1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Distorted echoes of his words returned to his ears from the dome above, mocking his justifications, his certainty.

  Tears welled, grew, and raced toward oblivion along his cheeks to wet his thin, adolescent beard.

  “God’s will or not, I only do what I must,” he choked out.

  The sibilant echoes of this whispered admission returned to his ears as more a plea for forgiveness than the statement of certainty he’d intended.

  As was often the case in such moments, Aurangzeb found solace and a measure of calm in the mere feel of the wooden prayer beads under his fingers. Taking them in hand, Aurangzeb knelt upon the simple prayer rug and began his prayers, asking forgiveness of his parents and God for what he must do.

  Gardens of the Taj Majal

  Nur Jahan knelt in the shade of the garden, marveling at the work her grand-niece had accomplished in her absence. Fruit trees from all corners of the empire and beyond its borders flourished where they had only just been planted when she left. She could not help but think there was a message there: Jahanara, young though she was, had flourished in the absence of both parents and her eldest living relative. Eldest, now, because Asaf was gone: the brother who had alternately supported her, challenged her, protected her, betrayed her, and, ultimately, been responsible for the death of her only son, was dead.

  A tear slowly welled in the corner of her eye. She dabbed at it with a silken kerchief, annoyed that she should show such feeling for him. Putting away her annoyance, she examined the source of her feelings as rationally she could.

  Despite all the conflict that marred their history—or perhaps because of it—he had always been her favorite. Present for almost every single major event of Nur’s life, he, more than their father, had been the measure by which all men were judged. Judged, and found wanting. The current crop of male relatives were but pale shadows of Asaf Khan, and would have been dancing to his tune had he been healthy and, perhaps, closer to the throne when Shah Jahan was assassinated.

  Even Aurangzeb, gifted as he was, would have been no match for the peerless politician Asaf Khan had been. Shah Jahan had ruled well and wisely, but he had been given that opportunity as much through the efforts of his father-in-law as his own military—or political—prowess.

  Aurangzeb was gifted, certainly, and she had helped him bridge the gap between experience and training. But he had yet to face failure, and therefore could not be trusted to overcome it. For if there was one thing Nur’s long career had made her certain of, it was that failure at some point was always certain. And it was always a better measure of someone’s character to fail and rise again to the challenge that defeated them. She worried that, given his supreme faith that God was on his side, Aurangzeb might fracture under the strain of any significant failure. That could lead to disaster, both in the current conflict and in the future to come.

  Not that she felt particularly averse to someone reining Aurangzeb in. He could be blithely inconsiderate of others.

  Or perhaps he was not being inconsiderate but deliberate?

  He was capable of great subtlety and possessed no little patience, something rare in someone so young. So it was not outside the realm of possibility that Aurangzeb had summoned her to attend him here, in the place she had fled so many months prior, in order to put her off guard.

  And that bloody afternoon was, while not the worst she’d endured, certainly not forgotten. She did not need reminding of it. Not here. Not now.

  As uncomfortable and irritated as she felt waiting for him in the garden, she had to assume the provocation was entirely according to Aurangzeb’s design.

  She heard him before he came into view. Or rather, Nur heard his entourage before seeing the Sultan Al’Azam himself. Leaving them atop the plinth, he quickly descended the steps only recently sheathed in the white marble that was going up all over the monument to her niece. He came alone, certain in the protection of his guards. How she envied that light step, the boundless energy he expressed with every movement, and the sure certainty of youth that promised he would not, could not, be overcome.

  He paused at the base of the stairs and glanced around, searching her out. She nodded when Aurangzeb’s gaze fell on her. He returned the gesture and strode quickly to her side.

  “Sultan Al’Azam,” she said, lowering her head.

  “Nur. Thank you for coming. I know you must be fatigued from our journey, but I had something important to ask of you.”

  “You have but to command me, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  He looked around, studying the garden a moment before continuing. “Was it here?”

