1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  “Sultan Al’Azam, may I depart?” Aurangzeb asked for the second time, striving to keep his tone neutral and his expression blank.

  Shuja pretended not to hear.

  Aurangzeb raised his voice slightly and again asked the emperor leave to depart, adding that it was nearing time for prayer.

  That gained Shuja’s attention. He surged to his feet and turned to face his brother.

  The dancing girl stifled a squeak as she fell from his lap to the carpets, her lustrous black hair coming loose.

  Stumbling slightly, Shuja caught himself, one boot coming to rest on the dancing girl’s long, unbound hair.

  Shuja smiled bitterly. “I wonder,” the elder brother slurred.

  Aurangzeb did not respond.

  The festivities, losing momentum without the continued attentions of the emperor, stumbled to a lesser tempo, spreading silence in a circle radiating from the brothers like the ripples caused when a stone was dropped in a still pool.

  “I wonder,” Shuja repeated into the ever-greater quiet, “how Father sired such a bloodless pair as you and Dara. The one wants nothing but to hide behind his wife’s veils and the other…the other”—he spilled wine over Aurangzeb’s crossed legs as he pointed down at him—“the other”—he hiccupped—“the other would spend his time praying for victory.”

  Be calm. God fashions each moment like stepping-stones to knowledge of His will; do not miss your step for anger or pride.

  “I do not know what you mean, Sultan Al’Azam. I have only ever done as you commanded.”

  Another gesture of the cup made the emperor sway.

  “And if I command you to drink?” Aurangzeb felt those of the umara who kept God’s law as written by His Prophet tense on hearing Shuja’s words.

  Even those of the umara who were neither Muslim nor devout, but yet remained sober enough to think, had misgivings. Commanding a man to act against his religious conviction was simply not done. Certainly not by one of the descendants of Akbar.

  “Then I will beg forgiveness,” Aurangzeb said, hiding satisfaction.

  “Of whom?” Shuja asked.

  “Sultan Al’Azam?”

  “Who will you ask for forgi—” Shuja’s swaying reached a critical mass, forcing him to adjust his footing. One slippered foot caught in the dancing girl’s hair. The emperor threw out both hands to save himself from a fall, his goblet striking Aurangzeb in the face before he could raise a hand to guard it. Wine splashed his eyes, blinding him.

  The dancing girl shrieked.

  When he wiped away the wine, Aurangzeb saw only the bottom of his brother’s feet. One slipper had come off, and both heels drummed the carpets, along with his other foot. His gaze traveled up his brother’s supine form and saw purple-red froth about Shuja’s mouth.

  Aurangzeb blinked in momentary confusion, mind failing to apprehend what was before his eyes.

  Nur’s poisoner wasn’t supposed to kill him, just make him more drunk.

  No. This looks like the seizures he used to have after the fall in Lahore, when I was a baby.

  This isn’t the result of poison, it’s a seizure!

  He’s having a seizure, just like when he was a boy.

  I thought he’d recovered…

  Merciful God!

  He sat up, aware he must seize the moment God had laid before him, and do so immediately.

  The tent was now entirely silent, aside from the choking gasps of Shuja’s breathing and the whimpering of the dancing girl who thought herself the cause of Shuja’s fall.

  Fitting, that.

  “God!” someone’s startled cry rent the near silence.

  “No!” Aurangzeb cried, improvising as he, still on his knees, went to his brother’s side. “None shall say my brother was struck down by God! It was a simple accident brought about by too much drink, nothing more!”

  Several of his followers shouted support, providing a cloak to cover his true intent.

  Islam Khan, one of Shuja’s more prominent, and supposedly devout, commanders, was shaking his head.

  Aurangzeb pointed at the man. “You shake your head in denial, but I beg you, do not think ill of my brother! It was a simple fall, not God’s justice.”

  Islam Khan’s face, made florid by drink, went stiff under his beard as he realized that whatever he’d been shaking his head about, it had been made to serve Aurangzeb’s purpose.

