1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Salim returned a respectful nod.

  Shahaji smiled bitterly. “Did not Veerabathira say I would die in the hills of my homeland, a victim of my own pride?” He sighed and started to sag. The chieftain who’d claimed kinship with Koyaji was first to the younger chieftain’s side, putting an arm around his chest to keep him standing.

  “Well played, Salim,” Shahaji said, slurring as if drunk. “Well…played.”

  Salim did not reply. He was too busy searching the faces of the other men for signs they contemplated violence against him.

  “Stabbed in the back…Dattaji, can you believe it?” Shahaji snorted weakly.

  Easing Shahaji to the ground, the man called Dattaji spoke too quietly into Shahaji’s ear for Salim to hear. The wounded man sighed and did not draw another breath.

  Riders from both camps were, by now, approaching at the gallop.

  Salim cleared his throat.

  Dattaji looked at him, conflicting emotions warring openly across his face.

  “I have kept the truce,” Salim said, hands still as distant as he could keep them from his weapons.

  Dattaji thought about that for the space of a few heartbeats. The earth was starting to tremble under their feet as hundreds of horsemen from both camps converged on them.

  Salim was about to arm himself when Dattaji stood up with raised arms and shouted for his warriors to stop.

  Relieved but aware he might have only postponed the battle, Salim turned and did the same to his own men. There were a few horses injured as his sowar complied with his sudden order to stop their charge, but no blood was shed and the truce stood unbroken.

  Trying not to let wild hope cloud his judgment, Salim started thinking about how to turn the truce into something more substantial. The Maratha had no love for Aurangzeb—or any Mughal for that matter—so he would pursue his goals along that broad path.

  Thanking God for the story Jahanara had spun to explain his departure from court, Salim considered how to best capitalize on the animosity he’d seen on display and any of the greed Sunil said claimed their hearts. That the supplies came from Portugal should help. The Europeans held less and less sway the farther one traveled from the sea, their only true protection being the Mughals. And, as long as the empire was at odds with itself, those who enjoyed its protection would be fair game.

  It might—just might—even be possible to enlist them in raids on Aurangzeb’s caravans coming north from Gwalior. Raiding and banditry were something of national pastimes for the Maratha, just as it was for his own people. Failing that, there was a far better chance he could buy these men off or otherwise convince them to stay out of his way than he would have originally believed.

  He said a brief prayer to God, thanking Him for this chance.

  Chapter 38

  Red Fort

  Diwan-i-Khas

  Jahanara gathered herself as the last rolling beat of the drums announcing her presence settled into silence. She had spent the ride back to the fort in silent, furious thought. The rain had let up by the time she left the garden, giving way to a stunning sunset of burnt umber, ocher, orange, and gold she could not enjoy. Her thoughts were fully preoccupied with planning how best to give her report to Dara, with how to strike just the right notes, hit the exact tone necessary to bend and unify Dara’s umara behind Dara. She must not only speak before all the court, but gather them to hand, thorns and all, in order to forge a strong sword and shield that Dara could wield against his brother. Thankfully, Nur had unintentionally given her the exact course Jahanara believed would best secure her ends.

  “Well?” Dara asked the question without preamble, giving voice to the question that everyone present, from the lowest slave to the greatest umara would have answered.

  Grateful for the jali that prevented the eyes of so many from staring at her, Jahanara took a deep breath of rain-washed evening air before responding, “It went as expected, Sultan Al’Azam. He requires your abdication and offers safe passage to Mecca and exile for both you and little Murad. He even presumes to offer a small stipend for your maintenance in Mecca.”

  Dara nodded, impassive. Jahanara was happy to see her brother in control of both his expression and, apparently, his faculties. She hoped it would continue. All the court were watching. Everyone needed reassurance that Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh could lead them, would defend them, and would overcome his enemies.

  “And you, sister?” Dara asked.

  “Your sisters,” Jahanara saw no harm in including the others, “are offered safety beyond his lines, even should we remain faithful to your cause.”

