by Eric Flint
Salim sat, silent, ruminating, drawing on the pipe once more.
When he did not respond even after filling his lungs, she said, “Say what you will. You will not anger me with sincerity.”
Oh, I think I will, but as you ask…
“While I thank Begum Sahib for her kind words of thanks, I do not know that they required such risks as this meeting to convey,” Salim said, each word punctuated by a puff of smoke.
Her beautiful eyes did not so much as narrow. “Salim…may I call you Salim?”
He nodded, mouth gone suddenly dry. He very much liked to hear his name upon her lips.
“Salim, we are in your debt. I wished to express my personal gratitude for the actions you took…openly, without the constraints of conduct any such expression would find were I to engage in it before the entire court.
“But beyond that expression, I thought it wise that we establish a dialogue now, an understanding that will permit us to work more closely toward our common goal: the preservation of my brother’s reign.”
Red Fort, Rosharana’s quarters
“So, you should not leave it too long, Roshanara Begum.”
Roshanara nodded. Then, realizing the man was not able to see the movement from behind the thick veils that had been placed over his head for this visit, said, “I understand, Doctor Gradinego.”
“Excellent. Do you have other questions of health I need answer?”
“I do not.”
“Very good. With your permission, I will withdraw, Shehzadi?”
“Of course.”
Blindly, the Venetian reached out as he made to stand.
Roshanara caught the hand in hers on the pretense of helping the man to his feet. The note passed from his palm to hers smoothly. Slipping it into her sash, she handed him off to Sabah, the warrior woman Atisheh had set to guard her. Ostensibly there to protect her, Roshanara knew better: the woman was, if not a spy, then a watchdog reporting her every move.
“See the doctor out,” Roshanara commanded.
As if to provide proof of the validity of the princess’s suspicions, Sabah summoned a eunuch to escort the ferenghi from the harem instead of doing it herself.
Pretending a lack of interest in the guard’s activities she certainly didn’t feel, Roshanara returned to the calligraphy project she’d been working on before the Venetian had been admitted.
The qalam was light in her hands, the paper smooth and thick awaiting the ink. Roshanara tried to find the calm required for her best work, but the meditative state eluded her. Gritting her teeth and willing herself to calm, she began to copy out the passages from the Akbarnama, the chronicle of Akbar the Great’s reign.
But thoughts of the note in her sash and the messenger who had delivered it intruded. Gradinego had been summoned to advise her regarding certain respiratory health issues. The time and skills of the up-timer physicians had been monopolized by her elder siblings, so Roshanara and Dara’s other courtiers had been forced to settle for their hangers-on, of whom Gradinego was not only the most popular for his skills and close connection to the up-timers, but also the most eager to avail himself of the favor of lesser lights like Roshanara Begum, who was still in some disfavor with the court.
Most of the court thought it odd that there were not more men like Gradinego among the ferenghi, social climbers who used the reputation of their associates to improve their own situation. There was a man among the merchants, but he’d been Salim Yilmaz’s man even before the arrival of the up-timers, and never claimed any knowledge beyond that of his caste and position.
Roshanara began the next page, irritated that none of her activities would bring her any closer to knowing the contents of the note the ferenghi had passed. A glance showed that Sabah was still watching her closely enough to observe any surreptitious move to retrieve and read the note.
She muttered an imprecation as her irritation and wandering attentions led her into error: the light, loose grip on the qalam had shifted into a tight, heavy hand, ruining yet another page with an ill-formed stroke. The qalam clattered in its cradle as she set it down harder than intended.
Seeking calm, Roshanara sat back on her heels. A gesture summoned a slave with a goblet of julabmost, which she drank without tasting.
She picked up the qalam once more, thinking to clean it, but delayed as she saw a messenger entering the chamber. Atisheh often used that one for ordering the harem guards about. Dipping her instrument into the ink once more and placing another thick sheet of paper before her, she watched the messenger approach Sabah from the corner of her eye.
As the child eunuch spoke in the square-shouldered woman’s ear, Roshanara slipped her hand into her sash and retrieved the paper. She flattened the missive out on her work surface and quickly read it through.
Should this whisper reach your ears,
I will not suffer the night’s fears,
Alone, four times and never alone again,
I have but to think of your eyes and the wisdom seen there,
To be restored to my faith in love,
For word shall surely come to me—as on the soft wings of the dove!
Heart skipping a beat as she sifted the possible meanings of the rather poor poem. To be sure she took the proper message from it, Roshanara reread it. Once certain she had it committed to memory, she gave another—false this time—sigh of frustration and used the message paper to clean the qalam, taking her time to be sure she obliterated the writing.
Her hands began to tremble as the ramifications of the message sank in.
Just months ago she’d been certain that Jahanara would have her executed for her part in Father’s death. Certain to the point of asking that an architect be sent for in order to plan a humble tomb for her remains to find their eternal rest. But weeks had passed without Dara giving the order for her execution. Then she’d grown afraid to eat, thinking she would be poisoned, murdered to save the family public embarrassment. It was only in the days since Nadira’s birthday celebrations that she had begun to breathe once again. In saving Roshanara from the fall, Jahanara had proven herself uninterested in her death. Her elder sister was not happy with her, and blamed her for Father’s demise, but she was not inclined to seek vengeance on Father’s behalf.
