1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Chapter 34

  Countryside east of Agra

  “Are you certain it’s safe?” asked Sidi Miftah Habash Khan.

  Aurangzeb smiled. “Are you not certain yourself? You are commander of scouts, are you not?”

  “I am.” The Habshi smiled, white teeth dazzling against his dark skin. “I am certain I could escape, but then I am counted amongst the greatest horsemen who have ever lived. I am not so certain about you, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  Aurangzeb snorted and barely stopped a peal of laughter escaping dry lips by focusing on an annoying fly that flitted about the mane of his horse.

  When he was confident he could keep a straight face the emperor said, “I believe we are safe enough. My brother cowers behind the walls of Red Fort. And I…I need to make sure to pay my respects at the tomb of my parents. Too long have I been denied the opportunity to show them the devotion a son owes.”

  “Ah, but then there is the possibility of hidden assassins waiting for you at the tomb. Please allow us to conduct a thorough search of the grounds before you enter, Sultan Al’Azam. The loss of one Sultan Al’Azam there was sin enough. I would not see another lost, however beautiful the setting.”

  Aurangzeb waved permission and the Habshi rattled off a series of orders to his subordinates. Messengers on fast horses shot away from the column and rapidly disappeared into the distance. No doubt they were eager to sack the city, but discipline held for now. Especially given that they all knew it would happen.

  Rather than try and restrain them entirely, Aurangzeb had commanded that they only loot the city and leave the Taj Mahal untouched.

  Nur had nodded sagely when told of his designs for overcoming that minor challenge. Far better to swim with the current than try and resist. The men of Aurangzeb’s army would get an opportunity to enrich themselves at the expense of the residents of Agra, but only when given leave to do so by Aurangzeb.

  Simply knowing they would have that chance at wealth made the army compliant to his will.

  And that army was less than ten kos from the tomb and Red Fort, both of which were visible against the light pall of smoke shrouding Agra just beyond the tomb.

  A strong feeling of…Aurangzeb wasn’t sure what it was that he felt as the long-foreseen conflict with his eldest brother grew closer with every hoofbeat. Tension, certainly. He did not want to see his brothers dead, but could not suffer Dara Shikoh to rule from the Peacock Throne. Dara had forever been a fool for whatever courtier or fakir had most recently spoken in his ear. Nor was Aurangzeb about to lie down and be murdered as his uncles had been when Father ascended the throne. No, this was the only way to safeguard the dynasty in the future and prevent the European Christians from overrunning all the world. With such weighty matters at stake, who was he to try and fight the obvious tide of God’s will?

  His gaze slid to Red Fort. Dara had sent no messengers, nor had he taken the field in any capacity. Word from within the Fort was that even his garrison was starting to lose its nerve. All as a result of the departure of Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz. Interesting that an adventurer but recently elevated at court could have carried so much weight of regard with both the umara and sowar of Dara’s forces. Then again, Mullah Mohan had been driven to near madness by the mere presence of the Afghan at court, so was it so hard to imagine that such a forceful personality could inspire a great many, especially in light of Dara’s ability to alienate his greatest allies and best field commanders?

  He blinked, finding his eyes on the Taj again.

  Mother, Father: forgive what I must do. I will do what I can to spare lives, but only when such restraint fails to interfere with God’s will. Feeling the weight of massive responsibility, he looked up at the sun to gauge how long he had to wait for prayers. By his estimation it seemed that he would arrive at the Taj within a quarter hour of afternoon prayer being called.

  Yet another sign of God’s favor.

  Red Fort

  Agra

  “Why isn’t Aurangzeb’s army setting up for the siege already?” Ilsa asked, gesturing at the long column of cavalry and elephants riding toward the Taj. “I would have thought they’d be in a hurry to sack the city.”

  “And miss the opportunity to display the size, discipline, and power of his army?” Jahanara answered. The inner circle of her court were watching events from the balcony overlooking the river, the Taj, and, most recently, the vanguard of Aurangzeb’s forces.

