Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  Jahangir turned to his wine, relishing his whim, and looked on with all the artless pleasure of a pleased child when the stately figure of veiled Nur-Jahan came into the room. The nobles rose and bowed profoundly.

  Khlit scanned the woman who had come in his care from the plains of Tartary to the arms of the Mogul, admiring the brilliance of her Indian dress, the pearls in her black hair. But—as etiquette demanded—she did not speak before she took a gold-inlaid scimitar from one of the bakhshis in attendance.

  This she passed through the silk girdle about the warrior, saying:

  “It is a weapon of proved, Damascus steel, precious as the metal with which it is wrought. Wear it on behalf of the one who gives it.”

  At this Jahangir smiled, and the courtiers murmured politely. Only one—a northern noble related to Alacha, Paluwan Khan, of the Mavr-un-nahr Turks—whispering that to gird on two swords was an omen of war to the death.

  But Khlit reflected that Nur-Jahan had changed. Once she had been talkative, had laughed readily and artlessly. Now her fine eyes—all that he could see—were melancholy. Bending closer as she gave the weapon a last pat, she said softly—

  “You have won the favor of Jahangir, yet watch for treachery among the ameers.”

  She bent her veiled head profoundly before the monarch who had sent for her from the ends of his kingdom and who loved her deeply, acknowledged the salutation of the courtiers and vanished between the draperies through which she had come.

  Had Nur-Jahan enjoyed at that time the mastery over the narrow-minded emperor which she assumed—to the everlasting good of India—at a later period, she might have spoken more boldly. Perhaps, for she was a woman of keen insight and rare statesmanship, she might have averted the tragedy that was to come to pass among the Afghan hills.

  “Bid the Mongol take his place among the lesser ameers,” ordered Jahangir, “and see that he never lacks for food or comfort. Request him to be often before our eyes, and especially when we debate, as we will soon do, upon certain matters of warfare.” Thus Khlit took his place at one of the farther settees, at the banquet, and ate and drank heartily, meditating the while upon the reception he had been accorded, upon the man who was monarch of many million souls, and upon the warning of Nur-Jahan.

  The ameers accepted him for the most part with polite curiosity, some with friendliness and some few—from the northern provinces—with veiled jealousy.

  Silently, for he understood little that was said, he watched the pomp and panoply of the richest court in the world. He appeared at the levees, came mounted on his new Arab to the ceremonious guard-mount, wherein Rajput and Muslim alternated in attendance before the quarters of the emperor.

  He studied the immense throngs of camp followers, merchants, soldiery, and envoys that filled the narrow streets of Lahore, crowding the tall, wooden buildings. He even asked the meaning of the gold chain at the river bank.

  Thus for several days Khlit dwelt in the camp of the Mogul, awaiting the time when he had been told he would be called upon to speak in council, received generally with respect, thanks to the favor Nur-Jahan had shown him. Unlike the ameers and the officers who went everywhere mounted on elephants and accompanied by gorgeously clad followers, Khlit kept to himself for the most part, spending long intervals in meditation in his tent.

  “The woman remembered,” he said to himself. “Will the man forget?”

  Always he watched the faces of the ameers, studying their customs and looking on at the machinery of empire, especially the routine of the army. Long hours were spent in investigating the elephant artillery, the corps of camel guns, the Portuguese company of musketeers and the numerous native cavalry. What he saw he kept to himself, awaiting the time to speak.

  V

  The Bells of Justice

  It was one evening when the coolness of early night brought the nobles to the palace and the usual feasting that Khlit made his memorable response to a question of Jahangir.

  The emperor had been closeted with some of his more intimate councilors, and had instructed certain officers of the army— Abdullah Khan, newly arrived from victories in the Dekkan; Raja Man Singh, leader of the Rajputs; Paluwan Khan and the aged I'timad-doulat, father of Nur-Jahan—to attend him. Khlit was among the number.

  The screens had been drawn from the arched embrasures overlooking the river. The last glow of sunset cast a half-light over the lighted bazaars of the city, wherein throngs still bartered, quarreled and sang. Jahangir had drawn his officers slightly apart from the rest of the courtiers. Bowls of wine had been filled and emptied.

