1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  She mastered herself while the few servants she could afford busied themselves with her commands—showing fatigue was one thing, but showing concern and worry would be entirely unacceptable.

  Within moments she was presenting herself before her grand-nephew.

  Aurangzeb was as alone as any prince could be, his personal guards the only ones in earshot. He waved her forward with one hand, the other holding a sheaf of dispatches.

  “You requested I attend you, Shehzada?”

  “I did. Sit.”

  She did as he commanded.

  He continued reading, ignoring her, the slave who lit the lanterns nearly an hour later, and those others who entered bearing platters of food.

  Nur did not take it personally, his ignoring her. Though she would have wished for more rest before being summoned to the stifling warmth and quiet stillness of the tent, decades of power had given her an abiding appreciation for the techniques, trappings, and challenges of its employment. If he was making her wait to render her off-balance and unsure, that boded well. And if he was instead applying his thought to thorny problems of state, so much the better. And finally: if he was doing both these things at once, then she had every confidence that the prince she had chosen to back would defeat his siblings and rise to be the greatest Mughal ruler since Akbar.

  “What do you think of the Portuguese?” He asked the question quietly.

  “In what context, Shehzada?” she asked immediately, glad she had not given in to fatigue and dozed off.

  He held up a news writer’s slip. “Their viceroy wished to convey to me his hopes that I prevail over my enemies.”

  She smiled. “You can be sure he sends such messages to each of your brothers.”

  He looked at her, expression unreadable. Such a youth should not be so proficient at hiding his thoughts. “Can I?”

  “He does well to remember what happened at Hugli when your father took his vengeance for their refusing to aid him against my husband.” Something about his attitude gave pause. “Though your question makes me believe I am not in possession of all the pertinent facts.”

  The faintest hint of a smile cracked his masklike expression. “What would you deem significant enough an event to make the viceroy of Goa sing solely for me?”

  Put off by his reference to music, she hesitated. Aurangzeb’s opinions on song and dance as unseemly and improper were well known, even to those who—unlike her—had not been responsible for his early education. “I merely hazard a guess at your command, but perhaps we are closest to the lands and people under his care and such proximity makes him fear you will decide Goa would serve as a base of operations?”

  He cocked his head. “Setting aside the stupidity of marching farther from the sources of men and horses that make up the backbone of any army in the empire, fear is not outside the realm of possible reasons he would have to treat with me alone. Right below significant bribes.”

  Knowing how much silver he had been required to put in play to attract the allies that made his speedy victory in the Deccan possible, Nur knew that his treasury was much depleted, despite taking several small treasuries of the petty sultans and chieftains on the campaign south. There were only so many men Aurangzeb could finance out of his personal establishment, especially without additional fresh infusions of cash from the imperial treasuries at Agra, Surat, and Lahore, all of which were out of reach and under Dara’s control.

  That was another of the pressing logistical concerns underpinning their rush northward: Aurangzeb and the men of the army he’d marched south with were remunerated by jagirs—proceeds from land grants—in the north and east of the country. Jagirs allotted by Shah Jahan, and with the pretender Dara Shikoh sitting astride the imperial administration, any claims to those jagirs not already assigned were unlikely to be heeded until a clear victor emerged. All the brothers could issue new ones, but Shuja and Aurangzeb were not in possession of the paperwork, much less the coin, to make good on them.

  “I might have suggested bribes, Shehzada, but did not think the ferenghi’s power worth such notice this far inland.”

  “No, aside from their gunnery expertise, which is easily purchased without his approval, the viceroy has no significant military power inland.”

  “Then…perhaps he has some inkling of the histories that came to your father’s notice?”

  “Likely. He has a number of Jesuits in his company, and they carry news”—he hefted the papers in his hand—“for their pope.”

  “And so the viceroy makes certain the prince he has been told will win the war is content with his ferenghi neighbors,” she said.

  He nodded in seeming agreement, returning his attention to the many reports and messages spread before him.

  Nur did not fully believe it: their conversation had the air of someone not so much exploring a thought but more of presenting facts already evident. She puzzled over it for a moment but made no headway. Her resources—mental and physical—were well and truly depleted.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No, Shehzada.”

  “Please do. I will have more questions for you once I have finished reading.”

  “As you wish, Shehzada.”

  Nur ate sparingly, but as much as she could stomach, knowing she had to keep her strength. The camp around them slowly grew quieter as the men bedded down for the night.

  Easing a cramp in her leg, she sighed.

  He turned his head to regard her. “You are in some discomfort?”

  “I find I am old for the rigors facing us,” Nur said, instantly regretting it. Do not provide truths to your enemies they might use to cut you, fool.

  He put one paper down and unfolded another without looking at it. “Why, then?”

  “Whatever do you mean, Shehzada?” she asked, suddenly very alert.

  “Why do you ride with me? You know I would see you well provided for should you decide to stay behind.”

  So you—and history—can conveniently forget me?

  Not.

  This.

  Woman.

  She smiled, hiding her anger. “What prompts the question now?”

  “An idle question, but one I would have you answer.” He looked at the paper in his hands, but his eyes did not move as they do when one is reading.