  “I suppose not,” Ilsa said.

  An uncomfortable silence descended on the party, each aware their loved ones would soon be fighting for their very lives against that distant army.

  “Will they?” Priscilla asked, breaking the silence.

  “Will they what?” Jahanara asked. The up-timers were a constant fascination and distraction, one she sometimes craved like Dara craved his opium; yet, at other times she wished they and their disruptive ideas and prescient history had never come to court. Today, however, she was glad for the distraction.

  “Loot the city?”

  “Almost certainly, though I am told most of the easily portable wealth has already been removed by the owners.”

  “Good. I feel bad saying it, but I’d hate to think we stripped Mission House of all our property and moved it in here if we didn’t need to,” Priscilla said, looking uncomfortable.

  “Oh? Feel bad?” Jahanara asked.

  “I don’t know that much about sieges and sacks, but I assume the people of Agra will suffer a great deal? Those that couldn’t leave before the army arrived, I mean.”

  Jahanara nodded. It spoke well of her friend that she considered the plight of all folk, low-caste Hindu and Muslim alike. Most she knew would not have—or given it no more than a passing thought.

  “Yes, those who fail to get out of the way will suffer at the hands of Aurangzeb’s army, and their property will be seized by whatever sowar get his hands on it. Do you do things differently in Europe?”

  Priscilla glanced at Ilsa, who answered, “Europe is almost precisely the same, though often people do not have as much advance notice nor the ability to move away as many residents here seem to.”

  “Were things different in your time, Pris?” Jahanara asked, ignoring the fact that her people didn’t really find it easy to move out of the way of princely armies, they just knew better than to try and retain their goods at the cost of their lives.

  “Only in the particulars. War-torn regions produced a lot of refugees and I think looting was supposed to be illegal, at least for the professional soldiers of most countries.”

  “Looting, illegal? How did they prevent it?”

  “With really harsh punishments for those soldiers who did it, I think. But regardless of the law, a city that became a battleground was not a place anyone would want to be. Not by a long shot.”

  It took Jahanara a moment to deduce the meaning of the expression not by a long shot. And as was often the case when talking to the up-timers, Jahanara found more questions in the answers. “Professional soldiers? Like our sowar?”

  “Similar…I guess. Seems to me that your sowar are paid out of their umara’s pocket instead of directly from the coffers of the empire?”

  Jahanara nodded. “The umara are paid a fixed salary by the crown, out of which they must pay not only their own maintenance, but that of a specified number of sowar. They are given the tax proceeds to do this, but they often skimp on pay with promises of loot. Regardless, an individual sowar’s pay is often low, especially if they do not provide their own weapons or horses. It is a complicated system of ranks for umara…which I think I heard Ilsa’s John call them officers?” she asked, looking at Ilsa for confirmation. When Ilsa nodded, she continued, “But there is little distinction made between horsemen who are not umara.”

  Priscilla looked again at the army, but this time Jahanara had the sense that she was trying to avoid saying something she thought would upset the princess.

  “What is it, my friend?” she urged.

 
The up-timer shrugged. “My uncle, he used to brag that one of the reasons we won the World Wars was because we didn’t rely on nobles to lead us.”

  Ilsa put an arm around the taller up-timer woman. “These umara aren’t quite the same as our nobles in Europe, Pris.”

  “I know.”

  “How are they different?” Jahanara asked.

  Ilsa gave a delicate snort. “To start with: our nobles are mostly born into their station without having to earn any part of it. I suppose in the past they might have been warriors, but many noble families do not produce reliable leadership—military or otherwise—these days.”

  “Fascinating. You have been here long enough to see how much better our system works, haven’t you?”

  Both Priscilla and Ilsa looked away this time.

  “What is it? What did I say?” Jahanara asked, confused.

  It was Ilsa who looked at her and said, quite cautiously, “John says your umara are a good sight better than the nobles he dealt with in Europe.”

