The Serpent's tooth

Chapter 14

Nicholas swerved to avoid the spear hurtling towards him. It missed by inches, thudding harmlessly into the sandy ground, but his enemy — crouching a few feet away behind his dead horse for cover — wasn’t finished with him. As Nicholas wheeled his own mount, intending to ride him down or slash at him with his outstretched sword, the man drew a long curved knife from his sash. When Nicholas was almost on him, he flung it. Nicholas jerked his head back but not quite in time and felt the sharp blade cut into his cheek, sending red blood running down his stubbled face and into his mouth. Ignoring the pain, he leant forward and thrust at the man, but he had misjudged. As the tribesman ducked down again behind the horse’s carcass, Nicholas’s sword swished through empty air. He wrenched his horse’s head round to attack the man once more but as he did so the beast stumbled, lost its balance and crashed to the ground. Nicholas felt himself catapulted over its head to hit the ground with a thump.

Dazed by the fall, he spat the metallic-tasting blood from his mouth and struggled to his feet, but in a moment the tribesman was on him. Nicholas smelled the stench of sweat as his opponent, a squat burly man, knocked him back to the ground and straddled him, pushing his grinning face with its sour garlic breath close as his strong fingers fastened on Nicholas’s windpipe and squeezed, intent on throttling the life out of him. Bucking and kicking, Nicholas tried to dislodge him but the man was heavy and his own strength began to fade as he fought for breath. His lungs felt as if they were filling with hot sand and his eyes seemed ready to burst from their sockets when suddenly a spray of blood blinded him for a moment and the man’s grip relaxed. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Nicholas saw that someone had severed his assailant’s head. His saviour — whoever it was — had already disappeared but Nicholas gave him silent thanks as he pushed the dead torso aside and, still gasping for air, got to his knees and looked around him.

The attack on the Moghul vanguard had come out of nowhere as they had advanced through a defile on one of the final stages of their long march north from Kabul through the jagged mountains of the Hindu Kush, still snow-capped even in summer. The defile had been so narrow in places that no more than three men could ride comfortably abreast. The overhanging cliffs, rising two hundred feet, had meant travelling in almost perpetual shadow. Perhaps that was why the scouts hadn’t spotted the tribesmen perched in the jumble of rocks above, who had suddenly begun firing down on them with deadly accuracy. Unable to see their assailants and with men falling from their saddles all along the column, they had had no option but to kick on their horses and ride as hard as they could through the defile, zigzagging wherever there was room to put off their enemy’s aim. More riders had fallen but eventually the remainder had emerged, men and horses alike breathing hard, out on to these stony plains, as barren as the defile but at least with enough space for the Moghul troops to deploy.

At last they had been able to see their enemy — a mass of mounted warriors in the striped green and red robes, sheepskin jerkins and shaggy black woollen hats of the Turkomans — who, seated on their wiry ponies, had been waiting, correctly anticipating that their musketeers would flush the leading Moghul troops out of the defile and into their path. Five hundred of Nicholas’s foreign mercenaries with about a thousand of Ashok Singh’s Rajputs whose turn it had been to form the vanguard of Aurangzeb’s army that day had tried frantically to form a line as the Turkomans galloped towards them, waving their weapons and yelling their wild war cries. In the chaos Nicholas had heard Rajput officers shouting commands as they tried to rally their men but all too quickly the Turkomans had smashed into them, slashing with their broad scimitars and rising in their stirrups to fire balls from their long-barrelled muskets — jezails they called them — or arrows from their double-curved bows.

Sword still gripped in his right hand, Nicholas backed against the dead horse and again looked around. His own mount had disappeared after throwing him. As far as he could tell, the fight was in the balance but if anything the Moghuls were getting the worst of it. To his left, orange-clad Rajputs, steel-tipped lances in their hands, were galloping towards a cluster of Turkoman musketeers and archers firing from behind some large boulders. Above the clamour, he heard a Rajput scream as an arrow tore into the exposed flesh of his neck; then a second and a third Rajput simultaneously tumbled from their saddles, both hit by musket balls. Directly ahead, he made out a group of his own men — Frenchmen and Danes — fighting desperately but determinedly as, outnumbered, they tried to break through a ring of Turkoman horsemen who had surrounded them. Suddenly one man, blond hair streaming from beneath a domed helmet, broke through the Turkomans’ cordon only to be hit by a musket ball and slip from the saddle. For a moment his foot caught in his stirrup but then the stirrup leather broke and after rolling over on the ground a couple of times he lay still. Nicholas recognised him as one of the Danish pirates who had joined the mercenaries after his ship had been wrecked off Bengal. He must find himself a horse and go to his men’s aid if he could …

