The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

CHAPTER NINE

  The two chitahs tensed at the same instant and pulled taut the chains on their jewel-studded collars. They were tawny, dark-spotted Indian hunting leopards, and they rode in carpeted litters, one on each side of the elephant's back. Each wore a brocade saddlecloth signifying its rank, and now both began to flick the black-and-white striped tips of their tails in anticipation.

  Prince Jadar caught their motion and reined in his dun stallion; the bright morning sunshine glanced off his freshly oiled olive skin and highlighted the crevices of his lean angular face and his tightly trimmed short beard. He wore a forest-green hunting turban, secured with a heavy strand of pearls, and a dark green jacket emblazoned with his own royal crest. His fifty-man Rajput guard had drawn along­side, and their horses tossed their heads and pawed impatiently, rattling the arrows in the brocade quivers by each man's saddle.

  Then Jadar spotted the nilgai, large bovine Indian deer, grazing in a herd upwind near the base of a low-lying hill. With a flick of his hand he signaled the keepers who rode alongside to begin removing the leopards' saddlecloths. He watched as first the male and then the female shook themselves and stretched their paws in readiness.

  "Fifty rupees the male will make the first kill." Jadar spoke quietly to Vasant Rao, the moustachioed young Rajput captain who rode alongside. The commander of the prince's personal guards, he was the only man in India Jadar trusted fully.

  "Then give me two hundred on the female, Highness."

  "A hundred. And half the hides for your regiment's shield maker." Jadar turned toward the waiting keepers. "Release the female. Then count to a hundred and release the male."

  In moments the chitahs were bulleting toward the unsuspecting deer, darting from bush to bush, occasionally kicking up dust with their forefeet and hind legs to create camouflage. Then, as they approached the final clearing, they suddenly parted—the female to the north, the male to the south. Seconds later, as though on some private signal, the female sprang. She seemed to cover the remaining twenty yards in less than a second, and before the nilgai realized she was there, she had already pawed down a bleating straggler.

  The striped ears of the other nilgai shot erect at the sound, and the herd panicked, sweeping blindly away from her—and directly toward the cover where the male crouched. He waited coolly, and then, as the deer darted by, pounced.

  What followed was a fearsome devastation, as he brought down one after another of the confused prey with his powerful claws.

  "The female killed first, Highness. I assume our bet was in gold coins, not silver." Vasant Rao laughed lightly and turned to study the brooding man at his side. Can it be true what many suspect about the prince? he again found himself wondering. That he choses his strategy for a campaign from the final hunt of his chitahs!

  But what strategy is left for us? The Deccanis have already reclaimed the city of Ahmadnagar, deep in their territory, and once again made it their rebel capital. They drove the Moghul garrison north to the fort at Burhanpur, and now they threaten that city as well, the most important station in the vital route between Agra and Surat. We haven't the men and horse to turn them back. Not this time.

  This was Prince Jadar's second campaign in the Deccan, India's revolt-torn central plains, which lay far south of Agra and east of the port of Surat, and the second time he had led his army to regain cities lost to Malik Ambar, the Abyssinian adventurer and military genius who periodically rose to lead the Deccan against Moghul rule. The Deccan had never been secure, even under the Moghurs father, Akman, but under Arangbar it had become a burial ground of reputation. One of the Moghurs finest generals, whose dispatches from Ahmadnagar, only the previous year, had boasted that the Deccan was finally subdued, now cowered in the fortress at Burhanpur. Arangbar had no choice but to send Jadar again.

  "Did you see how they planned their attack?" Jadar fingered the edges of his short beard, then pointed. "She drove them toward his trap. By attacking the weak, she frightened the strong, who flew to their doom."

  "We're not facing nilgai, Highness." Vasant Rao shifted in his saddle to face the prince and shielded his eyes against the sun. "And our position is much worse than on the last campaign. This time we have only eighteen thousand men, all encamped here at Ujjain, all weary to their bones from our siege at the Kangra, north in the Punjab, and then the long march down country. While Malik Ambar waits rested and secure in Ahmadnagar, his own capital, a two months' march south."

  "We'll bring Ambar to terms just as before, three years ago. By fear."

  Jadar watched as the keepers began measuring the rations of meat to reward the chitahs. And he reflected over the secret envoy received early that morning from the com­mander of the fortress at Mandu, the northern outpost of the Deccan. . . .

