1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  “Bide a moment, President Methwold.” He gestured at the messenger. “This news may influence the particulars of your task.”

  “Of course, Sultan Al’Azam,” Methwold said.

  Aurangzeb gestured for an opening to be made for the messenger, who slid from the saddle and stumbled a pace before catching himself.

  “Report.”

  “Sultan Al’Azam, Shaista Khan approaches with near fifty thousand sowar,” the messenger said, wearily pulling his satchel around to present it.

  There was a stir around Aurangzeb at the news.

  “How far behind you are they?” Aurangzeb asked, ignoring the mutters as he pulled the only thing the satchel contained: a hastily sealed letter.

  “I barely escaped, Sultan Al’Azam. Remounts were scarce, as many imperial servants have abandoned duty or declared for Dara and therefore refused me remounts and supply.”

  Another wave of mumbles and mutters from amongst his men.

  “How far?” Aurangzeb repeated.

  “A day. Two at most, Sultan Al’Azam. They have no cannon with them, and travel quickly as a result.”

  Aurangzeb broke the seal and read the contents of the letter. Mohammed planned to harass the much larger force as he retreated, but a commander of five thousand, no matter how gifted, could scarcely be expected to stop a competently led force numbering ten times his own. And Mohammed’s competence was apparent in the next lines of his report: His force lacked the remounts necessary to maneuver out of the larger army’s way and then return to raid Shaista’s rear, so he planned to withdraw as slowly as possible before it in an effort to screen Aurangzeb’s army. His men would mount a monumental effort, no doubt, but would ultimately fail as they had here today. Not through any fault of their own.

  Aurangzeb struggled to hide his fear. Not of losing the war—what God willed was inevitable—but for his personal understanding of that will.

  Where he had always found comfort in contemplating God and His design, he only had raw, bewildering questions he’d never thought to ask before:

  How could my understanding of God’s will be so flawed?

  Where was my error?

  What did I do wrong, God?

  When did it become necessary to teach me this humbling lesson?

  Who is Dara that you have chosen him and his heretical ways over me? I have strived to be a good Muslim whilst he courts false gods and godless men!

  Mastering the urge to curse angrily and give his rage free rein, Aurangzeb said, “Take your ease, messenger. You have done good service and will be rewarded.”

  “Yes, Sultan Al’Azam. Thank you, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  Aurangzeb waved the man away, mind already racing across the ground between here and Shaista Khan’s force. There were no good options for a set piece battle that would not leave his rear exposed to Dara’s garrison, even if he managed to get the bulk of his army turned and ready to face Shaista Khan in time.

  The certainty of a few hours before had entirely deserted him, leaving in its wake a hollow desperation and fearful anger. He struggled past it, trying to think quickly and clearly.

  Slow Shaista. Whip the men into some kind of order. You had the strength to take on all comers. If you appear weak now, you will lose more than today’s casualties. Men will desert you for Dara.

  Damn him. How did Dara bring Shaista over to his side?

  The answer came easily enough, when considered.

  He had not. Dara could only offer money and station, and that no more than Aurangzeb could have.

  Jahanara. She accomplished it with promises of marriage, no doubt, of opening whore legs for our ambitious cousin to have children that could rise to the throne themselves, in time.

  I pray you will live to regret your perfidity, Jahanara.

  His eyes traveled back to the walls of Red Fort, where much of the smoke had started to clear. Dara’s cannon and those terrifying long-range guns were killing those of Aurangzeb’s men still in range, but at a greatly reduced rate. The Sultan Al’Azam suspected more because they were running short of armed targets rather than ammunition.

  Many of the fleeing sowar had thrown away their weapons, if only to lessen the weight tired legs—their own or their mounts—must carry. Sidi Khan’s men were the exception. Their return to camp appeared as orderly as such light cavalry ever showed, though their opportunistic nature as raiders had certainly shown itself in the number of remounts they had procured from among the riderless horses roaming the field. Aurangzeb hoped they’d found time to save some of Carvalho’s gunners while they collected the horses of dead men.

