Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne

by Alex Rutherford

  Who could the attackers be? Had some henchman of his father’s, attracted by the reward for his capture and riding fast and light, caught up with them? Could it even be Mahabat Khan and his troops? If so, he would sell his life dearly. After what seemed an age but was probably less than a minute he was approaching the column. As soon as he was within earshot he shouted, ‘Archers up ahead. We’re under attack. Halt the column. Our muskets will be useless in the rain. Ready your own bows and arrows.’ Back among his men, he flung himself from the saddle, keeping his horse’s body between himself and the direction from which the arrows had come.

  As his men yanked on their reins and reached for their weapons, Khurram looked back towards the river but could see nothing. Perhaps the attackers had already made off . . . But at that very moment more arrows hissed through the air as if to disabuse him of such thoughts. One hit a young qorchi standing only a few feet from Khurram in the windpipe and blood bubbled through his fingers as he clutched at his throat. Another embedded itself in the neck of a pack mule and the animal began a piteous high-pitched braying before collapsing to its knees in the thick mud.

  Khurram’s overriding thought was to get back to Arjumand and the children. At least the thick hide hangings of the bullock wagons they were travelling in should be some protection from the arrows. Ducking behind a grain cart and half running, half crawling through the mud, he reached the wagon in which Arjumand and their daughters were riding. Reaching up he pulled aside the heavy curtains and looked in. Arjumand was huddled in a corner, arms tight around Jahanara and Roshanara, her mouth already forming into a scream until she saw who it was.

  ‘We’re being attacked, I don’t know why or by whom,’ Khurram gasped, breathing hard. ‘Lie down on the bottom of the wagon and stay there until I return. Don’t on any account get out.’ Arjumand nodded. Dropping the hanging, Khurram ran, bent double, to the wagon containing the boys and their nurses. His sons looked at him with round eyes as he repeated the instructions he had just given Arjumand. As he did so, a piercing scream told him another arrow had found a target.

  Mud soaked, he scrambled back to the protection of the grain cart and, heart thumping, looked about him. Two more of his men were sprawled face down in the viscous mire. Another – Nicholas Ballantyne, pale hands crimson with his own blood as he worked – was jabbing at his calf with his dagger, trying to cut out an arrowhead. Nearby another pack mule was lying on its side, legs threshing wildly. Before he had time to think more arrows skimmed over them, one striking a soldier in the back, another thudding into the hub of one of the wheels on Arjumand’s wagon. Then, suddenly, the firing ceased. The rain was growing heavier all the time, splashing into the growing puddles and drenching everything. It would make it harder for the archers, already fumbling with wet fingers to fit arrows to sodden bowstrings.

  What was happening? Warily raising his head, he made out through the downpour a cluster of riders approaching slowly at no more than a trot from the direction of the river. The steely veil of rain made it difficult for him to gauge how many there were. Probably they were having the same difficulty assessing the strength of his force. Well, they were about to find out, Khurram thought.

  ‘Mount up and follow me,’ he yelled to his bodyguard as he ran towards his horse and scrambled back into the wet saddle. ‘The rest of you, protect the wagons and tend the wounded.’ Within moments Khurram and his guards were charging towards their unknown enemy, mud and water raised by their horses’ hooves flying around them. ‘Keep down,’ he yelled as he bent over his horse’s neck, sword drawn and warm rain running off his face. Gripping hard with his knees in case his horse should stumble in the slippery soft mud, he narrowed his eyes, picking out his target.