  "Your Highness is respectfully advised the situation is worse, much worse, than told in the reports sent by Ghulam Adl." They were alone in Jadar's tent and the envoy was on his knees, prostrate, terrified at his obligation to bring ill tidings to the son of the Moghul. Ghulam Adl was the general in charge of the Deccan, who had abandoned Ahmadnagar to Malik Ambar and retreated north to Burhanpur. His official reports still maintained an air of bravado, claiming a few reinforcements were all that was required to drive the rebels to final extinction.

  "We have asked Ghulam Adl for troops to help defend Mandu, but he cannot leave Burhanpur," the envoy continued. "The Deccanis have surrounded the city, but they do not trouble themselves with a siege. They know he cannot move. So they have sent eight thousand light cavalry, Maratha irregulars, north across the Narbada River to plunder outlying districts. They are approaching Mandu, and will be at the fortress within the week."

  "Why doesn't Ghulam Adl call up troops from among the mansabdars. They've all been granted their annual al­lowance for maintenance of cavalry."

  Mansabdars were nobles of the Moghul empire who had been given rank by the Moghul and were allowed to collect revenue from a specified number of estates and villages, allotted lands called jagirs, as a reward for service and loyalty. They collected taxes for the Imperial treasury in Agra, which allowed them a portion to maintain cavalry and equipage at the ready. Assignment of a jagir always carried the responsibility of maintaining a specified number of troops and cavalry, which they were obliged to muster when requested by the Moghul.

  "The mansabdars have no men to muster, may it please Your Highness." The envoy's face was buried in the carpet, showing to Jadar only the dust-covered back of his turban. "Conditions have been severe over the past year. Crops have been bad, and many mansabdars could not collect taxes because of the Deccani raids. Many have not paid their cavalry for over a year. The mansabdars still feed the horses that have been branded and placed in their care. But they have not fed the men who must ride. Most of those have returned to their villages. There can be no army without coin to lure them back. The mansabdars are fearful of Malik Ambar now, and many have secretly agreed with him not to muster even the troops they still have."

  "How many Deccani troops are encamped around Burhanpur?"

  "Our spies report as many as eighty thousand, Highness. Ghulam Adl dares not leave the fort in the center of the city. He has no more than five thousand men still remaining loyal, and his supplies are short."

  Jadar had ordered immediate solitary confinement for the envoy, lest the news reach the camp. Now, watching his chitahs feed, he calculated his next move.

  I have to requisition silver coin from the treasury at Agra, and hope a supply caravan can still get through. In the meantime I'll muster the remaining cavalry from the mansabdars, on the threat their jagirs will be confiscated if they fail to deliver. It won't raise many men, but it will slow defections.

  But if we're to recall the men still loyal, we must have silver. To raise the thirty thousand men we need, men who've not been paid for a year, will require at least five million rupees, fifty lakhs. I must have it by the time we reach Burhanpur. If we can hold that city, we can raise the army from there.

/>   "Malik Ambar sued for peace three years ago because his alliance came apart." Vasant Rao spoke again, watching Jadar carefully, knowing that the prince was deeply troubled, had imprisoned a courier that very morning for which there could only be one reason—then released pigeons that flew north.

  "And his alliance will come apart again. If we sow enough fear." Jadar seemed annoyed at the delay as the waiting chitahs were re-harnessed and the last carcasses of blue nilgai were loaded onto the ox-drawn wagons for return to the camp. "You still haven't learned to think like a chitah."

  Jadar signaled the hunt was finished and wheeled his horse back toward the camp. Vasant Rao rode a few paces behind, asking himself how long that regal head would remain on those royal shoulders.

  You're threatened now on every side. You cannot be as oblivious as you seem.

  He thought back over Prince Jadar's career. Of the Moghul’s four sons, Prince Jadar was the obvious one to succeed. Jadar's elder brother Khusrav had been blinded by the Moghul years before for attempting a palace revolt. Jadar's brother Parwaz, also older than the prince, was a notorious drunkard and unacceptably dissolute, even by the lax standards of the Moghul’s court. And Jadar's younger brother, Allaudin, was the handsome but witless son of a concubine, who well deserved his secret nickname, Nashu-dani, "the good-for-nothing." Since there was no law in India that the oldest must automatically succeed, power devolved to the fittest. Only Jadar, son of a royal Rajput mother, could lead an army, or rule India. Among the Moghul’s four sons, he was the obvious, deserving heir.