  “I bear some small conceit that I might prove of assistance to you, much as your great-grandsire Akbar’s aunts worked on his behalf.”

  Aurangzeb grinned, looked up at her. “I see. Should I expect you to find me a wife, then?”

  “Not until you proclaim yourself emperor.”

  The smile disappeared as quickly as a snuffed-out candle. “I have made no claim to the throne.”

  “And you have been wise to avoid doing so, Shehzada. Not while Shah Shuja can destroy your army simply by stopping your supplies.”

  It was Aurangzeb’s turn to sigh. “He need not even stop all of them reaching us, just a fraction.”

  “So again: I see the wisdom in your decision, just as I know you cannot persist in that position.”

  He refused to answer the implicit question, said instead: “Two weeks from now both our armies will be out of supply. Dara has already shut them off at the source.”

  Allowing him to deflect her question was easy; given the importance of the subject he offered instead: “Is Shah Shuja aware of that?”

  “I assume nothing, but my brother’s rate of advance—or, retreat, I suppose—from the Deccan is too slow to get out of the drought-afflicted area before he starts losing men and horses.” He retrieved a chalice from the tray and drank, as if speaking of the drought made him thirsty.

  “And even should he decide to give battle, such a fight would cost the victor too many men.”

  Nur nodded. “Your men wonder, Shehzada, what you will do when you meet with Shah Shuja.”

  He smiled. “My men?”

  Sensing a trap, she proceeded carefully. “Yes, my servants say there is much wonder and consternation among the
men.”

  “But you do not experience this consternation?”

  She cocked her head and said, “You will do what you must, Shehzada.”

  “And what is it you think I must do, Nur Jahan?”

  “Dissemble.”

  It was his turn to regard her sidelong. “All the world knows I am no good at that. Too devout, they say. Too rigid, they say.”

  I can almost hear Gargi’s urgent whisper: “Careful, old girl, he has many spies, and he listens to them.”

  Nur leaned forward. “That you have made others believe such is why you will rise to rule them all, Shehzada.”

  Aurangzeb met her gaze with eyes steady, still, and dark as the deepest tank. “You will carry my words to Shah Shuja and negotiate our first meeting.”

  Nur bowed her head. “You honor me, Shehzada.”

  “You may now go and find your rest. I will have specific instructions and letters for you tomorrow.”

  It was only later, as she woke from a few hours of restless sleep, that she realized how thoroughly he’d made certain he would not have to answer her question.

  Chapter 6

  Agra

  Mission House

  It was around midnight when Priscilla was drawn from sleep by a noise. She lay there, listening carefully. Mission House, which she’d only moved into last week, still wasn’t really home, so she had yet to have a catalog of the night sounds like she had back in Grantville.

  There. A dull metallic ringing from the courtyard.

  Gervais had designed the Mission like an old Italian villa; the second-floor chambers of the main building opening onto a balcony overlooking a central court of gardens and fountains.

  Bobby has guard duty tonight. Poor guy looked tired when I went to bed. The boys have been stretched thin working security, but finding reliable guards who aren’t scandalized by how we dress and act—even on our own property—ain’t easy.

  Suddenly fearful, Pris pulled the .38 from under her pallet and slipped from her bed. Taking a moment to don a silk robe that five years ago she wouldn’t have dreamt of wearing, much less being able to afford, she padded across the cold tiles to a set of louvered doors.

  Suppressing a shiver as the cool air seeping through the louvers bit through the robe, Priscilla reached for the latch. She could see someone had lit a lamp in the courtyard. The noise from below had settled into a rhythm, just not one she could identify.

  She eased the latch up and stepped out into the night. Still unable to see the source of the sound, she approached the balustrade and looked down.

  Priscilla relaxed, recognizing the figure in the lamplight below. A tall, broad-shouldered woman, Atisheh was hard to mistake for anyone else at Mission House. Better still, Atisheh’s outstretched arms finally provided an explanation for the strange noise that had awakened Priscilla.

  Atisheh had a number of horseshoes over each arm. The noise was a result of her holding those horseshoe-laden arms out to either side at shoulder height and then dropping into a squat.

  The swordswoman stood straight with a hiss of effort, then repeated the entire process, vigorously.

  “You sure you’re up to that?”

  The former harem guard and current patient of Priscilla’s twitched in surprise, found the up-timer in the shadows above, and said, “Up? I not understand.”

  “I don’t think you should be doing such heavy work.”

  Atisheh had been restive the last month, growling at her caregivers with an increasing impatience, volume, and grasp of English. The fact she’d been as near death as anyone Priscilla had ever seen—sword-cut in half a dozen places, battered so thoroughly she’d have been a single bruise from head to toe had she the blood to discolor flesh just a few months prior—made no difference to the woman.

  Just as Priscilla’s current qualms didn’t stop Atisheh now.

  “What time now?” She squatted low with her arms still out, breathed in, and stood again on the exhale.

  “I don’t know, after midnight?”

  “Exact.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Atisheh rotated her arms around and up, the shoes clanking, and raised her hands, then each individual finger until seven stood between them.

  “Seven, what?”

