1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  “No, though he might as well be, as his every breath is at his brother’s whim now,” he said aloud. He shrugged. “Still, it does seem a great risk, keeping him alive.”

  “The infidels keep some honor,” De Jesus allowed.

  “Indeed,” Methwold said.

  “Do you know how this was accomplished?” the priest asked, his wave taking in the fort and the gathering going on before it.

  “Not the particulars of the deal, no. I do know that as soon as he seized power, Aurangzeb ordered a cease-fire and began negotiations.”

  “Was one of their holy men sent to handle the negotiations?”

  “No.” He considered stopping there, but decided the priest might learn something if he told all. “I am told it was Nur Jahan. I gather she is some relation or other to the commander of the fort. An aunt or some such.”

  “They do seem to place great store in family ties. And even these barbarians recognize that women are to be protected…Now, just who is that?” the priest asked, standing in the stirrups and shading his eyes.

  “Who?” Methwold asked, unable to make out any details. De Jesus’ eyes were much better than Methwold’s, especially at a distance.

  “Someone is being handed over to the garrison commander, but I didn’t think we had any prisoners to exchange, did you?”

  “No…What does he look like?”

  “Richly dressed. Young. Perhaps twenty? Looks a lot like Aurang—Christ preserve us!” the priest cried out in astonishment.

  “What!?” Methwold said, unable to bring the distant details into focus.

  “They are handing Shuja over to the garrison commander,” De Jesus said.

  Methwold could see for himself that a small group had detached from the main body and was walking toward the gate of the fortress. “Loyal men following the deposed emperor into his ex—no, not exile, but prison?”

  “Not warriors, surely,” De Jesus said.

  “Not likely, but certainly his body slaves and those servants judged too little a threat and too loyal to be trusted anywhere else.”

  “But, to hand over a very real threat to your rule over to a man who, until just hours ago, was your enemy? It exceeds imagination!”

  “The Holy Bible urges good Christians to turn the other cheek, does it not?” Methwold said, unable to resist taking a poke at the priest’s pious maunderings.

  Realizing he might have undone any good work training the man to patience, Methwold tried not to laugh at the look De Jesus cast his way. A lifetime’s experience of trade negotiations stood him in good stead, allowing him to keep some semblance of serenity plastered on his face.

  “As an infidel, he is doomed already. That he asks the lion to lie down with lambs under the false banner of his religion only makes it more certain he will end in the flames of hell…”

  How did this man ever survive among the heathens? Because, if ever there existed a man unable to see the forest for the trees, it’s Father Cristovao De Jesus.

  Chapter 29

  Agra

  Diwan-i-Khas

  Salim released a slow, silent breath as the last of the petitioners filed from the hall of public audience. The day had been challenging, with rumors that Shuja’s army had declared for Aurangzeb confirmed while the Sultan Al’Azam had more than an hour of overseeing the daily durbar to get through.

  The court had early warning of the news, of course, but only by an evening. Aurangzeb’s army was a mere two weeks’ travel away, and that at a comfortable pace. Salim did not begrudge the rumormongers or the news writers who had sold the information in the meantime. Such information was of great value, and there were many willing to pay a premium for it. But, to make matters worse, while Dara sat the Peacock Throne before the wide court, additional reports arrived concerning the pretenders. Those reports, announced before the full court, indicated Aurangzeb had taken possession of his brother’s army, suspended active siege operations of Asirgarh, and then sent Nur Jahan to begin negotiations with Rathore Singh.

  That the messenger bearing that information had brought the news before all the court rather than wait for the end of the public audience had been either a boldly calculated move purchased by Aurangzeb’s supporters in Agra or the stupidity of an imperial messenger wagering that his post rendered his person inviolate even against an emperor’s wrath.

  Salim tried not to sigh again. He’d been half tempted to send Iqtadar or another of his cousins to catch the messenger and beat some sense into him.

