by Eric Flint
She looked down over the river and toward Mother’s tomb, glad of the moment of solitude she’d obtained by the simple expedient of sending her body slaves to assist Nadira.
Jahanara heard Firoz Khan’s slippers pacing the dense carpets. Looking up, she saw that Smidha had entered the chamber. She seemed very tense. Her eyes flicked back and forth from Jahanara to the eunuch.
“Leave us, please, Firoz,” Jahanara said.
Firoz bowed and left. When the sound of the eunuch’s slippers faded from hearing, Jahanara looked back up at Smidha. Gesturing to a nearby cushion, she said, “Sit. You look tired.”
“Tired!” Smidha folded herself onto the cushion. “Tired of folly, perhaps! When were you going to tell me?”
Jahanara frowned. “Tell you what?”
Smidha turned her head and looked at the doorway, then peered at the shaded alcoves where Jahanara’s body slaves usually lingered. Apparently, to satisfy herself that no one was listening. Finding they were as alone as they were likely to ever be, Smidha turned back and nodded her head sharply. The gesture was…
She was pointing with her brow, Jahanara realized. At Jahanara herself.
No, at her midriff.
“You’re pregnant.” The words were soft, but the tone was not. It combined accusation, exasperation and…sorrow, perhaps.
“I told you it was folly to meet with Salim alone. At least, if either I or Firoz had been there we could have restrained that…that…adventurer!”
Jahanara’s mouth opened and she waggled her head a little. Part protest, part denial, and part acknowledgement that Smidha was correct about the pregnancy.
Smidha sniffed, a lifetime’s experience with the princess letting her read Jahanara’s expression. “Fine. We could have restrained you.” She threw up her hands. “Both of you!”
Realizing she’d raised her voice, even if only slightly, Smidha turned her head again to peer at the balcony entrance. Then, not satisfied, she replaced her veil, climbed to her feet and looked out over the balcony, then moved to the entrance.
“No one,” she muttered, returning to her cushion. After she was seated, she said: “So, an answer. When were you going to tell me?”
By then, Jahanara had regained some composure. “Ah…soon.”
Smidha sniffed again. “When your belly was showing for all the world to see?”
“I was going to tell you…maybe tomorrow. Or the day after.” She gestured at the pile of missives still stacked before her. “I have been very busy! Dara is in no condition to handle such matters now.”
“He’s well enough to order your death once he discovers the truth.”
Again, Jahanara opened her mouth and shook her head. But no protest came forth. Smidha was probably right, she knew. Her brother might, if Nadira had her way, spare Jahanara herself—though she’d certainly be imprisoned—but there would be no such mercy for Salim. None at all.
“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, hanging her head.
“There is the dancing girl’s remedy. The up-timers probably know better and safer ways to do it, and I think we could trust them to keep silent. We certainly cannot rely upon any of the old guard at court.”
Jahanara had already considered that option herself. For hours, now, she had only pretended, even to herself, to be fully occupied with her brother’s correspondence. So when she shook her head, the gesture was firm and final.
“No. It is impossible.”
“Nonsense. Not until one hundred and twenty days after conception—and don’t tell me you don’t know what day that was. We still have plenty of time.”
Jahanara knew that herself, because she’d studied the matter once she realized that she was pregnant. The Koran said nothing directly about induced miscarriage, so guidance had to be found in the Hadith—which, for Sunni Muslims like herself, meant the words, teachings and actions of Muhammad and his companions. The Hadith could be construed in different ways, however. So, over time, four major schools of Islamic law had emerged: the Hanafi, Maliki, Shafi’i and Hanbali. The Mughals followed the Hanafi, with some modification.
She had one hundred and twenty days from conception, when the law did not consider a fetus to have a soul and thus be a human.
“I will tell you what is forbidden,” said Smidha. “Suicide is forbidden—and that applies just as much to killing yourself by inaction as doing it directly.”