This one message would have wiped out any ideas of clemency from Jahanara’s or Dara’s minds at a single stroke. The very thin obfuscation of the true message, not to mention the source, would not stand up against even the most cursory of examinations, especially if discovered amongst her things. No, the poem could have proved to be her death warrant.
The audacity of using the ferenghi to carry such a thinly concealed message made the hand holding her qalam tremble with fear.
Aurangzeb wants me to inform for him. The thought rattled, reverberating through her mind, an echo of a bull elephant’s trumpeted threat.
She took a deep, steadying breath and set the now thoroughly cleaned qalam down again, proud that it did not clatter against the cradle this time.
Briefly, she thought of telling Jahanara of the message, but then she’d already destroyed the poem and…sudden tears born of frustration and fear formed in the corners of her eyes.
No. Dara and Jahanara would never let me alone if I told them I’d been contacted by Aurangzeb. And certainly not if I revealed that I’d destroyed the message before reporting it.
But did that mean she must be Aurangzeb’s creature? That she must spy for him in Dara’s court? She had always liked him best of her siblings. He, at least, was steadfast in his manner with everyone, where Dara was always alighting on some new subject, some new way of seeing the world, and never seemed interested in the world as it was. Shuja—Shuja was the most predictable, but he’d also always been crass and wild, not given to speaking to his sisters regarding anything of importance or even mutual interest.
And then there was Jahanara, who so resembled Mother in her manner and behavior that when Jahanara grew upset with some minor infraction of h
ers, Roshanara always felt Mother’s stare issuing from her sister’s eyes.
And then there was Father’s death and Jahanara’s knowledge of her role in it…
Shame made Roshanara’s cheeks heat, and tears spilled free from her eyes. She sniffed, hands twisting expensive silks between her fingers, staining them black with errant ink from the qalam.
The dam she’d erected against the pain and guilt of the last few months shattered. With sudden, breathtaking speed, her heart flooded and her thoughts drowned in emotions she’d kept at bay for too long.
Unsure whether she was crying for Father, for the state of her own soul, or for some sin she had yet to commit, Roshanara could only let the tears flow.
She collapsed forward, sobbing uncontrollably.
It was nearly an hour before she could be convinced to lie down, and another hour before she would drink the calming elixir pressed upon her at Jahanara’s direction.
At last, she drifted on a sea of unconcern, and eventually, into a deep, drug-induced sleep, plagued by dreams of being pulled one way and the next…
Part Four
May, 1636
As smoke blots the white fire
—The Rig Veda
Chapter 15
The Deccan Plateau
Aurangzeb’s column on the march
“Shah Shuja has not seen fit to meet with us,” Father De Jesus said, angry voice loud enough to carry through the noise of the column to reach Aurangzeb’s ears.
The prince briefly considered ignoring the priest but decided it would prove counterproductive. He’d already been avoiding the ferenghis for some time, hoping they would press their claims on Shah Shuja. Unfortunately, Shuja—or, more likely, his advisors—had immediately seen what rode toward them, proven wise, and studiously avoided interfering with any and all of Aurangzeb’s obligations to the Europeans.
Then again, the Portuguese priest must be kept content, and if he did not wish to field their questions in open court, where even the questions asked might raise suspicions among the brighter of those serving Shuja, then Aurangzeb needed to quietly bring this particular dog to heel as soon as possible.
“Bring them to me, then make certain none can hear us,” Aurangzeb murmured.
“Yes, Shehzada!” the captain of his nökör said, ordering the other riders to chivvy the scribes, messengers, courtiers, and other hangers-on into a loose circle just out of earshot. The captain then went to collect the Europeans and bring them to ride alongside the prince.
“Shehzada Aurangzeb, you are kind to see us on such short notice,” a red-faced Methwold said, after they’d all made their obeisance from the saddle. It was hard to tell if it was the heat of the day or some embarrassment that held the man’s color so high in his cheeks, as his fluent and courtly Persian left no hint of embarrassment.
“It is you men who have been most kind to me, President Methwold.”
A moment passed in relative silence as the ferenghi digested the platitudes sent their way. Relative, because even at the head of the army, the noise of thousands of men and horses riding to his will was an ever-present rumble, not unlike the thunder of an angered heaven.
Methwold seemed to take the platitudes and silence for the warning Aurangzeb meant them to be.
Father De Jesus did not: “We have only acted as we were instructed by the viceroy, Shehzada. Under the agreed-upon terms.”
“Whatever do you mean to imply, De Jesus?”
Aurangzeb’s cool tone and lack of honorific penetrated the priest’s armor of self-righteousness. He swallowed audibly and glanced at Methwold for support. When none was forthcoming he said carefully, “I imply nothing untoward, Shehzada Aurangzeb. I ask the question as we have wondered when you will be in a position to return the favors the viceroy, the Company, and the Church have provided your cause these last weeks.”
