1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Those who did were too little, too late. The horse archers among Salim’s sowar loosed. Arrows fell amongst those men who kept their wits and were organizing to meet Salim’s charge. Horses screamed and blood flowed, the wounded men and mounts adding to the confusion among the foe.

  Salim found himself shouting wordless excitement over the pounding of horses’ hooves. Not long now. He raised his sword just as another flight of arrows sank home. More screaming. More blood. One horseman, felled by an arrow, panicked his horse, which fled at a gallop. Other horses, seeing the example set, thought better of standing around waiting to get bit by the deadly rain falling from the sky. Ignoring the shouts, spurs, and whips of their riders, many of the remaining horses bolted.

  Howling, Salim and his men rode among those who managed to retain mastery over their mounts, carving them from saddles and this life.

  Dragging his sword across the face of one man, Salim shifted his seat and leaned over in the saddle to avoid the desperate stab of a spear from some enterprising footman. Looking about, he realized his headlong charge had carried him past the last bit of organized defense and among the caravan proper.

  A touch of the reins and his horse wheeled right. Seeing no threats, Salim stood in the stirrups to check the progress of the rest of the skirmish.

  Sunil’s men had emerged from the canyon on the far side of the valley and were hastening to cut off any retreat for those fleeing the caravan’s fate.

  Mohammed and the horse archers were riding parallel to the caravan, loosing arrows at anyone still bearing arms. Dead guards spotted the ground in their wake, each sprouting arrow shafts like obscene flowers.

  Salim again flicked the reins, turning back to face where he’d penetrated the defender’s lines. The other men who had followed them into the melee had routed the remaining opposition and were starting to celebrate with shouts and ululating war cries.

  “Take it!” Salim shouted, waving his blood-edged sword at the carts, wagons, and pack animals of the caravan. “Take it all!”

  The bellowing of livestock and frightened cries of their drovers did nothing to stop the looting, though Salim did manage to restrain most of his men from needless killing.

  Three things helped maintain discipline in this regard: firstly, it helped that none of his men felt any particular anger towards these people, who had been, after all, easily overcome. Secondly, who would carry all their loot if the drovers were put to the sword? Thirdly, Salim and their horses could hardly eat all of the food and fodder captured in the raid and no man Salim chose to ride with would wantonly destroy food and fodder when so many of them had grown up knowing the belly-gnawing pain of hunger and the ever-present specter of famine.

  He was meeting with his subordinates to count the losses and gains when one of the scouts he had set to watching their back trail rode in on a foam-flecked horse.

  The rider, a painfully slim youth in a sweat-soaked robe, brought his blown horse to a staggering halt directly in front of Salim.

  “Amir, a war band!” the youngster gasped. “They came out of the hills. We killed a few of their fastest riders but there are at least several hundred, perhaps more. I could not stay to watch.”

  “How long until their main force arrives?” Salim asked, thinking to order his men into their earlier ambush positions.

  “An hour before dusk, I think,” the scout answered, sliding from his horse and pouring water into his hand.

  Not enough time to clean up the signs of their attack and reset the ambush, then.

  Unaware of his commander’s thoughts, the boy continued speaking: “My brother and uncle should give us warning. They sent me on ahead, as I am the lightest.”

  Salim and Iqtadar shared a look. There would be no more warnings. The scout’s kinsmen had sacrificed themselves to ensure word reached the main force.

  “Any idea who they are?” Salim asked, not ready to reveal to the young man his suspicions.

  “I think my uncle…” The boy swallowed tears, some inkling of what his kin had sacrificed for him dawning in his brown eyes. “I think Uncle said something…some curse about Bhonsle dogs.”

  The big Gujarati, Sunil, spat. “Maratha are bad enough, but the Bhonsle clan are a plague on trade in these hills.”

  “But which emperor do they fight for?” Salim asked.

