1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  He rode in thoughtful silence for a few moments. Wishing to avoid a repeat of this interview any time soon, he measured his own response carefully before speaking. “Thank you. I understand your position more clearly for this conversation. I understand that your positions and any personal desire you might have for patience may be superseded by the commands of those for whom you toil. Equally, I hope that you will understand that I work toward an end that will see all of our collective positions advanced, and you and your masters rewarded.”

  He paused, glancing at each older man in turn, hoping to assess their responses.

  Methwold’s expression was blandly pleasant and entirely unreadable, while De Jesus looked, if not mollified, then at least less inclined to make another embarrassing scene. Catching the prince looking at him, he opened his mouth to speak.

  Aurangzeb smiled thinly and preempted whatever the priest had in mind, saying, “It seems we should all practice patience here, at the bottom of the well, treading water.”

  Tent of Methwold and De Jesus, Aurangzeb’s camp

  “I can’t believe I let you silence me,” De Jesus groused as Methwold’s slave cleared the remains of their meal. “My orders were to get him to agree to allow us a permanent presence here, and he has yet to even tell us when he will be in a position to make good on his numerous pledges.”

  William, already impatient with his companion’s recent behavior, knew De Jesus’ concerned mention of “us” actually meant the Catholic Church and its interests, but let that fact sit without comment in favor of a more important point: “Press for that now and you’ll see our collective cause ruined. His plans are in motion, and our position more delicate than I think you appreciate.”

  “Oh, I know exactly how ‘delicate’ our position is. He has given us only the vaguest assurances that we will be given what he promised, and then only when pressed! And I now know the viceroy has informed the archbishop that as we move farther and farther from Goa, he has—at great expense, mind you—had to arrange shipment of the supplies first by sea from Goa to Bombay before they are transported inland for the use of these ungrateful heretics.”

  That was always the plan, you fool.

  “As you know, Father, the viceroy’s plan has inherent financial risks.”

  “Oh, I know. What I do not know is how I will write the archbishop and viceroy with yet another rendition of Aurangzeb’s vague and infrequent assurances that he will make good on his pledges. Still more reporting of such ‘delicate’ positions will eventually result in orders that we abandon Aurangzeb and approach Shah Shuja directly and without hesitation.”

  Methwold didn’t bother to hide a wince. “Should they direct us to such action, I would think it solely the result of how little they appreciate the peril such a move would place their agents—that’s you and me, Father—in. Aurangzeb is powerful, and very…effective in his politics. He would take umbrage, certainly, and that would result in our deaths and the death of our chances for success. No, we have the tiger by the tail, and must hold on or be rent and torn by the very power we wish to place in harness.”

  “All such earthly power pales before the will of God,” De Jesus asserted, again testing William’s patience.

  “That’s as may be, Father.” Methwold had found the use of the honorific could placate the priest somewhat, and felt the need to do so now. “But we mortals can only work with what circumstances God places before us. I, for one, do believe Aurangzeb’s assurances that he moves to attain those heights from which he can reward our support.”

  “Why believe him over the evidence of your own eyes?” De Jesus asked, an angry flush darkening his cheeks.

  “That we cannot see those moves speaks to his skill at intrigue, not inactivity.”

  “But you must admit that such skill could just as easily be used to dupe us into continuing our support even as he pursues some goal other than the ends he proclaims to us.”

  “That I cannot argue, but consider: Why does Shuja rebuff our every attempt to approach him directly?”

  De Jesus twitched his shoulders as if he thought little of such a question.

  Methwold waited, having discovered quite early in their association that while the younger man was often impetuous, De Jesus was too intellectually honest to completely ignore any approach or line of questioning simply because he was angry. All that was required was time and patience, and the young priest would eventually apply his intellect.

  “I believe that he,” De Jesus said after an uncomfortable few moments, anger making a growl of it, “like Aurangzeb himself, does not want to be seen publicly placing himself in debt to foreigners.”

  “That is my belief as well…though I’ve come to believe that was not the entirety of his reason…” Methwold let the thought hang, marshaling his thoughts and giving De Jesus’ anger more time to cool.

  “I presume you have some new thoughts on the matter?” De Jesus asked, calm at last.

  “I do.” He sat forward on the cushions. “I grow certain that if we attempt to transfer our arrangement to Shuja, we will alienate both brothers, with results detrimental to our desires and ends.”

  “While I know it’s a risk, I’m afraid you’ll have to convince me how staying with Aurangzeb improves our position.”

  “The young prince is more astute than I gave him credit for when we first decided on this course—”

  The priest smiled faintly, interrupting, “Did you mean to present me with further argument supporting Shuja over Aurangzeb?”

  Methwold grinned. “No, I recognize that a powerful and wily emperor will prove more difficult to manage in the long term, but any pretender must first win the throne. And really—the Company’s interests here are purely mercantile, whatever the up-timers say about our future…conquests.”

