1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  “To what? To speak to him on my behalf again?” Aurangzeb shook his head. “While I have no doubt of your experience and skill, the fool is so unreasonable even your abilities would prove insufficient to retrieve him from the folly he is bent on.”

  Knowing she could scarcely correct his assumption she wanted to talk to the man with a request to assassinate the priest, Nur asked, “But what of the men he represents? Can you afford to give up the supplies the Portuguese are sending?”

  He nodded, the gesture more indicative of his approval of the question than an answer to it. He slapped the hands of his body slave away and put the last toggle through the embroidered loop himself.

  Sensing his irritation, Nur waited for the emperor to speak his mind.

  “I have considered the possible ramifications.” He turned to look at her. “At least all those I’m aware of.”

  He knows.

  “I do not wish to be presumptuous but—”

  “There is information you think I do not have,” he said, interrupting her.

  “Say, rather, I wish to make certain you have it, as it might affect how you choose to deal with De Jesus.”

  He gestured as if to say, “Get on with it.”

  “I only just received word that Shaista Khan moves against you with an army of twenty thousand.”

  “It’s closer to thirty thousand. And his advance scouts are less than a week from Agra. But beyond that, one of the men loyal to Shahaji reported his death this morning.”

  “Oh?” Nur prompted when Aurangzeb said nothing further.

  “Apparently we were deceived. The Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz attacked and sacked a supply caravan from the Europeans. When Shahaji and his men went to hunt the Afghan down, he enlisted the help of other Maratha. One of these men attacked and killed Shahaji in front of Salim Yilmaz, who took no part in the slaying.”

  “But why?” Nur asked.

  Aurangzeb shrugged. “The Bhonsle, Shahaji’s clan, have done very well through their cooperation with the throne, gaining much wealth and no little power over their rivals for control of the region. This other chief resented those gains as well as Shahaji’s high-handed assertions and manner during truce talks with Salim. Shahaji apparently drew a knife and threatened the other chief in front of both Salim and the Maratha chiefs. A duel ensued. Shahaji won that duel, but died shortly after the victory.”

  Nur heard a note of sadness in the young man’s voice and felt a strange, sudden, and quite powerful sense of relief.

  A moment’s reflection unearthed the source of the sensation: aside from the occasion of the death of his father, Aurangzeb had rarely revealed any feelings for his fellow man. A ruler must, of necessity, remain aloof from most common feelings of camaraderie and the like, but to be entirely free from such emotion was to be a monster. And such a monster sitting the Peacock Throne would truly be in a position to devastate the world.

  “He will be missed,” Nur said.

  Aurangzeb nodded but said nothing, hands smoothing his robe unnecessarily.

  “But does it follow, then, that the Afghan works for Dara still?” Nur wondered aloud, seeking to move the Sultan Al’Azam from such thoughts.

  “Does it matter?” Aurangzeb asked.

  Refusing to rise to the bait and thereby give the young man reason to ignore her advice, Nur looked away.

  Aurangzeb noticed, as he did most things. “Speak your mind,” he commanded.

  “Your will, Sultan Al’Azam. It seems to me that everything matters, the hearts of those poised to be either friend or foe more than anything else.”

  “I have no knowledge that he is poised to be anything to me other than a nuisance. He may have been acting solely as a bandit: having seen easy prey, he seized it.” Aurangzeb raised a finger. “He might equally have been acting on Dara’s orders. We cannot know. What I do know is that his actions denied me both a valuable retainer and supplies for my army. In the end, these two setbacks benefit Dara. In light of these facts, I think I might be forgiven for thinking he is working for the pretender.”

  Nur, having come to the realization that it was this information, rather than news that Shaista Khan was so close, that precipitated Aurangzeb’s decision to rid himself of the priest, hid a smile. If the Afghan was sacking their supply caravans en route to the army, then enduring his petulant and insulting presence was no longer necessary.

  An example could be made.

  Once again, she felt the cold satisfaction of having chosen the proper prince to back.

