Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  “Nay, I also will drink,” he laughed, “lest you think there be poison in the cup. How runs the verse?

  Life drags its steps from day to day To Death’s dark caravansary.

  “If I quaffed poison from your cup,” quoth Jani Beg grimly, “my dagger would let out the life of one poet whose spirit would anger the stars with verses as bad as the scent of a decayed flower.”

  “Eh, your eloquence astounds me!” Shah Abbas exclaimed in mock delight. “Nay, I know a verse to cap your speech—

  Nowhere blows the rose so red As where some Persian sultan bled.

  “I think Omar himself could not have said it better,” he added complacently. “I must have my scribe write it down with the couplet I uttered to the Mogul's messenger. It was my wit, I doubt not, that made Jahangir decide to journey hither.”

  “Ho, I thought I had arranged that matter.”

  Jani Beg glared at his companion like a dog seeking a bone of contention. The veiled mockery of the Persian always angered him, and tonight the nerves of the two men were on edge.

  “You take a mimic castle with brave skill, but you have not yet forced the Khanjut wall with your cannon.”

  “Fool! It is not yet time for the assault. Jahangir does not leave Kabul for several days, and we planned to delay the storming till his arrival.”

  “True,” admitted Jani Beg morosely.

  He studied the chessboard and moved a piece. Shah Abbas smiled.

  “You have entered the trap I set, Jani Beg. See—I advance this pawn, so, and—shah m’at!"

  “Shah m’at1 the king is dead.”

  Jani Beg glanced up curiously.

  “A good omen, that,” he added.

  “Yes, a castle is taken and a monarch dies. That likes you well.”

  “And you.”

  The Uzbek looked about the tent cautiously. Only two slave girls were present.

  “Our plans go well. Khanjut is beset on every side. The breach is wide enough now for the attack. The garrison is thinned by arrows and hunger.”

  “It is rumored Shirzad Mir lies on his death bed. Only that stout scoundrel Abdul Dost remains to be reckoned with. The Ferang has vanished somewhere—to purgatory, I hope.”

  “Doubtless he has forsaken a falling house. He is but a merchant, when all is said—though the witless raja names him an ameer of the sea.”

  “Raja Man Singh hunts in the hills of Koh-i-Baba, complaining that we do naught here but sit on a carpet.”

  “The Rajput will awake to his error when his hundred horsemen face my three thousand Persians.”

  “And—” Jani Beg lowered his voice cautiously—“I have summoned new levies of Uzbeks from Ferahana and the Kara Kirghiz. Between us we will muster a full eleven thousand men-at-arms.” “Jahangir has no thought of our numbers,” assented the Persian, “or even that foolhardy prince would not venture to Khanjut with his four thousand-odd followers.”

  “Bazaar hangers-on, eunuchs and slaves for the most part. I doubt if Jahangir could mount two thousand able-bodied soldiers in all his camp.”

  The Uzbek's tawny eyes gleamed.

  “My spies have reported the main army of Rajputs still in northern Hindustan.”

  “A good place for them,” approved Shah Abbas smilingly. “I like not these horsemen of the raj. They are furies from hell in battle, as they reck not of their own lives.”

  “They are distant. They could not ride here in half a moon, and Jahangir has pledged his coming within a week.”

  Jani Beg could not refrain from speaking the exultation that heated his brain, warmed by the strong wine the slave girls had given him.

  “Great stakes are on the gaming board, Shah Abbas. Once we have seized the Mogul—”

  “Or he dies—”

  “—Better our captive—the artificial empire of India will be rent. Your home levies from Isphahan and Khorassan will move across the border to the Indus. My Uzbeks will unite with the Hazaras, and I shall be joined by the Mongols from the northern steppe. Kabul and Lahore will fall like rotting fruit—” “Kandahar is ours for the plucking—”

  “We will sweep down to the plain of Hindustan once the northern Mohammedan tribes have joined my standard—as they will if the cry of a holy war is raised. The chieftains of Kashmir are in half-revolt at this moment. The Dekkan is but half subdued. Only the Rajputs will remain.”

  His high voice had risen in spite of his caution.