Suddenly, he heard a drumming of hooves and turning saw fresh Moghul troops galloping out of the defile and debouching across the open ground towards the fight. A cluster of fluttering orange banners emblazoned with a flaring yellow sun at their head told him that Ashok Singh himself was leading them, and sure enough he glimpsed the Rajput’s straight-backed figure in his glittering steel breastplate riding a tall white horse and closely surrounded by his bodyguard. Their drawn swords glinted before them, bright as fire in the slanting evening sunlight. But Nicholas had no further time for reflection. A huge Turkoman with a curly black beard on a bay horse had spotted him and was galloping towards him, intent on riding him down. Looking round, Nicholas saw a spear lying close by. Discarding his sword, he bent and grabbed it just in time. Leaping to one side, out of the rider’s path, he swung the shaft horizontally and succeeded in inserting it between the animal’s hooves, bringing it crashing down on to its flank and trapping its rider’s left leg beneath it. As the Turkoman struggled vainly to free himself, Nicholas, taking care to avoid the horse’s flailing hooves, leapt on him and drawing his dagger cut though the man’s jugular in a single, swift movement.

Breathing heavily Nicholas clambered to his feet, bloodied dagger in hand, looking around for the next threat and expecting any moment to feel a musket ball or sword blade cut into his flesh. Seeing the dead man’s bay horse standing nearby, Nicholas lunged for the rope reins. Though shaking with shock, the animal seemed unharmed beyond a gash on its right front fetlock where the spearshaft had caught it. Patting its neck, Nicholas hauled himself into the saddle, and urging it cautiously forward headed for a piece of higher ground to get a better view of what was happening. Now that Ashok Singh and his men had appeared, they could surely put the Turkomens to flight …

Bending over the horse’s neck to whisper words of encouragement, he guided it carefully around dead and dying bodies and gained the hillock safely. Looking down, he saw Ashok Singh about a quarter of a mile away fighting like a man possessed. Nicholas watched him decapitate one Turkoman with a swing of his double-headed battle axe, then hack into the right arm of a second who dropped his spear and turned away, his arm hanging limp at his side. All around, Turkomans suddenly seemed to be riding or scrambling across the stony ground out of the battle. His own French and Danish troops had fought their way clear of their encircling opponents and were joining up with Ashok Singh’s men. Not for the first time in the campaign the Rajput prince and his warriors indeed seemed to be turning the battle in the Moghuls’ favour.

Exhilaration surging through him, Nicholas kicked his horse and galloped towards Ashok Singh, who acknowledged his arrival with a smile and a wave of his gauntleted right hand. ‘They’ve had enough — they’re running away,’ Nicholas gasped. It was true. Surveying the action he could see that in some places the fighting was nearly over. Elsewhere knots of Turkomans were determinedly holding their ground but only because their path of escape was cut off. To Nicholas’s right about thirty of them had formed a defensive ring but were steadily being cut down by Rajput swords and lances. Nearby a smaller group had taken refuge behind an overturned wagon, but some of Nicholas’s mercenaries were now driving them out from behind it into the open and despatching them one by one.

Two hundred yards away to his right he noticed a group of dark-robed riders. They were still fighting fiercely, sweeping and lunging with their broad-bladed scimitars as they attempted to force a way through some Moghul horsemen. Better mounted and better equipped than most of the Turkomans, they were led by a bushy-bearded man on a black horse. Perhaps he was a local khan and they his bodyguard.

‘We’re teaching these savages a lesson.’ Ashok Singh grinned. ‘Perhaps they’ll think twice about attacking Moghul troops again.’

Before Nicholas could reply he heard the beat of hooves on stony ground behind them. Turning, he recognised one of Aurangzeb’s young qorchis with an escort of six soldiers. Reining in, the youth addressed Ashok Singh. ‘Highness, I have a message from Prince Aurangzeb.’

‘You can tell the prince that when he leads the main troops out of the defile he’ll have nothing to fear — we’ve routed the men waiting to ambush us,’ said the Rajput.

