1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

Priscilla looked at the princess and saw a tightness around her eyes as Jahanara removed her veil.

  “Atisheh, is that how you speak to your physicians?” Jahanara asked, lips a tight line.

  Atisheh said something unintelligible but caustic as more fumbling noises reached their ears.

  Taking pity on her patient, Priscilla said, “Shall we wait for you downstairs?”

  The door popped open at that moment, revealing a disheveled, if dressed, Atisheh.

  “Begum Sahib, I beg forgiveness. I did not know it was you.”

  “Do you often hear the drums announcing an imperial procession here at Mission House?”

  Atisheh looked confused as she tried to explain, “I was dreaming, or so I thought.”

  “You look well, Atisheh.”

  It was only a slight exaggeration: Atisheh had none of the deathly pallor she’d had in those first days after her wounding, but she did look ready to punch something or someone, hard.

  “Do I, Begum Sahib?” Atisheh asked the question of her princess, but directed a very pointed look at Priscilla as she did so.

  Jahanara hesitated, probably realizing she had stumbled onto delicate ground. “You seem well on your way to a full recovery, I mean.”

  “I believe I would already be fully recovered if my jailers”—she nodded at Priscilla—“would allow me to ride, hunt, and practice at arms.”

  Priscilla shook her head and said, for maybe the twentieth time that week, “If we allowed that, your stitches would have torn and we’d be back at square one, Atisheh. You can’t start working out yet. Not until those stitches are out and your wounds won’t pop open under strain. Not on my watch. A few weeks more and you can start swinging whatever you want around.”

  “And still you did not answer my question, Atisheh. Do you speak to your physicians in that manner?”

  Priscilla begged Jahanara with a look not to go after the other woman, but the princess was not looking at her, and likely would not have heeded the up-timer if she had.

  Atisheh stared at Jahanara’s feet and mumbled, “No, Begum Sahib. Or rather, yes, but I shall stop now.”

  “Indeed you shall, Atisheh. Now, apologize to them.”

  Opening her mouth to ask Jahanara to knock it off, Priscilla stopped when she saw the effect Jahanara’s words had on Atisheh. It was confusing, but Jahanara’s harsh words seem to have restored Atisheh’s self-image rather than diminish it.

  Atisheh had drawn herself up like a soldier at attention. In fact, the woman seemed more herself than at any other time since coming to Mission House.

  Priscilla was still trying to digest the change when Jahanara said, “I’m still waiting to hear your apology, Atisheh.”

  “Forgive me, Doctor Totman,” Atisheh said, instantly. “I have been muttering unworthy words in response to your care. I will do better in the future.”

  “Apology accepted, even if I think it unnecessary,” Priscilla said, glancing aside at the princess in hopes she would be satisfied.

  Jahanara nodded, once. “If I may have a private word with Atisheh? It will take only a moment.”

  “Of course, Begum Sahib.”

  Jahanara stepped into the room.

  The door swung closed under the warrior’s hand, but not before they could hear Jahanara hiss, “You call these people goat-fucking pig-milkers in their own home?”

  Atisheh’s reply was muted, but the meek tone was unmistakable.

  Priscilla stifled a giggle by clapping a hand to her lips.

  Monique was less careful, and chuckled outright.

  * * *

  Jahanara’s gaze slid past the oddly designed furnishings of the bedchamber and fixed on Atisheh as she waited for a response. Faintly, she heard someone chuckle in the hall.

  Atisheh, thankfully, did not seem to hear it. The warrior would not look her patron in the eye. “Begum Sahib, please accept my full and abject apologies. I did not consider how poorly my words would reflect upon you. Please forgive my transgressions, I will do better.”

  Cold anger leaving her in a rush, Jahanara swallowed a lump in her throat as she had her first good look at Atisheh in some weeks. The older woman had a number of bandages swathing her torso, with matching ones on her left arm, right thigh, and right shin. None of them showed any color at all, meaning her stitches were holding and she was not bleeding. Priscilla had assured her that all of Atisheh’s wounds were healing properly, but seeing Atisheh’s slow movements and the sheer number of bandages on the indomitable warrior was sobering.