  “One week, you tell me. One week I start work. Seven days. I start soon I can and still follow orders you give.”

  Pris crossed arms over her chest. “Jesus.”

  “Why speak of minor prophet now? You miss prayers?”

  Pris didn’t even try to answer that question. “You are a machine.”

  “Machine?” Atisheh grunted, slowly lowering the weights, corded muscles standing out in her neck and shoulders, fresh scars angry in the lamplight.

  “Never mind. I’m going back to bed.”

  “Good”—another lengthy hiss—“night.”

  * * *

  Rodney returned late the next morning. Priscilla made a point of meeting him in the courtyard dressed in her favorite jeans and one of his old work shirts.

  Ricky slid the bolt home on the reinforced gate as Rodney rode up to the stables. His fine robes and the sword in its jeweled sheath at his hip made him look every inch a prosperous warrior-noble of the Mughal court. Until you got close, saw how big he was, and how poorly he sat a horse. The nobles of the Mughal court rode like they were born in the saddle.

  Her husband lifted his head to see her striding toward him and sent a tired but appreciative smile her way.

  “Five nights in a row, now,” Priscilla said, taking the horse’s bridle in hand.

  “He’s in a lot of pain,” Rodney said by way of excuse, dismounting and giving her forehead a kiss.

  Her sigh tickled the nose of Rodney’s horse, making the gelding toss his head. She patted its neck and said, “I don’t dispute that.”

  “But?” he asked as she led his mount into the stable.

  “Hard to say where the pain of his injury ends and the pain of loss begins.”

  “Sounds like a question for a priest, not a couple of certification-lapsed paramedics in way over their heads.”

  “I suppose it is, but I think we should watch him close to make sure he doesn’t begin self-medicating,” Pris said as she set about removing the horse’s tack. The locals put much store in decorating every bit of riding gear with complex knots, braids, and what she could only call pom-poms. He could leave for Red Fort with a plain saddle and harness, but by the time he took his leave of the imperial stables, his horse and tack were always decorated to the ninth degree. The tack tended to bewilder a tired mind and his bigger fingers, so she handled it while Rodney removed the saddle.

  “Gervais and I are doing what we can.”

  Knowing he was doing just that, she left off working at the tack to smile at him. On seeing his expression, she hugged him.

  “You’re still on cloud nine, aren’t you?” he asked.

  Priscilla released him and raised her arms, spinning in a circle. “God, yes! And who wouldn’t be? There’s a reason they call those in a harem ‘inmates,’ after all. A gilded cage is still a cage.”

  “Too true.”

  Pris caught him glancing at the high walls of the compound. “I know we’re still behind walls, but just being able to wear what I want while I get some work done is huge. Huge.”

  Rodney nodded.

  “Speaking of working: How is Atisheh?”

  She smiled. “Last I saw her she was beating the snot out of some eunuch trying out for a spot on Dara’s harem guard. The woman’s constitution is amazing. Barely a month out of our care and she’s riding and fighting like she was never hurt.”

  Rodney’s chuckle ended in a yawn. “Sorry. I don’t think I will be good company for long.” He yawned again, hugely this time, his jaw popping. “I’m dead tired.”

  She pulled him closer—really just pressed herself tighter to his muscular side, as she was far too small to move him—and said, “I’ll just tuck you in, then.”

&n
bsp; He laughed, eyes shining despite fatigue.

  “What’s tickled you?”

  “Just reflecting on the fact that some days it’s real good to be a hillbilly named Rodney Totman.”

  * * *

  “Monique.” Bertram said her name with the slightest of smiles as he walked into the Mission’s council chamber.

  “Bertram,” she replied. Gervais being present, she kept her own, answering smile, locked away. Papa had always been strange about the men she favored, but Bertram was…special to her and, she suspected, to Gervais as well. Of course, her father would never admit such a thing publicly.

  “Bertram, come here,” Papa said, waving the younger man to join him. Gervais stood at a table strewn with papers and maps that dominated the center of the chamber.

  “Of course, Gervais.”

  “Papa, Bertram may need a drink, or perhaps something to eat, before we figure out—in one evening—how to defeat the pretenders.”

  Gervais gave her a long look. “My lovely daughter: always encouraging her father to ever-greater accomplishments.”

  Bertram tried to head off their banter before it made a darker turn. “Perhaps later, Monique?”

  She favored him with a smile and let it go. “As you wish.”

  “Right, now we’ve established you aren’t hungry or thirsty, what news?”

  Bertram leaned on the table with both hands, examining one of the maps Gervais had commissioned. “Dara has ordered the Banjaris to stop transport of all supplies to the armies of his brothers.”

  “Finally,” Monique said. She’d been present when Jahanara had begged him to do just that—nearly a month ago.

  Both men looked at her, but it was Papa who spoke: “A new monarch needs to avoid giving orders that will not be obeyed. Just because an order is given does not mean it will be followed.”

  “If they want to be paid, Dara holds the purse strings.”

  “Dara has access to the largest treasury, not all of it. His brothers have incomes and war chests of their own, saved against this very moment. Not only that, they have experienced and loyal courts full of warriors ready to fight for them.”