1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  “More than enough to grind down the numbers of any serious attempt at crossing, however,” Sidi Miftah Habash Khan said, his Habshi face shining with fresh sweat under his turban. “We tried to split up and make them chase us away, but we were forced back into the river without gathering more than a general idea of what was on the other side.”

  “Chased, my brother?” Shahaji asked with a grin.

  Habash Khan returned the smile with a cocked brow.

  The Maratha placed a hand on his chest, his thin yet handsome face dressed with a sardonic grin. “I was not chased. I only wished to rejoin our prince here on the overlook. It is a pleasant place from which to watch the goddess sway through the land, is it not?”

  Habash Khan laughed. Aurangzeb smiled as well, though not from humor so much as pleasure at commanding such fine warriors. The Habshi clan leader and Maratha chieftain had become fast friends in the last few months, much to Aurangzeb’s delight. Having two excellent light cavalry commanders was a gift from God. Having two such men who worked well together without direct supervision was surely a sign that God’s hand rested upon His chosen.

  “We could let your brother try…” Shahaji said with a glance at Aurangzeb, hopeful light in his eyes.

  “He would only send us directly at them like a hammer to an anvil,” Habash Khan said, pointing to the far shore. “To weaken Shehzada Aurangzeb at little cost to himself or his favorites.”

  “Messenger for my brother,” Aurangzeb called, pretending he hadn’t heard the former slave speaking the absolute truth.

  “And once we take this ford, we still have to take Burhanpur and that stone bitch Asirgarh…” Habash Khan said, the doleful words spoiled by a predatory gleam in his eye. The sack of a city meant danger, yes, but also a great deal of loot. Besides, he knew that light cavalry like his sowar were rarely called on for direct assaults, especially not with heavy infantry made up of bang-addled Rajputs and the like around to do the work.

  “One river, city, or fort at a time, my friend. Eventually Shehzada Aurangzeb will bring all to heel, never fear,” Shahaji said.

  A man in embroidered green robes rode up, slid from the saddle and into a smooth, courtly bow.

  Aurangzeb waved him permission to stand, some part of his mind not occupied with the tactical problem in front of him reflecting that when he was Sultan Al’Azam, he’d do away with the requirement that imperial messengers dismount to receive orders. Such was a waste of time. He filed the thought away with the thousand other things he planned upon once he’d ascended the throne and focused all his attention on the problem at hand.

  “With my usual compliments to the Sultan Al’Azam, if you please,” he said, after a moment spent putting the finishing touches on his plan of battle: calculating the route of march, the time his forces would require to get into position, and just how long Shuja could be made to wait without issuing direct orders Aurangzeb knew would make pointless sacrifices of his best fighters.

  The imperial messenger merely nodded and waited for his next command.

  “I am sending my fastest cavalry downriver to cross while I form up my foot, heavy cavalry, and artillery to assault the crossing. I welcome reinforcement, provisions, and prayers at the Sultan Al’Azam’s pleasure. You are dismissed.”

  The messenger bowed again and, with a prideful display, leapt back into the saddle and sped away.

  “Now, what are we really going to do?” Shahaji asked.

  Aurangzeb looked at the men. “What I told my brother that we would…” He paused a moment, watching them. When their stares turned concerned, he went on. “…with a few slight adjustments I hope will be effective.”

  “So long as it does not involve those damnable camels…” Shahaji said.

  “So sorry to disappoint, but it does.”

  “Getting them to cross water is not for the faint of heart, Shehzada. And they’re so slow…” Shahaji’s tone was only half-joking.

  “No, but you will want them, regardless, when it comes time to complete my orders.” He waved a hand, and glanced at Kumar, one of the experienced messengers who’d been with him on the campaign south.