  Nur could not prevent her jaw clenching in sudden anger. “Pardon, Sultan Al’Azam?”

  “My father was attacked here, in the garden?” he clarified, still not looking her in the eye.

  “No, we heard the fighting up there first,” she said, pointing with her chin at the plinth he had just descended from. “It wasn’t until after a few moments had passed that the guards separating the garden from the plinth were set upon and overcome. It happened very quickly.”

  “Yet not so quickly that you were unable to escape.” His tone was not accusatory. It was simply that of a son trying to grasp the circumstances of his father’s untimely death. Of an emperor determined not to suffer the same fate.

  “As I told you, Sultan Al’Azam, I did not see him fall, only heard the resultant lamentations. And I was, at the time, as much a target for those assassins as your beloved father.”

  Aurangzeb turned to look at her. “It seems I am to place you in danger once more.”

  “Oh?” Nur asked, arching one brow.

  He looked away again. “Although, it should be safe enough.”

  Nur waited in vain for him to continue, was eventually forced to ask, “What shall I do for you, Sultan Al’Azam?”

  The emperor cocked his head. “I would have you meet with my sister and negotiate on my behalf.”

  Nur gestured at the distant bulk of Red Fort. “Negotiate? For what, exactly? Surely you have sufficient forces to overrun the fortress.”

  “For the lives of my sisters, to start.”

  “But he has made no threats to their safety…”

  “I am too young to remember it myself, but I think it was at Murad’s birth that a cannonball launched from some fortress Father was besieging made it so far as to penetrate the Red Tent and threaten the lives of both Mother and Father.”

  Nur, remembering the incident, suddenly understood. It would do his reputation no harm to show concern for the safety of his sisters. Indeed, it was a clever move. One she should have foreseen and, perhaps, suggested. If only she had been less preoccupied with memory and, she had to admit, grief over the death of her brother.

  Shaking off dark thoughts, Nur realized he was gazing at her in expectation of an answer.

  “Of course, Sultan Al’Azam. You are wise to consider the safety of your sisters.”

  “Good.” He looked away again, eyes traveling over the monument to his mother.

  “What may I offer in these negotiations?”

  “He will not accept it, but offer him safe passage to Mecca should he abandon the fortress and abandon his claim to the Peacock Throne.”

  “Anything else? Perhaps something less…stark?”

  “For my brother, nothing but that offer. Jahanara, she may do as she wishes short of marriage. I cannot afford her marrying some ambitious umara, especially before I have had a son. Roshanara, well, the negotiator need not know what we will give her as compensation for her support.”

  “And Murad?”

  Aurangzeb sighed. “I offer him the same terms as Dara. I hope he will be made aware of the offer and know it for the genuine sacrifice I make in order to offer it to him. Allowing him to go into exile is opposed by everyone.”

  “They are right to oppose it, Sultan Al’Azam,” Nur said, more harshly than she intended. Her daughter and son-in-law had not been offered such leniency, but knowing why was no salve to h
er broken heart.

  “I am aware he and his heirs will forever pose a threat to me and mine, but I cannot, in good conscience, see him imprisoned with Dara because of my older brother’s preventing him from joining my just cause. He is but eleven years old.”

  And you hope—no, pray—that he will not be made aware of the offer.

  Nur was sure that, at least on the surface, Aurangzeb told himself that he wanted his youngest brother to take up the offer. But deep inside he had to know what a threat that would be. The Persians, the Turks, or some internal enemy would make a puppet of Murad and use his cause to strike at the very heart of Aurangzeb’s rule.

  There was little room for mercy when the Peacock Throne was at stake.

  Chapter 35

  Agra

  Red Fort, Diwan-i-Khas

  “What do you mean it’s impossible?” Dara hissed. He looked around his circle of counselors. “Aurangzeb has yet to completely encircle Red Fort. Surely we can get someone out under cover of darkness. On the river, perhaps?”