  As Khurram and his men emerged through the rain, they heard cries of alarm and surprise from their attackers. Instantly, their assailants were tugging frantically at their reins, turning their horses and fleeing away from them back towards the river. Urging his own horse on, Khurram passed a spiny bush on which a grimy length of turban cloth had caught. Rounding a bend in the track he saw the whole group properly at last: thirty or forty helmetless men, bows and quivers now slung on their backs, arms and legs working to push their horses along as fast as the mud would allow – but not fast enough to keep them ahead of the better-mounted Moghuls. They were his, Khurram thought with grim satisfaction as he and his men bore down on them. One man fell from his horse and Khurram heard his skull crack as the hoof of one of his bodyguards’ horses caught it. Gaining fast on another whose small brown pony was labouring, Khurram struck hard, opening a great gash in the man’s back. With a sweep of his sword he decapitated a second – a scrawny fellow in a rough dun-coloured tunic who had been foolish enough to slow in his flight to see how far his pursuers were behind him. The head splashed into a puddle and the torso slowly slipped from the saddle, and after a few moments also toppled into the mud. All around, Khurram saw his men cutting and stabbing with their sharply honed steel weapons, which their opponents had nothing to match. Everywhere, bright, fresh, crimson blood was mingling with the rivulets of muddy rainwater on the ground.

  In less than five minutes he and his men had slaughtered nearly all of their enemies except for a very few who had managed to escape along the riverbank into the bush. Khurram was about to turn his horse and give the order to return to the main column when he detected movement beneath a jumble of dead branches thirty feet away. One of the attackers must have taken refuge there after being unhorsed. Pulling his bloodied sword once more from its scabbard Khurram quickly dismounted and moved quietly towards the branches, where all now seemed still. When he was about ten feet away he circled slowly round to the right. Ducking beneath the branches he saw a man crouching down with his back towards him, bow and arrows by his side and a serrated-edged hunting knife gripped in his right hand. He had no suspicion Khurram was there until he felt the prick of the steel tip of his sword in the small of his back.

  ‘Get up and out of there,’ Khurram ordered, speaking in Persian. He would soon know whether these were his father’s soldiers or not. When there was no response he repeated his order in Hindi and jabbed the sword into the man’s flesh, drawing blood that stained his already wet and torn cotton tunic. His enemy yelped and pushing the branches aside scrambled quickly to his feet before turning round, dagger clenched in his hand and eyes searching wildly for an escape route. He was short and wiry and in his left earlobe was a single gold hoop. ‘Put down your dagger,’ Khurram shouted. The man let it fall and Khurram kicked it away. ‘Who are you? Why did you attack me and my men?’

  ‘Why not? Anyone foolish enough to travel through these marshes belongs to us.’

  So they were just local dacoits, albeit lethally dangerous ones, Khurram thought, remembering his dead and wounded men sprawled in the mud back up the track. This contemptible creature would pay, but not quite yet. ‘Who is your leader? Where is your village?’

  ‘We have neither. We are our own men. We roam these lands making camp where and when we choose.’

  ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘We were just a small party hunting for the pot. We came upon you by chance. We thought you were a caravan of merchants. If we’d known how many of you there were we wouldn’t have attacked you with so few men. But soon more of our brothers will come – hundreds of us, looking to revenge us on you. You won’t realise they’re there until it’s too late. They’ll be in your camp, killing your soldiers, taking your goods – and having fun with your women.’

  As he spoke the man suddenly lunged to one side, trying desperately to reach his knife which was lying half submerged in a puddle. His fingers were just curling round the hilt when Khurram thrust his sword into his stomach. The man collapsed backwards into the mud and after thrashing about for a moment, blood bubbling through his betel-stained teeth and eyes bulging, lay still.

  Remounting, Khurram made his way back up the track, pondering what the dacoit had said. Were there really many mo
re of them – some kind of robber army – or had it just been a vainglorious boast? He couldn’t take the risk. They must push on and cross the river before nightfall. How many more times before he could reach safety would he be at the mercy of bandits – vicious outlaws just as his father had declared him to be? Bitterness at what his father had done to him and how far he had fallen darkened his thoughts as he rode.

  Two hours later, after the dead had been buried and scouts had reported no further sign of bandits, the column advanced the short distance to the river. It was wide – about two hundred feet across – but in spite of the rains not especially deep, no more than four or so feet at a fording place the scouts had found. Nevertheless, it was flowing with some force and in midstream jagged rocks protruded. Khurram urged his horse into the fast-running water to gauge its strength. To his relief the animal was able to stand its ground – they should be able to cross it if they were careful. ‘Send a detachment of soldiers across to secure the opposite bank,’ he ordered the captain of his guard. ‘Then we’ll begin sending the wagons over.’