  “A woman of your position needs to have better control over her tongue. Can I rely on you henceforth?”

  Atisheh bowed her head. “Your will, Begum Sahib.”

  “Even when I am not present?” Jahanara pressed.

  “Even so, Begum Sahib. I am your servant. I will not forget again.”

  “If I am understood, you may open the door and let our hosts in.”

  “Your will, Begum Sahib.”

  “On with it, then.”

  Atisheh opened the door and gestured.

  Monique and Priscilla entered the room, the latter glancing warily from her patient to Jahanara.

  “Forgive me for giving commands in your home, ladies,” Jahanara said. “I want to make sure that Atisheh appreciates the care with which she is being treated. I have need of her once she is fully recovered, and if she has annoyed her physicians to the point where they cannot help her to that full recovery, then she will be of no use to me or my brother.”

  Atisheh’s eyes narrowed, noticing her princess’s emphasis on the word fully.

  “Because I have asked Dara to confer upon you the title of Commander of Urdubegis, not just my personal guard.”

  The big warrior’s expression rapidly cycled through suspicion to shock to joy before settling back to suspicion.

  Stifling a laugh, Jahanara continued. “As part of fulfilling those duties is the testing of each applicant. I cannot see how you would prevail against the best candidates if you had to guard not only against their attacks, but against reopening your wounds.”

  “I’m afraid I must admit to some weakness. Perhaps Dara would be better served by one of my sisters?”

  Jahanara shook her head vehemently. “There is no question who will best serve in this role. Dara would not have it otherwise. Nor would I. Nor any other who was there in the garden of the Taj Mahal.”

  Atisheh bowed her head.

  Jahanara slowly realized that she had been too harsh for too long, and reached out to take the other woman’s hand.

  Atisheh, uncomfortable with such intimacy from the princess, went still.

  “You are the best woman for this job, and I would have no other responsible for the protection of our family. Please, as you hold your oath to me sacred, heed the advice of your physicians and take care with your recovery so that it is complete and total. We will have need of your strong sword and discerning eye soon, but not so soon that you do not have time to make a full recovery.”

  Atisheh would not meet her eyes, but nodded.

  And because the warrior might need to hear it, Jahanara edged her voice with the tones of command she had so often heard Father use: “I would have your word on it, Atisheh. Promise me you shall do as I command.”

  The warrior woman stood straight, met her eyes, and said, “Your will, Begum Sahib.”

  “Yes. My will.” Jahanara released Atisheh, patting the broad, scarred knuckles of Atisheh’s sword hand with her own finely manicured and hennaed one.

  “Besides, I shall expect a full report of what goes on here in Mission House.” She gestured at the comfortable chamber that Atisheh had been convalescing in. “Even their architecture is strange, though I do like the mosaic floor in the entryway. And the central garden is not entirely without charm.”

  “As to their architecture or how they choose to decorate, I cannot speak intelligently. And, to be frank, their skill at arms—for hand to hand—is pathetic. Their firearms do seem to level
the battlefield at any greater distance than melee, however.”

  “Let us hope that is true. Dara has already commissioned Talawat to furnish a great number of arms patterned after one of the weapons they brought from the future.”

  Atisheh’s expression darkened momentarily at mention of the copies.

  “What is it?”

  “Your pardon, Begum Sahib, but the use of any weapon requires training. The more complex the weapon or skill, the more training is necessary to become proficient. It is harder to use a bow from horseback than while standing still. I cannot imagine that we have time both for the weapons to be made and the training of those who will wield them.”

  Jahanara smiled. “And this is why we need you fully healed and back in our service. You, my dear Atisheh, think a great deal more than any man will give you credit for.”

  Atisheh bowed her head, but Jahanara could see the remark had pleased her.

  “If it is just my mind you wish returned to service, I can do it now,” Atisheh said slyly.

