1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Not that there had been a lot to laugh about lately, what with burying Randy and, in the last few weeks, preparing like mad for the latest expedition. All of them were a bit antsy, having long since been ready to move on, and this meeting was supposed to be the final one before they could pursue the actual mission they’d been sent to India for in the first place.

  The world hadn’t seemed so big as a kid growing up in Grantville, not before the Ring of Fire brought them back to this time and changed everything.

  Bobby’s date pit bonged as he spat it into the bronze container for the purpose.

  It seemed to Ricky that it took a little longer than it should have for their host and the amir to emerge from the broad stair, but he entertained himself eating a mango. Another fruit he might never have known had Grantville stayed put in time and place, mangoes had quickly become his favorite. In fact, he’d decided only last month to see if a couple of the trees could survive transport back to Europe.

  Salim and Jadu Das climbed into view, looking as if they’d been deep in conversation about something sensitive.

  “Amir Salim. Good to see you!” J.D. said in English. Jadu was among those who’d taught Salim the language in the first place, as the Hindu was a long-term servant of the East India Company in Agra. John approached the pair, offering his hand.

  The junior members of the Mission rose, uniformly smiling. As well they should: Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz had been their guide and champion at court since their arrival, and had served them honestly and well. Not that Salim was just some perfumed pretty, Ricky thought, remembering the blood-drenched man being carried from the gardens of the Taj. Most of the blood had been that of the assassins sent to kill the royals.

  Most. Not all.

  Almost all of the locals had doubted the sword-cut Afghan would survive his injuries, and even Rodney and Pris had been uncertain if he would recover, given the lack of proper medical facilities or supplies.

  “And you, my friend,” Salim returned, taking John’s hand in his own and gesturing with his free hand for everyone to resume their seats.

  Once they were all seated and Jadu’s servants had brought more food, talk went from catching up on goings-on at court to the reason they were all here.

  “So, is everything prepared, John?” Salim asked.

  J.D. nodded, glancing at Jadu. “We think so.”

  “I think we are as well prepared as any caravan I have ever been part of.” Jadu Das smiled broadly and continued, “It has been a long time since you rescued me from my tormentors, Salim. I learned my lesson then.” He patted his healthy belly. “Age has made me realize that I like my skin too much to take such great risks with it.”

  Salim chuckled. “What route will you use?”

  Jadu nodded at Ricky, who pulled a map from the bag beside him and unrolled it. “We plan on using the imperial road rather than barge our way along the river, as it gives us more mobility and better access to some of the markets north of the Jumna and west of the Ganges. With the number of guards we’ve hired, the quality of the Banjaris Jadu has contracted with, and the products we brought to trade with the locals, I think we should be able to purchase all of the opium and saltpeter you require, not to mention other trade goods we might want to bring back.”

  “And the other thing?” Salim asked, pulling a jade-hilted dagger from his belt and using the scabbarded weapon to weigh the top of the map down.

  Ricky nodded, pulling his gaze from what had to be a fantastically expensive weapon. “We’ll keep our eyes open once we get farther east, try and learn what Grandpa Khan is up to.” He deliberately used the Americanism to confound any possible eavesdroppers—not that he expected any here, but one never knew.

  Jadu waggled his head. “I will press my contacts as well. A personal visit from me should make them more amenable to speaking out than a note or verbal message would.”

  Salim looked from the map to Ricky and Bobby. “And neither of you has a problem taking your orders from Jadu should there be a fight or some other emergency?”

  “No,” they answered at nearly the same instant.

  Bobby grinned, shaking his head. “We may have learned some Persian and the local lingo, but there’s no way either of us could manage in all the different languages we’re going to have to use to get this job done.”

  Salim looked back at J.D. “May I ask why young Bertram is not going with them? He has learned a great deal, and seems to find languages easy to learn.”

  “I am told the emperor has another task for him.” The statement was accompanied by a look that told his friends he didn’t much like the answer.

  Salim must have mistook the look for anger because he said, “Meaning no offense, of course.”

  John waved a hand. “None taken. It would make sense, and I asked for him, but my wife said it was not going to happen, and I take her word on such things as gospel.”

  “It is a wise man that listens to the counsel of his wife,” Jadu Das said. “I, myself, would have lost my fortune many times over had I not heeded my wife’s advice.”

  “Speaking of which…” Salim cocked his head. “Where is that adornment of gardens, the woman I know you must have kidnapped and held to ransom to make her accept you as husband?”

  “Surat, my friend. I would not have her here should our emperor’s brothers arrive and take issue with his rule.”

  Salim grinned through his beard. “Over her protests?”

  “No, on her insistence. We agreed our grandchildren will be safest there under the protection of Dhanji and his wife. There is also the family business to see to, and she has a nose for deals.”

  “But Surat has hardly any defenses,” John said, clearly confused.

  Jadu nodded. “And they know it. Surat will go to whomever approaches it with an army, avoiding unnecessary fighting.”

  That produced some thoughtful expressions from the Grantville folks around the table and a sage nod from Salim.

  “But won’t that piss Dara off?” Bobby blurted, earning a quelling look from J.D.