  From the icy anger in Jahanara’s voice the few times she’d contributed to the proceedings, she might have already ordered something to that effect.

  And Dara had not taken the news at all well, mumbling through the final proclamations in a rush to get away from the scrutiny of both needy petitioners and tense public. He’d barely allowed the master of protocol to announce the end of the durbar before departing the throne for the harem precincts.

  Taking full advantage of a moment of semi-solitude himself, Salim leaned back and closed his eyes, silently reciting a swift prayer to God that all would be well with Dara. As he prayed, one of Dara’s champion elephants trumpeted from the ground between the river and the fortress. Jahanara had scheduled elephant combats for Dara’s enjoyment this afternoon. Indeed, Salim imagined the balcony overlooking the fighting ground was where Dara’s inner circle would be found. Knowing he’d delayed for too long already, Salim repeated a final prayer and opened his eyes.

  He found the harem diwan, Firoz Khan, approaching on slippered feet. The eunuch’s robe was fine, alternating patterns of light and darker blues creating a pleasing contrast to the sash that bound the robe across the eunuch’s ample belly. Embroidered with row upon row of freshwater pearls and tiny gold coins, the sash fairly shouted “expensive” if not “good taste.” On second consideration, Salim was probably not as well qualified to make fashion choices as the eunuch.

  Salim smiled encouragement at Firoz. Appointed just a short time before Salim had arrived at court, the portly umara was a perpetual favorite not only of Jahanara and Nadira, but also of Dara. The potbellied diwan had managed to impress Salim with constant good humor and a strong work ethic, qualities which were often in short supply in the harem. The eunuch was also among the most intelligent people Salim had ever met, let alone had the pleasure of working alongside.

  The two servants of the emperor greeted each other warmly and with what Salim hoped was a mutual respect.

  “Forgive the intrusion, Wazir, but the Sultan Al’Azam requires your presence in the harem,” Firoz Khan said.

  “Very good,” Salim answered, rising to his feet and gesturing for Firoz to accompany him. Something in the eunuch’s round, sweat-dampened face caused his instinct for trouble to itch.

  “What is it, Firoz?” he asked in a quiet voice as they set out.

  “He is most wroth.”

  “And well he might be! To have today’s news so public was annoying, to say the least.”

  “It is not simply that…”

  “Then what troubles you, Firoz?”

  “I am uncertain…” Again the diwan let his statement end unfinished.

  “Be assured that anything you choose to tell me will be held in strictest confidence,” Salim said, projecting as much reassurance as he could.

  “His relations with Begum Sahib have been strained of late. He has been in a mood…” Firoz lapsed into silence as they entered one of the heavily guarded checkpoints securing the harem from the outside world.

  “What mood is it, friend?” Salim prompted as they left the immediate vicinity of the guards and started across the garden courtyard.

  Firoz did not immediately reply, waiting until they were near enough the burbling waters of a fountain to cover his reply from casual listeners. “It seems this…mood…has affected his relations with Nadira Begum as well. To the point the royal apartments have not been loud with cries of pleasure in some days.”

  Salim glanced away, uncomfortable wit
h that particular bit of knowledge. His gaze fell on a group of veiled women of the harem some distance away. One woman, possibly Roshanara Begum, was supervising a game or lesson of some sort.

  “I understand, friend diwan,” he murmured, looking back at Firoz. “Is there anything I might do in order to help you rectify the situation?”

  The elephant bugled once again, this time answered by the bull challenger brought to the field.

  The diwan’s wide brow creased in worry. “That is just it, dear Salim: I had hoped you might be able to advise me. I am at my wit’s end, and the doctors have enough to do without my asking stupid questions about the moods of the Sultan Al’Azam.”

  Salim considered that a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think they will think your questions stupid. Like ours, the up-timer medical practitioners seem to take an interest in all aspects of the body and how it might affect the mood.”

  “They do?” Firoz looked skeptical.

