A red-faced and sweating De Jesus appeared from behind a pair of horses.
“Father De Jesus, what has you out in this heat?” Carvalho said pleasantly, neither voice nor expression betraying the angry frustration he’d displayed just moments before. “The guns will move no farther today, much as I wish they would.”
De Jesus looked at the approaching pair and visibly steeled himself for a confrontation.
“What news, Father?” Methwold added, hoping to discover what had the priest so agitated.
“I am required to meet with Aurangzeb and secure the promised rewards pledged to my superiors,” the priest said as the pair stopped before him.
“What—now?” Carvalho asked, incredulous.
De Jesus’ eyes narrowed. “Immediately, yes.”
Beside him Carvalho had gone very still, only the faint rattling of pearls betraying his unease.
“May we see these orders?” Methwold asked.
“Certainly.” The priest recovered a packet from his horse and handed it over, saying, “I have already sent a messenger to Agra, so please do not attempt to dissuade me from seeking redress for the complaints. My superiors insist upon them.”
“Please tell me you did not demand an audience with Aurangzeb,” Carvalho said.
The obstinate priest lifted his chin. “I did. Moreover, I did it at the express command of the archbishop himself.”
“One does not demand anything of a Mughal emperor, least of all when the only outcome for your demand is to waste more of the man’s time whilst he prepares for the battle he must win in order to secure that which he promised us in the first place!” Carvalho’s even, reasonable tone was replaced by an ever-increasing volume and anger as he delivered his opinion of De Jesus’ actions.
“Perhaps it is not too late to—” Methwold began.
De Jesus cut him off. “I will not allow you to countermand the orders of the archbishop.”
“Be reasonable, Father.”
“I believe the same was said to the Lord our Savior before he entered the temple and cast down the moneylenders for their perfidy. I can do no less than follow his example.”
“Jesus Christ!” Carvalho grated. Hands balled into fists, Carvalho looked down at his own robes and then back up at the priest, shaking his head as if the desperate need to knock the man flat warred with the instinct to preserve his rich, courtly dress.
Methwold considered putting a restraining hand on his friend’s arm but decided he wanted the priest shut up more than he cared for the already-frayed alliance between them. If Aurangzeb thought Carvalho and Methwold involved in these demands, they were at risk of being punished along with the priest. Then again, Carvalho was at least protected by the fact that his guns and crews were necessary to Aurangzeb’s plans. An English merchant named Methwold was most definitely not.
“Blaspheme as much as you want, but I will not do other than I have!”
Carvalho’s punch was, to Methwold’s experienced brawler’s eye, nearly perfect in its execution. It certainly lifted the thin priest from his feet. De Jesus was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Chapter 37
The Western Ghats
Salim quieted his horse and returned his gaze to the outcropping above, only to see the lookouts signaling.
He raised the sword Jahanara had given him. A curving length of beautifully worked wootz steel, the sword was the finest he’d ever held, much like the woman who’d given it to him. The responsiveness of the blade to his hand made him feel powerful, strong, much like he had felt holding Jahanara in the circle of his arms.
Blinking away thoughts of Jahanara was more difficult than it should have been in these circumstances. The caravan below was almost perfectly positioned for the ambush he was about to unleash. Just a little while longer and he would lead his five hundred men out of the box canyon and down the alluvial fan spreading across the valley floor into the enemy.
The midday sun reflected from a lance point rising above the saddle of earth separating the two canyons. Slowly the lance tip climbed, its wielder coming up the rise.
All that remained was timing…
The hand holding the lance appeared just as the turbaned helmet of the owner crested the rise.
The caravan’s individual guards might be competent, but their leadership left something to be desired. Unfamiliar with the territory they were passing through, the Europeans in charge of the caravan would not pay the bribes to the local tribesmen necessary for accurate information about bandit activity in the area. At least, that’s what Salim had been told when he had offered such bribes.
Lacking such paid informants, the guards had to scout each pass and valley before the caravan passed by. The commander of the guards had sent pairs of his men to check the higher valleys, thinning their numbers and tiring their horses. It was a time-consuming enterprise, making sure each notch in the hills did not contain enemies ready to sweep down and attack their patron. Just such a pair of ill-fated guards were making their way to the mouth of the canyon where the force under Salim’s direct command was hiding.
Salim leaned forward in the saddle, dropping his sword level with the shoulder as his mount leapt forward.
Iqtadar and Mohammed charged after him up the few gaz of slope that concealed them from the lower valley, followed by the rest of his sowar.
The pair of riders wore matching expressions of astonishment as Salim and his men topped the rise and rode down upon them, an avalanche of silk, steel, and flesh.
Mere heartbeats later Salim struck at the exposed thigh of the right-hand guard, desperately struggling to turn his mount. Riding past, he felt the blade catch and slide as dirty cotton and the flesh beneath parted at the merest touch of the curved edge of his sword.
Knowing the wound was, if not fatal, likely to spill the man from the saddle and under the hooves of his sowar,