  Aurangzeb hid exultation behind a facade of care for his stricken brother as the umara began to mutter, then declaim, then bellow at one another. For it was apparent that, despite Aurangzeb’s protestations, Shuja’s sudden fall and subsequent seizure were clear and obvious signs from God of the emperor’s fall from grace.

  Shuja relaxed into the deep, exhausted slumber that had always followed one of his seizures. Had he not been drinking, or dosed with whatever Nur’s agent had placed in his drink, he might have roused, for there was danger in his slumber.

  Careful not to argue too persuasively, Aurangzeb slowly gave ground and allowed himself to be convinced that his brother’s fall was the sign they all knew it to be.

  Pretending to rally, he called for learned men to assess the validity of the sign. When his shrinking pool of opponents challenged him further, he asked them to bring their own seer or learned men in to refute what they had all witnessed.

  An hour, then. A golden hour in which the fate of the dynasty was decided.

  As if there was any question as to God’s intent.

  There was a shift in the royal tent, a movement Aurangzeb likened to the gathering power of an avalanche. At first there were but a few small stones. After enough of them had been moved, the larger, heavier stones—the ones that carried more weight—were set in motion, falling over each other to throw themselves at Aurangzeb’s feet.

  Eventually, all those present—the most powerful and privileged umara of Shuja’s court—were moved from the circle of Shuja’s power and entered the shade of his younger, better-suited, and most pious brother’s ambit.

  When one of his snores grew too loud, and Aurangzeb was certain he had every umara who counted in hand, he directed Shuja be taken from the Red Tent to his own erstwhile quarters and seen to, but not before making certain that his own nökör stood guard over the fallen emperor.

  Aurangzeb’s tent, Aurangzeb’s camp

  Nur yawned behind her veil.

  Humayun Lodi, Shuja’s personal physician, glanced at her on hearing it. “I can give you a draught, Begum. One that will keep you awake for hours. I only offer it because women do not suffer stress as men do, being far more delicate in their constitutions.”

  “No, I will be fine.” Nur did not like the slim Persian’s airs. While he cut a dapper figure in any of the robes of state Shuja had lavished on him, the man’s skills as a courtier far outstripped any medical acumen he might have laid claim to.

  Years spent propping up her beloved Jahangir had taught her more about the interplay of drugs and alcohol on the human form than most physicians would ever have the chance to learn, and certainly far more than the presumptuous buffoon before her.

  Another yawn threatened. She concentrated a moment, breathed deeply, and murdered it before it could betray her fatigue to Humayun once again.

  The yawns might be attributed to relief. That she was here with Humayun instead of being questioned by the fool was a clear indication none suspected Shuja had fallen victim to poison. But it had also been late when word reached her of Shuja’s collapse, and later still when she’d brushed aside the complaints of his servants and diwan, to enter Aurangzeb’s tent—no, Shuja’s now—and began her watch.

  Shuja’s men had proved persistent. Their complaints had reached Aurangzeb, naturally, prompting the younger prince to order them to accept her commands as from his own mouth and placing her in charge of Shuja’s recovery.

  Damn him and his clever head.

  Such a public command placed her in a precarious position. She had thought to see if there might be some way
to quietly do away with Shuja, perhaps by the administration of some toxin that would make his death seem a natural outcome of drink, his fall, and the seizure that followed.

  She’d discarded the notion as soon as Aurangzeb’s command had been delivered, however.

  By publicly placing her in charge of his recovery, Aurangzeb had also made her responsible should the drunken idiot pass on to his reward.

  Besides, he gave no specific instruction regarding such action, and I have only to think back on Mullah Mohan’s fate to see what repercussions precipitous action will win for me.

  No…I need to consider carefully how best to gain advantage from this and ensure Aurangzeb does not decide he can dispense with me now he begins to see his aims met.