Jahanara knew that also. The fourth Surah said it clearly: And do not kill yourselves, surely God is most Merciful to you.
“No,” she repeated. “I forbid it.” She placed her hand over her womb. “I will not kill my child. Who is also Salim’s child. No.”
“Stubborn, like your mother.” Smidha sighed.
Jahanara glanced at her advisor.
“Oh, don’t look at me so. Your mother didn’t have to keep bearing children, not after supplying Shah Jahan with four sons! She could have let one of the others run those risks, bear those burdens.”
“But, she loved us. Loved being mother to us all.”
Smidha nodded, face pinched with sorrow. “She brooked no competition for Shah Jahan’s love, either.”
Knowing what Smidha said was true, Jahanara had no reply.
“In truth, I was afraid you’d say you wanted it,” Smidha said, placing her hands on her thighs and leaning back a little. “There is only one other option, then. We must place you in seclusion—and for months. But how? Where?”
Jahanara heard Firoz’s approach first. Smidha, despite her nervous disposition today, was older, with an older woman’s ears. The scuffed heaviness of the eunuch’s slow tread was a signal to Jahanara. The eunuch’s tread was normally as light as could be, given his weight. Firoz wished her to know her privacy was about to be interrupted.
Smidha recognized the signal also, of course.
The two of them fell into a cautious silence.
A bull elephant trumpeted, answered a moment later by another.
The eunuch joined them on the balcony and approached. His obeisance was perfect. He came erect and said, “The Sultan Al’Azam requires your presence.”
* * *
Jahanara was relieved to see that Dara seemed alert. That could be a mixed blessing, of course—and judging from the scowl on his face, it probably was. He was in his private chambers, seated comfortably among cushions, and attended only by Nadira, who had sent everyone away with her son upon her sister-in-law’s arrival. That he was not abed was surely a good sign, though his glower was not.
So she was surprised when his first words were not a reprimand. “Nur Jahan is at the Water Gate,” he said. “She begs for sanctuary, having taken a boat from Agra proper.”
For an instant, Jahanara’s mind blanked. Among all her present concerns, projections, plans, and worries, Nur had been distant and of little import. And for the woman to be approaching from Agra when Aurangzeb’s Red Tent had been south of Red Fort?
Nur Jahan. Here? What could she possibly be thinking?
The answer came on the heels of the question, and she spoke it aloud. “It follows naturally on Aurangzeb’s bold attack. The misinformation he had from the Venetian spy, Gradinego—what she was deceived into believing was reliable information—led him astray.” She’d almost added and from Roshanara but stopped herself in time. As furious as she was at her younger sister, Jahanara had better use for her alive than as a corpse.
Dara Shikoh grunted. “Your doing.” That sounded more like an accusation than the compliment she deserved for the sacrifices she’d made to bring off his great victory. Yes, there would be a reprimand coming soon.
But not yet. Her brother left off scowling at her and his glare softened as he looked at Nadira, seated close enough to hold his hand. Then, looking back at Jahanara, he said, “I don’t want Nur Jahan anywhere near my wife and son. She’s too dangerous. In fact, I’m inclined to simply execute her and have done. But…”
Jahanara gently shook her head. “Make use of her instead: e
mploy her as your mediator with Aurangzeb.”
“So he can be her executioner?” Dara ran fingers through his beard. “I suppose that would be better. She is Jahangir’s widow, after all. An empress in all but name, in her time. So let her imperial blood be on his hands, you’re saying?”
“Possibly. But that might be the least beneficial outcome. What I am primarily thinking is that the way Aurangzeb deals with her will tell us a great deal about his state of mind after his defeat at your hands. His self-restraint, especially.”
Dara had not invited her to sit, so she remained standing even though after all the hours she’d spent the day before overseeing the work in the healers’ pavilion her feet still hurt. She didn’t mind the pain so much as the distraction. She’d be able to think better if she weren’t forced to hover on aching feet.
