Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 502 The Situation in Afghanistan

The Parsi group settled in Tehran, where the prosperity of the city made them realize Iran's strength. Since the British princely states couldn't provide them with a good life, they decided to seek refuge with Iran, which was more welcoming to them.

On February 28, Shabaz arrived in Kandahar, where the local governor, Harazar, briefed him on the current situation. Numerous tribes had begun attacking their garrison; they were hiding in the mountains, appearing and disappearing unpredictably. It was already difficult enough for Shabaz to maintain control of Kandahar.

“We have lost control of many villages, the local tribes have begun to rebel, and the trade route is also unsafe. They all feel that this is the same as the battle with the British twenty years ago.”

This made Shabaz feel threatened. If the tribes recalled their previous battles with Britain, they would definitely associate Iran with Britain, and then it would be no use to appease them.

"They use old flintlock muskets, but their tactics are novel—they specifically target supply convoys, loot the food, and then burn the roads." The governor pointed to several red crosses on the map. "Last week here, they even blew up a canyon with gunpowder."

Suddenly, the sound of rapid hoofbeats came from outside, followed by a guard's shout to stop them. The curtain was flung open, and a dust-covered scout stumbled in: "Sir! The caravan from Kabul has been attacked!" He handed over a bloodstained arrow. "The attackers left this."

Shabaz took the arrow and noticed ancient Pashto script inscribed on the shaft: "Leave or die."

"Prepare the horses." Shabazz suddenly stood up, his saber clattering against the corner of the table. "I want to see the elders of Durani in person."

That night, a small cavalry squad quietly left Kandahar. Shabazzi didn't wear military uniform, but instead donned a local woolen cloak. Under the moonlight, they moved along the dry riverbed, the occasional flash of signal torches on the distant mountain ridges.

Shabaz's cavalry moved through the moonlight, their hooves, wrapped in wool, making only a soft rustling sound as they trod on the gravel. Suddenly, their guide, Abdul, raised his right hand, and the entire group froze. In the shadows of the canyon ahead, a few sparks flickered—someone was smoking and keeping watch.

“There’s no way around it,” Abdul said in a low voice. “It’s the only passage to the Durrani camp.”

The faint sound of a taut bowstring came from the darkness. Shabaz raised his hands and shouted in fluent Pashto, "I am a guest who brings bread and salt, not a conqueror with swords and spears!"

Several armed herders emerged from behind the rocks. The young man in the lead eyed them warily: "What are the Iranian officers doing here? To continue stealing our grain to feed the parasites in Kandahar?"

“I’ve come to return this.” Shabaz took a blood-stained cloth bundle from his saddlebag, unfolding it to reveal several tattered copies of the Quran—the belongings of the herders killed in last week’s attack.

The bearded man at the head of the group illuminated Shabaz's face with a torch: "An Iranian officer? You've got some nerve." He rudely patted Shabaz's robes and searched for weapons. "The elders said that if you dare bring an army, they'll nail you to the mouth of the canyon and dry you into a dried-up corpse."

Following the sentry through the winding mountain path, Shabazz noticed ingenious traps along the way—camouflaged pits, boulders hanging from cliffs, and even mines made from modified British artillery shell casings. These were tactics far beyond the capabilities of ordinary tribes.

Elder Durrani's tent was simpler than he had imagined, yet it was adorned with captured British officers' swords and Russian military maps. The old man sat cross-legged on a woolen blanket, a tattered Quran spread out before him, the candlelight illuminating the scar on his face that stretched from his forehead to his chin—a medal from the war against the British twenty years earlier.

"Sit down," the elder said without looking up. "What are the Iranians doing here?"

Shabaz sat cross-legged and gently pushed the blood-stained Quran forward: "Return it to its rightful owner. Your people held it tightly before they died."

The elder's calloused fingers traced the bullet holes in the scriptures, the candlelight flickering in his cloudy eyes: "So you've come to repent?"

“I’m here to talk business.” Shabazz took out a linen bag from his pocket and poured out a dozen or so brass bullet casings. “Look at the primers of these bullets—the markings of the Tehran Armory. The people who attacked the caravan last week used these kinds of bullets, but…” He suddenly broke open a casing, “the gunpowder inside is British.”

The tent echoed with the uneasy neighing of horses. The elder's eyebrows twitched slightly. "What are you trying to say?" "Someone is impersonating Iranian troops to attack caravans," Shabazz said in a low voice. "Yesterday we found naked corpses in the canyon—Afghans dressed in Persian military uniforms, their throats crushed. Professional killings."