  The Gujarati laughed. “Last I heard, Shahaji was taking Aurangzeb’s coin, but the Maratha are ever faithless and fickle. Indeed, I imagine some of the coin you spent on informers made certain that word of our presence found its way to their ears.”

  Thinking the Gujarati’s assessment of the character of the Maratha was quite similar to most of settled India’s opinion of Afghans, Salim considered the lay of the land between himself and the Maratha force. On any other ground he would be confident of victory between his sowar and any smaller force, but here, on ground they knew intimately and he did not, he could not be sure of the exact size of the force he would face in a battle.

  “Amir, I don’t relish the idea of blundering around in the dark with this great herd of idiots among us,” Mohammed said, waving at the beasts of burden only just being forced into some semblance of order.

  “Nor do I,” Salim agreed. “And there’s no telling whether or not they have another group of riders to our west. Damn.”

  “Parlay?” Iqtadar suggested.

  “At the very least it would allow us some time to prepare…” Salim mused.

  “And perhaps scout a line of retreat?” Mohammed said.

  “Both,” Salim said decisively. “Start sending the caravan west ahead of us.”

  Mohammed shook his head. “We’ll lose the lot of them if they’re ambushed.”

  “Send some of your best herdsmen with them. At the first sign of an attack have them stampede the oxen and buffalo. We might get lucky and the livestock will kill a few of them.”

  “And,” Iqtadar said with a wolfish grin, “it will certainly distract them, having all that loot charging by.”

  Salim nodded, matching his cousin’s expression.

  Sunil was not smiling. In fact, from his aggrieved expression, Salim could almost believe they’d been discussing giving the Gujarati’s firstborn son to the enemy.

  “What is it, Sunil?”

  “I had a thought, Amir.”

  “Oh?” Salim prompted.

  “I merely reflect upon a truism spoken of among my people…”

  “Oh?” Salim asked, impatience making an order of the question.

  “You can take the hillman out of the hills,” the lowlander said, crooked teeth showing in a smile, “but you just can’t take the hills out of the hillman.”

  Western Ghats

  East of the ambush site

  The enemy chieftains met as the sun was rising, just as they’d agreed to the night before.

  Three men led by a fellow in a jeweled robe rode into the valley from the east while three more, one on a horse with an obvious hitch in its step, rode in from the west. The two groups met on the slope above Salim’s camp and spoke at length before descending to the agreed-upon site for the parley. And, it seemed to Salim’s tired mind, they had spoken angrily as well.

  Two of the men who’d come from the west were scowling, including the one riding the injured horse. That man winced as they dismounted, favoring his left leg. One of the other men he’d come up the pass with looked as if he’d been knocked on his side in the dust.

  Salim hid contentment. The stampede that cost them the lion’s share of the caravan loot had not been a waste, then. His men had reported success in causing it, but were forced to retreat without observing the results.

  Bread and salt were eaten by all present, allowing everyone to relax, if only slightly. Rites of peacekeeping were not universally observed, but most warriors respected them.

  With his counterparts so angry, Salim was just as glad to be meeting them under truce. His scouts had reported not just one force surrounding him, but five, each numbering
hundreds of men. He could certainly overcome them in a straight fight, but war was only a straight fight when both sides were either idiots, had erred enormously, or both. Besides, he could not afford to lose any men, and he would lose a great many, especially if the Maratha chose to do to him what he was trying to do to Aurangzeb, and taxed his supplies by conducting lightning raids on his forces. Granted, Salim had very little in the way of supply train, but he could not afford to lose his remounts, not if he wished to travel fast himself.

  “You wished to speak to me?” the Maratha chieftain asked in Marathi, eyeing the Afghan warily.

  Thanking God for a youth spent guarding caravans and learning tongues, Salim answered in the same language. “Assuming you command those who seek to block our way, indeed I do.” He studied the richly dressed man in turn. From the scars seaming his jaw and crossing the backs of his hands, this man was no stranger to fighting, however richly he chose to dress.

  “I command here.”