  “Summon Sidi to me,” he said to the drummer. He would send the Habshi and his men to bolster Mohammed’s force, redirect his efforts to establishing a defensive position from which to stand that threat off and still breach Dara’s defenses. All that and God granting a miracle or three, he might still win.

  Methwold quietly cleared his throat.

  Aurangzeb found the man looking at him with a carefully neutral expression in place.

  Racing thoughts came to a halt, clicking into place like the playing pieces of one of the games his sisters so enjoyed.

  “President Methwold,” he said, glancing at the sky, “offer the truce as instructed, but inform the pretender’s commander in the field that any truce agreement will end at noon today.”

  Aurangzeb ignored the uneasy murmurs that rose from among the men of his bodyguard. A truce that short would not provide enough time to collect the wounded, let alone the dead.

  Let them complain. I no longer have time, patience, or the men to spare.

  * * *

  “Sultan Al’Azam!” someone shouted.

  Dara Shikoh craned his neck around, shoulders and neck aching from the unaccustomed archery.

  “Atisheh!” he croaked, surprised. He’d thought her dead some hours ago and was glad to see her still among the living. He tried to add a happy greeting, but his throat was caked with dust. But no longer tight with fear, at least.

  She maneuvered to join him. When close enough to speak without yelling, she said, “Sultan Al’Azam, from the looks of things, Aurangzeb will not make another attack.”

  “Are you certain?”

  She shrugged, gesturing with a hand at what little of the battlefield they could see. Even that small slice of the fields was carpeted with dead men and horses. “The men who most wanted a fight were the vanguard, both in the assault of the walls and when Aurangzeb sent his reserves against us. The ones still alive and unwounded have already fled once, and won’t have the stomach to fight again, if they had it to start with. Even the brave men among them will not want to tread upon their own dead to come to grips with us, even if enough could be found and organized. At least, not today.”

  Dara spat again. He looked around, saw the signalman had been replaced by a boy barely out of the harem and croaked. “Sound the walk…” As the horses and men slowed, Dara took stock of his own hurts. On top of a throbbing headache that God, in his infinite wisdom, had decided to visit on him in the last few minutes, the fingers of his right hand felt shredded from the bowstring. He knew the pain was a result of too many hours spent bent over paper with the qulam and too few at archery. His horses and warriors, being in better condition than their leader, made no complaint, but he could tell the mounts were vastly slower than they’d been even during the last rotation, and the men were reaching into empty quivers for arrows already sent at the enemy.

  They slowed to the walk with little of the brave show they’d had when first they’d sallied.

  And the sally had been far more effective than anyone but Dara himself had believed it would be. Dara felt a pride that made all his pains diminish to a dull ache. His plan had killed a great many of the enemy today.

  Still, Aurangzeb had so many men. And there was so much dust, despite the light rain that had fallen the evening before. Enough, almost to make him wish he’d stayed atop the walls to better see the progress of the battl
e.

  But all his hurts, all his fears—they were as nothing compared to the feeling of leading men in battle as his great ancestors had done for generations. Back unto Babur, back unto Timur—back unto Genghis Khan.

  They were as nothing.

  And the Sikhs! They had, in the last hours, killed many, many times their number. They alone had broken the charge of Aurangzeb’s reserves. Aurangzeb’s thousands of sowar had gambled their lives against the very real threat on their flank in hopes of killing Dara himself. Unfortunately for those brave men, their charge carried them at an oblique angle across the front of the Sikh firing line, prolonging their exposure to fire. The result had been a murderous slaughter. Nearly half of them were dismounted or killed by the time the first warrior saw sense, turned, and fled for his life. The ignominious stampede to safety that followed would have made his ancestors proud, Dara was certain.

  He patted his horse’s sweaty neck with his hand, wincing at the painful protest from abused fingers.