  “Well, they are not concerned with the spirit, at least as we define it, but they are concerned with the mind and how it might affect recovery, even in the case of injuries not involving the brain. So it stands to reason…”

  “Good. I will consult with them.” The worry-knot between Firoz’s brows eased. He waved Salim to proceed him across the threshold into the royal apartments.

  “Happy to be of even so small a service, my friend.”

  Firoz smiled. “I regret that I cannot reciprocate with help timely enough to save you from the Sultan Al’Azam’s current mood, however.”

  “Your warning is all a man could ask, Firoz.”

  “Still, if I could stand between you and his anger, I would gladly do so. Even though he would make even my steely heart flutter with trepidation.”

  “Such a warrior,” Salim said with a smile.

  “Indeed I am,” Firoz said, pausing to take a warrior’s stance that looked slightly absurd from the soft little palace eunuch. “I will shield you, if I can.”

  “And if you are overmastered, then I shall be a warrior myself, and weather his anger with whatever might I can muster.”

  “Surely my stout defense will render any such attempts superfluous.”

  Salim grinned. Reflecting that the bantering friendship they’d enjoyed almost from their very first meeting must have seemed unlikely to any outside observer.

  A battle-hardened adventurer and a slippered palace servant enjoying each other’s company? Pah!

  He was still smiling when Firoz led them through the royal apartments and out onto the balcony overlooking the fighting grounds.

  Harem precincts

  “What are you smiling about, Salim?” Dara asked as Salim and Firoz approached the slightly raised dais the emperor sat upon to watch the fights.

  “Sultan Al’Azam?” Salim asked, stopped in his tracks by the emperor’s tone. He glanced about, relieved there were only four slaves in earshot of the conversation, though all of them were visibly tense.

  Dara’s expression was stone. “You smiled. I ask what it is you are smiling about.”

  Salim bowed, deeply. “Sultan Al’Azam, I smile because I am happy in your service.”

  “You are, are you?”

  “Indeed I am, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  “Sultan Al’Az—” Firoz began, attempting to deflect the emperor’s wrath.

  “When I want you to speak, eunuch, I will command it,” Dara said, glaring at Firoz.

  Firoz prostrated himself. “Forgive me, Sultan Al’Azam,” he mumbled.

  Dara ignored Firoz to focus his anger on Salim. “So, what is it about serving me that pleases you?”

  Reeling a bit from the sudden vehemence of Dara’s attack, Salim struggled to find words that would not make him sound like a sycophant. “I have found many challenges in your service, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  “Such as dishonoring my sister? Mocking my hospitality?” the emperor barked.

  “Your s—” Salim began.

  “Yes, my sister: Begum Sahib. No doubt you found it a grand challenge to sully her with your touch. First to suborn my servants then to inveigle me into pliant placidity.”

  The war elephant chose that moment to trumpet once again, making everyone but Dara flinch. Salim could only shake his head, stunned at the scope of these baseless accusations. Had he not known better, he would have thought someone had been whispering vile rumor into the emperor’s ear.

  “Say this, at least, of Salim Gadh Yilmaz’s honor: he made no effort to lie to me when confronted with his shameful impropriety.”

  “Lie? Suborn? Impropriety?” Salim asked, anger cutting through his surprise and making each word louder and sharper than the last. “I have not lied. I have not touched your sister. I am your faithful and obedient servant. I would not disrespect you nor your sister!”

  Dara scoffed. “I know you met. I know you desire her.”

  Unable to answer that without betraying his feelings for Jahanara Begum and condemning himself, Salim took a deep steadying breath and said slowly, “Sultan Al’Azam, I am not your enemy.”

  “Then what are—” Dara’s angry retort was cut short by a groan. He surged erect, walking toward the edge of the dais. Salim’s gaze caught Dara’s contorted expression. No longer angry, it was bewildered, eyelids closing unevenly. Then, the emperor’s entire body convulsed. Moaning, he toppled forward, falling atop one of his body slaves with a heavy thud that frightened Salim more than the unreasoning anger of a moment before.