  But ability alone was never enough to ensure success in the mire of palace intrigue. One must also have a powerful friend.

  For years Prince Jadar had the most powerful friend of all.

  The grooming of Jadar for office had begun over five years earlier, when he was taken under the protection of Queen Janahara. She had made herself the guardian of Jadar's interests at court; and two years ago she had induced the Moghul to elevate Jadar's mansab, his honorary rank, to twelve thousand zat. In income and prestige he had soared far beyond his brothers.

  As is always the case, Jadar was expected to repay his obligation. On the day he ascended to the throne and assumed power from the ailing, opium-sotted Arangbar, he was expected to share that power with Queen Janahara.

  But their unofficial alliance had begun to go wrong. Very wrong. And what had gone wrong was the most obvious problem of all. Jadar had lived half his life in army camps, fighting the Moghul’s wars because he was the only son who could fight them, and he no longer saw any reason to relinquish his battle-earned inheritance to the queen.

  What will the queen do? Vasant Rao asked himself again. I know she has turned on the prince. I know she tried to marry her Persian daughter to Jadar's blinded brother Khusrav, but Jadar discovered this and demanded Khusrav be sent out of Agra, to be kept in confinement by a raja loyal to the prince. But the queen is still in Agra, and sooner or later she will produce another successor, a creature she can dominate. Her task will be easy if Jadar fails in this campaign.

  "I have reports Maratha irregulars may be at the fort at Mandu within a week." Jadar broke the silence between them as they rode. The noisy Rajput horsemen rode discreetly well behind, cursing, laughing, wagering. The flawless blue sky seemed to cloud as Jadar spoke. "Tell me what you would do?"

  "Strike camp and march south. We have no choice."

  "Sometimes you Rajputs show less wit than your monkey god, Hanumanji." Jadar laughed good-naturedly. "You learned nothing from the hunt today. Don't you see that would merely scatter them? They'll never dare meet us if we march in force. They'll only stage small raids. Harass our baggage train. No, we must do just the opposite." Jadar reined in his horse, turned to Vasant Rao, and lowered his voice. "Think like a chitah for once, not like an impulsive Rajput. We'll send a small cavalry force only—five hundred horse, you will help me pick them—who will disperse, ride separately, never show their numbers. Like a chitah stalks. No supply contingent. No elephants. No wagons. And, after the Marathas have set their siege at Mandu, our cavalry will quietly group and attack their flank. As they fall back, which they always do when facing a disciplined unit, the cavalry in the fort will ride out in force, forming the second arm of a pincer. And that will be the last we see of Malik Ambar's famous Maratha irregulars. They'll return to pillaging baggage trains and helpless villages."

  "And after that?"

  "We'll march directly on Burhanpur. We should reach it in less than a month."

  "The Marathas will begin to harass our supply trains as soon as we cross the Narbada River. If they don't attack us while we cross."

  "After Mandu, that's the one thing they will not do. Remember the chitahs. The Marathas will never know where our Mandu cavalry may be waiting in ambush."

  "And when we reach Burhanpur?"

  "We'll make our camp there, and muster cavalry from all the mansabdars." Jadar passed over how he intended to do this. "That will be the end of Ambar's many alliances. We'll have the men we need to march in force on the south, on to Ahmadnagar, within the week. And Malik Ambar will sue for peace and return the territory he's seized, just like before."

  Vasant Rao nodded in silent acknowledgment, asking himself what the prince was withholding. The strategy was far too straightforward for Jadar.

  The camp was coming into view now. A vast movable city, it was easily several miles in circuit. Even from afar, however, Jadar's massive central tent dominated. It was bright red and stationed in the center of the gulal bar, a restricted central zone almost two hundred yards on the side that formed the focal point of the camp. Behind Jadar's tent, separated by a figured satin partition, were the red chintz tents of the women, where his first wife, Mumtaz, and her attendants stayed. Directly in front of Jadar's tent was a canopied platform with four massive corner pillars, called the sarachah, where Jadar held private briefings.