  The wheel slowly brought him round to the creek side. The Sikhs were withdrawing toward the gate by sections. Dara could not—would not—call it a retreat, not with the orderly ranks the Sikhs displayed. And it was a proud display: the men, heads held high under saffron turbans, were singing as they were given orders to march toward the gate. Bidhi Chand was not among the singing men, of course. Dara had sent him to Lahore Gate.

  The Sultan Al’Azam glanced over his shoulder as the slowed rotation carried him around once again. The outer works of Lahore Gate were a smoke- and dust-wreathed ruin, bodies heaped at the base of the walls and even atop the parapets. He’d been so busy with the fight there had been no time for fear—at least beyond the momentary fear for one’s own life—for the lives of others, like John and Bidhi Chand, that he’d ordered into battle.

  The Sultan Al’Azam hoped Bidhi and John had at least lived to see the effectiveness of the tactics they’d taken such pains to impart to the men. The up-timer may have used a book of what he called “old-ass tactics” to train Bidhi Chand and his men, but all the book learning in the world would have meant nothing had the men themselves not been disciplined and willing to adopt the new formations, weapons, and tactics Bidhi Chand had drilled them on with such relentless fervor.

  He raised a hand to signal the men to slow to a walk and could not help but see the bodies of men—both his and his brother’s—who had fallen and would not rise again, would not grow older, would not sing nor pray, eat nor drink, nor love a woman. If the coin of sovereignty was the blood of such brave men, had he the stomach to pay the price of victory over and over again until the war was won?

  Did Aurangzeb?

  And was that what this was? Victory?

  There were so many dead.

  His mouth tasted of ash and blood.

  So many wounded.

  Is this what victory looks like?

  “Sultan Al’Azam?” Atisheh said, interrupting his fugue.

  Dara glanced at his bodyguard and found her craning her neck to look toward Aurangzeb’s lines.

  “What—” He cleared his throat. “What is it?” he asked, unable to see what had caught her eye.

  “A messenger.”

  “From the pretender?”

  She peered at the approaching rider before replying, “So it would appear, Sultan Al’Azam, though they are dressed like a ferenghi. An Englishman, I think.”

  The elation he’d felt not long before was all gone now. My brother is sending a messenger to me, the traditional acknowledgment of defeat, yet I can think of nothing but the cost…the pain…

  The headache was growing with every beat of his heart. Dara put away such thoughts and tried to focus on what he must do to retain the upper hand.

  First, it would not do to appear or sound less than kingly before the messenger. Dara unhooked his chain veil with a hand that shook rather more than he liked and leaned over to spit. The lean threatened to turn into a fall. He jerked back, making his unfamiliar horse prance sideways with uneasy fear.

  Atisheh reached out with an almost absent gesture and steadied her monarch, eyes still on the approaching messenger. “It is an Englishman. The one called Methwold.”

  Dara patted his horse’s neck and, considering it best to appear the general before anyone coming from Aurangzeb’s camp, began issuing commands. “The Sikhs are to continue the withdrawal.” He paused, winced at the number of walking wounded among the infantry. “The wounded are to be given priority to pass through the gate. The Sikhs to rest until the next time my brother thinks to challenge my defenses.”

  “Yes, Sultan Al’Azam!” one of his men said. The rider turned and set his tired horse in motion.

  Dara turned a gimlet eye on Aurangzeb’s messenger. It was, indeed, Methwold. The man kept his eyes up and trained on Dara, probably to spare himself future memories of the dead and dismembered.

  “You were exiled by my father, Englishman.”

  The man had the good grace to blush. “I was. Your brother saw fit to pardon my transgression.”

  “You address the Sultan Al’Azam! No other can lift your exile!” Atisheh growled.

  Dara wished she had not. It only added to the throbbing pain in his skull.

  Blushing scarlet, Methwold bowed his head in recognition of the point. “Forgive my error, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  Dara waved the apology away. “Your message?”

  “Th—” Methwold caught and corrected the error rather smoothly. “Aurangzeb declares his intent to agree to a truce to collect the wounded and the dead. Such truce to last until noon today.”