  “The rajas will be content to hold their own lands again. Nay; with Raja Man Singh in our hands we can treat with them to our advantage. Once the figurehead of the Mogul is severed from the empire, it will be open to conquest by the sword—”

  “By the beard of my fathers!”

  Suspicion gleamed in the Persian's glance.

  “Your plan leaves little comfort for me. Eh—how do I know you mean to play fair? No one may trust your word—”

  “You must abide by it.”

  Jani Beg caught the other's plump wrist in his iron grasp. The slave girls stared at the stark passion mirrored in his broad face.

  “By the blood of the Prophet and the ninety-nine holy names of Allah, can you afford to question me? Whose horsemen hold this plain? Who has the soldiery powerful enough to take Kabul this moment? Who has the means and the will—if he choose—to slay you in this tent?”

  Shah Abbas was no coward. But the ferocity of the Uzbek held his gaze in fascination. Slowly the light faded from Jani Beg's slant eyes.

  “Nay, Shah Abbas,” he growled, “you and I have one hate and one foe. We will keep faith in this.”

  “I doubt it not.”

  The Persian was once more master of himself.

  “As surety,” continued Jani Beg, “I will take on myself the more hazardous task of the two. When Jahangir lifts the royal standard for the assault of Khanjut, I will lead my Uzbeks in the rear of the Rajput horsemen. The men of Hindustan will claim the van of assault by hereditary right. This will rid us of some troublesome swords, for the garrison of Khanjut is not yet powerless.”

  “The stars betoken good omens.”

  Jani Beg snorted.

  “Believe ye the message of the stars?”

  “Believe ye the word of Allah, Jani Beg?”

  “When it serves my need.”

  The Uzbek reached for a wine cup and, finding it empty, dashed it on the ground.

  “But the Rajputs will not return from the assault. My men will outnumber them nine to one, and those that escape the arrows of Abdul Dost will fare worse at my hands. That will account for the elegant Raja Man Singh.”

  “And I?”

  “You will remain near the person of Jahangir with your Persians. You have friends among the court

  “Aye; they will be warned of what is to be.”

  “See to it. Jahangir will keep about him a strong personal following. When you see my sword drawn against the Rajputs, turn on the Mogul's guards. He will have elephants. So much the better.”

  “Aye; it will then be hard to escape.”

  “True. Once we have the Mogul among our men it should not take long to scatter any following that might muster from his camp.”

  The Persian stroked his beard tranquilly.

  “Before the assault I will station outposts in the Shyr Pass,” he observed. “So may we keep news of what has happened from spreading too swiftly, and gain time to mobilize our reinforcements.”

  “'Tis well thought on, Shah Abbas.”

  Jani Beg stretched his powerful arms and yawned.

  “You warm my heart, Shah Abbas. Truly they have named you the Lion of Persia—”

  The effect of the hashish had worn off when Shah Abbas summoned in the two slave girls and called loudly for his palanquin. He was consequently irritable. When he flung himself across the

  knees of one of the women on the cushions of the palanquin, he felt for the other and found her missing.

  “Ha, wanton!” he snarled. “Where is your mate? Two of you I brought with
me—the other being a newcomer in my tent.”

  “I know not, my lord.”

  But a clearer head brought sudden suspicion. Shah Abbas jerked around his bulk and seized the slave's slim throat.

  “Speak, misborn katchani!" he cried. “Open that lying mouth!”

  He twisted the girl's neck unmercifully.

  “Whence fled the other? Nay, I remember now that she asked to come to attend me—”

  The unhappy woman gasped and clutched at the arms that pressed her into the cushions.

  “I know her not, lord!” she whimpered. “She offered a small string of pearls if she could come with me—”

  “Death of the saints!”

  Shah Abbas was genuinely alarmed, reflecting how freely he and his companion had spoken.

  “Know you where she went?”

  The slave shivered and felt of her throat.

  “She asked me the way to the Rajput tents—”

  At the Persian's bellowed command his bearers halted. Shah Abbas leaped from the palanquin and swept the nearest rider of his escort from saddle, mounting in his place.

  “Ho, follow me!” he shouted to his cavalcade of riders.