The youth looked from Ashok Singh to Nicholas as if uncertain what to say and his face, speckled with pale dust, was anxious. ‘I’m sure my master will be glad to hear that, but I bring an order from him. You are to retreat immediately.’

‘What? Did I hear you right?’ Ashok Singh leant forward in his saddle.

‘Prince Aurangzeb wishes you to fall back and re-join him in the defile.’

‘Why? If we fall back now the enemy will reoccupy the ground we’ve fought so hard to capture. We’ll have to fight them all over again to secure our troops a safe passage as they exit the defile.’

‘My master didn’t give his reasons.’

Glancing at Ashok Singh Nicholas saw a vein pulsing at his temple. Ashok Singh and Aurangzeb had lately often been at odds, the latter seeming to resent the Rajput’s advice, something which the proud and occasionally quick-tempered Ashok Singh was finding increasingly difficult to accept. As for himself, he could scarcely believe what the qorchi had said. To give up and turn back when they had almost succeeded in coming through the mountains and an easier road awaited ahead seemed insane.

‘What’s happening in the defile? Are those musketeers in the rocks above still firing down on the main army just as they fired on the vanguard? Is the prince recalling us because he needs our help?’ Ashok Singh demanded, failing to keep anger as well as disbelief from his voice.

The qorchi shook his head. ‘When I left we had secured much of the higher ground.’

‘Why then must I retreat? It makes no sense militarily. To withdraw now without good cause would be an affront to my honour and to the memory of my men who have died securing this position.’

‘I can only repeat that these are the prince’s orders and he was insistent that you should obey them immediately.’

While Ashok Singh sat in grim-faced silence Nicholas and the qorchi eyed one another uneasily. Not for the first time Nicholas reflected how glad he was not to be a senior commander bearing all that weight of responsibility upon his shoulders. A few moments ago he and Ashok Singh had been brothers in arms, equals, sharing a moment of victory. Now he was only a subordinate, waiting for orders.

‘If the prince has ordered my return, I must, of course, obey,’ Ashok Singh said slowly before, voice rising, he added, ‘but he previously ordered me to clear the exit from the defile and that task is not yet quite accomplished. Since I received that order first I will complete it first.’

Before Nicholas realised what Ashok Singh was intending to do, the Rajput drew his sword and throwing back his head yelled the hoarse battle cry of his people. Then, driving his heels hard into the sides of his white stallion, he shot forward towards the battling khan and his dark-robed warriors without even waiting for his bodyguard who, as soon as they saw what was happening, urged their own mounts in pursuit. Nicholas didn’t hesitate either. Galloping across the stony ground, one hand on his reins, one on his sword hilt he tried to see ahead but his view was obscured by the riders in front of him. Suddenly a gap appeared as two Rajputs swerved to avoid a rock. Nicholas caught the flash of Ashok Singh’s white horse and saw that the Rajput prince, still far in advance of his bodyguard, had almost reached the fighting. Then he saw something else: a single spear arcing through the air towards the prince. Instinctively Nicholas shouted a warning, but the noise of battle muffled his cries. Ashok Singh flung up his arms, grasping at the spear transfixing his neck, before sliding slowly from his horse to fall beneath the hooves of his bodyguard behind.

Nicholas hurled himself into the fighting, cutting and slashing with grim determination. Barging two of his opponents aside he aimed for the bearded warrior. The khan thrust at him with his scimitar but Nicholas turned the weapon aside with his sword, before jabbing his own blade into his opponent’s groin. The man screamed and fell. Reining in, Nicholas saw that most of his followers lay sprawled on the ground, dead or dying. Like that of the whole battle, the outcome of this hard-fought skirmish had never been in doubt, but Ashok Singh had chosen to sacrifice himself to save his honour. Nicholas pondered the waste and pity of it as four muscled Rajput warriors, honed by countless battles but openly weeping, retrieved their prince’s battered and bloodied body and hoisting it on their shoulders carried it away as the sun, a blood-red ball, began to sink beneath the mountains. Soon, using whatever wood they could scavenge among these grey desolate hills, they would build a great funeral pyre whose flames would light the night sky as they reduced Ashok Singh’s mortal remains to ash.

Wearily, Nicholas sheathed his sword and turning his horse called to one of his mercenary captains, a scarred French veteran from Navarre. ‘Gather our men. The prince has ordered us to retreat. The reason why defeats me, but do so we must.’