  The entire gulal bar was sealed from common view by a high cloth wall. Near the entrance to Jadar's enclosure was the camp artillery, including the cannon, and the tents of the lead horses and war elephants. Its entry was guarded by mounted horsemen, and next to these were the tents for Jadar's leopards. Around the perimeter were the striped tents of the nobles and officers, whose respective colors flew above for easy identification. And spreading out from each officer's tent were the tents of his men, their wives, and their bazaar. The camp itself was laid out with such consistent precision that a soldier might easily find his tent in total darkness, regardless of where the army might be.

  As Jadar dismounted at the entry to the gulal bar and strode toward his tent, his mind sorted through the moves that lay ahead. He had notified the Moghul of the envoy's secret report and asked for five million rupees in silver coin. It was the price for the Deccan. Surely he could not refuse. Arangbar's own administrators, who were supposed to monitor the mansabdars, were to blame.

  There were also other, new and disquieting, complexities. Word had come through Surat only the day before that the Portuguese were secretly planning to arm Malik Ambar. Why? It was common knowledge they feared and hated Jadar, because he distrusted all Christians and said so. And they certainly were aware that if he should someday unite the rebel-infested province of Gujarat, where their ports of Daimon and Diu were situated, he would undoubtedly try to regain these ports for India. But they would not dare to openly, or even secretly, support rebels within the Moghul empire unless they were sure there would be no reprisals from Agra. Which meant they had powerful accomplices in court. Accomplices who would venture to endanger the empire itself to ruin Jadar.

  Whose interests in Agra were served if the Deccan remained in turmoil? If Jadar were kept occupied and harried in the south?

  The question virtually answered itself.

  If this were not perplexing enough, news had arrived two days before telling of an incredible incident. Two merchant frigates of another European nation, calling themselves English, had appeared off the bar of Surat. And humilia
ted four Portuguese warships. Jadar had released pigeons for Surat immediately, ordering that the English be protected until he could determine their intentions.

  The dispatch received the following morning, yesterday, reported that his orders had been timely. A Portuguese ambush of the English as they came up the Tapti River had been averted, by Rajputs using arrows stolen from the governor's own guard. And this morning there had been another message from Surat, with news that the governor had sent the Moghul a dispatch claiming credit for the action—this only after he discovered the English captain had gifts for Arangbar!

  But who knew the intentions of the captain of this English fleet? Or the content of a letter he had brought for the Moghul. Reports said only that he was "quartered" in the governor's palace. Where he could no longer be protected. . . .

  His eunuchs bowed and relayed an urgent message from Mumtaz. His wife begged to receive His Highness the moment he returned.

  Without entering his own tent, Jadar proceeded through the circle of guards protecting the women's quarters. Mumtaz was waiting, surrounded by two of her women and the now-constant midwife. She was almost to term with Jadar's third child. The first two had been daughters. His first thought when he saw her was that this birth must be male. Merciful Allah, make this a son.

  Mumtaz's gleaming black hair had been tightly braided, and she wore a shawl and trousers of gold-threaded silk. She had a pronounced fondness for gold and silk: few other luxuries were to be found in the army camps that had been her home for most of their marriage. Mumtaz's features were delicate, with high Persian cheeks, and she was well over thirty—the age at which most Muslim women ceased to interest their mates. But she had found ways to remain the center of Jadar's life, if not dominate it.

  The flash of her eyes told Jadar she was in an extreme temper.

  "Pigeons arrived just after you left. The report from Agra is astonishing."

  "What 'report' do you mean? Do you and your women receive my dispatches now?"

  "Which are rarely worth the bother. No, I receive my own. From Father." Mumtaz was the daughter of Nadir Sharif, prime minister of the Moghul empire and brother of Queen Janahara. "I had the sense to leave him pigeons for here at Ujjain. And also for Burhanpur . . . which may prove to be vital for you, assuming that city is not overrun by Deccanis by the time you reach it."

  "What message did Nadir Sharif ever send that wasn't dictated by our noble queen?"

  "You're a fool not to trust him. But you'd do well to begin. And soon." Mumtaz's eyes snapped momentary fire, matching the hard red jewel on her forehead, and she eased herself slowly onto a well-traveled velvet bolster to lighten the weight of the child. "I think you'll discover your many friends may be difficult to find if we ever return to the capital."

  "Come to the point. I want to see into their tent. They killed well today." Jadar was always amused by Mumtaz's temper. He had long ago despaired of receiving proper respect from her. She defied him exactly the way Janahara defied the Moghul. And he delighted in it. Perhaps all Persian wives were incorrigible. Perhaps it was a racial trait.