  One of the men to the man’s right, the one with the injured leg, allowed his frown to deepen.

  Something I said? Salim wondered. No, something he said.

  “Regarding what matters?” the man said, either ignoring or unaware of his companion’s deepening anger.

  Salim paused, considering. No, he’d bet a lakh of rupees the finely dressed fellow was perfectly aware of the other man’s rising ire.

  Deciding to see where it led, he extended the preliminaries in hopes of capitalizing on some outburst from the anger in the air. “I have been remiss, it seems. Forgive me. I am the Amir Salim Gadh Yilmaz and I lead these men…” Salim said, watching the faces of their counterparts as he introduced each of his men.

  “I am Shahaji Bhosale, and I command here in Aurangzeb’s name.”

  The lip of the man to Shahaji’s right curled in a silent snarl as his head whipped around to the younger, better dressed man.

  Affecting disinterest, Shahaji continued, “You are here on the pretender Dara’s orders?”

  “All the world knows I am not!” Salim said, forcing a laugh. His men joined their laughter to his, lending credence to the falsehood.

  Shahaji’s brother chieftains all looked to Shahaji, who cocked his head as a mongoose does upon spying a cobra.

  “I do believe you lie, Amir.”

  As his own men tensed, Salim leaned back and laughed once more. He smiled at Shahaji once again, and, edging his voice with careless disinterest, said, “Fascinating as that may be to you and”—he waved dismissively at the other chieftains—“Aurangzeb’s other lackeys, I don’t give a fig for your thoughts on my honesty.”

  “We are not his—” The injured man’s angry words were cut off as Shahaji’s dagger appeared at his throat.

  “Hold,” Salim barked at his own men, not wanting any blame to be leveled at his own people for the blood he hoped was about to be shed.

  “You agreed, Koyaji, to me speaking on behalf of the people,” Shahaji said, once certain there would be no interruptions from Salim or his men.

  “I did, but only after you assured us he was here to suppress the people on Dara’s behalf.”

  Salim was impressed by the chieftain’s nerve, doubting his own ability to say anything with such clarity with a blade pricking his Adam’s apple. Two of the other Maratha chieftains grumbled agreement, while the others maintained a facade of indifference.

  The neutrals were either better at schooling their expressions or were genuinely unconcerned that Shahaji might kill Koyaji, it was hard to tell.

  “No free Maratha here agreed to serve Aurangzeb! Just because you and your band of th—” Again Koyaji’s tirade was stopped by another movement of Shahaji’s blade. This time the richly dressed man laid the blade along his companion’s cheek, point resting on the soft flesh just beneath the eye.

  Salim, grateful that his men obeyed him better than Shahaji’s brother chieftains, remained still.

  The careful hunter bided his time, waiting for an opportunity to strike. If this squabbling was not some ruse, then his position was far stronger than he’d expected. The chieftains did not seem to care that he was watching, which could mean they were trying to deceive him for some reason, but Salim couldn’t figure out what advantage they might gain by it.

  “Say what you will of me, Koyaji, but you know better than to insult my men in my presence.”

  One of the impassive chieftains spoke: “My wife’s cousin spoke out of turn, Shahaji. His injuries make him short of temper.”

  Shahaji turned his head to level a gimlet stare at the speaker without lifting his blade from Koyaji’s face. Indeed, the blade did not betray so much as the tiniest tremble.

  “And you think we should make allowances for his clumsiness?” Shahaji asked in honeyed tones.

  The cheek not covered with the blade lifted in a snarl, but Koyaji made no other reply.

  “He was injured playing his part in your plan, Shahaji,” the other man said with a shrug.

  “Had he not charged in, he would not have lost any men nor fallen from his horse.”

  “I don’t have to explain my actions to the likes of you,” Koyaji grated.