  As a mark of high favor Jahangir had tasted some delicacy and ordered his servants to place the dish before Abdullah Khan, who rose and bowed. The monarch did likewise with Khlit, who, not liking the dainty set before him, left it untasted.

  “What!” smiled the Mogul, who was disposed to be gracious. “Does our choice offend the taste of the great Mongol?”

  “Padishah,” bowed the vizier who was the friend of Alacha, “he is voiceless, overwhelmed by the ocean of your magnanimity.”

  “He is a boor,” whispered one ameer.

  “A witless barbarian,” scoffed Paluwan Khan. “With but one horse.”

  Khlit understood much of what was said.

  “A horse,” he responded slowly, “carried Genghis Khan where an elephant could not go—to mastery in battle.”

  A heavy silence fell upon those of the assemblage—and they were many—who heard this remark. Experienced courtiers, smooth-faced Turks, intriguers from the court of the Sultan of Constantinople, bearded Armenian money-lenders, elaborately robed emissaries from the declining Caliphate of Baghdad, alert Persians—all glanced discreetly at the Mogul to see how he would take the words. For only Jahangir and his ameers rode upon elephants. But the Mogul, still disposed to treat Khlit agreeably for certain reasons known to himself, laughed, taking the response to apply only to Paluwan Khan.

  “Kaber dar—have care—warrior,” he cried. “Did not we ourself mount this day upon the back of a favorite royal male elephant and shoot blunted arrows of gold among the multitude in honor of the victories of worthy Abdullah Khan over the lowborn malcontents of the Dekkan? Aye, we scattered jewels from the balcony of the palace—”

  He broke off, struck by a fresh thought. Khlit was silent, waiting for what was to come. The vizier had whispered, when the wine cups first circulated, that Jahangir would make a request of him.

  “The constellation of Aries arises,” murmured the Mogul. “The year is rife with omen for our reign. Come, our wisest masters of warfare are gathered here. Who can decide my question— what is the best weapon?”

  Inquiringly he glanced at the half-nude Ethiopians, who grinned stupidly, their round heads rolling on sweaty shoulders, what with the influence of strong distilled arrack that they guzzled greedily.

  “Bah,” murmured Jahangir to the vizier petulantly, “their skulls avail not save for drinking-cups for their foes. No presents did they bring save some worthless slaves, the hide of an ass and an ox-horn filled with civet.”

  “Padishah,” smiled the councilor, “doubtless the slaves were some of the three hundred children of the barbarous Negro chief.” “And the skin,” put in Paluwan Khan, who possessed a sharp tongue, “was taken from a dead ass by the roadside—”

  “The civet,” added a Persian, not to be outdone, “is what they covet to drown the stench of their bodies—”

  The good-natured but uncomprehending Negroes grinned on. Jahangir passed by the leopard-skin-clad Abyssinians with the remark that only an animal would take the hide of a beast to cover its buttocks.

  But Paluwan Khan gave answer that the mace, favorite weapon of the Turkomans, was best. A slim Kashmiri noble raised a voice for the arrow, which struck down at a distance. Soft-spoken Hindus argued for the spear, and the talkative Persian avowed that the javelin was most useful, since it combined the functions of spear and arrow.

  The discussion was witty, ceremoni
ous. Khlit tried to understand it, his head bent as if listening for something he did not hear. Then Raja Man Singh, descendant of kings who traced their lineage to the gods, leader of the clans of Marwar and Oudh— warriors born and bred—called out in a clear voice:

  “The sword, O prince. The sword is the arm of chivalry, the weapon of the Rajput. With these others a man may strike but once; with a sword is he master of many blows.”

  At this Khlit, to whom the speech was translated, nodded sagely. Closely he looked at the Rajput noble, marking his open, intelligent face as if he wished to remember it well.

  “Yet these weapons suffice but for the individual,” began Jahangir again. “I speak of battles. You have all said that never was there an army in the world such as mine. What is the best weapon by which we may strike those who are our foes?”

  Those who knew him best were well aware that a purpose underlay the idle words of the monarch. Eyes met eyes inquiringly, and jeweled hands fingered well-trimmed mustaches.

  “How may we smite those of ill-fortune who on our marches have sinned against Allah and our empire by arraying themselves in battle-ranks?”

