1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  From the way Dara’s expression darkened, John thought he was going to launch another tirade, this time aimed at his sister, but Dara only bit his lip and stood silent. Or almost silent. The emperor was breathing deeply.

  After a moment, he simply nodded once, firmly. The emperor Dara Shikoh looked to his diwan. “Coordinate with my sister. See it done.”

  “Your will, Sultan Al’Azam!”

  Well, that’s one way to avoid giving a report full of bad news, anyway…

  Approaches to the Taj Majal

  It was raining, though it was dry enough beneath the awning carried by four of Dara’s mounted harem guards. At least for those riding tall horses. Those on shorter mounts had to contend with wet legs. The rains had begun. Or, if some of the court astrologers were to be believed, the gods were weeping for the strife to come. From the pair of howdah-capped elephants standing to one side of the awning, Nur had not had to get her feet wet at all.

  Atisheh emerged from the Taj’s grounds, effortlessly leaping to the back of her horse and beginning to canter back to Jahanara and the rest of her escort.

  Aurangzeb’s forces had purposely left a gap in their lines to allow her party to access Mother’s tomb, but Atisheh could not be persuaded that scouting was an unnecessary waste of time. Still, she supposed, dealing with Atisheh’s security concerns was another way to avoid obsessing over which of a half-dozen stratagems would work best to secure the ends desired, namely that she reveal less of their situation and plans than Nur and, if lucky, plant a seed or two of disagreement—and anger, hopefully—between Nur and Aurangzeb. She’d spent much of the night before seeking counsel from her advisors, Nadira, and even the up-timers. All of them had counseled caution, but Jahanara was willing to exploit any advantage Nur exposed. Indeed, she intended to ruffle more than a few of the courtly feathers Nur used to armor her intent and conceal her actions.

  Atisheh, mounted on a fine horse, splashed her way back under cover and to Jahanara’s side. “Everything is as agreed to, Begum Sahib. Her guards cover the other half of the garden. We are ready to take up positions opposite them on your command.”

  “Make it so,” Jahanara said.

  “Your will, Begum Sahib.” Atisheh gestured with one hand. Those guards not carrying her awning rode ahead to take up positions along the perimeter of the garden.

  “What, there are no assassins waiting under every bush for me?” Jahanara asked the question without thinking as they plodded along in the wake of her guards.

  “No, Begum Sahib. At least, none that I could see.” Atisheh’s expression was stony, but Jahanara could see her grip on the reins tighten.

  Jahanara felt shame color her cheeks. She had suffered no injury in the attack, her only loss that of Father; while Atisheh had been gravely wounded, lost numbers of both blood kin and warrior sisters, and been forced by her injuries to miss the funerals of her fellows.

  “I apologize, Atisheh. You do your duty well, and do not deserve the brunt of my foul temper.” The apology forced Jahanara to admit, at least to herself, that she was suffering more anxiety about the impending meeting than she’d allowed. Nur, with her towering reputation for manipulation, cast a vast shadow. A shadow made both darker and longer by the uncertainty shrouding her involvement in Father’s assassination. Jahanara knew she lacked the breadth of experience that Nur had gained over a lifetime of politicking and could only hope that her experiences since Mother’s death had given her the tools necessary to overcome.

  “No apology is necessary, Begum Sahib.” Atisheh waved at the clouds and rain. “These conditions are not good. And to be forced to talk of important matters of state with a woman who, if I can be forgiven for saying so, deserves nothing better than torture until she confesses.”

  Uncomfortable with the ease with which Atisheh would condemn Nur to torture, Jahanara opened her mouth to silence the warrior woman, but Atisheh cut her off.

  “Almast, you lost a sister in the attack,” Atisheh said to the woman bearing the left front pole. “If Begum Sahib were to command it, would you not enjoy carving the flesh from the bones of those who ordered it? I know I would. For sacred honor, if not the blood of our kin.”