  “You will cross at the first ford to our west, about five kos, if memory serves.” He looked at the sun. “You should arrive near dusk. I want you across tonight. It’s a quarter moon, but that’s a risk we must take. The ford will, no doubt, be defended, but I cannot imagine they have the men necessary for more than a picket force intended to report any crossing. Ride them down, if you can. If you cannot, hound the pickets right back to their masters but don’t allow yourselves to get sucked into any engagement short of this ford unless you are certain of victory.”

  “And the blasted camels?”

  “They’ll be following on at their best speed. You will wait for them to come up in support…they should come in just before dawn, I should think. I will commence an artillery barrage to distract them”—he considered a moment, then continued—“as it comes time for asir prayer.” If having a reputation as an overly pious zealot could be used against him, he would, in turn, use it to his advantage.

  He turned to Kumar. “Kumar. Message to Ali and his zamburakchi: he is to follow Shahaji and Habash Khan’s forces west and cross the Tapti at the first ford upon arrival. He is to support the cavalry in their action, concentrating fire on the enemy artillery first, infantry second, and cavalry last. Shahaji is in command, this time.” The Maratha chieftain was more cautious than the Habshi, and would take to heart the idea that they were not to even try and overcome stiff resistance once across the river.

  Seeing Aurangzeb had finished, Komar repeated his orders, verbatim. After permission was given, the young sowar shot off back down the line of march to the zamburakchi contingent.

  Aurangzeb watched him go and, turning to the men still with him, said playfully, “What, you are still here? I believe I gave you your orders. Change mounts if you must and be on your way.”

  Both his umara whooped, clapped heels to horses, and rode to join their respective sowar.

  When he was sure no one else could see him, Aurangzeb smiled at their antics. Both men were at least a decade older than he was, but often behaved as if they barely had thirty years between them. He wished, on occasion, that God’s plan would have allowed for him to act his age.

  He took his prayer beads to hand, praying for forgiveness of his momentary weakness as he rode the short way to the command group.

  South shore of the Tapti

  The predawn quiet had yet to be broken by the army’s muezzin calling the faithful to Fajr, the third prayer of the day, when Aurangzeb’s messenger arrived and ordered Carvalho to begin his artillery barrage. A quick study of the moon’s position made it clear that the order was arriving at last three hours early.

  Strange, he had been clear that we were not to begin until the muezzin began to call the faithful to Fajr. I wonder what changed.

  He knew better than to send the messenger back with questions for the prince, however.

  “To your guns, men!” Carvalho’s command was quiet but spurred his gathered gun captains to run for their guns.

  Rodrigo, his second, gave a short bow, a mocking grin, and departed at a more stately pace.

  Carvalho smiled. Rodrigo knew his duty well. Besides, he had the shortest walk, and being the captain’s oldest comrade had its prerogatives.

  He checked the nervous impulse to verify the angle of his fire with his linstock one more time while waiting for his men to reach their guns. The fools across the river had kept watch fires going through the night, and he sighted in his guns using the excellent aim-points each made. The wait was longer than it was when he first entered service under Aurangzeb. The twenty-odd cannon he was fairly confident would not explode when loaded with powder charges sufficient to carry their shot across the river and into the enemy encampment were not even half the guns that he’d been given command of.

  Despite the many difficulties of supply the march had placed on h
is talents, Aurangzeb had managed to expand not only the numbers of his artillery park, but the quality of the guns as well. As a result, Carvalho’s command had swollen to some fifty heavy pieces and nearly a hundred lighter guns. There was no shortage of powder, either, though much of it lacked the purity Portuguese gun captains were used to when at home, as it had been looted from the many magazines of the forts and armories taken on the campaign south.

  He heard the camp drums begin to rumble behind him, knowing that any chance of surprise they’d hoped to gain for the cavalry with the artillery barrage had been destroyed. Cocking his head, Carvalho listened to the signal repeated a few times before he was confident of its meaning: troops to general assembly. Something had changed Aurangzeb’s timetable for the attack, and as it was not for the better, he assumed that Shuja had arrived and ordered Aurangzeb to attack before he was ready.