  “But?” Jahanara said, annoyed that she’d asked the question in such a demanding tone. She was unused to having friends, and it was difficult to keep a lifetime’s habit of command from straining her relationships with these women.

  “But we just don’t know, Begum Sahib. He says your ideals of military leadership and ours are quite different.”

  Jahanara drew a steadying breath. “But we will soon find out, won’t we?”

  Both women nodded. Another uncomfortable silence pervaded for a little while.

  This time it was Jahanara who broke it: “I would hear more of your American military, if you would, please?”

  Priscilla smiled uneasily and shrugged. “I’m not really a student of military matters, so take what I say with a grain of salt. My dad used to complain about the draft…” She trailed off, obviously uncertain. After a moment’s thought she resumed, “Thing is, until coming through the Ring of Fire, I’d never seen a battle or, hell, even real life-and-death violence up close. Most Americans hadn’t. For that matter, most Americans never had an opportunity to watch our soldiers at work. Oh, we might watch movies and TV shows about it, but we really didn’t know what it was our military did for us—or, more accurately, how they protected us.”

  “How can that be?” Jahanara asked. Much of court life revolved around military ceremonies; the granting of rank, investment of command, even governorships were all military matters. Beyond the ceremony, she had been witness to many battles, both for and against Jahangir. So many that she felt she knew more than she wanted to about the sacrifices involved.

  Priscilla shrugged. “I guess we were lucky in that most of our wars were fought defending our allies or our interests far from home.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, the Middle East, Europe, Africa, and Southeast Asia. I don’t even know some of them qualify as real wars, but our soldiers died fighting them.”

  “Never in India?”

  “To my knowledge, no. Not even Pakistan.”

  “I heard mention of this Pakistan. I gather it is the northern part of the subcontinent?”

  Priscilla’s lips curled in an uncertain smile as she shook her head. “If I recall correctly, after the English pulled out they left two states south of Afghanistan: one primarily Muslim, and one…not. Pakistan and India, though I’m almost certain I am way oversimplifying things…”

  “Fascinating. You mentioned that looting was illegal. How then did the common soldier make his fortune?”

  “They didn’t often make a fortune. They served for duty, honor, family tradition, because it was a good way to pay for an advanced education, and even because some people just didn’t have any better options.”

  “They didn’t often make a fortune?” Smidha asked, confusion echoing Jahanara’s own. Salim himself was a fine example of the warrior-adventurer most common at court. Granted, he was far more successful than most.

  “They were paid, but there were safer, better paid jobs out there to be had.” Priscilla snorted, shook her head. “When there were jobs to be had…” She again shook her head in evident frustration, saying, “Sorry, these waters run deep, and I barely have the experience or knowledge to do the subject justice, dammit.”

  “Why ‘dammit’?” She asked the question gently, pronouncing the unfamiliar English word carefully.

  Priscilla pulled at a strand of hair, obviously searching for the right words. “I’m frustrated because the experience of American armed services were so foreign to my day-to-day existence yet I recognize that their service formed an intrinsic part of precisely why my childhood and the childhoods of so many generations of Americans did not contain daily concerns about things like invasions or having our cities being made battlefields. So, yes, it upsets me that I feel all this gratitude yet cannot easily describe for you what motivated the men and women of my country to protect us and our way of life.” She nodded at the army in the distance. “Especially in light of where and when we find ourselves.”

  “I think you said it quite well,” Jahanara said.

  Priscilla looked down at the elephant fighting ground and didn’t answer.

  Jahanara let her be, filing the implications of the conversation away for future reference and consideration.

  Smidha left her side for a moment, retrieving a packet of messages, quite possibly among the last few to arrive at Red Fort before Aurangzeb invested the fortress. She was sorting them as she returned to her mistress’s side.