  It wasn’t long before Khurram saw a torch flare on the other side of the river – the signal that it was safe to begin the main crossing. The rain had ceased and there was even a patch of blue sky as the drivers urged the first teams of oxen hauling the baggage wagons into the water. The protesting beasts moved agonisingly slowly but reached the opposite shore without incident. Next Khurram sent the strings of pack mules, only lightly burdened as the heaviest loads had been transferred to the wagons. Though the rushing water came above their bellies and some of them had to be prodded into the river at the point of a lance, they too gained the far side where they shook themselves dry like dogs, the bells round their necks clanging.

  Khurram relaxed a little. The remaining wagons held only people and were lighter than the baggage wagons. With luck, the day’s dangers were over. Glancing up at the sky he saw it was still quite light. They should be able to put two or three miles between themselves and the river by nightfall and he would choose a secure campsite and post pickets. Two wagons full of wounded men crossed first. Nicholas Ballantyne, the rough bloodstained bandage on his calf visible through the cut he had made in his breeches, was sitting beside the driver in the first, keeping an eye out for concealed rocks and floating driftwood, of which there was plenty. The wagon carrying Khurram’s three sons and their nurses went next. After they had reached the far side, finally it was the turn of Arjumand’s wagon.

  As the four white bullocks pulling it entered the water, Khurram urged his horse into the river behind it, wanting to stay close in case of any mishap. Water surged through the great, metal-bound wheels as they slowly turned. The driver was doing well in avoiding the sharp rocks. But when the wagon was almost halfway across, one of the two leading bullocks slipped and half tumbled to its knees. Emitting deep bellows it managed to right itself and continue doggedly pulling. The next moment Khurram heard shouts of alarm from the opposite bank and was aware of men running down to the water’s edge. Looking upstream to where they were pointing, he saw a massive fallen tree with widespread, densely leaved branches hurtling towards them in the foaming water. He barely had time to register the sight before the tree trunk slammed into the left side of the wagon. The spokes of the back wheel splintered and the wagon tipped slowly sideways into the water, the tree jammed on top of it for a moment until the sheer force of the current sent it rushing on its way downstream again.

  Kicking his frightened horse nearer to the tumbled wagon Khurram saw that the wildly struggling bullocks were trapped beneath the water. ‘Cut them from their yokes,’ he yelled to the driver. Then, leaping from his horse, he managed to grab hold of one of the shattered spokes and haul himself on to what had been the left side of the wagon but which, protruding from the water, now formed its roof. Tearing his dagger from its scabbard he sawed a jagged cut in the thick hide covering and looked inside. With the gushing water almost up to her chin and her long hair streaming around her, Arjumand was clinging with her right arm to one of the wooden ribs of the wagon’s frame and in her left was trying to hold Roshanara above the water. Jahanara was hanging on to one of the ribs with both hands.

  Behind him Khurram heard voices – others were coming to his assistance. Jahanara was closest to him and he lowered his right hand towards her. ‘Let go of the wagon and hold on to me instead,’ he said to the terrified child, who hesitated a moment and then grabbed on to him. He lifted her out and handed her to one of his soldiers who had managed to get his horse close to the wagon. Then he reached inside the wagon again. ‘Arjumand, try to get a little closer so that I can take Roshanara from you.’ In the semi-gloom he could see Arjumand’s eyes and hear her laboured breathing as she slid her right hand along the wooden spar without letting go and held Roshanara out to him. Reaching down, he managed to grip his daughter’s arm and though she cried out with pain he pulled her out of the wagon.

  But as Khurram twisted round to hand Roshanara to another of his men, the wagon rocked violently again. He lost his footing and fell into the water, and felt the force of the torrent tear Roshanara from his grasp. Managing to stand upright he looked desperately round. ‘Roshanara!’ he yelled, wiping the water from his eyes. ‘Roshanara!’ At first he couldn’t see her but then he caught a glimpse of something scarlet in the flood – the colour of her tunic – and saw her being carried away.