  A massive, black-faced Turk salaamed, bellowing in a hearty voice:

  “Great Sultan, give me leave to set my cannon-mouths against the miscreants. Verily I will erect a barricade of withes, carts and iron chains between my roarers and blow this accursed scum to

  So spoke the chief of the artillery, one Ra'dandaz Khan, the Lord Thunder-Thrower.

  “And by the thundering cannon,” added the captain of the Portuguese mercenaries, “I will place my matchlock-men to pick off the leaders of the traitors and stay their charge. Thus will I serve the Lord of India!”

  Jahangir glanced at Abdullah Khan, fresh from conquest. “Mirror of the Glory of Allah, Index of the Book of Creation, Refuge of the World,” uttered that successful leader smoothly, “under your gracious words my heart expands. Yet before your wisdom my knowledge is like a grain of sand, lying below a lofty mountain. As you know, wise intrigue and offers of wealth undermine the strength of our foes.”

  Raja Man Singh frowned at the stilted phrases. “Lord,” he cried, “the best of battle is the charge at pace that scatters the ranks of an enemy fairly.”

  Jahangir smiled at the Rajput whose reckless bravery was a saying in the land, and turned to Khlit.

  “Warrior,” he observed, “men say that you are a Rustum of the Age, a master of battles, leader of the Mongols. I await your answer.”

  Thoughtfully Khlit looked from the raja to the Mogul. “Lord,” he said gravely, “have you forgotten the tulughma?”

  Frowning, the Mogul shook his broad head as if trying to recall a familiar phrase. Ameer glanced at ameer. The vizier hastily prompted Khlit to explain the word.

  “It is the weapon of Genghis Khan, your ancestor,” continued the old warrior. “It is the 'Mongol swoop.' By it he defeated—” Khlit looked in turn from Paluwan Khan to the man from Baghdad, and to Raja Man Singh—“Turkoman, Caliph, and Hindu.”

  “I have heard the phrase,” Jahangir nodded, leaning back upon his cushions almost under the golden bells. “What is the maneuver?”

  “A charge,” responded Khlit through his interpreter, “yet not the charge of the Rajput. A flight of arrows, yet not the arrow-flights of your archers. A strategem that is not the deceit of Abdullah Khan.”

  “The tulughma? I know it not.”

  “Lord, if your army faced the Mongols in battle you would see the swoop of Genghis Khan. Are the deeds of the first of your race no longer sung by your bards?”

  Impatiently Jahangir toyed with his necklace. Petulantly he spoke:

  “Graybeard, these are parables. Come, I have a thought for what you must do. You will reveal this maneuver in actual warfare. Warrior, I have shown you favor, and I have decided that you will accompany my army which is about to set out.”

  He sat erect, glancing at his ameers.

  “My servants, the dark head of rebellion has arisen in the empire. The message came to my ear this nightfall. You must mount for war on my behalf—”

  The Mogul fell silent, but no spoken word had arrested his speech. The golden Bells of Justice had given tongue.

  Close by his head they echoed in chiming melody, faint tinkling mingled with sonorous deep-toned note. For the first time in Lahore, the bells had sounded.

  Dust-stained, haggard of face, and feverish of eye, his clothing streaked with mud, his velvet cloak bespattered and torn, Chan the minstrel kneeled before the Mogul.

  “Justice!” he cried. “My lord, justice for the wronged!”

  Rather pleased than otherwise was Jahangir the Mogul at sight of the suppliant form. Not a little surprised was he, however, for since the day of the guards no commoner had lightly approached the gold bell-rope. Still more aroused was he when a slave whispered that the newcomer had cast the guard at the rope into the mud of the riverbed when the sentinel had sought to restrain him.

  “Speak!” he commanded. “The gate of the court of mercy is open to you.”

  Chan raised his bare head, his features tense with youthful anxiety.

  “Lord of the World,” he muttered, his voice rising as he halfchanted his message, “holy men have been slain. Mullahs, brothers of Muhammed Asad, who is beloved of God, have been done to death by lawless men. I saw women taken into the bondage of lust, and villages burned. I have come from the tribes over which you are lord in pursuit of justice.”

