, much like he had felt holding Jahanara in the circle of his arms.

  Blinking away thoughts of Jahanara was more difficult than it should have been in these circumstances. The caravan below was almost perfectly positioned for the ambush he was about to unleash. Just a little while longer and he would lead his five hundred men out of the box canyon and down the alluvial fan spreading across the valley floor into the enemy.

  The midday sun reflected from a lance point rising above the saddle of earth separating the two canyons. Slowly the lance tip climbed, its wielder coming up the rise.

  All that remained was timing…

  The hand holding the lance appeared just as the turbaned helmet of the owner crested the rise.

  The caravan’s individual guards might be competent, but their leadership left something to be desired. Unfamiliar with the territory they were passing through, the Europeans in charge of th
e caravan would not pay the bribes to the local tribesmen necessary for accurate information about bandit activity in the area. At least, that’s what Salim had been told when he had offered such bribes.

  Lacking such paid informants, the guards had to scout each pass and valley before the caravan passed by. The commander of the guards had sent pairs of his men to check the higher valleys, thinning their numbers and tiring their horses. It was a time-consuming enterprise, making sure each notch in the hills did not contain enemies ready to sweep down and attack their patron. Just such a pair of ill-fated guards were making their way to the mouth of the canyon where the force under Salim’s direct command was hiding.

  Salim leaned forward in the saddle, dropping his sword level with the shoulder as his mount leapt forward.

  Iqtadar and Mohammed charged after him up the few gaz of slope that concealed them from the lower valley, followed by the rest of his sowar.

  The pair of riders wore matching expressions of astonishment as Salim and his men topped the rise and rode down upon them, an avalanche of silk, steel, and flesh.

  Mere heartbeats later Salim struck at the exposed thigh of the right-hand guard, desperately struggling to turn his mount. Riding past, he felt the blade catch and slide as dirty cotton and the flesh beneath parted at the merest touch of the curved edge of his sword.

  Knowing the wound was, if not fatal, likely to spill the man from the saddle and under the hooves of his sowar, Salim paid him no further attention.

  The caravan, stretched out over the better part of two kos, had yet to react to their sudden appearance. That would not last. But every moment that passed without a reaction from the caravan counted in their favor, allowing Salim’s force to get that much closer. He bent over the braided mane of his horse and urged the sturdy gelding to greater speed.

  It appeared the commander of the escort knew his business, when, scarcely a few breaths after the attackers hove into view, he began shouting at his remaining riders to join him in an effort to delay the riders descending upon them. Of course, commanding a response and getting it were two different things. Most of the caravan guards, shocked into panic by the sudden appearance of riders hell-bent on mayhem, failed to answer the command of their leader.