  “Even should you remain faithful?” he sounded incredulous. “Why should he offer such a thing?”

  “It was claimed that our safety in the battle to come is of great importance to the pretender. Nur claimed that Aurangzeb was very concerned for his, and I quote, ‘powerless sisters’ who had been ‘led astray’ by ‘honeyed words and the foolish promises of my elder brother.’” Jahanara allowed some of the scorn she felt to permeate her words, carefully avoiding mention of Nur’s reminder of the cannonball that, when fired from a fortress Father was besieging, had nearly taken Mother’s life when she was in labor. That incident occurred when the Red Tent was set at what was thought to be a safe distance from the battle, not the focus and target of it. That they were all in danger was certain. No need to add to the atmosphere of fear already creeping like a clinging mist among the umara.

  “And after?” Dara asked. “What did he propose to do with you then, loyal sister?”

  “The pretender Aurangzeb cannot possibly throw a tantrum strong enough to prevail against you, Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh, so I hardly listened to his childish foolishness.” Jahanara injected her voice with every bit of her mother’s remembered disdain for the occasional childish tantrum of her sons.

  Nadira, standing beside Jahanara, stifled a giggle with one hand. Several other women of the court were not so quick to control themselves, their laughter dispelling the fearful mood. There is nothing like the laughter of their women to put steel back into the spines of men, Mother had told her once.

  Smidha, sitting in silence to her right, still managed to radiate intense approval.

  The wider court beyond the jali began to stir.

  Dara’s masklike expression slipped, a tiny smile curling his lips.

  Wait, brother. Let me finish setting the playing board for you.

  “Aurangzeb’s prattle only regained my interest when Nur mentioned your son.”

  Dara, instead of reacting negatively, cocked his head to one side as if listening to a diverting story instead of the proposed fate of his son. The gesture filled Jahanara’s heart with the certainty she had chosen to support the right man.

  “Just what did he say regarding my boy?” he drawled.

  “Aurangzeb claimed that your son would be allowed to go into exile with you. When I questioned the veracity of that particular claim I was told Aurangzeb is so certain he shall have many strong sons that he need not be concerned whether they will be able to defend their own claims to the throne.” She paused, judging her moment.

  “Not yet, I told Nur,” Jahanara said, deliberately pausing in her narrative.

  “Not yet?” Dara repeated, his nonchalance slipping a bit.

  “Nur asked precisely the same question, Sultan Al’Azam. I explained to her that unlike the Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh, Aurangzeb has no sons. Furthermore, it is well known that, for whatever reason, he keeps no other women but our elderly aunt in his harem, who is quite past her childbearing years. How then, I asked, did she know he would father children, let alone the mythical multitude of strong sons Nur claimed?”

  An openly giggling Nadira turned shocked eyes on Jahanara as the rest of the court chuckled, snorted, or laughed outright.

  Letting a smile creep into her own voice, Jahanara continued, “I told him perhaps it was better to retire until such sons were born and fully grown before trying these walls, since Sul
tan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh and his faithful umara were warriors fully grown; with sons already honorably born—sons who are strong, healthy, and blessed to grow in the sheltering power and grace of Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh’s shadow.”

  The gathered court’s amusement changed tone, becoming a feral delight in an insult well delivered. Looking around, Jahanara could tell the subtext of her reporting the insult had not been lost on the wiser members of the court: Aurangzeb may have proven himself a general, but Dara rules, and had already guaranteed the future of the dynasty by presenting a son to the court. Such matters were important to those who took the long view. And, as Smidha had pointed out, the larger group of umara, lacking the wisdom and refinement of their betters, often enjoyed making sport of another’s lack of virility.

  Nadira reached out and took Jahanara’s hand in hers, whispering, “I have something to tell them, Begum Sahib.”

  Dara’s next question prevented Jahanara asking her sister-in-law what she was to say. “And Nur? Did she offer anything but false rationales for betraying us?”