  Cursing his drug-heated brain, he sought the nearest path to the tents of Raja Man Singh. He had wondered, in the tent, why the girl pleased him so. Now he knew it was because he had not seen her before. A strange woman had heard what passed between him and Jani Beg, and, being an unknown, might have understood Turki.

  He spurred his horse on furiously and gave a cry of delight at glimpse of a slender figure wrapped in a shawl that ran toward the nearby pavilion of the Rajput chieftain.

  “A shirt of cloth of gold,” he cried, “to the man that brings her down with an arrow. Speed, fools! She must not gain the pavilion—”

  Several of his escort plucked arrows from quivers.

  “Haste!” he stormed. “A purse of rubies goes to the one—Ha!”

  He reined in his horse on its haunches. He had seen the woman stumble and fall with a piteous cry. The feathered shaft of an arrow showed between her shoulder blades.

  Attired in lounging robes, Raja Man Singh and attendants appeared at the entrance of the tent, attracted by the outcry. The Rajput stared from the girl to the mounted Persians.

  Shah Abbas leaned over to look into the tortured, upturned face of the slave girl.

  “Know you this wanton, Raja Man Singh?” he asked sharply.

  The chieftain scrutinized the dying woman.

  “Not I,” he responded frankly, “although her dress might be that of the Rajput slaves. By the fire of bhairobi, it is ill to slay thus.”

  Shah Abbas turned away indifferently.

  “She stole—a small string of pearls,” he said. “Almost she escaped.”

  Into the rocky pass leading to Kabul the caravan from the Portuguese fleet wended its stately way. The cooler air of the hill country made its passage easier, and it was within a few day's march of the Afghan city when Sir Ralph urged his camel beside that of the stout Portuguese chirurgeon.

  He swept off his hat in an elaborate bow.

  “I have not yet asked your name, seignior.”

  The other greeted him with an angry stare. Sir Ralph, however, had ascertained at Surat—at the caravansary—that his captive understood English.

  “So the seignior is pleased to be haughty? Ah, well, it matters not. There was a distinguished sailor of your country whose name was da Gama. Perchance you have heard? I will call you da

  Gama. Know that here hence you are Seignior Emanuel da Gama, minister of the Portuguese court, chirurgeon and confidant of— myself.”

  Curiosity loosened the man's tongue.

  “And who, in the name of purgatory and hellfire, are you?” Sir Ralph shook his yellow curls reprovingly.

  “Nay, you must not pry into such a weighty matter, da Gama. Udai Singh might tell you, but sometimes questions are ill-advised, seignior.”

  “The Rajput admits you are his prisoner.”

  Sir Ralph frowned.

  “Fie, seignior! You have long ears. Must I crop them? Udai Singh means but that he is bound to convey me safely to the Mogul's court.

  “Which brings me to the point of my discourse. I shall present you and the worthy purser to Jahangir himself.”

  The chirurgeon's black eyes glinted shrewdly.

  “The purser,” continued Sir Ralph, “is none other than his Excellency the Vice-Admiral of Portugal, as related in certain papers which I have been perusing at sore labor—for I know little of Portuguese script.”

  Da Gama—as he had been christened—bristled.

  “That dog of a scurvy seaman—”

  “Nay; his Excellency.”

  “Whelp of Satan!”

  “Mayhap, yet for the nonce Dom Pedro Raymundo is he anointed. For the space of seven days I have been reading him his lesson, and he has it well by heart. Don Raymundo is a noble of acute perception, seignior, and he knows on which side of the gangplank he had best plant his foot.”

  “You cannot force me to betray my honor by threats.”

  Sir Ralph twirled the nose-cord of his camel reflectively.

  “Did I say aught of threats, Seignior Chirurgeon? Nay; I have appointed you to a higher rank and granted you a crest. Are you not fain to be content? My faith, I would be in your boots.”

  The Portuguese shrugged his bulky shoulders and subsided into irate silence. He was a man of temperament, not without courage, and he had tried several times to escape the caravan, hoping to reach the priests of Agra.

  But the watchful Rajputs had restrained him. Udai Singh was not altogether content with the new whim of the Englishman; yet he was keen enough to see that it was best to keep the two Portuguese under close watch lest they work harm.