  “Look at you!” Jahanara said, laughing. “Outmaneuvering me in conversation!” She could laugh because she knew Atisheh’s honor would not allow her to play such games, not after giving her word on it.

  Atisheh gave a small, shy smile. “In truth, Begum Sahib, I have missed your laugh these last weeks. Even as I have missed all those under my protection in the harem. I am eager to return and thank you for visiting me.”

  Recognizing dismissal when she heard it, Jahanara smiled once more and turned to leave. She caught the barest hint of an approving glance from Priscilla before that woman bowed and turned to follow Jahanara from the room.

  Jahanara paused in the narrow hall outside Atisheh’s bedchamber. It was very crowded and growing quite warm.

  Smidha gestured, indicating which direction they should go. The princess and her entourage descended a set of stairs into a large chamber with high ceilings that opened onto the central courtyard through tall wooden doors. A large, tall table laden with fruit and drink dominated the center of the room. Jahanara approached it, trying to give her followers room to spread out before turning to face Priscilla.

  “I must thank you, Priscilla, for all that you’ve done for my family. My brother and I both know exactly how much is owed to you and the USE’s mission. You do your king much honor.”

  Priscilla bowed deeply. “Begum Sahib, we have been well compensated for all services rendered to the crown. Frankly, it has been our pleasure to help you and your family.”

  “That is gratifying to hear, Mrs. Totman, especially in light of what I must ask of you now.”

  Priscilla cocked a brow and gestured for the princess to continue.

  “I have been thinking a great deal on your skills, and how they might be best employed to help those soldiers wounded in my brother’s service.”

  Priscilla shrugged. “My husband and I only have so many hours to treat wounded.”

  Jahanara smiled. “I am not being clear. I would like to employ you and your husband and perhaps Misters Gradinego and Vieuxpont. Not as physicians yourselves, but to train men and women to treat our wounded.”

  “Oh, like medics?” Priscilla shook her head and clarified: “You mean train people on the battlefield to treat the wounded?”

  “Exactly so,” Jahanara said, hiding her relief. Most court physicians would have considered the mere suggestion that they train random strangers in their rarefied skills offensive. “We can have some start with a small group—”

  “And they will serve to train the next group!” Priscilla said, so excited at the prospect she interrupted the princess.

  “Exactly so. I will have to secure funding from my brother as well as supplies, but I think it will be useful, no?”

  Priscilla’s expressive eyes were wide and her voice excited. “Oh, yes! When I was training to become a paramedic my training officer, a veteran of the Gulf War, was always going on about how the U.S. military did a better job of evacuating its wounded than any other in history, which made for higher morale amongst the soldiers. If you know that your wounded friend is going to be taken care of, you can put some of that fear out of your mind.”

  “I had not even thought of that aspect of it. I just thought we might help save lives. I shall recall that when I speak to my brother.”

  “We’re going to have to talk to the men about this too. They likely know a lot more about how the military organized it than I do. At least I hope so.”

  Jahanara nodded. “Of course. I just wanted to be sure the idea was practical and that you might be able—and willing—to do it.”

  Priscilla looked thoughtful as Jahanara turned her attention to Monique.

  “Monique, would you attend me on my travels back to Red Fort?”

  The young Frenchwoman bowed deeply. “It would be my pleasure, Begum Sahib.”

  Jahanara gestured at the table. “I’m afraid I have stayed too long. My brother needs me and I must attend him. Please forgive my intrusion, and my sudden departure. I will give you better notice next time?” She let the statement become a question to ensure they knew she understood, at last, that the initial invitation had been a polite fiction and that they would be expected to extend a formal one in future so that all parties were properly notified before this visit was repeated.

  Priscilla and Monique both bowed and said, at the same time, “Of course you must come again, Begum Sahib!”

  Part Two

  March, 1636

  To help the rolling wheels of this great world

  —The Rig Veda

  Chapter 5

  Aurangzeb’s army

  The Deccan

  “We must move faster,” Aurangzeb said, teeth gritty behind dry lips.