  Arjumand had heard his frantic cries and was hauling herself out of the wagon, blood running from a cut on her chin. ‘Roshanara – where is she?’ she screamed.

  Khurram pointed downstream. ‘Stay there. I’ll get her.’ But before he had even finished speaking Arjumand had flung herself into the river. She was a good swimmer – she had loved to swim in the pool in the haram of his mansion in Agra – but she would be no match for the strong current that was already bearing her away or the sharp rocks concealed beneath the surface.

  Quickly Khurram made his decision. He struggled out of the water on the far bank where most of his force was now gathered and shouted for a horse and for men to follow him. Leaping on to the animal’s back, he rode downstream as fast as the thick mud would allow, scanning the churning water all the while. A few hundred yards ahead the river took a sharp bend to the left amid some trees. The current should slow at that point, and he could see long branches overhanging the water well into midstream. His heart leapt as he made out Arjumand clinging to a piece of wood and a hundred or so yards ahead of her the red shape – barely bigger than a doll – that was Roshanara. He must get to the bend in the river before they did . . .

  Tree branches whipped at his face as he galloped towards the bend. Wheeling his horse to an abrupt stop, he jumped from the saddle and hauled himself up into one of the trees overhanging the river. Clambering on to a thick smooth branch, about three feet above the water, he edged his way along it as far as he thought it would bear his weight. Then, still holding on to it with one hand, he lowered his body into the torrent and turned to face upstream. He was only just in time. There she was, like a bundle of sodden red rags . . . Reaching out with his free hand he managed to grab hold first of Roshanara’s tunic and then one of her arms. It took all his strength to tug her, one handed, out of the water and on to the branch, but he managed it, then pulled himself up. To his relief he could hear the child’s ragged breathing. Her body was limp, but she was alive. One of his soldiers had climbed out on to a nearby branch and he handed her to him.

  As Roshanara was being taken to safety, Khurram was already edging back along the branch. He could make out Arjumand being whirled towards him, still clinging to her piece of wood, but she was too far away for him to be able to catch hold of her. When she was almost level with him he leapt into the water and struck out towards her. The river was deeper here but, just as he’d hoped, the bend was reducing its force. Ten strokes brought him to Arjumand’s side. Putting his left arm round her waist, he said, ‘Let go of the log. I have you.’ She did as he said and he began to make for the
shore, striking out with his right arm and kicking as hard as he could with his legs. With so much water in his eyes it was hard to think of anything but the green blur of the bank and not letting go of Arjumand.

  Then he saw something sticking out towards them. ‘Grab the lance shaft, Highness,’ a voice was shouting. Reaching out, his fingers made contact with wood. Then, gripping the lance handle hard, he felt himself being pulled in. Moments later, he and Arjumand were lying in the mud gasping for breath. Arjumand’s right upper arm was scraped and bleeding heavily where she had caught it against some rocks and her cheek was gashed but her first words were, ‘Roshanara . . . is she all right?’ Khurram just nodded. Shivering, wet and muddy as they were, they clasped one another in silent gratitude.

  Chapter 18

  The Kindness of Strangers

  The oozing, evil-smelling brown mud still sucked at the wheels of the wagons as if unwilling to let them pass. Khurram felt close to despair. Over the weeks since crossing the Mahanadi river their progress had become painfully slow, sometimes no more than three or four miles a day, as they headed northeastwards towards the Ganges delta. The monsoon rains had ended but their legacy was still there, from the moist air to the thick carpet of rotting leaves and fallen branches and the glinting black water of the now-stagnating swamps they had fed. Though they had had no further trouble from bandits and had seen no sign of Mahabat Khan, hazards lurked all around. Venomous serpents slid through the undergrowth. Whirring, biting mosquitoes descended in swarms at dusk, hungry for warm blood. And now disease had begun spreading among his men – six had died in the last two weeks including his elderly steward, Shah Gul, who had faithfully fled with him into exile from Agra. Every morning his forces were fewer as men slipped away, preferring to take their chances on their own.