  Inclining her head in genuine admiration, she said, “Like a dervish, you dance ahead of your enemies. Truly, God has favored you. I see my warnings and information were superfluous. Forgive me, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  A more natural smile graced his thin lips, making Aurangzeb appear his age for once. “Have you not just finished telling me that all intelligence is useful? I simply seek to make best use of all that God provides. That precept in mind, the departure of the priest will be made useful to me in binding my umara further still to my cause and the will of God. Once that is accomplished, I shall reveal the true reason I called the public audience this evening: not simply to deal with one recalcitrant Christian priest, but to announce the plan for storming Red Fort.”

  Nur nodded. “Your will, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  Aurangzeb sniffed. “What, no cautions? No assertions that I am being precipitous?”

  “Not this day, Sultan Al’Azam. I believe I understand perfectly why you must take Red Fort as soon as possible. And if I don’t, I’m sure you’ll explain in sufficient detail that both my ignorance and any reservations I might have would be dispelled.”

  “God willing I will dispel the ignorance and reservations of all my followers so easily,” he said. From anyone else the statement would have come laced with undertones of black humor. From Aurangzeb it held nothing but a fervent prayer and the sincere conviction that the prayer would be answered in time.

  Red Tent

  “I have heard much of your complaints, priest. What I have not heard are cries from those of my peoples you claim clamor for the opportunity to practice your faith.”

  De Jesus opened his mouth to reply but Aurangzeb spoke over him: “Wait! Is that…?” The Sultan Al’Azam placed a hand next to his ear as if listening intently.

  The court held its collective breath. Nur, watching from behind the jali, smiled, her misgivings slowly easing.

  After a moment Aurangzeb dropped his hand and shook his head. “No, it is but the taunts of my enemies, not the cries of the peoples of my dominion. I have been listening, and yet no one has come forth begging for you and your priestly brothers to show them how to give their souls to the man in Rome who claims to sit at the right hand of God!”

  The court stirred, umara growing restless and murmuring angrily amongst themselves.

  Seeming to ignore them, Aurangzeb leaned forward, placing one elbow on a knee. “But then, you come from Goa, where I hear they are now burning some loyal subjects, saying they are not Christian enough. Is it any wonder you have no idea what it is that the peoples of India desire?”

  “They—” De Jesus began.

  “The question,” Aurangzeb interrupted, “was rhetorical. The many peoples of India have their own religions and do not need priests deciding their faith, whatever it may be, is false or insufficient to meet some artificial standard set by the Pope in Rome.”

  Nur’s spies had sent word of the burnings. It had started as something to do with New Christians being hidden Jews, but the local population was now suffering the burnings as well. She hadn’t thought to use the knowledge to discredit the priest, though she heartily approved of Aurangzeb’s choice of tactics. If the Christians would burn those newly converted in the Estado, would they not seek to do the same within the empire?

  The Sultan Al’Azam leaned back and gestured with both hands at the gathered court. “Just look about you, priest. Muslim, Hindu, Jew, and Zoroastrian. You can find these faiths and mor
e here at my court. None are punished or preferred over another. None are burned at the stake for not being faithful enough. No, whatever the faiths practiced by those taking shelter in the shadow of my power, they themselves will choose those articles of faith and worship as their religion dictates.”

  “Then our agreement is ended,” De Jesus said when at last Aurangzeb allowed him to get a word in. That he did not immediately point out that nonbelievers were taxed under Muslim law proved De Jesus was not entirely an idiot.

  “Only because you wish it so, priest. I sit here on the eve of victory, but your naked ambition and religious bigotry could not suffer waiting but a few more days. Young as I am, be glad my advisors implored me to delay rewarding you for your service so we might better assess your character and intent. Now, your complaints and bitter attacks upon me have grown to the point I must remove you and all your goods from our camp. Go tell your master the archbishop I hold him responsible for sending a creature such as you to treat with me, who only wished peace and beneficial relations between our peoples.”