  The late afternoon summons to the Diwan-i-Khas had served to pull John from his vigil. Not that he was alone in watching Aurangzeb’s army begin its encirclement of Red Fort; everyone with sufficient status to claim a spot on one of the many balconies had watched as the rain-soaked banners and tents of Aurangzeb’s umara sprouted like mushrooms from the rain-veiled landscape just beyond the reach of the fort’s guns.

  “Sultan Al’Azam, I fear such a mission would be wasteful. I have only just heard that Asaf Khan is dead.”

  Dara pounded an impotent fist against the jeweled side of the Peacock Throne. He looked up, an air of desperation about him, and said, “His son, then. Shaista Khan was always easier to speak to than Asaf Khan.”

  “Sultan Al’Azam, I beg forgiveness, but getting to Shaista Khan’s camp is the greater problem. Sending one man will surely fail, and sending more will merely serve to reduce our already thin garrison.”

  “Is there no one? No brave warrior who will take up this task and be made a hero in the doing of it?”

  The silence that followed his questions was telling. The emperor’s jaw clenched, muscles under his beard bunching. The scar peeking from beneath his jeweled turban stood out against the darkening flesh of his face.

  “Husband,” Nadira’s calming voice came from behind the jali. “Your sowar and umara are all ready to become heroes, but Shaista Khan has made clear by his lack of response to your generous offers and diplomatically worded messages that he believes he can stand aside in this conflict between brothers.” A brief pause, then, “Surely the Sultan Al’Azam can see that it is only his desire to save lives on both sides of the conflict that leads him to ask such a thing of his loyal warriors.”

  That was well said, John thought. Hope it works…

  Dara was still incensed, glaring about at his inner council in search of someone to vent his spleen on. Dara’s counselors avoided meeting his eye. For his part, John concentrated on memorizing the latest training report he’d generated for this meeting. He hated speaking in front of any crowd, especially in a language he still felt uneasy with, and these meetings were torture for him. Even without Dara losing his composure.

  Dammit, I’m a hillbilly from West Virginia, not some Renaissance man to be speaking a language I hadn’t ever heard a word of before coming here. If I speak with a horrible accent or use the wrong words, they can just suck it up.

  Dara’s wife gave a delicate noise that might have been a clearing of the throat, John wasn’t sure.

  Whatever it had been, the sound was enough to remind Dara of decorum, because the emperor, instead of barking at his subordinates, leaned back and took a deep breath. Then another. He even spread the fingers of both hands flat across the silk cushion covering the monstrously heavy gold-and-gemstone-encrusted Peacock Throne.

  The hopeless atmosphere permeating the hall eased slightly. Dara might not be as charismatic as his father had been, but he still projected his moods well enough to make everyone aware of his displeasure. So far no up-timer had taken the brunt of such outbursts, but John was sure it was only a matter of time.

  Firoz Khan spoke into the quiet. “I believe John Ennis has a report to give, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  Dara, steadier now, gestured for John to make his report. It wasn’t actually his work, not entirely. He’d always sucked at paperwork. Thankfully Bertram was a fair hand at just about anything he decided to put some effort into and Priscilla and Ilsa had gathered up the various reports and edited the flowery language out, rendering it into something he could deliver in less than an hour.

  Hoping to keep the emperor calm, John began with the positives: “First off, the medical corps report. Every one of the men who volunteered for and completed medical training has been issued the standard medical kit Begum Sahib and the Totmans developed and put into production. They’ve been dispersed amongst the garrison and the triage centers along with stretchers and bearers. The operating theaters have been prepared, equipped, and manned, and the hospital reports they have the supplies you mandated, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  He departed from the report to speak from the heart. “Sultan Al’Azam, I have to say I’ve seen a lot since coming to this time. The United States of Europe has done a many great things with the knowledge that came with us from the future, but this drive to provide medical services to the masses that Jahanara Begum has led, it might be the best thing to come from our arrival.” Realizing a better courtier would have given Dara more credit, John looked down at his report for inspiration.