  “God forgive me, but I would do so without hesitation,” the lithely muscular Armenian answered, crossing herself. Jahanara saw the woman’s counterpart holding up the opposite corner of the awning nodding agreement.

  A fresh wave of shame swept over Jahanara. She hadn’t considered how deeply affronted her guards were by the continuing lack of certainty as to who was responsible for Shah Jahan’s death. Not that she wasn’t plagued with doubts herself, even knowing what she had learned from the torture of Mullah Mohan. And she could hardly admit, tacitly or otherwise, to the torture of a man of God, even amongst her closest guardians. Atisheh knew, of course. But, from her statements, Atisheh had no more believed Mohan’s claims than Jahanara herself. In truth, it was easy to lay some portion of the blame for Father’s assassination at Nur’s feet, especially when she had so conveniently disappeared from Dara’s court only to reappear in Aurangzeb’s camp weeks later.

  Instead of trying to suppress the feeling, Jahanara embraced it. Made it one more coal to feed the flames of her desire to reveal the truth of Nur’s—and Aurangzeb’s—involvement. Father deserved no less. The warrior women, father’s nökör, and the eunuch harem guards who died protecting the family deserved no less.

  I deserve no less.

  Gardens of the Taj Mahal

  Jahanara dismounted, transitioning from beneath the awning carried by her guards to the open-sided pavilion without getting wet. She took a moment to gather herself. It was important that certain things be accomplished in this meeting, and her opponent was a fierce and dangerous foe.

  Atisheh and the rest of her escort withdrew to another pavilion some distance away, leaving her alone with Nur. More alone than she’d been since that night in the Jasmine Tower—

  Savagely, she pushed thoughts of Salim away. Now was not the time.

  “Greetings, Jahanara,” Nur said, voice pitched to not only carry through the constant patter of the rain striking the pavilion above their heads, but also convey a warmth Jahanara doubted her adversary actually felt.

  “Greetings, Nur Jahan,” Jahanara returned, crossing the carpets to meet her kinswoman among the pillows set out for them to sit upon.

  “You are as lovely as ever, Begum Sahib,” Nur said, inviting Jahanara to sit with one hennaed hand. The scent of roses, delicate and ephemeral, trailed Nur’s gesture.

  “And your beauty is ceaseless,” Jahanara lied, accepting the seat. In truth, Nur appeared tired, drawn. Her eyes remained bright, however, and Jahanara would not put it past Nur to pretend exhaustion in order to cause an opponent to underestimate her. Certainly the smooth grace Nur exhibited as she took her seat argued against severe fatigue.

  Nur offered refreshment, which Jahanara politely refused. There followed a rapid exchange of news regarding the health of the royal family. Jahanara could not discern any interest in news of Roshanara beyond that expressed for Murad or Gauharara. News that Aurangzeb was healthy, in good spirits, and recently married was neither surprising nor pleasing.

  The preliminaries concluded, Jahanara decided to come directly to the point: “I am here and ready to represent Dara in these talks, though it was not made clear to us what Aurangzeb hopes to accomplish with them.”

  Nur smiled. “Good. God willing, we shall show these men a path to peace.”

  Jahanara returned her own smile, though she put a blade in it. “That path finds an easy end. Aurangzeb need only relinquish his claim to the Peacock Throne.”

  Nur cocked her head, seemingly unfazed by either Jahanara’s hard-edged smile or blunt words.

  Silence descended. Jahanara refused to break it. She had learned that much.

  “You know he cannot do that. He—”

  “Do I?” Jahanara interrupted, deciding it was time to show some of the anger seething in her hear
t. “Do I know he cannot turn from this course of insurrection, betrayal, and blood that he has chosen?”

  Nur did not so much as blink as Jahanara flung words at her. “I am not here to discuss the choices already made by those we have agreed to represent, but to reach agreement regarding the future for you and the rest of the siblings not directly involved in this conflict.”

  “And we are to trust you, and him?”

  Nur’s eyes narrowed. “You question whether I will bargain in good faith on behalf of Aurangzeb?”