  That the Company had come to rule India had seemed absurd to Methwold when he’d first learned of it, but far less so since Shah Jahan had acted upon the merest possibility by first revoking their firman and then attempting the murder of the Company’s representatives even as they fled for Surat. He’d lost a lot of good men in that debacle, including those of the natives he’d relied on most for their insider’s views on the political situation at court.

  Shaking free of memories of some of the darkest, most fearful experiences of a life of varied adventure and travel, Methwold resumed: “So I do not see a need to ‘manage’ whatever man sits the throne so long as we gain the concessions agreed to in exchange for our services.”

  De Jesus thought a moment before speaking his mind. “I am not certain the archbishop or viceroy would fully agree with you, but even if they were to do so, you still have not explained why you think it such a bad idea to even attempt to gain Shuja’s favor.”

  Just as you have not spoken of your reasons for wishing to hurry. Do you think me blind? That I did not see the viceroy’s messenger this morning?

  Swallowing the angry questions as detrimental to his cause, Methwold explained, “Shuja will see such a move as feckless—as us fleeing the service of a prince who has already pledged his, and therefore our, service to the throne. We would be asked why we seek to leave, what assurances we offer that we will not abandon Shuja in similar fashion. While we proffered our answers and waited for his response we would certainly be at risk as Aurangzeb sought to murder us for our betrayal. In addition, if Shuja wanted us as his clients, I believe he would have made an overture while the two of them were negotiating with one another, to better assess our reliability and value to his opponent.”

  He leaned back, added one more point as his slave entered and lit the lantern: “If we decided to just cut and run, or are ordered to withdraw our support by the viceroy and archbishop, then Shuja—or Aurangzeb when he comes to power—may decide taking Goa and its productive land is worth the fight, then strike at Dara with secure lines of supply that he controls utterly.”

  “Could he do that?”

  “We are still closer to Portuguese territory than Agra,
and the interior is far less well defended than the port…” Methwold shrugged, leaving unsaid that it was a poor option for any would-be emperor, and Aurangzeb in particular. There were many reasons the Mughals had not already ejected the Portuguese from India, not least of which was the fact the place was simply not that desirable given the amount of fighting that would have to be done to secure it.

  “I hadn’t thought they would do such a thing, having made peace with earlier viceroys.”

  “That was previous emperors. Few things bind a new emperor to the agreements entered into by past emperors, as evidenced by your own people’s experience at Hugli. It is yet another reason not to break faith with any of the royal family.”

  “As I understand it, Shah Jahan’s actions at Hugli were a result of our having angered him by refusing to assist his bid for his father’s throne, not supporting one of his siblings… So the circumstances are not entirely equal. I mean, the princes take on the followers of their defeated siblings upon emerging victorious, do they not?”

  “They do, but those not of royal blood who break faith with a losing prince without first being asked to do so by the winner are often punished most severely.”

  De Jesus sighed. “Such a corrupt, venal system. It is a wonder they yet rule here.”

  Wishing he could give vent to his feeling on the hypocrisy of a papist calling the Mughal system of rule corrupt, William Methwold wisely kept his own counsel.

  Deciding a change of subject was in order, he considered asking after the messenger. While De Jesus had kept him ignorant of the exact content, his outburst on approaching Aurangzeb had been a powerful signal the news from Goa was not good.

  Deciding the priest had calmed sufficiently to take the question without exploding into anger again, he said, “Does your impatience with Aurangzeb have aught to do with the messenger this morning, Father?”

  De Jesus looked away, color draining from his cheeks this time. “My passing along of Carvalho’s…requirement for assisting us has been responded to. Neither the viceroy nor archbishop received the request positively…”

  “No?” Methwold prompted.

  “They haven’t denied the request outright, but I…” The priest’s thoughts trailed off again, probably remembering too late that Methwold wasn’t Catholic, Portuguese, or a priest. The internal politics of the Estado and the Catholic Church were hardly suitable topics for any member of the Church of England, ally or no.

  “But they are hardly likely to try and stop the Inquisition in the Estado,” Methwold supplied, saving the young priest from having to say more. “Too many hot irons in the fire to grasp that particular one just now.”

  De Jesus nodded, expression clearing as he realized he would not have to explain further or, worse yet, lie outright to his only ally in this camp.

  And he would not have to explain because, perversely, Methwold was a better student of men than the priest. De Jesus’ character had seemed a muddle of contradictions until the day Carvalho had asked that the Inquisition be prevented from its work in the Estado. Judging from the way he’d agonized over the wording of the letter containing Carvalho’s request, De Jesus was familiar with the dark and pitiless nature of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, and struggled to reconcile its activities with the espoused tenets of his faith.

  Methwold, for his part, knew the more rabid members of the Anglican Church held views that were scarcely more tolerant of Jews and Gentiles, they just held less official power in the state.

  “Even so,” De Jesus said, “we must consider what Carvalho will do when he learns the viceroy and archbishop will not accede to his wishes.”

  Methwold nodded again. “I’m not sure what he can do at this point. The same web of obligation that binds us to Aurangzeb binds Carvalho’s reputation to us. If he withdraws his support from the arrangement reached with the prince, Aurangzeb may ask uncomfortable questions of him.”