  “Anything I need act on immediately?” Jahanara asked, eyes on her brother’s army as the older woman flipped through the folded notes. The distance made his army a serpent swimming in dark waters, its head visible but body shrouded in the dust of its own passage.

  “Nothing pressing…” Smidha turned over another missive. “Though you may wish to look at the latest report from your diwan regarding the income from your jagirs in Surat.”

  Jahanara nodded on hearing the code phrase. Talawat was ready. Salim was well on his way. The plan was coming together. All that remained was news of Asaf Khan’s army. That, and Aurangzeb cooperating. Oh, and Dara not suddenly developing a desire to assert direct control over events and disrupting all her carefully laid plans. Of course, allowances had been made for just such circumstances, but it would be far easier on everyone if he were to remain silent, regal, and ready to command the defenses rather than ask uncomfortable questions concerning what was to come.

  Much as she loved Dara, he could not be allowed to interfere with her defense of his throne.

  No one could. One delicately hennaed hand clenched into a hard-edged fist. She had been losing weight these last months, stress gnawing at her appetite until she barely ate.

  I will see to it, my brothers. For a better future for all those we govern, I will see to it.

  Taj Mahal

  Completing the ritual cleansing of face and hands, Aurangzeb took a moment to look around Mother and Father’s final resting place, noting the fine work accomplished in his absence. The craftsmen employed by Dara had not shirked their duty, not in the least detail. Delicate tracery and fine Koranic script flowed along every surface not embellished with floral designs, Father’s dream and tribute made manifest in stone, lapis lazuli, and filigree. Thousands of gemstones caught and cast the light of lanterns, making the interior seem a star-studded dusk. It was beautiful, solemn, and bittersweet. A true monument to Mother.

  Aurangzeb struggled to contain a bitter anger that suddenly welled, threatening to overtake iron control. While he had been on the march north, concerns of a rapidly dwindling treasury and insufficient supply a constant burden, Dara not only had enough cash to fritter away a fortune on the disastrous attempt at manufacturing up-timer weapons and recruiting as many warriors as would serve his flawed rule, but the vast treasury Father had amassed provided sufficient cash on hand to continue work on the vastly expensive tomb complex. Work that had continued right up to his arrival. The exterior was not yet complete, and the full co
mplex was not yet half-finished. But here, where Father had seen to Mother’s final interment, it was complete, its perfection marred only by the seeming afterthought of Shah Jahan’s own stone sarcophagus, off to one side. Even with that flaw, the tomb was a fitting tribute to the immortal love his parents had shared. Mother had, even in death, always sat at the center of Father’s world.

  All reports had Dara’s army weakened by Salim’s exile, in possession of no ammunition for the up-timer weapons, and was less than a third the size of Aurangzeb’s own. Indeed, Dara’s force was, according to all intelligence, a mishmash of foot and dismounted sowar suffering from low morale stemming from reports of Aurangzeb’s rapid advance and Dara’s own poor decisions. Aurangzeb’s advisors agreed that Dara’s forces would not withstand a determined assault despite Red Fort’s substantial defenses. The agreement between his sources should have eased Aurangzeb’s concerns, but they remained.

  For one, despite the stores in Gwalior Fort, his supply situation was not good and the Europeans daily grew more and more impatient for the rewards he had promised. Just thinking of the Portuguese priest made Aurangzeb angry. The thin scholar’s impertinent and repeated requests that the Europeans be allowed to proselytize their faith among the citizens of the empire was proving an annoyance he could not shake.

  Frustrated that the ritual cleansing had washed neither his anger nor his concerns away, Aurangzeb strove for calm. It was elusive, however. Thoughts of the upcoming showdown and plans for what would come after continued to crash into the nagging feeling his cause might not be quite as just as he would prefer.

  But he was here to offer his respects to Mother and Father, not plot his future. Yet a small voice from a dark corner of his mind whispered, You have ever and always plotted your future. Such a habit is why you are here, poised on the verge of victory.

  “Not my victory, but God’s,” he murmured.