  While Salim struggled, first to comprehend what had happened, then to thank God Dara had not fallen over the balcony, Firoz leapt into action. He pulled the emperor from the tangle of slave and silks.

  Salim broke free of his stupor and barked at a slave, “Find Gervais or the up-timer physicians!”

  Firoz eased Dara onto a set of cushions and commanded some order out of the trembling slaves.

  Bertram and Gervais arrived quickly, Rodney a few minutes later.

  As they took over Dara’s care, Salim sought solace in the teachings of Mian Mir. Slowly, and with great difficulty, he asserted control over both the rate at which his breath filled his lungs and his unruly thoughts, and was rewarded by the feeling of his scarred hands uncurling from the killing fists they had balled into during his confrontation with the emperor.

  It was only later, when the emperor was being treated for his collapse, that Salim realized that even if the slaves present did not reveal everything they had seen, his shout had been loud enough to be heard throughout the harem.

  Jahanara appeared, dressed and veiled in accordance with propriety, despite the heat and urgency of the situation. Salim tried not to think at all. Tried not to remember the emperor’s snarl as he made his allegations. Allegations that were true only in Salim’s heart.

  Do I want her?

  Of course.

  Would I have sacrificed honor and position for her?

  Quite possibly.

  And yet, despite these desires, I have not.

  Not yet, at any rate.

  Yet Dara is ready to punish me for acts I have not committed.

  Something must be done.

  Soon.

  Red Fort

  Jasmine Tower

  “Amir Gadh Yilmaz, there is much we must discuss. Please, be seated,” Jahanara said, gesturing at the cushions across from her.

  “This is most unwise, Begum Sahib. We should not be meeting like this again,” Salim said, declining to sit.

  “You sound like Atisheh,” Jahanara said, repeating her wave for him to be seated.

  “Then Atisheh gives sound, correct, and timely advice,” Salim said, avoiding her gaze and still refusing to sit. Not that she minded overmuch. She liked looking up at him. He was wearing a fine saffron-colored robe of silk with a turban of slightly darker hue pinned with a large silver brooch studded with small diamonds and a central emerald that complimented his eyes. Beyond his dress, there was something about his confidence that filled a room without being overbearing, a
nd his every movement spoke of a lifetime of training at weapons-work and horsemanship.

  Deciding not to press further, and genuinely glad to focus on something other than what his body might feel like under that silken robe, Jahanara spoke as if he had not contradicted her: “I wanted to discuss today’s events and how we might retrieve something of value from the situation.”

  Salim looked down, bearded cheeks darkening.

  Assuming he was still feeling the embarrassment brought on by Dara’s outburst, Jahanara pretended not to notice. “I received intelligence that I think we must act upon, and that works with our current circumstances.”

  “Something that will save me from your brother’s wrath?” he muttered.

  Jahanara gently cleared her throat to make him look at her. “The information alone is not so valuable as that. It is what we will do with it that will, God willing, serve to assuage Dara’s anger and confound Aurangzeb as well.”

  She had Salim’s full attention now, making her suddenly, unaccountably anxious, proof of which was finding one hand toying nervously with one of the tassels of the cushion she knelt on. An effort of will stilled it. However fiercely his gaze made her heart hammer, she wanted his eyes on her. For what she wanted to see in them. For what she wanted to tell him without words.

  Would he risk everything for so little guarantee of reward?

  And really, she feared his answer would not be what she wanted to hear. Or, worse yet, Salim could only tell her what he thought she wanted to hear.

  She took a deep breath and said, “Dara wishes to exile you…”

  Salim muttered something inaudible, something she thought was English.

  “What’s that? I don’t understand that particular English idiom.”

  He shook his head. “Only that is the very least I expect him to do, Begum Sahib,” he said, though she’d had the distinct feeling there was one of John Ennis’ favorite words in there.