  Atisheh’s chuckle was menacing and cold, yet managed to convey good humor. Dara glanced at her, uncertain what summoned the sound from her lips.

  Meeting his eye, Atisheh punched her chin at the battlefield.

  His thoughts were sluggish, but he understood the meaning of that gesture. While Dara’s wounded and dead could be easily recovered in the time covered by the truce, Aurangzeb’s far greater losses would require days, not hours, to see to.

  Not making allowances to see to the dead and dying was bound to make his men unhappy. Why push such a timeframe, then?

  Dara closed his eyes against the pain and wished his thinking unimpeded by his many hurts. Seeking an answer that made sense was hard enough when dealing with court politics, but now…

  It can’t be that Shaista Khan approaches and Aurangzeb wishes to deny me a delay that might give us a chance to coordinate…

  Hope soared in his breast, only to crash to earth.

  No, we have heard nothing of Shaista, and just because I wish it true does not make Shaista’s arrival any more imminent. No, relief—if there is any—will not arrive in time to threaten Aurangzeb.

  Is he that short of provisions?

  No, with what the traitor gave him from Gwalior Fort, surely his army can hold for weeks, not days.

  What, then?

  Dara’s lip curled as he stumbled on what he felt must be the reason. Aurangzeb wished to make him appear heartless and cruel. Telling his men one thing whilst he sent this man to make a different offer, only to later blame Dara for his refusal to show courtesy to the dying and dead.

  “President Methwold, did my brother not say why he wants his truce so short?” Dara asked, watching the man closely.

  “No, your brother did not choose to reveal to me his reasons,” Methwold answered, expression giving nothing away.

  Despite the clangor within his skull, Dara raised his voice and waved with feigned nonchalance at the battlefield. “He must not wish to see the great many dead his pretensions to generalship have caused this day, lest they ask him with their silence, ‘Why must we die to serve your false claims?’ No, my brother is fearful of the mute dead, not to mention the voices of his living wounded. That is why he seeks such a short truce.”

  Dara’s sowar were moved by his words, some even shouting angry contempt at Methwold, who sat stone-faced through their cries and Dara’s diatribe alike.
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  Raising tired arms for a silence he ultimately decided he could not wait for, Dara shouted, “Tell my brother that, in direct proportion to his faithless nature, I will show mercy to those he would trample under the indifferent hooves of his ambition!”

  The old wound throbbed with every shouted word, a saw-toothed dagger trying to carve his thoughts to bloody offal. He closed his eyes, sucked a deep breath in, let it out.

  Dara’s men were silent, waiting, watchful.

  The Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh opened his eyes and locked gazes with Methwold. “By my command, my physicians will treat all those wounded this day, regardless of who they chose to follow into battle!”

  Dara heard the expected protests from among his own men. They were not unreasonable fears: the wounded would be additional mouths to feed and possibly become a significant internal threat if inclined to repay his mercy with betrayal.

  “Those whose only crime was to be led astray by the honeyed promises and false piety of the pretender,” Dara said, addressing their complaints but pointing at his brother’s position, “need not suffer under his hand any longer. My closed fist, having struck so many down today, is once more opened—opened to offer succor to the wounded and friendship to the friendly.”

  The concerns of the few were drowned out as most of the men roared their approval. They even began chanting his name.

  Dara very nearly spoiled his gains just then by throwing up. A veil of pulsating, painful blackness menaced from somewhere beyond the corners of his eyes, ready to rend and tear his sanity.

  He did not actually hear Methwold’s response, nor was he conscious of what was said to give the Englishman leave to depart. It was all he could do to remain upright in the saddle and not beg for a pipe to ease his pain.

  Chapter 50

  Red Fort

  Pavilion of the Healers

  “Who are these men?” Jahanara asked. From the quality of his bloodstained robes and fine armor, the patient was clearly a Rajput umara of some note and likely someone she should know, but Jahanara could not place him. He might have been any age, really, so much of his face was covered in savage burns.