  A wry smile pulled at the priest’s mouth. “Uncomfortable…That is a good way to put it. I can see how our situation is a double-edged sword poised at all our throats.” The smile faded. “Though his request of us regarding the Inquisition has merits I wish my superiors would recognize and support.”

  “The people you have converted are that threatened?” Methwold asked, despite his earlier resolve not to.

  De Jesus’ brows snapped together as his shoulders slumped.

  Methwold waited, carefully reining in the fit of temper that moved him to ask in the first place. On reflection, he knew why he’d asked the question: He was angry, too. Angry the young priest had been so reckless in his challenge to Aurangzeb, and angry that the Portuguese should continue with their claims on India while the Company struggled on without legitimacy. Angry that, in order to rectify the situation, he was made to tie his fortunes to those same Portuguese and accompany their impetuous priest into the camp of the prince who, while quite able, sat furthest from the throne.

  “They are,” De Jesus said after a long silence.

  “Well, no one can say you fail to do your best for those for whom you work, and perhaps your superiors will find wisdom from your example.”

  “We can but pray,” De Jesus said.

  Methwold wondered, not for the first time, how such a fool could balance what seemed a very deep and sincere faith with such utter inflexibility.

  Chapter 16

  Agra

  Red Fort

  Bertram absently waved away another offer of refreshment from one of Dara’s slaves, focused on the men drilling in the yard below.

  The sun was a club that beat down on anyone forced to leave the shade. The men standing almost fifty abreast and two ranks deep had been beaten by its rays since dawn, but very few had fallen out. Not when they marched from one end of the square to the other; not when they were slapped and, later, when they did not learn the complex marching instructions fast enough from their leadership, struck with fists.

  Their commander seemed, if not immune to the heat, then carved from stone: scarcely sweating despite conditions that had caused some half-dozen of his men to collapse from heat exhaustion.

  Unlike a stone, Bidhi Chand shouted a command in Punjabi, punctuating the order with a slight motion of his heavy saber. That he held the weapon out—at shoulder height and motionless—for the hundredth time as if it were the first, spoke of the man’s stamina and disciplined training.

  In response to his command the second rank pointed their weapons at targets set up roughly forty yards to their front while the front rank knelt, opening the breeches of their guns, extractors ejecting shells. There was no tinkle-tock of brass-based shells striking the flagstones at this remove, but Bertram’s memories of that fateful night on the Taj filled in the sound quite readily. Then again, the shells were not empty, either, as the shells were what John called “training dummies.” Each shell had the same general weight and construction as real ones, but contained sand in place of powder and shot. Bertram understood the need very well: real shells were too dear to expend in drills just yet, though Bertram had heard Talawat assure John that production was scaling ever-upward even as Dara’s craftsmen produced hundreds of shotgun shells each day.

  A single-word command had each kneeling man pulling a pair of brass-based paper shotgun shells from the covered belt at his hip while the second, standing rank of men pulled one of the triggers on their guns. The weapons did not belch smoke and shot as they would with real shells, but the Sikhs remained stock-still, awaiting the next order.

  That fresh command came quickly: a shout and movement of the sword summoned another trigger pull from those standing while the kneeling men placed fresh shells in their weapons and closed breeches.

  Another, different shout, and new position for the sword.

  The front rank, still kneeling, each rested an elbow on one raised knee and aimed at the targets while the second lowered their weapons and opened breeches. Brass winked in sunlight again as extractors launched shells into the hot, dry air.

/>   Another shout. The kneeling rank mock-fired while the second reloaded.

  Bertram was distracted by scattered sunlight as the diamond the size of a child’s thumb stuck in Dara’s turban caught the light.

  “Bidhi Chand and his men appear to learn the up-timer weapons and training more quickly than the Rajputs, Amar Singh Rathore,” Dara said to the man sitting at his right hand.

  Bertram felt his gaze snap to the Rajput princeling, but managed to keep the alarm he felt off his face. The emperor should be more circumspect in his comments, or at least less loud in their pronouncement. Amar Singh Rathore was one of the most powerful nobles of Dara’s court, with many warriors at his command and no few holdings to purchase the services of more. He was also a man more touchy of his honor than most Rajputs, which was truly saying something.

  He glanced again at Salim, but the Afghan was as powerless to intervene as Bertram. Anything said now would only serve to undermine the emperor’s authority and image, coming as it would unsolicited.

  The Rajput’s signature wide, curling mustaches trembled as he spoke. “Sultan Al’Azam, my people are fierce warriors, ready to fight to the death for your honor, should you command it! What they are not is dirt-grubbing farmers grown fat on easy living and but lately come to your cause! If they are slow to learn these new weapons, it is because they fail to see the honor in their use.”

  Thankfully, Amar and Dara had been reviewing the training privately—at least as privately as was possible for the Sultan Al’Azam. As a result, those on the balcony were, slaves and servants aside, mostly Mission people. Thus, while the angry tone of Amar’s words might have carried, the words themselves were unlikely to reach ears that might report the umara’s disparaging remarks to Bidhi Chand.