Alone on the terrace of his apartments Shah Jahan stared ahead, blind to the grace of a flock of geese flying in arrow formation across the Jumna. Once more, just as when the cossids had first brought news of the disaster in the north three months previously, all he could see were thousands of his men lying dead or crippled through hunger and frostbite in the chill passes of the Hindu Kush as they had tried to fall back once more on Kabul. So many casualties as well as twenty million rupees lost to the imperial treasuries and not a single inch of territory gained. These campaigns were proving the first serious and lasting military reverses of his entire reign … Once more he asked himself how Aurangzeb could have failed him so badly, even worse than had Murad the previous year. This time the Moghul army hadn’t even reached the Oxus … hadn’t exchanged a single sword stroke with the Uzbeks. Instead they had allowed motley bands of hit and run Turkoman and Afghan raiders to hold them up so long that winter — the most relentless and implacable foe of all — had overtaken them as they had tried to retreat back to Kabul.

And now this latest news. The Persian shah had taken advantage of his stalled Samarkand campaign to send an army against Kandahar, and after a siege of only fifty-seven days the spineless Moghul garrison had opened their gates to the triumphant Persians. The more he’d thought about it, the more his resentment had grown against Aurangzeb, now waiting for an audience following his return last night to Agra in response to his father’s urgent summons. Aurangzeb’s failures were harder to forgive than Murad’s because he was more experienced. Everything Dara had said was right … Aurangzeb had a conceited view of his abilities and now his shortcomings had been exposed, as Shah Jahan was about to tell him.

‘Send Prince Aurangzeb to me,’ he ordered a qorchi.

Five minutes later his son stood before him, dressed in his usual plain garments. One look at his posture, straight shoulders, head held high, told Shah Jahan that he was in a combative rather than either a humble or penitent mood and that made him even angrier.

‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself?’ Shah Jahan demanded as soon as they were alone.

‘The narrow mountain passes defeated us. Though we managed to drag some of our heavy cannon through several of them the wheels of many of our gun carriages were damaged and some shattered on the rocky ground.’

‘So you abandoned the cannon rather than halting to repair the carriages!’

‘Yes. I saw no alternative. Repairs would have taken time and the damage would have reoccurred. Besides, the guns were slowing our progress and were useless.’

‘They wouldn’t have been useless once you were out of the mountains and on to the flat steppe. How could simple tribesmen have withstood artillery? You should have tried harder. With cannon to support you, you could have been over the Oxus by now!’

‘In my judgement it was impossible to get them to the Oxus, Father.’

‘Did you ever consider advancing without them? No! You retreated in defiance of my orders and brought shame on both me and the Moghul army. No wonder Ashok Singh — a good friend as well as one of my best and most honourable generals — preferred to die.’

‘You call his behaviour honourable? I call it stupid to sacrifice yourself needlessly rather than live to fight again. Whatever he might have thought, my actions were correct. Struggling with the guns delayed us too long. The enemy knew we were coming and with every day that passed were massing to oppose us. What they lacked in modern weaponry they made up for in numbers. I couldn’t take the guns forward. I couldn’t risk the lives of my men by continuing without them.’

‘You could scarcely have lost more men if you had. How many was it?’

‘Almost twenty thousand — five thousand in battle and fifteen thousand dead from disease and cold. The snow and ice came earlier than for many years … Father, for once have some trust in me. I did all that I could. Everything was against me, and the men were restive. They lacked commitment — particularly those from the plains — and there were many deserters. Without my efforts our losses would have been even worse.’

‘Nothing’s ever your fault, but someone else’s! Isn’t that always your excuse? You’ve shown no respect for me either as your father or as your emperor, and far too much belief in your own opinions and abilities. You have disappointed me more than I thought possible. What’s more, you have cost me the lives of too many — including Ashok Singh.’

‘Why harp on Ashok Singh? These Rajputs aren’t like us — their beliefs are warped and their pride insufferable. He would have served the empire better had he simply obeyed my orders and helped me manage the retreat instead of indulging in grandiose gestures.’