  “Who is this slayer?”

  “Lord, your lips have framed his name—Alacha, the Slayer. And the tribes are the Afghans.”

  At this the sparkle died from the black eyes of the monarch. The interest that had given life to his pale face faded, and he frowned.

  “The Afghans sent you?” He spoke sharply, evidently irritated.

  “Nay, my lord.”

  Chan dwelled on the face of the monarch anxiously.

  “Unbidden I came to beg of you the royal justice. The Afghans ask no mercy.”

  Almost indifferently Jahangir turned aside, speaking softly to his nearest attendants, among them the vizier. The ameers stared curiously at the minstrel as if at a man condemned.

  “My servants,” the Mogul addressed them again, ignoring Chan, “this ill-fortuned one has voiced the tidings I was about to relate. In the hills of the Afghans within rebellious Badakshan men are arming for revolt, as is their custom. The tribes have mounted for war, impiously spurning my authority and acclaiming a leader of their own—”

  “Lord,” the minstrel, unused to court etiquette, interrupted, “they seek but to defend themselves against oppression. Wrong has been done by Alacha. Wherefore I, a suppliant, came to the gold bell of which I had heard. Would you close the gates of justice against my plea—”

  His high voice trailed off hopelessly as two armed servitors approached him at a sign from the vizier. Jahangir's frown deepened. He did not altogether relish having the tale of how a claimant for justice had been received repeated throughout his kingdom.

  “Personal wrong-doing,” he salved his conscience, “ever merits our attention. Yet this Alacha is a faithful servant of our standard, and his acts are in the interest of our rule. We cannot pardon rebellion.”

  A wave of his hand dismissed the minstrel, who had risen moodily to his feet.

  “Throw him from the summit of the palace. Yet—” he fingered his tiny gold scimitar irresolutely—“hold! Even to such a villainous conspirator does our mercy extend. Bear him to the quarters of our outer guards and there have the sinews of his knees severed, that he will bear no more messages.”

  A complimentary murmur greeted this manifestation of the royal clemency. Only Chan, drawing his slim figure erect, smiled bitterly.

  “For his mercy,” he said slowly, “I thank my lord, the Mogul.”

  Unseen, Khlit rose in his corner and moved toward Chan. This act, however, caught the eye of the watchful vizier, who whispered to Jahangir. “Padishah, River of Unending For
giveness, before this dark one came you were speaking to the Mongol—”

  “True. Your reminder reveals the zeal of a faithful servant.”

  New animation flooded the smooth countenance of the monarch, who motioned to Khlit as Chan was led out—the minstrel casting the while a scornful glance at the warrior whom he had last seen in company with Abdul Dost.

  “Dog, who feeds from the Mogul's table,” whispered the boy with the hot scorn of youth, passing Khlit as he went by between the guards.

  Khlit, heedful of Jahangir, paid no attention beyond a quick glance.

  VI

  The Song of Chan

  “Old warrior, now is the moment when you may show gratitude for the costly scimitar given to you, and the robe of honor. When my army mounts for the Afghan campaign, you will ride with the ameers—Raja Man Singh, the Brave (the Rajput bent his head at this); Paluwan Khan; the Lord Thunder-Thrower; and my faithful Ferangs, the musket-men. Your words of the Mongol battles have struck my fancy. Teach Raja Man Singh this tulughma of yours and gifts you have received will be as nought beside the treasure I will bestow.”

  So spoke the Mogul, and the warrior heard the words interpreted, standing in silence, his lined face thoughtful.

  “Can the Rajputs ride as the Mongols did?” he asked bluntly.

  “By the many-armed gods!” The raja sprang from his seat, but Jahangir waved him aside.

  “We shall see. That will be your task—to cooperate with the Prince of Marwar in crushing this snake which has turned against me. Abdul Dost has assumed the leadership of the Afghans and raised the unholy standard of revolt. He—son of Suleiman—was once in my pay. Now is he branded an outlaw, and rebel.”

  Moodily Khlit raised his eyes.

  “Lord,” his deep voice addressed the interpreter, “is not Abdul Dost the son of Mongol fathers? His ancestors were yours— Genghis and Timurlane, the Conquerors. His land is the homeland of the Moguls.”