  “Did someone ask you to explain, Koyaji? I think not. I know what you and your clansman think of me and mine. The fact remains that had you followed my commands you would not have been injured nor lost any men. You but reaped the whirlwind of your own greed. No, what you’re really angry about is that while my people and I have prospered in service to Aurangzeb you have…well, not. Did you not lose one of your clan’s redoubts to the Bhoite?” he asked with a glance at one of the other men who had yet to speak.

  Salim would’ve thought it impossible for someone to look even more angry, but Koyaji managed the feat.

  “You prattle about how Maratha do not serve,” Shahaji continued, “and I tell you this: there is much to learn from our enemies. You complain about the gains the Bhonsle have made under my leadership, calling us lapdogs and worse, but only beyond our hearing.”

  The man’s thin smile held nothing of humor as his voice rose in deadly serious tones. “And that is all right with us because, you see, while you spend your breath in idle complaints, we act. While you fight amongst yourselves for the scraps from one another’s tables, we conquer. While you rush in foolishly, we prepare.”

  “I’ve been told olive oil can help with that,” Salim said, having picked his moment with care.

  “What?” Shahaji’s expression was the very picture of surprise as he turned to face Salim, unconsciously lifting the knife from Koyaji’s face.

  “Well, while I have no personal experience of such acts, I’ve heard that if you bend over and oil up, it’s easier for your master to have his way with you.”

  “Dog!” Shahaji shouted as he bolted to his feet. Forgetting Koyaji entirely, he reached for his sword.

  Salim rolled away, scrambling to his feet but keeping his hands well away from his weapons.

  Koyaji, for his part, had certainly not forgotten Shahaji. The older chieftain, having risen to his feet, appeared to punch Shahaji several times in the back. So fast were the man’s movements that it was only when Shahaji turned to face his attacker that Salim could see the blood staining the Maratha’s back and realized Koyaji had a knife in his hand.

  “Dog!” Shahaji repeated. The sword he’d thought to cut Salim down with rose and fell. Koyaji deflected it with the knife, drawing his own sword.

  “Hold!” Salim shouted at his own men in Urdu, retreating a few steps from the combat with his arms up and spread wide in hopes of appearing nonthreatening enough to preserve the pretense of a truce.

  The other Marathas scrambled back, forming a circle that gave the combatants room.

  Salim could hear shouts from their respective camps, but it would be some time before anyone was able to get to them. Things between the rival chieftains would be concluded long before anyone was able to interfere.

  Shahaji launched a series of slashes the older man deflected or do
dged. The bladework of both men was commendable. All other things being equal, Salim would’ve picked Shahaji as the victor. Things were not equal, though—Koyaji had seen to that with his first blows.

  The spreading stain of Shahaji’s blood now soaked his robes to the hips, more than making up for any stiffness or bruises Koyaji suffered from his earlier mishap.

  Koyaji feinted twice and struck at his opponent’s exposed thigh.

  Shahaji rolled his wrist and parried at the last instant, following through with a straight punch. Weighted with his sword pommel, Shahaji’s fist crushed Koyaji’s aquiline nose with a crunch audible some distance away.

  Koyaji’s head snapped back. He staggered, nearly losing his feet.

  Instead of following up on his success Shahaji reached back with his off hand and felt at the wounds.

  The older chieftain steadied, glared at Shahaji and snuffled through his broken nose.

  “You’ve killed me,” Shahaji said in disbelief, rubbing thumb and forefinger together in the blood wiped from his back.

  “True Maratha do not serve any but the gods!” A gobbet of blood fell from the man’s nose as if to punctuate his shout.

  Shahaji lunged forward, sword a blur.

  Once, twice, three times Koyaji parried the impossibly fast, desperate attacks of Shahaji. The fourth, though, crashed past the knife in Koyaji’s left hand to bite deep into his side.

  “We are,” the older chieftain coughed blood, “free men…”

  “Free to die,” Shahaji said, spitting in Koyaji’s face as his opponent slumped to earth.

  A long moment later the victor stooped and wiped his sword on his opponent’s corpse. With a grunt of effort he stood and turned to face Salim.