  "Very well. You should be pleased to know that His Majesty has already forgotten you exist. He has agreed to the queen's outrageous scheme. An affront to sense, but it will be the end of you nonetheless."

  "Agreed to what?"

  "The very marriage I warned you about, but you wouldn't listen. You were too clever. Yes, you were brilliant. You sent the wrong brother away from Agra. You sent Khusrav, the competent one. You should have sent Allaudin."

  "I don't believe it."

  "I do. And I told you it would happen. The queen has foisted her scrawny offspring, the simpering Princess Layla, onto Allaudin. But it's the perfect match. The Moghul’s youngest son, the notorious 'good-for-nothing,' betrothed to that fumbling little sparrow. Both weak and useless."

  "What could Allaudin possibly do? Even Arangbar realizes he's incompetent."

  "But Arangbar will soon be dead. So what he knows won't matter. It's perfect for the queen. She'll rule them both. In the meantime, she'll make sure you're nowhere near Agra. Your next appointment will probably be the Punjab, or perhaps the Himalayas. Where you can chase yak with your leopards." Mumtaz could scarcely contain her anger and frustration. "The time will come, and soon, when the Moghul will chance his twenty glasses of wine and his twelve grains of opium one night too many. And the next day, while you're somewhere sporting with your chitahs, she'll summon her lackey general Inayat Latif and his Bengal mansabdars to Agra. And declare Allaudin the next Moghul."

  Jadar was stunned. Allaudin was incapable of anything, except bowing to the queen's orders like a hand puppet. Once Moghul, he certainly could not rule. She would rule for him. Or probably eliminate him entirely after a few months.

  So Janahara had finally made her move. To challenge Prince Jadar, the son who had earned the throne, for his rightful place. The battle had been joined.

  "So what do you propose to do? She waited just long enough to trap you in the Deccan." Mumtaz's fury was turning to despair. "If you go back now, you'll be accused of abandoning Burhanpur. If you march on south, you'll be unable to return for months. And by that time Allaudin will be married. Father said she has convinced the Moghul to give him a personal mansab rank of eight thousand zat and a horse rank of four thousand suwar. Allaudin, who scarcely knows a bow from a wine bowl, will now have his own cavalry."

  Jadar was looking at her, but he no longer heard.

  This changes everything. There'll be no silver. The queen will see to that.

  And no silver means no troops can be recalled from the Deccan mansabdars.

  Which means we lose the Deccan. But she'd gladly give the Deccan to destroy me.

  Jadar looked at Mumtaz and smiled. "Yes, I must do something. But right now I'll see my chitahs fed." And he turned and strode briskly back toward his tent.

  A dense mantle of evening smoke enveloped the camp as the three generals passed through the entry of the gulal bar. They advanced to the front of the sarachah platform and halted to wait for Jadar. Each had brought a silver cup, as Jadar had instructed.

  All three were seasoned military leaders. Abdullah Khan, a young Moghul warrior, had been promoted to a rank of three thousand suwar after the successful siege at the northern fortress of Kangra. Under the prince he had risen from the rank of foot soldier to cavalry, and now he commanded his own division. The next was Abul Hasan, a cool-headed Afghan strategist with rank of five thousand suwar, who had led Prince Jadar to his first victory in the Deccan three years before. Finally there was Raja Vikrama-jit, a bearded Rajput of royal blood, who led the Hindus. He scorned matchlocks and fought only with his sword, and he was the bravest man in battle that Jadar had ever known.

  Moments later Prince Jadar emerged through the smoke, carrying his heavy sword and accompanied by Vasant Rao. A servant trailed after them bearing a crystal decanter of wine and two silver goblets on a tray.

  The prince assumed his seat in the center of the platform and ordered the servant to place the decanter on a small table by his side. Then he motioned away the servant and all the surrounding guards.

  "I propose we all take a glass of wine to clear our thoughts. It's Persian, and I had it cooled in the saltpeter tent especially for this evening."

  Jadar personally poured wine for each of the men, then filled the two goblets on the tray for Vasant Rao and for himself.

  "I hereby propose a toast to Ahmadnagar, which Malik Ambar now calls his own capital. And to its recapture within a hundred days."

  The men raised their goblets and drank in silence. Skepticism filled their eyes.