“What do you propose Nur should tell him, beloved?” Nadira asked.
Dara was still running fingers through his beard, as he often did when deep in thought. He glanced from his wife to Jahanara. “What is your advice?” His jaws tightened. “As angry as I am at you, I do not—cannot—deny that you are shrewd. Very much so. So what do you think?”
“Offer him the governorship of the Deccan,” Jahanara said, ignoring his tone to concentrate on achieving her ends.
“He will only use such a position to strengthen himself,” protested Nadira.
Jahanara nodded agreement, even as she outlined her reasoning: “And yet, over the last ten years, the Deccan has been ravaged by famine, plague, and, of late, the vast armies of your brothers’ comings and goings. What remains is a war-torn and famine-ravaged region without the resources that you command here—and we also can strengthen ourselves further given the head start you have obtained for us. It will be what the Americans call an ‘arms race’ in which we have all the advantages.”
She waggled her head. “It is either that or resume the war. Time will work to our advantage, not his.”
“Aurangzeb is not stupid,” cautioned Nadira. “He will understand we offer a flower thick with thorns.”
“Yes, of course. But…” She really wished she could sit. Her aching feet were muddying her thoughts. Not so much making them murky as slowing her normally quick mind.
After a moment seeking her inner calm, the game pieces came into sharp focus, the board before her clear. “The thing is, I don’t believe Aurangzeb has much choice. You gave him a great bloodying out there, brother—and the fact that it was you who did it—in person, leading from the front—makes it all the worse. He has suffered a great blow to his prestige and is already losing men. Some will have lost any taste for fighting and will leave for home, but others will begin exploring their options, begin to make overtures to you. His army might remain larger than ours should his key umara remain loyal, as I expect them to, but he will not resume fighting again. Not by choice, and not for at least a year. His army is a bent blade, and he needs time to mend it before bringing it to battle again. And in that time, you will further strengthen your position, forces, and technology to the point any fool will see who is the rightful Sultan Al’Azam.”
A few heartbeats passed. Enough that Jahanara worried she might have overstepped, said too much, but then Dara lowered his hand. “Do it, then. Instruct Nur Jahan”—he smiled thinly—“on her new duties.”
She almost said, “What—me?” The last thing she wanted to do was undertake the walk down to the Water Gate. Firoz Khan could provide her with a litter, but she did not want to show any weakness before Nur. And besides, the pain would be some small penance for the lies and lives she’d spent.
So be it. Without protest, she turned and left.
Red Fort
Water Gate
“Aurangzeb will have me beheaded!”
Jahanara nodded, pitiless. “Yes, that is quite possible.”
Nur glared at her. “And that is your intent.”
“No. That is a possible outcome—and one I have no difficulty accepting. But I would actually prefer it if he spared you and sent you back with a reply.”
“He might send my head back with a reply—a reply carried by another emissary.”
Jahanara found herself enjoying Nur’s fear, and strove to suppress the feeling. Mian Mir would not approve of that. Nor did she herself, in her better moments.
“Yes,” she said. “That would also tell us something.”
Nur Jahan shifted her glare to the boat where her few remaining guards and servants sweltered in the sun, as did she herself. Jahanara had insisted on conducting this meeting in the open, above the dock that had been thrown up in the wake of the battle—where she was being shaded by a parasol in the hands of a large eunuch.
It was hot.
Nur had no choice, and she knew it. At least she had the satisfaction of knowing she hadn’t been bested by Dara. No, it was another woman who had come up with this clever and cunning scheme. Bad enough to have a man cut her head off; worse still if she were forced to explain to the man exactly why and how he’d been maneuvered into the action in the first place.
“Very well,” she said between gritted teeth.
There followed a rather long period of instruction, wherein Jahanara explained to a sweating Nur exactly what was expected of her.
“I will carry your words to Aurangzeb…I will return in two, perhaps three days. If I return at all.”