  Carefully directing and controlling her anger, Jahanara said, “No. While I have many questions I would ask of you, that is not one. I know you will represent Aurangzeb to the best of your considerable ability. At least until he does something you do not approve of.”

  Nur’s smile lit the gray afternoon. “What would you ask, then?”

  “Why did you goad Mullah Mohan into killing Father?” Jahanara asked, hoping to wipe the smile from the older woman’s face.

  It worked: Nur’s mask, usually so perfectly controlled in every detail, slipped. “I did no such thing. That creature had his own hates, and acted on them independent of all reason, let alone any influence from me.”

  “Yet you admit to knowing him well enough to be intimate with his state of mind? Interesting,” Jahanara said, hoping to capitalize on her apparent advantage.

  “He supported Aurangzeb.” Jahanara watched as Nur reasserted her habitual control of her expression, though she noted the older woman’s eyes glittered fiercely. “I supported Aurangzeb, as I supported all my brother’s grandchildren. It was Aurangzeb who brought us together in order to coordinate the recruitment of his forces for Shah Jahan’s invasion of the Deccan. I could not deny a request from such a one.”

  “I see. I do not recall the court being made aware that you had decided upon a career as a recruiter of sowar.”

  Nur smiled again. “I have ever sought to serve the crown.”

  “Ever? Really? I do believe my brothers can do without service such as you rendered the crown whilst you attempted to place Shariyar ahead of Father on the throne.”

  Nur’s smile remained in place as she spread her hands. “You do not spend much time looking in the mirror, do you?”

  “I reflect upon my actions always, Nur.”

  “And the difference between what you do and I have done is?” Nur asked, cocking her head a little.

  Jahanara could have slapped her. “I am helping him to fill the role Father envisioned for him from the moment Dara first drew breath to Father’s last.”

  “And Shariyar was not chosen by my husband before his unfortunate death? I was there, child.”

  “I am no child.”

  A twitch of silk-covered shoulders. “Perhaps not, but then, I have found that only children feel the need to declare that they are not children.”

  Jahanara marveled at Nur’s skill even as she reveled in letting her righteous anger show. “Yes, and Father let you back into public life, and the way you chose to repay him was to allow his murder.”

  “Allow?” Nur asked, reproachfully. “You give me too much credit. I had no control over the actions of either Mullah Mohan or your father. How, then, should I be named responsible for the fate of either, child?”

  “Save your condescension for one who must suffer it. I am Begum Sahib, Jahanara Begum, Shehzadi and first born of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal. I am your equal in every way that matters.”

  “Are you? Better that Nadira had been given the task of treating with me. She, at least, is a mother. She, at least, would know the stakes for which we contend and not blithely assume the false superiority you cling to.”

  Jahanara laughed. “Nadira, more wise than either of us, said you would attack me not only on that front, but using those exact words. I will be sure to let her know exactly how prophetic her predictions of your behavior proved.”

  “These attacks resolve nothing,” Nur snapped.

  Suspicious of a trap, Jahanara did not immediately capitalize on her opponent’s loss of control.

  Nur took a steadying breath but Jahanara found her tongue before she could reply: “But they’re providing such sport, Nur. It is a rare treat, this exchange of words with the woman all the world knows had a hand in Father’s death. I shall be certain to record this day’s conversation in my diary.”

  Nur’s control slipped further, as evidenced by the flaring of gold-studded nostrils.

  Jahanara watched, that part of her not reveling in the accomplishment worried the older woman would lash out at her with something other than words.

  Much to her surprise, Nur did not attempt to strike back with either words or actions, merely repeated her earlier claims in a soft voice. “I had nothing to do with the death of your father. I was, like him, a target of Mullah Mohan’s assassins.”

  “So you keep saying. As if repetition would make your story any more believable.”

  “I say it because it is the truth.” Nur looked down, then muttered, “But I can see it is no use trying to convince you of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jahanara said with the honey-and-vinegar tone of a harem instructor correcting a wayward student, “I couldn’t understand your words just now. Please enunciate.”