  Jadar looked at them and smiled. "You do not agree? Then let me tell you more. The situation is very bad. How bad even you do not yet know. But battles are more than a matter of numbers. They are a test of the will to win. That's why I called you here tonight." Jadar paused. "But first, is the wine to your liking?"

  The men nodded silent assent.

 
"Good. Drink deeply, for none of us will drink again until we drink in Ahmadnagar. Now I will take your cups."

  Jadar reached for each man's cup individually and placed them in a row alongside the tray, together with his own and that of Vasant Rao. Then he laid his own cup on its side on the tray and slowly drew his heavy sword from its scabbard. With a fierce swing he sliced the cup in half. Then the next cup, and the next, until all were destroyed. The men watched him spellbound.

  "Assemble your ranks in the bazaar at midnight. In full battle dress. I will address them. And at dawn, we march."

  Jadar rose and as quickly as he had come disappeared into the darkness.

  Battle gear—helmets, buckles, pikes, swords, muskets— glistened in the torchlight as Jadar rode a fully armored war elephant slowly down the center of the main bazaar. The bristling infantry, arrayed in rows on either side, watched him expectantly. A midnight muster was unheard of. But rumors had already swept the camp telling of the pending marriage of the queen's daughter to Allaudin. All knew Jadar had been betrayed. And with him, all of them as well.

  Then they noticed carts following him, with barrels of wine from Jadar's tent. When the prince reached the center of the bazaar, he raised his arms for silence.

  For a moment all that could be heard was the neigh of horses from the stables, and the cries of infants in the far reaches of the camp.

  He began in Urdu, a hybrid camp tongue of Persian and Hindi, his voice ringing toward Abul Hassan's Muslim troops."Tonight we are many." Jadar paused deliberately. "But in battle the many are nothing. In battle there is only the one. Each of you is that one." Again a pause. Then he shouted in a voice that carried to the far hills. "Is there a Believer among us tonight who would fight to the death for our victory?"

  A roar of assent sounded from the men.

  "Will you swear it? On the Holy Quran?"

  This time the roar shook the tent poles of the bazaar.

  "Is there one who would not?"

  Silence.

  Suddenly Jadar turned to the troops of Moghul lineage and switched his language to exquisite Persian.

  "Some here tonight swear to embrace death itself for our victory. But I know not the will of all. Is there among you a man who would give his life for us?"

  Again a roar of assent.

  "What man will swear it?"

  The roar seemed to envelop the camp.

  Without pausing, Jadar turned to the Rajput contingent, addressing them easily in their native Rajasthani.

  "Does any among you know how to fight?"

  Cheers.

  "Does any know how to die?"

  More cheers. And then the Rajputs began banging their swords on their bucklers. Jadar bellowed above the sudden dim.

  "I know Hindus cannot take an oath. But if you could, would it be to fight to the death for our victory?"

  Bedlam seized the camp. And the chant "Jadar-o-Akbar," Jadar is Great, swept through the ranks. Jadar let the chant continue for a time, and as he listened, he saw that Mumtaz and her women had appeared at the gateway of the gulal bar, as he had instructed them. All activity had ceased in the camp, and even in the far background the women had gathered in the shadows of the tents, listening intently. Then Jadar motioned for silence and continued.

  "Tonight we each will make a pledge. I to you. You to me. First my pledge to you."

  Jadar commanded his elephant to kneel, and he dis­mounted and walked directly to the waiting wagons containing his wine barrels. He was handed a silver-handled battle axe, and with a powerful overhand swing he shattered the first barrel. Then he signaled his waiting guard, and in moments every barrel had been axed. The center of the bazaar ran red, and the air was filled with the wine's sweet Persian perfume.

  Then he motioned toward the entry of the gulal bar and his women emerged, followed by an elephant whose howdah, the livery on its back, was filled with silver utensils. When the procession reached the clearing where Jadar stood, the elephant's mahout commanded it to kneel.

  Without a word Jadar walked directly to the howdah. As though meeting an enemy in ambush, he suddenly drew his long sword and swung it through the livery, leaving a wide gash in its embroidered side. A glittering array of silver and gold plate, goblets, jewelry poured onto the ground. With a single motion he sheathed the sword and again took the axe.