  Red Tent, Aurangzeb’s camp

  Knees aching, Nur prostrated herself before the emperor in all but name. It was late, very late. There would be time to sleep when she was dead, and she counted it a good sign that he had granted her a private audience.

  He had timed her audience with the same care he showed in all things, admitting her into his presence just as he was preparing to retire for the night.

  As his closest female relation in camp, none should think it strange that she attend him now, especially after she had spent the last few hours nursing his brother, Shuja.

  She would report the deposed emperor’s status, of course. But there were other issues of import to discuss, such as how to retain enough support from the men about him to maintain the power he’d grasped today.

  Dismissing his attendants, Aurangzeb gestured for her to rise and come closer.

  “Sultan Al’Azam,” she murmured quietly, always wary of eavesdroppers. She settled on a cushion below the raised platform where he sat.

  He yawned, fatigue warring with exultation, and returned, just as quietly: “Not yet, Nur. I have yet to have the khutba said in my name nor had coins struck. Then there is the uncomfortable fact that Shuja still lives…” He looked at her with eyes rimmed red with fatigue. “How fares my brother?”

  “He slumbers, and will continue to until noon, at least. Measures were taken.”

  “But he will not die?” he asked.

  Admiring his neutral tone, she answered, “Not if this is but a recurrence of his old condition, no.”

  “Is it?”

  “It is.” Nur’s answer was without hesitation, despite a twinge of misgiving. Even the best physicians often had to guess as to what ailed their patients, and for all her knowledge of intoxicants and their effects on the human body, she was no more a proper physician than Humayun.

  “I thought your actions precipitated his fall.”

  “His seizure was not a result of what you commanded be put in his drink”—she felt it useful to remind him just who had given the orders—“instead, it was a result of too much drink, both tonight and over the last few weeks. In fact, what we put in his drink should have made him less prone to seizure, not more.”

  He was young enough to let his relief show. “I admit to some shock when he fell. Indeed, I had not remembered his condition until that moment.” He shrugged. “In fact, I recall very little about his falling spells save that he had them as a boy.”

  “You were very young, and the event was a great secret. Even I am not absolutely certain of what happened, as Shah Jahan and my husband were at odds when it first happened. Jahangir told me later one of Shuja’s nurses tripped and fell with him from the balcony. He struck his head and very nearly died, but the young have great powers of recuperation. His seizures did not come as often while we had you both in our custody, and I thought they had ceased entirely by now. At least, I had not heard he still suffered them.”

  “If it didn’t resolve on its own, they kept his condition a very close secret indeed. I had entirely forgotten about it.” Aurangzeb shook his head, perhaps thinking that if he had known of it, he might have tried to trigger the condition earlier.

  “So, how shall we proceed?” Nur asked after a moment.

  He waggled his head thoughtfully. “On which account do you speak?”

  She smiled thinly. “On every account, Sultan Al’Azam. There are a great many birds need killing, and only so many stones to go about. Shall we see if there are a few that can be slain with but one stone?”

  “I marry as soon as possible. Sher Shah Khan will provide his daughter.”

  Her smile grew. “An excellent match!” The girl had been Nur’s first choice and main recommendation for weeks now. Aurangzeb had refused to approach her father out of concern Shuja would learn of it and punish them both.

  He nodded, tugging gently at the thin beard trying, valiantly, to cover his chin. “I confess to some…trepidation.”

  “Why? Tying that family to you also signals that Shuja’s most powerful supporter believes you are the one to back. When the others see him depart, everyone who thinks to remain with Shuja will have to question why they do not swear to you.”

  Aurangzeb waved her down. “That is not my concern—or, rather, it is one I have already planned for. No, I—” He shook his head and looked at his hands, jaw working. “What if I do not like her? Or…she…dislikes me?”

  Aurangzeb’s shy admission tested the experience and discipline of a lifetime spent in the courts of the perceptive and powerful. Crushing the desire to smile, she reached out a hand to gently touch his. “She is a great beauty, and will give you the sons you need to secure your throne, Sultan Al’Azam. The rest will come as God wills.”