  “Perhaps we should get on with the business we are sent here to conduct?” Nur grated.

  Certain she had her opponent off balance and at a disadvantage, Jahanara agreed.

  As Nur began laying out Aurangzeb’s position, Jahanara let her thoughts wander, knowing Aurangzeb was exceedingly unlikely to authorize the offer of any substantial concessions, not when he seemed so close to victory. He had offered this meeting more out of concern that he be observed by everyone to have kept the forms rather than any sincere desire to come to terms with Dara or his supporters.

  Still, Jahanara must remain alert to some advantage she may yet squeeze from these talks.

  Please God, let Salim strike true, and soon.

  Chapter 36

  Agra

  Red Tent, Aurangzeb’s camp

  Aurangzeb set aside the golden chalice of julabmost he’d been drinking from and reread the report he’d been looking at but failing to comprehend for the last hour. The report was not so complex it defied comprehension, it was simply that he was impatient for Nur’s return to camp. He’d watched from the shelter of his tent as Jahanara rode to meet his chosen representative, but had retired before he gave the men the impression he was overly concerned with the outcome. The last thing those under his command wanted was a negotiated disposition that prevented them pillaging Agra. Not that he expected Dara to agree to any of the terms Aurangzeb was offering—but God was known to work in mysterious ways.

  He blinked. He’d reached the bottom of the page yet again without actually absorbing the information contained in the report.

  The messenger entered and placed a fresh packet on the table set aside for Aurangzeb’s correspondence.

  I’m going to need a small army of highly qualified munshi soon. It’s one thing to command an army with but my own skills at administration, quite another to rule the empire.

  He stood and paced over to the table. Rifling through the latest messages, one caught his eye. Snatching it up, he returned to his seat. A few moments later he had decoded the message within. He had no trouble focusing on its contents. This time he checked his cyphering as well as rereading the message, wanting to be certain he hadn’t read only what he wanted to learn from the message instead of picking up what he wanted to hear.

  A slow smile spread beneath his thin, almost-adolescent beard. Roshanara’s report confirmed, from inside the harem, that Salim’s banishment did not appear to be a ruse. Even the up-timers were upset with Dara over the exile of their patron. And they were not the only ones. His sister reported that all the court seemed to have lost heart with his departure. Jahanara had also lost reputation in the exchange, Dara blaming her for some transgression that Roshanara took some glee in reporting, as it was reportedly
sexual in nature.

  Thoughts racing, Aurangzeb sat back.

  Briefly, he considered dispatching a messenger to Nur with this new information. News that Dara’s court was in such disarray might prove useful, but the fact that certain members of the court intended to capitulate meant nothing when Jahanara was negotiating in their presence. No, jogging Nur’s elbow at this late hour would do nothing to benefit his cause.

  Was it an opportunity, though?

  Perhaps some demonstration before the walls of Red Fort was called for? Some final plea for Dara to surrender? Those umara of questionable loyalty serving Dara might be convinced to betray the pretender if he could find the right words to sway them. But shouting at the walls did not seem the proper way to convey the necessary image of unassailable power and gravitas so essential to his image as a better, more mature ruler than his elder brothers.

  No, the value of any piece of information was based not only on the facts, but timing as well. Roshanara’s message had come too late for maximum value. The best Aurangzeb could do with the information now was plan for the defense to collapse rapidly if and when his own army appeared to be so overwhelming, and in such a position that any assault would surely doom the defenders. As any collapse of the defense was already predicated on such shows of force, the intelligence hardly affected the plan.

  That need in mind, Aurangzeb turned his attention to considering the disposition of forces at his command. The first assault would be given every chance of succeeding, if only to spare the lives of his followers.

  Carvalho was still shepherding the heaviest of the artillery train’s guns a few days to the south, the rains having made progress hellishly difficult. Even after he arrived the guns would take nearly a week to work into positions where they could even start to reduce the walls, a process which would take weeks he did not have. No, they would make do with the lighter pieces to support the assault.