  “Regrettably, no,” Jahanara said, holding up a finger of her free hand to delay Nadira. “She claims to have had no part in Father’s assassination, insisting she had nothing to do with Mullah Mohan’s plot. I can almost believe her on those points, but when she claims to have no idea why the mullah wanted him dead, I cease believing anything that flows from her mouth.”

  “So you’ll stay with us, dear sister?”

  “Of course! I would not miss your victory, not for all the jewels in your treasury nor all the silver and gold of the throne God placed beneath you.” It could not hurt to remind the more mercenary of the court of the vast wealth Dara could dispense to his loyal supporters when he emerged victorious.

  Dara smiled benevolently at his court. “It seems Aurangzeb has offered much that he does not have to those who would not have it. All present know my generosity, that I will reward each man for their part in the coming fight.” He paused, scratching his beard as if in thought. “Indeed, I shall offer one lakh of rupees to the man who succeeds in killing the greatest number of my brother’s sowar.” Dara suddenly surged to his feet and drew his sword. “But warn your men, warn them well! I intend to personally kill so many of my brother’s men as to make it possible to walk from the top of the wall to the ground upon the backs of his dead.”

  The Hall of Public Audience went mad with shouts and growled cries of “Da-Ra! Dar-Rah! DahRahhhhh!” until the shouts blended into one long, aggressive grow of barely suppressed passion.

  Jahanara felt a fresh surge of hope that Dara might be well enough recovered to be the leader they all wanted, needed him to be.

  Jahanara winced, hand suddenly squeezed so hard she thought the bones might bend. She looked at Nadira, found her weeping, the hand not crushing Jahanara’s stuffed in her mouth to stifle great, racking sobs.

  “Nadira, what is it?” Jahanara asked, pulling Nadira into a hug. Those closest to them converged to offer comfort as well.

  Her sister-in-law took long moments to respond, and even then her strangled whisper was as much tortured sob as coherent statement. “God will take him from me, I know it…”

  Shaken by the certainty in Nadira’s voice, Jahanara still had the presence of mind to pull her into an embrace tight enough to stifle the other woman’s words.

  “I won’t—we won’t let that happen!” Jahanara whispered fiercely, willing Nadira to a silence she had no right to command and acceptance of the promise she had no true power to keep.

  The Rose Court

  “Where are you taking us, Bertram?” John asked, yawning. It had been a long day and he still wasn’t done. With Salim gone he’d been made Dara’s de facto adjutant, and he’d been making the rounds to all the different captains to reassure them all was right with the world, even when it wasn’t.

  “I don’t know, precisely.”

  John looked sidelong at the down-timer. “What you mean you don’t know? You asked us to come with you. I have things to do, Bertram.”

  “Look, John: I don’t know exactly where we’re headed, I only know my bit.”

  A heavyset eunuch shuffled out of the darkness carrying a lantern before John could reply to that bit of mystery. Gestured to silence, they were led through the perimeter of the harem.

  John looked again at Bertram, but while the down-timer looked uncomfortable, his expression revealed nothing else.

  Led down deserted halls John assumed must have been cleared expressly for them, he wished again they hadn’t lost the powder factory. Not only would he have liked to have seen what the massed fire of Talawat’s copies could have accomplished, watching Aurangzeb’s army take position outside the walls made him certain they were going to need all the firepower they could get.

  “Jesus,” he muttered.

  Bertram looked a question at him.

  John shook his head and said quietly, in English, which he assumed the eunuch couldn’t speak, “Just can’t believe I’m in charge of some part of a battle, let alone a damn siege. Not only that, but one it sure as shit looks like we can’t win.”

  “Take heart, John,” Bertram said. He looked as if he was about to go on but the eunuch silenced them with a glance.

  Looking around, John realized he didn’t know this part of the fort. They’d gone down several flights of stairs and around so many corners he wasn’t really sure where he was relative to his quarters.

  He was about to ask the eunuch just what the hell was going on when he made out a light ahead of them. His feet slowed involuntarily as he realized that in the party around the light stood Atisheh, Monique, Gervais, and, on closer inspection, Jahanara as well.

