Most sowar did not generally approve of being told to dismount and fight on foot. And they were even less inclined to assault fixed defenses when dismounted. That said, the prospect of loot and glory would make no few sowar serviceable infantry just as they had on the many sieges and assaults of the campaign to conquer the Deccan.
Their horse-bows were almost as problematic. Composite weapons did not suffer damp conditions well, and some would certainly delaminate in the coming weeks—the obvious solution to that particular problem being a rapid conclusion to the siege.
He had less than a thousand musket-armed men under his command, and most of them were scattered amongst the retinues of his umara. Some were sowar but most were infantry of uncertain quality drawn from the various zamindar he’d affirmed in their estates. And here again the wet would prove a detriment to their effectiveness. Damp matchlocks were prone to misfire and failure. But then the defenders would have similar problems.
He ruled elephants out right away. They were too big, too slow, and too prone to mayhem when injured. And they would be injured—the defenses of Red Fort had been specifically designed to counter any attack on the gates by pachyderms. And any elephant slain at a gate would slow or even prevent the passage of successive waves of attackers, an unacceptable risk.
The camel corps, on the other hand, might prove useful. Deployed to shoot over the heads of the infantry as they made their way to the walls, the zamburakchi should serve to keep the heads of the defenders down along one wall. He made a note to include them.
His supply situation was, if not comfortable, acceptable. So much so that he had already considered ridding himself of the troublesome priest, but it was a poor general who thought current circumstances would continue without regard to the efforts of his opponent. Already the fodder coming north was at risk of deteriorating in the wet conditions that would prevail for the next few months. So long as the priest did not repeat his public stupidity, Aurangzeb would continue to accept European assistance and, eventually, have to honor his debt to them.
A night attack? No. On balance, in the unlikely event Dara proved so incompetent a general that he failed to plan for a night attack, the surprise won by such a move was outweighed by the difficulty of getting troops where they needed to be in order to follow up and exploit any advantage gained from that initial surprise.
Between the Taj Mahal and Aurangzeb’s camp
Nur seethed in silence as she was helped into the howdah for the ride back to Aurangzeb and the Red Tent.
Taking her seat among the pillows and silks, she frowned down at what looked like blood soaking the hem of her sari. The sight made her heart race, casting her mind back to the desperate days following the death of Jahangir and the battle she’d commanded from the back of an elephant no less mighty than the one that bore her now. The howdah she’d ridden in on that day had been far less decorative though no less heavy, weighted as it had been with two of Jahangir’s favorite harem guards in addition to Gargi and herself. With bow and blade, the three of them—Gargi had been untrained at arms—had fought across the river and into her betrayer’s camp. Faithful, deadly, scarred Nadia had bled to death on the floor of that howdah, an arrow through her neck. It had been her blood that soaked Nur’s clothing that fateful day, the battle when she’d lost all control and power over her future.
Blinking, Nur struggled to control the sudden, sharp surge of revulsion she felt and think clearly.
Looking closer, she grunted in disgust and tossed the hem back at her feet. The stain was not blood, but some of the paint her mahout had used to decorate the vast bulk of Bheem with great whorls of red and gold to match his livery. The rain must have fouled the art to such a degree the paint had begun to run and, as she was lifted into the howdah, her sari must have trailed along the beast’s flank, soaking up the paint.
One crisis of misapprehension dealt with, at least for the moment, Nur felt the hooded cobra of her anger rise again. Allowing herself to be bested by that stripling of a girl with all the advantages she’d had going into the meeting? Folly!
The sole consolation she drew from the outcome was that it was only the two of them who witnessed her failure to control the course of the conversation. That, and, she admitted after a moment’s reflection, the fact that neither party had truly been there to negotiate in good faith.
She couldn’t even blame Jahanara for her lapse. In fact, Aurangzeb’s eldest sibling had impressed Nur with her skill and nerve. No, Nur was angry with herself for having lost control, for having responded to the verbal goads and barbed tongue of the young princess, however skillfully employed. She should have allowed for each of the gambits Jahanara used, prepared counterattacks and traps to capture her prey. Instead she had barely set foot on the playing board before being slapped down, forced onto the back foot for the rest of the meeting. That their efforts were doomed to failure made no difference. Those they represented had set the price too high for their offerings, and no one wanted to pay again for goods they believed already owed. Nur could scarce remember the last time she’d been bested so handily.
A flash of memory: Gargi advising her to avoid mentioning certain matters to Mumtaz, and Nur, so certain of her course and power, ignoring her servant’s caution only to regret it later. A fresh wave of loss and regret washed over her. Had Gargi been here to help her prepare, things might have