  Mention of God’s will soothed his troubled brow, as she knew it would.

  He brightened and quickly changed subjects: discussing the day’s momentous events, with Aurangzeb revealing his plans to solidify support and deny Shuja the chance to regain his power. He even asked her to advise him on what he might have overlooked in his planning.

  That part of her not engaged in that process reviewed what had just transpired: He so rarely shows his youth, it is easy to forget his inexperience. That inexperience is a point of exposure anyone with access can exploit. I must be certain to cover for it, even as I ensure I am in position to exploit it.

  Carefully.

  She noted, as she left him to his rest, that he had not mentioned how he planned to dispose of Shuja. Nur did not press the question, knowing Aurangzeb had a number of sensible reasons not to have his brother murdered.

  First off, murdering one’s own brother was against Heaven’s law. Princes, especially among the Ottomans, vying for a throne were known to cast aside that law with regularity. Here, though, Aurangzeb’s reputation for piety was such he could not execute his brother without sacrificing many of the allies his pious image had brought to his cause.

  Second: as long as he was entirely in Aurangzeb’s power, the threat Shuja posed was mitigated, especially as Aurangzeb was not likely to make the same mistakes as his elder brother.

  Third, and most important: those who supported Shuja would be comforted by the fact that should Aurangzeb die in battle or some other incident, there was an heir who would be grateful to those who freed him from whatever prison Aurangzeb decided to put him in. Of course, once Aurangzeb fathered a son on his new wife, Shuja’s life would be counted in breaths, if not heartbeats.

  Chapter 27

  Agra

  Red Fort, the harem

  “You will explain yourself,” Dara hissed.

  Jahanara flinched, caught completely by surprise. The sharp reprimand lacing his tone was entirely unexpected. She looked around, half thinking his tone indicated a slave must have made some egregious error and created some mess that she should have prevented. Seeing they were as alone as he ever was, she looked at her brother only to find him staring at her.

  “Do not look for my wife to answer for you, sister.”

  “What? I do not understand the source of this sudden attack, Dara,” she said, fatigue making her wilt in the face of his obvious anger. She had no idea what might have precipitated such anger in him. She’d been late joining the imperial
couple because she’d been seeing to one of the endless details of government that had fallen on her since Dara’s ascension.

  “You have been lying to me for months.” The scar of his head injury, normally just visible as a finger-width white line against his skin, was flushed a deep red.

  “I—” she began, hoping she would be given a chance to explain her reasoning. The entire purpose of the conspiracy was to preserve his throne, after all.

  “Nadira—”

  He cut her off once more. “My wife has retired for the evening, and even were she here, I would say she has covered for more than enough of your indiscretions. She will do so no longer!”

  Unused to being spoken to in this manner—and from him, for whom she had sacrificed so much—Jahanara felt her own anger rising. Still, it would not do to show it. Not while there were any witnesses. She must remain the Begum Sahib.

  “I know you have been”—his angry gaze darted about, presumably assessing who could hear him, as he at last lowered his voice—“meeting in secret. It will stop. Now.”

  “But—”

  “But?” he snarled. “You dare challenge my command?” he barked, grabbing her wrist in a painfully tight grip.

  “No, I—”

  “Good! Because I will take away your salaries and prerogatives. Do not think I won’t!”

  “But, Dara! I—I—” she spluttered, tears of frustration welling. He’d not spoken to her like this since they were children.

  “Don’t you ‘but Dara’ me! You presume too much! I cannot afford to ignore such behavior, now, when everyone already watches me. When courtly tongues already mutter of my weakness!”

  His words alarmed her as much as everything he’d said thus far. She’d been so sure they’d put a stop to such talk, and Nadira had confirmed that her detractors had been silenced. “Who—”

  He interrupted her once more, shaking his head. “It does not matter. They see their Sultan allowing, even encouraging, you in the discharge of duties that are more rightly Nadira’s, and find fault, calling me weak behind my back.”