  Jadu waggled his head and answered without seeming to take offense. “It might. But then Surat serves the empire best as a conduit for trade, wealth, and Hajj pilgrims. Any long-term disruption of that trade from a sacking would prove far more problematic than a season or two of revenues going to another claimant.”

  “Seems very…practical,” J.D. said. Rather diplomatically, Ricky thought. J.D. might say he was a simple, hardworking-if-ignorant hillbilly, but he was one helluva lot smarter than most people—including John Dexter Ennis—gave him credit for.

  “Things will change once the empire secures deep-water ports along the mouths of the Ganges. But for now, the Assamese privateers and the outright pirates that infest Bengali coastal waters all the way up through the giant river valley of the Ganges make Mughal trade in the east a chancy thing. It’s one of the reasons Asaf Khan was sent there with so many sowar.”

  And why we’re to follow in his footsteps, trying to find out just which side he will back…

  Part Three

  April, 1636

  Thorny and dark the path is!

  —The Rig Veda

  Chapter 9

  Western Ghats, the Deccan

  Southwest of Aurangzeb’s camp

  “And what does the comte want with me?” Carvalho asked as he shifted in his saddle, tone and bearing utterly insolent.

  “The crown and Christ both wish you to provide an introduction for us at court, Captain Carvalho,” De Jesus said.

  “And this one?” the artillery captain waved a hand at William Methwold.

  “Company business aligned with that of Father De Jesus,” Methwold answered. More calmly than the priest, he hoped.

  “And why, besides my fierce devotion to king and Christ, should I endanger my position with Shehzada Aurangzeb?” Carvalho asked, returning his gaze to De Jesus. Methwold was impressed with the man’s ability to say such things with a straight face. According
to the intelligence he’d had from De Jesus and the other papists, Carvalho’s reputation was for mercenary self-interest first and foremost, with his skill as an artillerist a distant second.

  De Jesus, an earnest priest if ever Methwold had met one, either didn’t acknowledge Carvalho’s irony or flat-out didn’t recognize it, saying, “The Comte Linhares has authorized an offer of certain incentives and perquisites in exchange for your assistance, Captain Carvalho.”

  “Such as?”

  “A title, lands, money, the blessings of Mother Church.”

  Carvalho’s demeanor did not change. In fact, Methwold thought he detected some anger at the mention of Mother Church.

  “You do not seem moved,” De Jesus said.

  “I was waiting to see if you were done.”

  Methwold hid a smile.

  “I am.”

  Carvalho’s mount twitched an ear, but the man himself sat still, expressionless. Eventually, he looked at Methwold.

  “And you?”

  “Me?” Methwold asked.

  “What does the English Company’s president in Surat offer?”

  “What would you have of me?” Methwold asked, deciding not to correct the mercenary.

  “What, you do not offer silver or gold for my service?”

  “I await knowledge of what it is that you want in exchange for rendering us this small assistance.”

  “So you think it small, the assistance I can offer?”

  “Without you to tell me differently, I can but proceed on my assumptions.”

  The corner of Carvalho’s mouth turned up. “What manner of title can the English Company offer me?”

  “None.”

  “And with your firman revoked, how much can you afford to pay?”

  “Very little.”

  Carvalho nodded, seeming unsurprised with Methwold’s honesty. He eventually looked back at De Jesus. “And the viceroy? What does he offer?”

  De Jesus did not hesitate. “The comte will seek royal permission to elevate you to knightly orders, give you lands in Goa, as well as offering a healthy stipend of cash for your support.”

  Still the mercenary showed no interest. He had to be the coldest fish from the Iberian Peninsula Methwold ever met.

  “What you fail to realize is that I have all these things already from Shehzada Aurangzeb.”

  De Jesus shook his head angrily.

  Methwold covered an exasperated sigh that, despite his efforts, made his gelding toss its head.

  “Will you tell us what would move you to assist our cause?” Methwold asked, laying a soothing hand on the gelding’s neck.

  De Jesus just grated out,“What, then, can we give you?”

  “You may think it cheap, should I tell you…”

  De Jesus colored, clearly impatient. “I tire of these games. What is your price?”

  Carvalho dropped his insolent manner, his eyes flashing as he answered, “I will take what is offered, but I have one additional condition.”

  “And what is that?” De Jesus asked, anger sharpening his tone.

  “That the viceroy find some pretext for the removal of Father Vittorio di Roma from Goa and the Estado,” he snarled, deep-seated passions overcoming iron control. “That the viceroy put a stop to the burnings of the Nuovo Cristao in the Estado.”

  Father De Jesus must have flinched, because his mount sidled sideways in Methwold’s direction.

  The Englishman narrowly avoided having his leg pinned between the two horses. When Methwold looked up from controlling his mount, Carvalho was expressionless once more.

  His own mount under control again, De Jesus apologized to Methwold, but his voice failed him and all color drained from his face when he looked at Carvalho once more.

  Methwold wondered why the priest was so discomfited by the mercenary’s requirement, but could not fathom it. He knew, of course, about the Spanish and Portuguese kingdoms’ systematic persecution of Jews even after they’d converted to Christianity as the Catholic church and those crowns that bowed before such popery required, but didn’t see any reason the priest should be so moved.