  Shaking off thoughts of things he couldn’t very well change—least of all in the next few minutes—Carvalho stepped to one side of the gun he’d chosen to captain for tonight, careful to keep the glowing match cord at the end of his linstock out of view from across the water. Just because Shah Shuja had spoiled the chances for surprise didn’t make it wise to abandon his orders.

  A pair of whistles, one from each end of the gun line, reached his ears.

  He counted to three and lowered his dragon-headed linstock to press the match it held at the touchhole. The powder caught as he skipped aside. The gun belched fire, smoke, and thunder, setting the attack in motion.

  North shore of the Tapti

  “How many?” Aurangzeb asked, turning from the opening of his tent and the smoking battlefield beyond. The scene inside was not comforting, either. Several of his senior umara had been injured, and he’d ordered them placed in his tent and commanded his personal physicians to tend their injuries.

  “The count is still being made, Shehzada,” Painda Khan said, sweat dripping from the round eunuch’s face onto the reports laid out before him.

  “How many?” he repeated, glaring at his diwan.

  “Forgive me, Shehzada, but we are still making our count…” The eunuch cleared his throat as he shuffled slips of paper. As if to prove his point, a clerk in his service entered and placed yet another slip on the field desk.

  Aurangzeb waved impatiently.

  The eunuch swallowed, but knew better than to make Aurangzeb wait further. “Our preliminary count has our losses at something less than five hundred men dead or wounded, Shehzada. Mostly wounded, of course, but we will know better tomorrow who will survive their injuries.”

  “Far fewer than would have died had…some other been allowed to plan this victory,” Shahaji said, skirting the edge of treason.

  Aurangzeb, unable to tear his eyes away from watching his personal physician pull a thumb-length sliver of wood from the hard muscles of Habash Khan’s ebony flank, said, “You will speak no more of such things.”

  “As you command, Shehzada,” Shahaji said, suppressed anger running beneath the words like a spring dwelling beneath stone.

  “I would lose no more men to my brother,” Aurangzeb said in a near whisper, wanting to tear his hair out, to wail and gnash his teeth, but unable to. As such conduct was impossible, given his position, he would have preferred not to utter a word. His captains had, this day, earned and more than earned an explanation.

  Quietly, hoarsely, he told them: Shuja had arrived just before midnight and ordered Aurangzeb to begin a general assault. Aurangzeb had argued with his elder brother to no avail, then delayed the transmission of Shuja’s orders for as long as he dared, but ultimately he had been forced to follow orders and send his men in.

  Burhanpur

  Something heavy went flying into the air above Raj Ghat Gate, pieces of metal glinting in the sun above the dirty black smoke of the explosion. The sound of what must have been a great cannon barrel failing reached Aurangzeb’s ears a heartbeat later, thudding into his chest and making several of his entourage’s horses rear or start. His own stallion, better trained than most, flicked an annoyed ear at the racket, but paid no further mind.

  Aurangzeb ground his teeth in a rare show of annoyance. The governor of the subah of Khandesh might have been bribed into surrendering the fortress-palace Father had spent so much treasure and time improving over the last few years, but Shuja had flatly refused to entertain the idea. That refusal had narrowed the many options open to them down to exactly one method of overcoming resistance. Aurangzeb had quickly established siege lines and begun the artillery assault even before the encirclement was completed.

  A lower, duller rumble than the explosion echoed across to him, drawing his eyes to the wall adjacent to the gate as it slowly slumped into ruin in a cloud of dust and smoke.

  Within moments, men and horses rushed to exploit the breach, war-shouts of his heavy infantry thin with distance.

  Sited on the edge of the city right beside the Tapti, the fortress-palace did not boast particularly daunting defenses, as shown by the quick collapse of the wall. But any siege action slowed their advance and not only gave Dara more time to gather his army at Agra, but also allowed the already strong garrison of Rajputs at Asirgarh to ready their defenses and lay in additional supplies.

