No man nor horse trained to fight with the Mughals could ignore the spine-deep jolt that particular roll of the drums wrought. Relative silence fell, the only noise the slow thunder of cannon.
The Sultan Al’Azam of all India stood in the stirrups and raised his voice, first at the gates and then at his men: “Open the gates! We ride straight out to strike the camp sitting astride Delhi Road! The infantry will follow, then turn and strike at the dogs attacking Lahore Gate. We sowar will retire from the camp to cover their flank when we have set them to rout!”
He paused, drew a deep breath, and bellowed the last: “Ride! Ride to victory!”
“Victory!” his sowar cried. The drums began their roll as close to two thousand sowar rode past the infantry and down the ramp leading to the gates and their fate, the sound of their hooves thunderous in the close confines of the gate.
Chapter 45
Siege lines
Aurangzeb’s command group
Aurangzeb had scarcely risen from prayer when one of his messengers was shot dead a few hundred gaz to their west.
“Who?” he muttered aloud, returning his gaze to the men following the Rajput spearhead at the base of the outer wall.
“Mohammed, Sultan Al’Azam,” the first messenger in line croaked from behind him.
“What?” he asked without turning, constant motion of the prayer beads in his hands stuttering but not stopping.
“The messenger’s name was Mohammed, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“No”—Aurangzeb turned on the speaker—“I meant, whose message was he delivering?”
The man in messenger greens wilted under his stare. “I-I think Mohammed was assigned to Alam Shah, but I am not certain, Sultan Al’Azam.”
And was Alam Shah trying to report success or failure on his assault?
Does it matter?
Aurangzeb turned back to the battle raging around Lahore Gate. The men he’d sent in to exploit what tenuous foothold the Rajputs had bled for were at the base of the wall and beginning their own climb.
Men were dying. His men were dying with every heartbeat, as if he were wounded and they his life’s blood, spent to keep the body of his ambition advancing in tune with the desires of his heart and soul.
If Alam Shah had failed to carry the walls, he’d still tied down a large number of defenders who would have otherwise been used to reinforce the gates.
He glanced toward Delhi Gate, where, as expected, that part of the attack appeared to have failed. That gate was, quite possibly, the strongest part of the fortress, overlapping and layered earth-backed defenses making it stronger even than the walls ringing Red Fort, despite being pierced by gates.
He briefly considered sending one of his trusted men to rally the retreating warriors, but men forced to retreat from an assault were uniformly tired, frightened, and dispirited, especially if their umara was counted among the dead. Proud men might not obey a stranger in the best of circumstances, and they certainly wouldn’t when ordered into another attack by some fellow who told them it was Aurangzeb’s will.
No, those men were no longer effective as fighters. Not for a few hours, at least. Thinking they would not be useful until the morrow, Aurangzeb put them from his mind with a mental note to ensure the elevation to formal rank of whatever men the warriors chose to put forward as their new leaders. Time enough in the future to weed out the disagreeable and inept. Service, or at least survival, must be seen to be rewarded, otherwise men would refuse to be led.
Aurangzeb’s eye fell on the heavy artillery being dragged into position and thanked God the fire from Lahore Gate was falling off in the face of the fire from his camel guns and arquebusiers.
Even the infantry assault seemed to surge forward and upward as the defenders were forced to keep their heads down.
Closer than the walls, but still some distance closer to the walls than the oxen and men towing the heavy pieces, Carvalho’s original battery had only enough men standing to crew two cannon, one of which was Carvalho’s own. As Aurangzeb watched, the more distant of his cannon fired, showing that crew, at least, was still willing to fight.
Thousands of men were pressing forward, trying to come to grips with the enemy. Some, pausing to loose arrows at their tormentors, had trouble raising their weapons, such was the press of so many bodies in the tight space.
It seemed to Aurangzeb the guns that had so devastated the Rajputs on the wall did not have a real range advantage over the weapons his own men carried, but the infernal weapons were capable of a depressingly high rate of fire. In an open field engagement the smoke of their own fire would have limited their accuracy, but with the mob below them, even firing blind was bound to hit some ghazi God wished to meet face-to-face.
Still, it did not appear there were enough of the weapons to arm the number of men needed to prevent Aurangzeb’s men carrying the wall.
But then, appearances can be deceiving, as my brother and sister have so recently proven.
Or am I become like the snake-bite survivor, frightened of every tuft of grass because I was once struck by a viper?
He forced himself to look at the bodies at the base of the wall, to count the cost of ambition. So many.
The beads rattled between his fingers.
Haunted by the possibility his ambition was not the simple expression of God’s will he’d taken it for but something manufactured of his own pride and hubris, the young emperor searched his heart for an answer.
It beat, steady and fast, but gave no other wisdom.
Meanwhile, men died, regardless of the answer. If there was one, he did not hear it.
The prayer beads stopped their rattle.
“Send in the reserves,” Aurangzeb said.
Two messengers rode hard