  While the assembled camp watched spellbound, he quickly, methodically, smashed each of the silver and gold objects into small shreds. Then he broke the silver handle of the axe and again mounted the elephant.

  "My pledge to you." His voice pierced the stunned silence of the camp as he repeated each sentence in three languages. "My pledge to you is not to touch wine, not to lie with women, not to look on silver or gold until we have taken Ahmadnagar."

  The camp seemed to come apart with the cheer that followed, and again came the chant "Jadar-o-Akbar," "Jadar-o-Akbar." The sound was as one voice, and now even the distant hills echoed back the sound. Again Jadar stopped them.

  "Your pledge to me must be the same. And together we will take Ahmadnagar in a hundred days. By the head of the Prophet I swear it to you."

  Again the chant. And again Jadar stopped them.

  "Tonight I offer to fight for you. You must be ready to fight for me. And each must hold the other to his pledge."

  More cheers.

  "I have spilled my wine. I will stay apart from my women. I have smashed my gold and silver. I will give it to you. Each tent will have a shard. But my eyes must never see it again."

  The roar of approval was deafening.

  "That is my pledge. You must also give me yours. Leave your women in their tents and lie beside me under the stars. Empty your wine flasks into the Narbada River as we cross. As your oath to fight to the death. And all your silver, that of your vessels, that on your saddles, that on your women, must be brought here tonight. Mark it with your seal, and leave it under guard in my own wagons, away from all eyes, until the day we reach Ahmadnagar. Then we will drink wine, we will have women, we will wear our finest in victory."

  Jadar paused dramatically. "Tonight we are many. Tomorrow we are one. We march at sunrise!"

  The cheers began again, and immediately the pile of silver started to grow. Muslim nobles began bringing silver-trimmed saddles, plates, even jewelry. But the most silver came from the Hindu infantry, as their women were stripped of the silver bracelets and massive silver anklets that had been their dowries.

  Jadar sat unmoving on his elephant as the men began to come forward with items of silver. Soon there was a line stretching into the dark of the tents. He watched the pile growing, and his calculations began.

  Will it be enough? The weight must be enough or the Shahbandar, motherless thief that he is, will never agree. But I think we will have it.

  He thought back over the plan. It had required almost the entire afternoon to refine. But when he had convinced himself that it would succeed, he had posted the pigeons to Surat.

  Where, he had asked himself, can I find fifty lakhs of silver, five million rupees, within a month, and have them at Burhanpur when we arrive? I'll not squeeze a copper pice, penny, from Agra.

  If not Agra, where?

  And slowly in his mind a form had taken shape. He had examined it, almost touched it, puzzled over it. And then he knew what it was.

  The mint at Surat. Where foreign coin is melted and recast as rupees. Fifty lakhs of silver rupees would scarcely be missed. Especially if the Shahbandar would allow his minters to work a normal day. The backlog of foreign coin he holds unmelted, creating an artificial shortage of silver, would easily cover fifty lakhs of rupees. I need only borrow what I need, and with it buy back into service the cavalry I need to reclaim the Deccan.

  The Shahbandar.

  But will he do it?

  He will. If I can show him collateral.

  I don't have enough collateral. Not in my own funds. Not even in the local treasuries.

  But there must be enough silver in eighte
en thousand tents to assemble five million rupees.

  I will hold it, and give him a note of obligation using it as collateral. If we reach Ahmadnagar, I will squeeze the five million rupees many times over from every traitorous mansabdar I do not hang. I will confiscate their jagir estates and let them buy them back. I can easily confiscate enough to return the Shahbandar his loan, and then my men will have back their silver.

  If we do not reach Ahmadnagar, it will be because we are dead. So what will it matter? We will make an oath to reach the city or die.

  Only one problem remains.

  How to move the coin from Surat to Burhanpur. Secretly. No one must know where it came from or that it's being transferred. But a train with fifty lakhs of rupees must be heavily guarded. And the guards will betray its value.

  Unless there can be some other reason for a heavily guarded train from Surat to Burhanpur. A reason that would not automatically evoke suspicion. Possibly a person of importance. Someone whom all India knows cannot be touched. Someone important to the Moghul.

  And then the perfect answer came. The most obvious answer of all. Who will soon be traveling from Surat to Burhanpur, en route to Agra, under safe conduct of the Moghul? The Englishman.

  The infidel feringhi need never know. That with him will be the silver that will save Prince Jadar.