  “John Ennis, welcome,” Jahanara said with a nod. Ilsa had described how beautiful the princess was, and even from the little John could see of her because of the veils, he could believe it. He’d never tell Ilsa, but he found Jahanara’s voice sexy as hell too.

  “Begum Sahib,” John answered with a bow.

  “I fear I must beg your forgiveness and forbearance for a few moments more. Not all of those summoned are present just yet.”

  Puzzled, John nodded. Questioning glances at Bertram and Gervais went unanswered. Monique, though, seemed both nervous and…triumphant?

  Seeing as no answers were forthcoming from his companions, John checked out their surroundings. The hall was getting a little cramped, at least as cramped as any part of the palace he’d been to. Atisheh and one of the other guards John didn’t know by name were standing beside a heavy ironbound door.

  Another eunuch appeared out of the stairwell, closely followed by the imposing figure of Bidhi Chand, who appeared ready for an ambush. The former bandit was weird that way, always prepared to fight, but still conveying an air of relaxed confidence, even happiness, that John wished he could project.

  John met the warrior’s eyes and nodded. The set of Bidhi’s shoulders relaxed fractionally. John hid a smile.

  Not so relaxed he wasn’t thinking he might be about to be betrayed to the enemy! But then, who wouldn’t think that when summoned in the middle of the night?

  John shook his head.

  Jesus, I’ve been here so long I’m even starting to think like some kind of medieval warlord.

  Beneath Red Fort

  Jahanara did not fail to observe the exchange between Bidhi Chand and the up-timer. Upon consideration, it stood to reason the two might become friendly. John had, after all, been responsible for training Dara’s forces in the weapons and tactics of the up-timers. Even after Talawat’s factory exploded and took all hope of producing enough ammunition for the guns with it, Bidhi had quietly insisted John continue to train his Sikhs in the formations necessary to maximize the impact of the arquebus and muskets they did have at their disposal.

  And now, she would reward his insistence. Rather, they would all reap the benefits of his stubborn refusal to give up on the idea that disciplined fire was preferable.

  “I apologize for t
his late-night excursion, but I wanted to be certain that what I reveal here tonight comes as a surprise to Aurangzeb. I’m afraid I must also apologize for deceiving most of you as well. Some to such an extent that you will be justified in being quite angry with me. I hope you will forgive me, as I could see no way to avoid the necessity of lying and deceiving you.”

  She swallowed, surprised at the depth of emotion she felt in asking these disparate people to forgive her. Unwilling to watch their reactions, Jahanara turned and beckoned Atisheh to open the door. The warrior woman smiled and turned the key in the lock before shoving the heavy door open.

  Jahanara made a final check to ensure there were no open flames among the party. Seeing none and gently chiding herself for the caution Atisheh had assured her was unnecessary among the new tools Talawat had made, Jahanara strode through the portal and into the chamber beyond.

  The lantern Smidha held revealed only a portion of the contents of the room. Freestanding wooden racks positioned back-to-back two tiers high stood directly across from the entry and marched into the darkness, each tier loaded with twenty Damascus steel shotguns. Every weapon had a wide leather bandolier containing twenty shells hanging from where the barrels met the racks. Boxes stacked along the walls to either side of the door they’d entered through contained thousands more shells. In the darkness beyond the lantern light were forty more boxes, each containing copies of the special cannon shells copied from the two the USE ship, Lønsom Vind, had furnished.

  Talawat’s towering achievement was made all the more impressive by the fact that all this had been done in nearly complete secrecy. Setting up a manufactory in the abandoned city-fortress of Fatehpur Sikri had beggared her personal treasury, but the additional layer of secrecy between the project and the Imperial Civil Service had been well worth the investment.

  At least, she prayed it would be, as she heard the collective gasp from her guests as they finished filing in behind her. If she had surprised them, then there was a very good chance the products of Talawat’s manufactory would catch Aurangzeb and his men completely flat-footed.