Expecting the cannon to be targeting Carvalho’s battery, Aurangzeb closed his eyes and said a brief prayer for the already-beleaguered gunners. He opened them to see his prayer had been too specific. Others had needed God’s protection: the men approaching the outer walls had been targeted by some fresh outrage created, no doubt, by the up-timers or that devil Talawat. It seemed as if the men had splashed in a horrific fan of bloody remains. It looked almost as if God, in his righteous anger, had reached out and pulped the men who strove to take the walls.
Dara had waited until Aurangzeb’s men were too close to retreat, too densely packed to do anything more than die screaming. Then, and only then, Dara had unleashed this new outrage. And, if the frenetic activity around guns of the fortress was any indication, Dara’s pets had provided the means to repeat the outrage.
Aurangzeb’s eyes desperately sought some positive sign, some development that would confirm that God was still with him. But God, instead of showing him favor, revealed yet another hateful weapon from the future.
Despite the fires, the devastating swarm-projectiles Dara’s cannon fired, and the still-falling hail of arrows, several hundred screaming Rajputs had not only successfully set their scaffolds and ladders at the base of the redoubt west of Lahore Gate, they were about to crest the inner wall.
Some twenty Sikhs appeared atop the next redoubt thirty gaz away and leveled weapons that looked suspiciously like those already used to such good effect against his artillery.
Aurangzeb’s fist clenched upon his prayer beads.
It seemed as if the entire body of Sikhs fired in the same instant. All of them certainly disappeared in a cloud of gray-white gun smoke.
An unbelievable number of Rajputs perished from that one volley, torn from the wall like the leaves of some flesh-and-blood ivy uprooted by an angry giant. It was worse than the new munitions Dara’s cannon fired; no man who stepped in the line of fire of a cannon could fail to know the risks involved. No, these handguns that killed so many with one discharge were the work of the Adversary. While their effect was even more devastating, it became clear these weapons were not the same as the longer-ranged ones almost immediately after they fired. These new ones did not project their gun smoke as far from the barrel and, more terrifying, fired once more without the manipulations the other weapons seemed to require.
Surely it would be too much, even for Rajputs of the warrior caste.
Aurangzeb weighed his options. Even if they broke, the scaffolds and ladders the Rajputs had fought into place remained up. He still had nearly ten thousand men between him and that section of the wall, men who could, properly led, exploit the opening the Rajputs seemed to have carved in the defenses.
Carvalho had already called forward the guns the night attack had forced him to leave behind. Their heavy projectiles would give any defender at the wall pause, make short work of the gates, and with God’s favor, bring down the walls as well.
Aurangzeb found his prayer beads rattling through his fingers at an ever-increasing pace.
God willing, the dawn would allow them to win through. Thoughts of God and the rattle of the beads reminded him that he’d nearly forgotten Al-Fajr prayers.
The young emperor made to dismount, causing a stir amongst his messengers and bodyguards. Caught off guard by his sudden need to pray, those who were slow to part for him were pushed aside by those who knew better. Unrolling the carpet and performing the ablutions with his habitual care settled his spirit. Within moments he was kneeling to face Mecca and adding his unworthy praise to that of countless others in the world.
So fervent was his heart’s desire that God hear him that the sounds of battle—not the cannon, nor the arquebusiers, nor even the distance-thinned screams of men dying to serve His ends—were unable to disturb his prayers.
Chapter 44
Red Fort
North wall
Atisheh nocked another arrow, drew on the powerful bow, and leaned over to lose it through the loop. She grinned as the fletching tickled her cheek, timing the release to skewer one of the men struggling with a ladder they planned to plant at the base of the outer wall to the right and below her tower. She added her arrow to the storm falling along the attackers.
“There are so many you barely have to aim!” one of her fellow guards shouted, echoing Atisheh’s sentiments exactly as the target folded around her arrow.
She reached for another arrow, found the pannier mounted to the wall next to her empty.
“Runner!” Atisheh shouted as she turned and pulled another sheaf of arrows from the supply at the center of the tower.
“Yes?” the boy said from not two steps away.
“Tell the diwan we’ll need more arrows, then find Talawat and tell him I take back everything I ever said about his art. Those flares are working very, very well.”
“Wait until you see what the new guns do!”
“Off with you, boy!” Atisheh grunted, already nocking another arrow.
The Grape Garden
The sounds of battle penetrated the palace complex as Smidha led Monique and Ilsa to the Grape Garden. Slippered feet found their way without thought as Smidha fretted over the wisdom of Jahanara’s decision to seize Roshanara.
For one, the harem was already perilously short of guards. So much so, Smidha felt the need to improvise.
For another, while the younger princess was certainly a traitor, she had been under very close observation for months and made no effort to do anything more than pass information to Aurangzeb. Indeed, Smidha was as certain as one immured in the politics of court life could be that Roshanara had made no attempt to bribe, coerce, or even contact any of Dara’s commanders, and certainly not any placed in charge of the gates.
And Smidha’s informants had been eager to report Roshanara’s every move. A