  “Shehzada, the horses have had no good grazing, the men very little food since we set out. All are tired,” Sidi Miftah Habash Khan said.

  Aurangzeb looked across at his newest noble. “I share their fatigue and hunger. Tired as I am, there will be time enough to rest when we overtake Shuja’s army.”

  The Habshi clan leader waved a hand to encompass the vast column of tired riders. “Forgive me, Shehzada, but may I ask a question?”

  Aurangzeb considered denying the chieftain’s request, but he had included the man in his immediate company to show his favor for Habash Khan and his followers. Such accommodations had to be made. The Habshi were a new and valued addition to his forces as well as close allies of the Maratha chieftains who had come over to him with Shahaji. His treasury was shrinking like a watering hole in the heat of the dry season and when it was completely gone he would have only promises of wealth and position to offer as coin for his troops. That being the case, Aurangzeb counted answering the man’s questions a low price to pay, and waved permission.

  “As loyal and God-fearing as this host is, will we not be too exhausted to fight, Shehzada?”

  “Did I say we would fight?”

  “What other reason, this forced march northward, if not to crush all opposition and secure the throne for you, Shehzada?”

  “You do not know?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Good. It stands to reason my brother will wonder as well, and perhaps listen to my message.”

  “And what message is that, Shehzada?”

  “It is for his ears alone.”

  A flash of white teeth behind the impressive beard.

  “You smile?”

  “I do, Shehzada.”

  “Why?”

  “Forgive my impertinence, Shehzada, but I think I will enjoy learning if Shah Shuja will allow you close enough to speak your message.”

  Aurangzeb declined to comment directly, saying instead, “Have you given any thought to why you and the rest of my army continues to address me as Shehzada?”

  “I assumed it is because you have yet to win the throne, Shehzada.”

  The prince waggled his head. “The throne is but a symbol of the wealth and power of the empire, and a minor one at that. The prince w
ho causes prayers to be said at all the mosques under his control and has fresh coins struck in his name has made clear his claim to the empire.”

  “Yet, you have done neither of these things, Shehzada.”

  Aurangzeb nodded, watching Habash Khan from under hooded eyes.

  “And why not, Shehzada?”

  He had attempted to think of all the paths Shah Shuja’s reasoning might take his elder brother down, and decided it would do no harm to try the various narratives out on the chieftain. “Perhaps I do not want to be emperor.”

  Another wave at the army around them. “Your many armed friends would indicate otherwise.”

  “Shah Shuja will see my arrival as a threat however many messages I may send to the contrary. Of that there can be no doubt.”

  “Just so, Shehzada.”

  “Perhaps I would have us return to the old way? Each prince a sultan in their own right, carving the carcass of my forebear’s empire into petty sultanates and ignoring the inheritance laws Akbar set down for the dynasty.”

  Habash Khan’s smile dimmed slightly. Petty sultanates and their many, many wars would mean easier pickings for some, but such unrest had already cost the Deccan untold lives and treasure, and was the reason the Mughal armies were in the Deccan in the first place.

  “Or perhaps I will hand this army to Shah Shuja so that I might realize my long-held dream and retire to a life of study and contemplation of the Quran.”

  The deeply religious Habshi’s smile disappeared entirely as he intoned, “A life would be well spent in such pursuits.”

  “Indeed it would.”

  “But yours will not, I think.” The man said it quietly, so quietly his prince could ignore it if he wished.

  He chose not to: “Let us hope that my brother does not see through me as easily as you.”

  * * *

  “I am summoned?”

  “Yes, mistress,” Tara said.

  “Quickly, then: my best robe,” Nur said, getting to her feet. She swayed slightly, exhaustion weighing on her like a millstone. It was a well-earned exhaustion: she’d spent the better part of the last two months in motion. Not since the last days of Shah Jahan’s rebellion had she been forced to ride so hard or so often. Pride kept her standing as much as the rest she’d snatched at every opportunity.