  And, unlike the fortress falling before his men, Asirgarh’s defenses were among the most formidable in the empire, and garrisoned with men who, thanks to Shuja’s obstinance, would know Shuja’s army did not offer reasonable terms. Built atop a natural outcrop of sheer, heavy stone, Asirgarh was going to require time, treasure, and men that would be better spent in the final conflict with Dara, not in overcoming underlings who could be dealt with through fair offers of honors, position, and wealth. If Father had not died, the lines separating each of his sons’ supporters would have been far better defined. Years of service, honors given, grudges settled and unsettled—all would have served to firm each camp in its allegiances. As it was, there was little to no history of leadership for each prince. Dara’s already sparse military reputation—partially a result of Father never allowing him out of his sight for long—would not withstand another loss like the one the Sikhs had dealt him. That, and the fact that Aurangzeb was the most recent son to reach adulthood had left Shuja in possession of the longest record of commanding armies, though he’d done little enough with the opportunity.

  Tired of running over the same ground, Aurangzeb’s hands found his prayer beads automatically. Starting silent prayers to their clicking, that part of his spirit not occupied with prayer sought answers to when, exactly, He would reveal the time and place when Shuja was to be displaced in accordance with his plan.

  Shuja’s camp, north of Burhanpur

  The fighters circled one another as first Shuja and then his most vocal sycophants called odds or accepted bets supporting their favorites. They had until the fighters clinched to place their bets, and the two men were showing their experience by letting the purses build. One or the other would be paid far more the longer and more intense the betting became.

  Aurangzeb sat rather more quietly, watching the sport while thinking of other things. Shuja’s man, a thick-necked, bullish fellow with the hands of a strangler, feinted several times, grinning and spitting threats under his breath. The other fighter was more reserved, conserving energy, guard up and ready to receive the first real attack with his own. It occurred to Aurangzeb that the pair made for a fair representation of the two armies in the coming conflict.

  Shuja was bound to be extravagant, and make threats. Dara, however, looked to be content to sit behind the walls of Red Fort and build the weapons his pet up-timers had provided. The weapons would likely prove effective, just as the up-timer medicine had been effective in preserving Dara’s life beyond its natural end. It remained to be seen if their tricks would prove as important as the ground Dara chose to fight on. Aurangzeb believed Gwalior Fort a stronger military position from which to oppose Shuja’s forces, but the political value of Agra was greater.

  The hea
vy thud of the fighters making contact was audible over the calls of audience. Wine sloshed from Shuja’s cup as he sprang to his feet, spattering Aurangzeb’s sleeve as the fighters closed to the clinch.

  Leaning slightly away from the probable spill radius of his brother’s goblet, Aurangzeb carefully took no notice of any disapproving faces in the crowd. If anyone else thought ill of Shuja drinking to excess, Aurangzeb had spies who would report precisely which of the gathered umara expressed that dislike, just as Shuja had set watchers to observe who might express even passing approval of Aurangzeb.

  The fighters grunted, hands sliding, weight shifting as each sought an advantage.

  Again it struck Aurangzeb how similar the combat was to the larger conflict. Each brother had his spies, soldiers and supporters, each sought to use those tools at their disposal to break the other’s grip on the Peacock Throne.

  Of course, tools such as the army surrounding them could only be directed by one mind, one strong hand, and Aurangzeb had yet to see the opportunity that God would surely place before him. He knew such an opportunity was coming, as his every prayer and meditation had consistently given him to believe that His will was to see Aurangzeb made emperor.

  The stolid fighter tried to slide under the guard of Shuja’s man and grasp a leg. He was rewarded with an elbow to the cheek that split the skin and rocked him, blinking, onto his heels.

  Aurangzeb deciphered God’s message: such would be his fate if he were to take action before the moment He designated. Not wishing to give his watchers any sign what he was thinking, Aurangzeb checked a nod and resolved to pray on it at the next opportunity.