  De Jesus bowed stiffly and began to retreat. Nur could not tell if it was fear or anger that caused the slight tremors in the priest’s hands.

  “I have not given you leave to depart, priest.” The words, calmly and evenly delivered, were more frightening than a barked rebuke would have been from such a young man.

  “May I leave, Sultan Al’Azam?” De Jesus grated through clenched teeth.

  The priest’s tone was unacceptable. Nur looked at Aurangzeb along with most of the court.

  Unlike the rest of the court, she knew Aurangzeb did not want to make a bitter enemy of Goa, something that must surely happen if Aurangzeb made a martyr of De Jesus. The Portuguese still controlled too much of the sea trade, and could easily make the sea route for the pilgrimage to Mecca nearly impossible for his Muslim subjects, which would only play into the hands of the Persians, who controlled much of the land route.

  “You may leave, priest. Your horses, goods, and chattel will remain with the camp, a fine for your miserable manners and insolent words. Walk home. None will help you. None of my subjects will harm you. Get out of my sight.”

  The court heaved a collective sigh. Not born of fatigue, but with the contentment one felt when long-held expectations are finally met.

  The priest fled in the wake of the Sultan Al’Azam’s dismissal.

  Nur made a mental note to have the man watched as he made the long trek to the coast. Some courtier might seek concessions from the Portuguese by helping the priest, and Aurangzeb would want to know the names of such opportunists.

  Sudden movement from the Sultan Al’Azam drew everyone’s gaze from the priest’s retreating back. Aurangzeb had stood to face his court, eyes glittering in the lamplight. It seemed, even from beyond the shelter of the jali, that the Sultan Al’Azam stared into each and every soul present. Those small hairs on the back of her neck rose to stand on end under that forceful regard.

  He let the silence stretch.

  “Tomorrow. After morning prayers. We shall storm Red Fort and cast down the pretender.”

  He drew the sword from his hip and, raising his voice only slightly to make them lean in to listen, continued, “God willing, those who have indulged his poor, weak character and led him astray from all that is good will fall under our righteous swords, their remains trampled under foot!”

  The varied bellows, shouts, cries, and yells of approval for this pronouncement merged into what seemed a single long, impossibly loud cacophony that gave Nur a headache within moments.

  Chapter 42

  Red Fort

  Lahore Gate

  There were a lot of men lingering in the outermost courtyard of Lahore Gate when John and Bertram exited the middle gate.

  “What are they doing?” he asked, thoughts of betrayal making the words sharper than intended.

  One man, wearing an expensive robe that positively glittered in the lamplight, challenged them in angry tones. At least, John thought it was a challenge. His exhausted brain wasn’t up to trying to translate beyond noting the fellow looked like someone had pissed in his porridge.

  Bertram answered the challenge in Gujarati, maybe? Whatever he said must have been the right thing, though, as the man smiled and waved them on, talking all the while.

  “He said he and his men have been ousted by a bunch of Sikhs. He’s counting on you, Great General, to set them straight.”

  “You’re pulling my leg,” John said, but then saw the deep bow the man was offering as they passed into the outermost gatehouse.

  “Not by much,” Bertram said, taking a lamp from another warrior. “He is, as you might say, ‘a mite pissed.’ It seems Bidhi Chand came in a few hours ago and asked them, rather pointedly, to leave while he did something. There was some argument. He believes you were sent in answer to the messenger he sent to Dara regarding the matter.”

  John shook his head. Hoping to ease the pain of protesting shoulders, he adjusted the sling his rifle hung from. The Winchester itself wasn’t that heavy, but combining it with the shoulder rig bearing Ilsa’s Beretta and the chain shirt Dara had given him and Ilsa had insisted he wear, his shoulders and knees were groaning. Not as loud as his feet, mind you, but plenty loud. He thought about exchanging it for the Remington but the shotgun wasn’t any lighter. Besides, Talawat and Gervais had assured him the fireworks they’d prepared would shed enough light to make the rifle’s greater range useful in a night battle.