  For the rest, Udai Singh had reasoned that by bringing Sir Ralph to Jahangir he was but fulfilling his duty. If Sir Ralph chose to carry along the spoil and the two prisoners, it was no concern of Udai Singh.

  True, the Portuguese were somewhat in favor at court and there might be complaints; but Udai Singh knew that the Mogul would not be angered at receiving the gifts, and the responsibility for the whole matter lay upon the shoulders of the Englishman. Moreover, although he would not admit it, Udai Singh was led to follow out Sir Ralph's wishes by the fact that the latter was the ram rukhi of Krishna Taya. So the worthy chirurgeon had met with little comfort in his attempt to escape and was consequently worried. He was the more troubled because he did not know what Sir Ralph was planning to do when they met the Mogul. But this last the Englishman was now ready and willing to explain.

  “Riders have been sent ahead, seignior,” he observed thoughtfully, “to inform Jahangir of the coming of the Portuguese embassy. Nay, do not scowl. Are you not the embassy? Have I not the papers from Lisbon?

  “Do not forget, seignior,” he added coldly, “that I am in command of your person and that of the purser. I want you to play the part I have described. That is—be silent when you appear at court. That is all I ask.

  “I will do the talking. Obey me and you will be well treated. You will be able to return in safety to Agra or the ships.”

  “Santa Maria! I will not do this—”

  “It is the fortune of war, seignior. You will!”

  Sir Ralph's steady eyes hardened.

  “Your worthy countrymen once put poison in my food at Delhi. Their intrigues drove me penniless and afoot into the hills. They befouled my name and would have got rid of me if they could.”

  The chirurgeon shrugged his shoulders. Such measures were by no means strange to him.

  “I shall deal with you fairly, seignior. All I ask is—silence. For a brief space.”

  “Scoundrel! Low-born—”

  “Seignior!”

  Sir Ralph's voice was dangerously mild. “Perhaps I have not told you that I was once knighted by my sovereign lady the queen on the deck of my ship after that slight affair of the Armada. It was my neglect not to tell you before.
But do not forget that you have been told.”

  The Portuguese looked full on his enemy.

  “What seek you to do?” he demanded skeptically. “I have heard that you once failed in your request of a firman from the Mogul. You are a discredited man, an adventuring seaman. What do you hope to gain from your stolen finery and the papers you have stolen—”

  “My faith!” Sir Ralph glanced at him whimsically. “All this is true, and it has tried me sorely. Yet now do I see a chance to achieve what I had near despaired of. Aye, with your merciful assistance, seignior, I shall gain the firman for my king. Remember, I ask silence. Nay, there is another small matter.”

  He cast a meditative eye along the dusty cavalcade ahead of them.

  “'Tis true I have small skill in reading. Still, certain phrases of your credentials please me not, Seignior da Gama. They vilify my king and my countrymen. They were ill thought on. Now the letters patent of the Portuguese embassy to Jahangir should not be marred by slanderous utterances.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Cross out the blasphemous sentences, seignior. It would not be fitting for my hand to touch your papers, but you—being one of the envoys—may do so.”

  “Nay, I shall not.”

  “I think you will. It would like me well to make a fair and proper copy of the letters in Turki to present to the Mogul, but— I love not such remarks concerning England. Tonight I will give you a pen—”

  “You waste words.”

  “My faith—no.”

  Sir Ralph turned and called to Udai Singh, who brought up in the rear.

  “This nobleman,” he informed the Rajput, “is weary of his camel. He would fain walk, or rather run.”

  Udai Singh looked doubtfully at the chirurgeon's bulk.

  “Walking, seignior,” remarked the Englishman politely, “is excellent for the understanding. It clarifies the clouded intellect. Dismount, therefore, and think upon your stubbornness.”

  Confronted by his enemies on either side, the Portuguese at first tried to cling to the neck of his beast. Propelled earthward by Sir Ralph's heavy hand, he subsided into the dust with scant dignity.

  Once afoot, Udai Singh was in no mind to allow the captive to fall behind. So the chirurgeon was forced to keep up with the caravan at a round pace, half walk, half run, that tried him sorely.