‘How dare you deride Rajput pride! The Rajputs’ bravery and loyalty are beyond question and they have been responsible for many of the Moghuls’ greatest conquests. Hold your tongue and listen to me. I summoned you to me in private because what I have to say would reflect no credit on our family if I said it in public. Weakness was something I never thought to have to accuse you of, but you and no one else have brought disgrace on our dynasty by making us appear weak. Because of you, laughing Persians are pissing down on us from the walls of Kandahar …’

‘I see your mind is made up. There is strength, not weakness, in knowing when to suspend your ambitions and how and when to pursue them, so I bow to your will. What do you intend to do with me?’

‘Were it not for the watching eyes of the world, I would banish you to the remotest part of my empire, or perhaps send you on the haj to Mecca since you seem so fond of praying. But I won’t give our enemies the satisfaction of knowing the extent of my anger. You will return to your former post in the Deccan but I will be keeping a close eye on how you conduct yourself. At least all seems peaceful there, so you are unlikely to face any military challenges beyond your capabilities. You will depart within the week. Now leave me.’

‘He understands neither me nor my ambitions and never has because he doesn’t want to.’ Aurangzeb shook his head.

‘But at least he’s sending you back as his viceroy in the Deccan.’ Roshanara moved a little closer and placed a comforting arm round her brother’s shoulder as they stood on a terrace of the Agra fort.

‘He’s only done it to save face — his face, not mine. He wasn’t interested in why the campaign failed — only in what people will say. I’m sure Dara has been stirring him up against me. Both of them should take care not to push me too far.’

‘You may well be right in suspecting Dara has influenced Father against you. While you were away, they spent a great deal of time together. I felt quite left out, Jahanara was so often with them.’

At the mention of his oldest sister Aurangzeb’s face softened. He had always been fond of Jahanara, Roshanara reflected. But it was time he realised that his eldest sister’s first loyalty was to Dara, not him, and that if he wanted a sisterly ally she, Roshanara, was willing and waiting. Perhaps he should know that the First Lady of the Empire might not be as perfect as he seemed to think.

‘Nicholas Ballantyne returned to Agra with you, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. He was wounded in the leg in the final stages of the retreat but has recovered. Why do you ask?’

‘Because of something that happened just before Murad left on campaign. Nicholas Ballantyne visited Jahanara in her mansion. Since then they have been exchanging letters, even while he was away fighting for you …’

‘That can’t be … Who told you that? How do you know?’ Aurangzeb looked stunned.

‘One of my former waiting women is in her employ and tells me what is going on. I tried to talk to Father about it, but you know what he’s like where Jahanara’s concerned, especially since the fire. But who knows the real purpose of their letters? I’m not saying there is anything truly improper, just that Nicholas doesn’t understand our ways and perhaps has been giving Jahanara information about your conduct of the campaign, and she’s been using that to help Dara turn Father against you.’

‘Jahanara wouldn’t do such a thing.’

‘Are you sure? Father is growing older. Perhaps she’s already looking ahead to a time when she might have to choose between her brothers. If she wants Dara to become the next emperor, she’ll do her best to help him. That doesn’t make her your enemy — I know how fond you are of her, as indeed I am — but love of position and of influence changes people and I believe it has changed her. After all, she’s not content to live in the haram as I and Gauharara do, but has her own palace and household, gives her own parties and entertainments. And her relationship with the Englishman is another symptom of her arrogance. She thinks she can ignore the conventions that bind the rest of us.’

‘Not just conventions but the tenets of her religion that condemn such immodesty,’ Aurangzeb said quietly.

‘Don’t be so angry with her. She loves you as a brother, I’m certain. It’s just that she perhaps favours Dara for the throne.’ Roshanara smiled, but won no answering smile from her brother. Instead he was staring at the ground. That he might hold second place to Dara in Jahanara’s heart was painful. If he’d ever thought about it at all, he’d assumed she loved them equally. Yet the more he pondered, the clearer it became that Roshanara was right. Didn’t Jahanara always take Dara’s part in their disagreements? Didn’t she sympathise with his philosophic musings? When it came down to it, mightn’t she prefer the weak rule of Dara with his lax and flexible views to the stricter and sterner regime he would impose?

Roshanara’s soft voice intruded into thoughts growing ever more bitter and suspicious. ‘If I gain further information about Jahanara’s relationship with the Englishman, what should I do?’

‘Speak to our father again and this time in such terms as to make sure he listens. And tell me … I need to know everything so that I’m prepared. Can I count on you for that? I’ll not stand for anyone — not even Jahanara — conspiring against me.’