The elder suddenly coughed violently, and a servant quickly brought him herbal tea. After he calmed down, he stared into Shabazz's eyes: "Three months ago, a group of 'merchants' came to buy wool. They brought British gold coins, but asked a lot of questions about the changing of the guard times."

Shabaz traced circles on the rim of the teacup with his fingertips: "Was there a Parsi wearing an emerald ring?"

The elder's pupils suddenly contracted: "How could you..."

“He was spies for the British in Mumbai.” Shabazz pulled a wanted poster from his boot, which depicted a sinister-looking man. “This guy poisoned six tribal chiefs in Karachi last month who refused to cooperate.”

The night wind whipped sand against the tent, and the oil lamp flickered. The elder stroked the scars left from the resistance against the British: "So the British disguised themselves as you to attack caravans, and then disguised themselves as tribes to attack garrisons?"

“To repeat the story from twenty years ago,” Shabaz pointed outside the tent, “to make the Persians and Pashtuns kill each other, so they can take control of the trade route from Kandahar to Kabul.”

The elder suddenly grabbed a hunting knife and slammed it on the table: "Evidence!"

Shabazz calmly unfolded a shipping manifest: “These are the ‘farm implements’ that the British East India Company shipped to Quetta last month—three hundred rifles and twenty boxes of ammunition.” He turned to the back, “The consignee’s signature is forged. The real handler was a Scottish officer named McCrae who had commanded massacres against tribes in Sindh.”

A deathly silence fell over the tent, broken only by the crackling of the firewood. After a long while, the elder drew his hunting knife, cut his palm, and dripped blood into a teacup: "I swear in blood, we will never again be used as pawns." He spat, "But you Iranians must do three things: First, withdraw those tax collectors who stole the sheep; second, restore the rights our ancestors once held; third, hand over the British spies hiding in Kandahar."

Shabazz also cut his palm, letting blood drip from it: "I can agree to the first two conditions right now. As for the third," he suddenly sneered, "how about we set up a trap?"

Three days later, at dusk, martial law was suddenly imposed on the Kandahar market. The governor of Harazar personally led a search, dragging out more than a dozen large wooden crates from the cellar of the Parsi trading post—all filled with rifles marked "farm tools." Among the onlookers, several turbaned men quietly retreated, only to be tackled to the ground by Durrani hunters lying in ambush.

"A brilliant double act." At the victory banquet that evening, Governor Harazar raised his glass in tribute, "Letting the Durrani people 'accidentally' discover the weapons both saved face for them and exposed the spy."

Shabazz shook his head: “It’s not over yet.” He unfolded the secret letter he had found on the spy. “The British are already planning their next move—to stage an attack on the Tomb of Durrani as Iranian troops.”

The governor's face turned ashen: "That would trigger a full-blown rebellion!"

“So we need to strike first.” Shabazz pointed to a valley on the map. “The terrain here is treacherous, perfect for the Durrani to ambush one of our transport convoys—the wagons are loaded with flour and tea, and then we can deliberately let a few survivors escape to report back.”

The plan executed unexpectedly smoothly. When the "rout" Iranian soldiers brought news of the Durrani "stealing military supplies" to the British consulate, the consul's face was filled with undisguised elation. The next morning, a group of "Iranian cavalry" indeed charged toward the Holy Sepulchre—only to be ambushed and surrounded by the Durrani who had been lying in wait as they entered the valley.

The captured "cavalrymen" pleaded for mercy in fluent Hindi, their explosive packs bearing the East India Company's serial numbers. A document was shot down during the fighting. It was a secret order from the British command in Quetta, demanding that "blood feuds between the Persians and Pashtuns be instigated at all costs."

When the document was nailed to the gates of Kandahar, the entire southern part of Afghanistan was in an uproar. Shahbaz seized the opportunity to announce three new policies: abolishing the caravan tax, hiring tribal militias to escort caravans along official routes, and establishing a joint court overseen by a council of elders.

The most dramatic scene unfolded at market day at the end of the month. Elder Durrani, who had once led the resistance against taxes, actually escorted twenty carts of grain to the Kandahar camp. As Governor Harazar stared in disbelief, the old man winked slyly: "Now, it's time for the British to taste the bitter fruit of their own making."

(End of this chapter)