  He chuckled, wondering what kind of dharma led a twentieth-century hillbilly from West Virginia to lead a mixed force of seventeenth-century warriors in battle against one of the largest armies he’d ever heard of, let alone laid eyes on. Because the closest he’d ever come to staff school was watching Patton. Judging from that film, asking what Patton would do in any given situation found an easy answer: Attack! Attack! And then attack again if you have to!

  Oh, and piss off your fellow generals where possible…

  John had vowed not to add fuel to the already-low-burning fuse of the garrison’s fragile morale. Part of fulfilling that vow was making sure the various ethnic and religious groups of warriors—he couldn’t exactly call them real soldiers, though the Sikhs were furthest along in that regard—were recognized and made to feel good about their contribution to the defense.

  All of which translated to long nights on his feet for one John Dexter Ennis, Dara’s chosen adjutant. John and Bertram covered nearly every yard of the walls of Red Fort at least once a night.

  Bertram turned the corner and led the way up the last flight of narrow stairs leading to the roof of the outer gatehouse.

  John stifled a sigh. He’d intentionally left the gatehouse for last as Bidhi Chand had asked him to meet here in the last hours before dawn.

  “No light,” someone hissed in Punjabi-accented Persian John barely understood.

  “What the hell?” John muttered, stumbling to a halt.

  “Something’s going on,” Bertram said. He turned off the small lantern he’d been carrying.

  Thanks, Captain Obvious.

  “Quietly. Come.”

  John and Bertram cautiously made their way up the last few steps and out into the night air above the gatehouse. The moon had set some time earlier, leaving only starlight to see by. There was a rhythmic sound John couldn’t immediately identify coming from the edge of the tower. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness he made out a group of men hauling on a rope that passed through one of the crenellations topping the wall.

  A few seconds later, a turbaned and veiled warrior climbed into view only to drop lightly to his feet on the roof.

  It wasn’t until a squinting John heard the men with the rope congratulating their commander that he realized the warrior was Bidhi Chand. An instant later he realized the warrior had been outside the walls scouting. Without telling anyone, of course.

  John moved to join the Sikh umara. The big warrior saw the up-timer coming and stepped from among his men. Unhoo
king the chain veil, his teeth shone white in the starlight.

  “Rejoice, friend John! No more waiting! Aurangzeb sends his men against us this night.”

  “What?” John said, stunned by the contrast between the content of the message and the tone of barely suppressed glee in Bidhi Chand’s voice. The man was a maniac.

  But at least he’s our maniac.

  “Aurangzeb’s men are blundering about out there”—he hiked a thumb at the darkness beyond the walls—“getting into position for an assault.”

  “How many?”

  “The lion’s share of his forces, I think. I could hear the jingle of their armor some way off, and the stink of smoke from the bhang the Rajputs smoke is hard to miss on a still night like tonight.”

  “You judged their numbers without laying eyes on them?” Bertram asked.

  Bidhi Chand did not immediately respond to the question as he was speaking into the ear of a messenger. Only when he had finished giving his orders and the runner sped away did he return his attention to the up-timer and his companion. “Of course not! I killed a few and then joined them. It is the best way to get a feel for numbers at night.”

  “You killed…” Bertram mumbled.

  John might’ve been as shocked as his friend but he’d been around Bidhi Chand enough to know better. No one built a legend that large without there being substance behind it.

  Bidhi slapped the younger man on the back, the blow rocking him up onto the balls of his feet. “Don’t worry. Plenty more where they came from, Bertram.”

  “Any idea how wide a front they’re going to attack on?”

  The Sikh’s smile disappeared. “That I do not know for certain. I think that it will be a general assault with a particular focus on this gate and the wall to our immediate west. Delhi Gate is too strong without being reduced by artillery, so I cannot think he will hope to breach the defenses there, as it would be wasteful and stupid. Aurangzeb is not rumored to be either.”

  John nodded agreement. “General attack on all but the walls on the riverside, then?”