  “My price too high for you, Father?”

  De Jesus shook his head and visibly gathered himself. “I am not without feeling on this matter myself.”

  Carvalho’s raised brows asked a question.

  “The Konkani people of the interior, the ones I have been ministering to…”

  “Yes?”

  “Many of those who have converted, even those who have been baptized with by my own hand, have recently been threatened with investigation by the Holy Office of the Inquisition.”

  Carvalho’s smile was bitter as he reached for a skin hanging from his saddle.

  “So you see, we could agree to your stipulation, but any promises we make would not be binding on the viceroy until he and the archbishop decide the matter…” The mercenary seemed to ignore the churchman’s answer, removing the stopper with red-stained teeth and putting it to his lips. The bulging skin shrank considerably as he swallowed several mouthfuls from the skin.

  Only when he was done did he answer. “Well, if they—and you—want my continued support, then you will make every effort to see that he follows through on any promises you make here today.”

  “So you will help us?” Methwold asked.

  “I will,” Carvalho said, offering the wineskin to William.

  “Thank God,” De Jesus said as the Englishman took a long pull on the skin.

  “For now,” Carvalho said, looking the younger man in the eye, “and provided you can present sureties regarding those things you claim to be authorized to grant in order to gain my assistance.”

  “We have letters and grants sufficient to back our offers,” De Jesus said, bristling slightly, clearly not happy with the mercenary’s tone.

  Aurangzeb’s camp

  Aurangzeb’s tent

  “A group of ferenghi seeks an audience, Shehzada.”

  “What manner of ferenghi?” Aurangzeb asked, refreshed in spirit if not in body. Prayer always steadied him that way.

  “They are brought before you by your Portuguese umara, Carvalho. They include another Portuguese—this one a priest—and an Englishman I am almost certain your father exiled and that Mullah Mohan later caused to be attacked as he fled to Surat.” A moment’s thought. “Methwold, I believe he is called, though I cannot recall any titles or other names.”

  Interesting. I suppose I should not be surprised. The English would want to return to our good graces so they can resume trade. And yet, to come with the representatives from the Portuguese…

  “Their stated purpose?” he asked, still musing.

  “Carvalho claims they are here to offer the assistance of the Estado da India to your cause, Shehzada.”

  “The nature of that assistance?”

  “They were not forthcoming with your humble servant, Shehzada.”

  Aurangzeb resisted the urge to smile as he arranged himself among the cushions. While the diwan he had selected from among the many munshi that applied for the position, the eunuch Painda Khan had certainly not been blessed by God with an overabundance of humility. And Aurangzeb was not inclined to reward such a lack with smiles or any other sign of indulgence.

  “Bring them before me.”

  “As you command, Shehzada,” said Painda Khan. If offended by the prince’s curtness, he had the good sense not to show it.

  Aurangzeb filled the time the heavy eunuch required to summon the ferenghi to his presence by reading the reports coming from the courts of Dara and Shah Shuja. As they were written by those who had already declared for one side or another, the reports generated by the imperial news writers were generally not the most reliable sources for intelligence—especially on the motives of his brothers—but they did provide information on the promotions and other announcements of the courts they reported on. From such information, he could deduce a great many things.

  One particular report from Dara’s co
urt gathered his attention. It seemed that Dara had promoted the Afghan, Amir Salim Gadh Yilmaz, to command five thousand. The large number of men nominally at his command did not signify. It was never easy to find quality sowar to fill out that high a rank, and after the last year of heavy, repeated recruitment, it would be doubly difficult. And that was before considering mounts. Then again, Dara had access to Father’s enormous treasuries at Agra and Gwalior Forts.

  No, Aurangzeb’s interest was more personal: by all reports from Father’s assassination, Yilmaz was a warrior of great skill and courage. Given his ascendance, the man must have been more politically astute than Aurangzeb had originally given him credit for, having become first Father’s confidant and now rising ever higher in Dara’s service. Such men of quality were not common among those who were in Dara’s service before he’d ascended the throne, and it was important to study those who might serve as his elder brother’s chief general before ever meeting them on the field of battle.

  The ferenghi party was ushered into the tent, distracting him with their mere presence. Unknown quantities were either opportunities or liabilities waiting to be identified by the wise.

  Deciding he wished to begin determining which category his visitors would fall into, Aurangzeb nodded permission for them to approach rather than making them wait upon his pleasure.

  Carvalho, wearing the robe Aurangzeb had given him on promotion to command five hundred, was first behind the diwan as they were led forward. The artillery captain had proven his worth on the campaign into the Deccan, commanding and being commanded without regard for race or religion. Such was rare among the ferenghi, who preferred adherents to their own religion in all things.

  Thinking of Christians, Aurangzeb let his eyes slide to the man a step behind and to the left of Carvalho. The priest appeared an unimposing, slope-shouldered man. His robes were gray, and not cut in the same fashion as those of the Jesuits Aurangzeb had encountered in Shah Jahan’s court. In fact, they were quite plain in comparison.