The Englishman nodded, expression unchanged despite any surprise he might have felt at the request.
“And if they request more time?”
Aurangzeb did not hear the question. A figure approaching from the east had caught his attention. A messenger, his greens stained and mud-spattered, his mount’s hide flecked with sweat. The rider himself sagged in the saddle.
This bodes ill.
Most long-distance messengers, when delivering news that was not critical, stopped for a time to clean themselves and their mounts so as to make the best presentation possible. Imperial messengers were, first and foremost, required to uphold an image as indefatigable riders. Reporting to the Sultan Al’Azam while appearing exhausted, travel-worn, or weary was simply not done.
“Bide a moment, President Methwold.” He gestured at the messenger. “This news may influence the particulars of your task.”
“Of course, Sultan Al’Azam,” Methwold said.
Aurangzeb gestured for an opening to be made for the messenger, who slid from the saddle and stumbled a pace before catching himself.
“Report.”
“Sultan Al’Azam, Shaista Khan approaches with near fifty thousand sowar,” the messenger said, wearily pulling his satchel around to present it.
There was a stir around Aurangzeb at the news.
“How far behind you are they?” Aurangzeb asked, ignoring the mutters as he pulled the only thing the satchel contained: a hastily sealed letter.
“I barely escaped, Sultan Al’Azam. Remounts were scarce, as many imperial servants have abandoned duty or declared for Dara and therefore refused me remounts and supply.”
Another wave of mumbles and mutters from amongst his men.
“How far?” Aurangzeb repeated.
“A day. Two at most, Sultan Al’Azam. They have no cannon with them, and travel quickly as a result.”
Aurangzeb broke the seal and read the contents of the letter. Mohammed planned to harass the much larger force as he retreated, but a commander of five thousand, no matter how gifted, could scarcely be expected to stop a competently led force numbering ten times his own. And Mohammed’s competence was apparent in the next lines of his report: His force lacked the remounts necessary to maneuver out of the larger army’s way and then return to raid Shaista’s rear, so he planned to withdraw as slowly as possible before it in an effort to screen Aurangzeb’s army. His men would mount a monumental effort, no doubt, but would ultimately fail as they had here today. Not through any fault of their own.
Aurangzeb struggled to hide his fear. Not of losing the war—what God willed was inevitable—but for his personal understanding of that will.
Where he had always found comfort in contemplating God and His design, he only had raw, bewildering questions he’d never thought to ask before:
How could my understanding of God’s will be so flawed?
Where was my error?
What did I do wrong, God?
When did it become necessary to teach me this humbling lesson?
Who is Dara that you have chosen him and his heretical ways over me? I have strived to be a good Muslim whilst he courts false gods and godless men!
Mastering the urge to curse angrily and give his rage free rein, Aurangzeb said, “Take your ease, messenger. You have done good service and will be rewarded.”
“Yes, Sultan Al’Azam. Thank you, Sultan Al’Azam.”
Aurangzeb waved the man away, mind already racing across the ground between here and Shaista Khan’s force. There were no good options for a set piece battle that would not leave his rear exposed to Dara’s garrison, even if he managed to get the bulk of his army turned and ready to face Shaista Khan in time.
The certainty of a few hours before had entirely deserted him, leaving in its wake a hollow desperation and fearful anger. He struggled past it, trying to think quickly and clearly.
Slow Shaista. Whip the men into some kind of order. You had the strength to take on all comers. If you appear weak now, you will lose more than today’s casualties. Men will desert you for Dara.
Damn him. How did Dara bring Shaista over to his side?
The answer came easily enough, when considered.
He had not. Dara could only offer money and station, and that no more than Aurangzeb could have.
Jahanara. She accomplished it with promises of marriage, no doubt, of opening whore legs for our ambitious cousin to have children that could rise to the throne themselves, in time.
I pray you will live to regret your perfidity, Jahanara.
His eyes traveled back to the walls of Red Fort, where much of the smoke had started to clear. Dara’s cannon and those terrifying long-range guns were killing those of Aurangzeb’s men still in range, but at a greatly reduced rate. The Sultan Al’Azam suspected more because they were running short of armed targets rather than ammunition.
Many of the fleeing sowar had thrown away their weapons, if only to lessen the weight tired legs—their own or their mounts—must carry. Sidi Khan’s men were the exception. Their return to camp appeared as orderly as such light cavalry ever showed, though their opportunistic nature as raiders had certainly shown itself in the number of remounts they had procured from among the riderless horses roaming the field. Aurangzeb hoped they’d found time to save some of Carvalho’s gunners while they collected the horses of dead men.
“Summon Sidi to me,” he said to the drummer. He would send the Habshi and his men to bolster Mohammed’s force, redirect his efforts to establishing a defensive position from which to stand that threat off and still breach Dara’s defenses. All that and God granting a miracle or three, he might still win.
Methwold quietly cleared his throat.
Aurangzeb found the man looking at him with a carefully neutral expression in place.
Racing thoughts came to a halt, clicking into place like the playing pieces of one of the games his sisters so enjoyed.
“President Methwold,” he said, glancing at the sky, “offer the truce as instructed, but inform the pretender’s commander in the field that any truce agreement will end at noon today.”
Aurangzeb ignored the uneasy murmurs that rose from among the men of his bodyguard. A