She didn’t bother to add any curses. The young princess she’d so badly underestimated would probably deduce something from those as well.
Jahanara had certainly come into her own. She was…
Impressive.
* * *
After Nur Jahan boarded her boat and was being poled to Agra, Jahanara watched her for a while—not so much to be sure the woman was leaving, but simply because she was reluctant to start walking again. Her feet were still very sore. She had gotten little exercise for quite a while now because of the demands of the crisis. Even when her life had been more active, that had usually meant she was on horseback. She’d spent all day on slippered feet yesterday, from dawn to well past midnight. There hadn’t been a single day in her previous life when she’d ever done that, so far as she could remember. Not even as a child.
When Nur Jahan’s boat was a mere speck on the river, Jahanara blew out a soft sigh and began to turn back toward the gate. Looking down at the wide Yamuna, a thought came to her. A wish, really. To be able to sail away. She stared down at the slow-moving waters of the great river winding toward the sea, mind racing.
Of course.
Red Fort
Harem
As soon as Jahanara returned to Dara Shikoh’s private chambers, her brother burst out angrily.
“You have done nothing but deceive me!” With a sharp jerk of his head, pointing with his chin, he indicated his wife. “And you drew her into your schemes as well! You talked me out of executing Salim on the grounds that I needed to be merciful. The teachings of Mian Mir, you said. But all the while you and your lover were scheming!”
Her own long-suppressed anger boiled over. “Scheming? Scheming to do what? All Salim and I did was plan a maneuver that would cripple Aurangzeb’s supply lines from the Portuguese! A maneuver which may have preserved the Peacock Throne for you!”
This time she wasn’t going to wait for any invitation. Even after resting on the litter Firoz had summoned for her, her feet were still sore. She folded herself down on a cushion. “And it is a lie that Salim is my lover!”
That itself was what Priscilla’s husband Rodney would call a bald-faced lie, but she was too furious to care. “I am tired of your false accusations!”
Nadira tried to intervene. “Husband, everyone is crediting you with what Salim did. ‘A masterful stroke,’ some have been heard calling it.”
“Oh, splendid!” Dara Shikoh threw up his hands. “So now you have ruined my reputation as well as hers! Everyone thinks I have no respect for my own honor, now.”
Jahanara had calmed down enough to speak in a level to
ne. “Brother, the supposed ‘honor’ of an emperor means less than nothing if he loses the throne, his family, and his means of bestowing honors on his subordinates. Every diwan, umara and zamindar with any experience knows that—and all but a handful will admire an emperor who knows it as well. Better still, an emperor who knows it and is willing to act accordingly. If you did not let your emotions cloud your good sense—”
She bit that off. Dara was clearly about to explode again. “Let us be done with this! I realize there is a problem and the solution is clear and obvious: I will go on Hajj. As soon as possible.”
Dara’s mouth, which he’d opened to shout, was now simply agape. So was Nadira’s, although she managed somehow to do it prettily.
“Hajj will solve everything, I think. Even your issue with my contact with Salim. Even though there is and was absolutely nothing scandalous or improper in my conduct with Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz—none whatsoever and never has been!—”
She hoped it was not pride that led her to believe she was actually as good at telling the bald-faced lie as recent experience had made it seem. Perhaps it was Nur Jahan’s influence; certainly her interactions with her eldest female relative had proven she’d some ability at dissembling.
“—if it is obvious to everyone that I no longer have any contact with him, for most of a year, then rumors should die down.” She nodded respectfully at Nadira. “And my absence will make it clear your wife is in unquestioned and complete control over your harem.”
She fell silent. Saying anything further, she thought, would be a mistake. And she hoped…
Nadira did not fail her. “You see?” her sister-in-law exclaimed, gesturing with her hand toward Jahanara. “You should be ashamed of yourself, husband! Your sister has never done anything except in furtherance of our needs and interests, in the interest of preserving our son’s life and chance to rule. Ashamed of yourself, I say! Ashamed!”