Aurangzeb, patience strained, curbed the desire to lash out at the impertinent foreigner. De Jesus, annoying though he was, had the ear of those in power in Portuguese Estado, making him someone who should not be offended, with or without cause.
Aurangzeb would not reveal plans to Europeans that he couldn’t reveal even to his most trusted subordinates. So, instead, pretending a greater calm than he actually felt, Aurangzeb patted his horse’s neck and asked a question he already knew the answer to. “How long have you been in India, President Methwold?”
“Some years, now, Shehzada.”
He looked at the priest. “And you, De Jesus, how long have you been here?”
“Slightly more than a year, and almost all of that spent in Portuguese India.”
Aurangzeb nodded as if their answers had explained something he hadn’t already known. Looking off into the distance, he asked, “And within the first weeks or months of your arrival, President and Priest, did either of you have occasion to enter into negotiations for goods or services?”
Both men nodded, De Jesus seeming impatient with the seeming non sequitur.
Methwold’s expression was more cautious, as if the Englishman sensed a trap.
“And when you negotiated, did our merchants or the masters of our caravanserai grow impatient with your lack of language skills?”
“Only when first we came,” Methwold answered before the priest could do more than open his mouth. “As we became more proficient, then—”
Aurangzeb’s gesture of negation cut him off.
“Shehzada?”
“Were they impatient with you, or, lacking understanding, were you impatient with them?”
Methwold’s shoulders twitched slightly, then slumped.
“For my part, I suppose I was the first to grow impatient,” De Jesus supplied when Methwold did not answer. The priest was clearly puzzled by Methwold’s sudden silence, so Aurangzeb gave him a moment to think.
Once confident he had the man’s attention again, Aurangzeb nodded, sagely, as if the young priest had explained something very complex to his complete satisfaction.
Methwold shook his head, irritation, and its subject, easy to see.
“What?” De Jesus’ irritated mutter was directed at the Englishman, allowing Aurangzeb to decide to ignore his rude tone.
Explaining to the priest, Methwold said, “The prince kindly illustrates for us that we are but lately come into his camp, and therefore do not yet understand all the goings-on here. He implies we are impatient, and our impatience reflects poorly on us, and may, eventually, annoy even our most patient of princes…” He trailed off with a thoughtful look at Aurangzeb.
“But—”
“What’s worse,” Methwold went on over De Jesus’ words, whatever they might have been, “I suspect that he cannot explain his precise plans to us”—here his eyes flicked to the clouds of dust kicked up by the army—“they are for us to learn.”
A slight smile teased at the corners of Aurangzeb’s mouth. The Englishman was clever and sensible. Too bad his was the lesser part in the delegation the viceroy had sent to treat with and observe him.
“But—” De Jesus tried again.
Methwold cut him off once more. “I suspect there is much the prince would like to tell us, but cannot. Circumstances forbid it. So we must practice patience, and have faith in Shehzada Aurangzeb.”
“Speaking of faith”—Aurangzeb looked at the priest—“I think you may be familiar with the tale of Joseph, son of Jacob? Who was cast down a well by his brothers?”
“Old Testament,” Methwold said, receiving surprised looks from both Aurangzeb and De Jesus for his trouble. “What?” Methwold said. “We of the Church of England know our Bible.”
Aurangzeb smiled, assuming the man’s defensive tone had more to do with the Catholic priest’s confounded expression than his own.
“Indeed you do.” He paused, looking De Jesus in the eye as he continued, “But the reason I bring up Jacob and Joseph’s story is that they reveal for the faithful that patience is considered a great virtue…to both Christian and Muslim, alike.”
&nb
sp; De Jesus looked back and, eventually, slowly nodded.
Aurangzeb relented once he was sure he was understood: “In time, I will see to it that the largesse you have shown me is rewarded. I ask that you exercise the virtue of patience, so that we may all benefit thereby.”
De Jesus looked on the verge of asking another question, but Methwold’s cleared throat made the priest subside once more.
Once certain he had Aurangzeb’s attention as well, Methwold said, “We will continue to be patient, Shehzada, and trust in you…”
“I ask for nothing more, and no less,” Aurangzeb said, hoping to end the interview there.
But Methwold had been formulating a diplomatic response, not letting himself be brushed off so easily. “Of course, we two men are not, ultimately, responsible for the quality nor quantity of the largesse you receive. The English Company will continue to offer its support so long as I am president, but the viceroy may not agree with our practice of that virtue you hold in such high esteem. And should the viceroy decide to withdraw support from our endeavor, the Company cannot make up the shortfall the departure of our trading partners would cause in your chain of supply.”
He paused to let that sink in before continuing, a wry smile on his lips. “Furthermore, the Company’s honorable merchants at home may have already determined I am to be replaced. A letter that removes me from my position and names my replacement could already be en route to us here.”
Another brief pause, then: “Such is the uncertainty of the times we live in.”
Aurangzeb could find nothing in Methwold’s statement to seize upon as offering insult. Impressed despite himself, he cast a glance at the priest. The younger man’s expression told him how neatly the Englishman had presented their collective concerns, even at the very moment it appeared those concerns would be dismissed.