  “You are kind to say so, Mr. John Dexter Ennis,” Jahanara’s voice rang across the hall of audience. “But nothing would have happened had my brother, Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh, not seen some wisdom in my humble suggestion that we provide for the sowar and, once the battle to come is won, the peoples of his realm.”

  “My wife and my sister are wise,” Dara said, standing. “And, like all women, have a care for those less favored by fate than themselves.” He turned and bowed to the jali. “Their wisdom should be an example to all, their charity an example to the cosmos of our good intentions.”

  Their approval of—and display of that regard for—the royals dispelled some of the gloom that had clung to the court and, frankly, to John’s own mood.

  Thanking God that the princess was on their side, John turned to face the jali and bowed as well. The court followed suit.

  “Your Master of Fortification’s report shows he is prepared. Work has been completed removing or restoring the decorative balconies as necessary to the design of your defensive works. He also reports the fletchers and bowyers of your factories have met their quotas, as have the Atishbaz powder and shot makers.”

  What John didn’t want to talk about was the status of the up-time weapons and their ammunition: there weren’t enough of either to go around, not by a long shot, so he moved on quickly. “The cisterns are at acceptable levels and all predictions”—he was not about to give the astrologers and soothsayers cited in the report any credit—“indicate heavy rains arriving over the next few weeks. That should actually provide more water than we consume. He also reports that we have provisions sufficient to provide full rations for more than a year at our current numbers—”

  Dara interrupted a thankful John with a wave. Wondering why, John cast about for the source of the interruption.

  A man in messenger greens was just leaving Firoz Khan’s side. The portly eunuch was opening an official-looking set of papers with several seals and such hanging from it.

  John glanced back at the emperor, found him watching impatiently as his diwan and personal munshi read the document through.

  Firoz, suddenly aware that John had stopped speaking, looked up. Scrambling up with the document in hand, the eunuch bowed deeply to the emperor.

  “What is it?” Dara said.

  “Sultan Al’Azam, Aurangzeb sends a messenger.”

  Dara snapped his fingers, gesturing imperiously.

 
John was impressed Dara hadn’t barked at the eunuch for stating the obvious.

  The message had hardly been in his hands for more than a few seconds before Dara had read it through. John suspected Dara’s background as a religious scholar stood him in good stead when it came to reading that fast, but idly wondered if the emperor shouldn’t be taking his time with something so important.

  “The pretender to my throne asks me to send him someone to negotiate on my behalf. He says he will offer sureties they will not be harmed, and to make certain, he says, ‘As it was for our ancestor, Akbar,’ he and his men will all refrain from being present. He asks that I select one of my sisters to meet with Nur Jahan at the tomb of our parents.” He paused, reading something from the document once more. Shaking his head, he tossed it aside.

  “Just what he presumes there is to negotiate, I do not know,” he said, his voice an angry growl.

  “My love,” Nadira’s calm voice issued from behind the jali again, “you must send Jahanara to treat with Nur Jahan regardless. Your sister may be able to learn something of his intentions, even if, as you rightly suspect, Aurangzeb does not intend to negotiate in good faith.”

  Dara’s head swung around. He glared at the jali. “I cannot see him doing anything in good faith. His continued insurrection against my rightful rule provides all the proof anyone needs that he is both a faithless son and perfidious brother.”

  “Perhaps some concessions can be earned for the people of Agra,” Nadira continued. Judging from the calm tones of her voice, she was singularly unfazed by the nasty look her husband had sent toward the jali. “God willing, Jahanara may learn just what has happened with Shaista Khan and the army of his father.”

  Dara’s gaze softened as he considered her words.

  “Brother,” Jahanara’s voice issued from behind the jali once more, “I would ask Nur Jahan of the events leading up to Father’s death. I want to know what she knew. I want to know why it is she fled, don’t you?”