by Eric Flint
“Yes, Shehzadi!” The messenger turned and left at the run.
“Is that wise, Shehzadi?” Smidha asked, her expressive face pinched with concern. “Shah Jahan has already publicly questioned Mian Mir’s loyalty. Can an order of execution be far behind?”
“Father only questioned Mian Mir’s loyalty because Aurangzeb played him false, putting the silly idea in his ear.”
“Still, you have still not healed the rift between you. Is it wise to risk still more disagreement?”
“Smidha, I must help him if I can. If Father asks, I will tell him I did it in Dara Shikoh’s memory. In fact, I should send for Rodney Totman. He may have some medical technique that might save—”
Smidha interrupted her mistress, “Begum Sahib! You cannot do that! Even if the ferenghi was to agree to it, Shah Jahan would surely see it as confirmation of Aurangzeb’s insinuation that the foreigners are secretly in league with the Sikhs.”
That gave Jahanara pause. She let out a long sigh of frustration and reached out to Smidha, taking the older woman in her arms. “You are right, Smidha. Much as I might want to, sending Mr. Totman to Lahore and Mian Mir would be foolish.”
Smidha hugged Jahanara tight and sighed. “I’m sorry, Janni. I don’t want to always speak from fear, but there is so much in the world that I worry over when it comes to you, daughter of my heart.”
“No, it is I who should apologize. I am too willful and heedless of the dangers.” She smiled. “I suppose I’ve enjoyed Father’s favor for so long I never learned how dangerous life can be without it.”
“You will be there again, Jahanara. Shah Jahan cannot refuse his favorite daughter for very long.”
Chapter 26
Battle Lines, Outside Ramdaspur
February 1635
After years of preparation, a month of travel, a night of uneasy maneuvering, and a morning of predawn prayers, Aurangzeb was finally ready to command troops in his first battle. Mounting his horse, the prince joined the main body of his personal troops. Already formed up, the men appeared ready, even eager, to do battle.
It felt…proper and good, this leading of men.
He accepted the greetings of his senior captains and squinted into the dawn’s light, considering the disposition of forces and lay of the land.
Father had chosen Aurangzeb to lead the right wing of his army with one quarter of his troops, committing Shah Shuja to the less important left with an equal number. Shah Jahan himself commanded the center, war elephants in the van.
Wazir Asaf Khan, despite his best efforts, was still a month behind the army. There would be no assistance from that quarter.
Not that we should need any, he thought, looking across the shallow bowl of the area around Ramdaspur. The Sikhs had fielded barely five thousand men, nearly half of whom were not mounted.
The left flank of the Sikh army, across from Aurangzeb’s own force, was anchored on a small fort. Dislodging the warriors inside the fort would likely prove time-consuming and difficult. Shah Jahan had ordered him to instead attack the troops nearest the fort and defeat them, thereby simultaneously isolating the garrison and turning the Sikh flank. The Sikhs had a number of guns in the fort, but it did not appear they had taken the guns from the other side to reinforce the side facing Aurangzeb.
God is merciful. It will prove hard enough to win through the forces facing us while under fire.
Feigning a calm he did not truly feel, Aurangzeb drank from his water skin and let his gaze travel back to the center and Father’s command group, waiting for the signal to commence the attack.
* * *
Salim’s mount did not like being this close to the elephants, champing the bit and stepping sideways. Calmly bringing it back under control, he returned to the knot of messengers, counselors, and functionaries surrounding the emperor.
Shah Jahan shot a tense grin his way, misinterpreting the horse’s idiocy for high spirits. “It looks as if someone is ready to fight.”
Salim bowed over his pommel. “Sultan Al’Azam, we are all ready to do your bidding.”
The emperor nodded absently, eyes returning to the army across from them. “What is that?”
Everyone looked. The center of the Sikh force had opened up to reveal a palanquin decorated in gold and jewels carried on the shoulders of eight armed warriors. Four armored and richly dressed men on fine horses rode forward with the palanquin. The entire procession marched forward a few hundred gaz before coming to a halt well out of bow shot.
“What is this?” the emperor asked.
His counselors all tried answering at once, their voices becoming nothing more than an angry noise.
Salim’s fool horse chose that moment to rear, drawing the emperor’s eye again. “What do you think it is, Salim?”
“I do not know, Sultan Al’Azam, but if you will permit it, I will ride forth and ask.”
The hubbub from the other counselors died abruptly, each calculating what was to be lost or gained should Salim succeed or die.
“You would have me go back on my oath?” Shah Jahan asked, expression unreadable.
“Words said in grief and anger are rarely our best, Sultan Al-Azam. If the Sikhs kill me, then you will have confirmation that your first instinct was proper, and I am—or was—a fool. If they do not, I will satisfy your curiosity and discover what it is they are attempting.”
Shah Jahan tugged at his beard but eventually waved a hand. “You have my leave to speak to them.”
Salim gave his horse his head and shot out from between two of Shah Jahan’s elephants.
He examined the group around the palanquin as he rode to meet them. The men had the hard look of veteran warriors, were well armed and armored, and one of them…Salim’s eyes shot wide. Hargobind Singh himself! But then, who was in the palanquin?
He slowed as he came close enough to speak without shouting. “The Sultan Al’Azam would know what it is you are doing, Hargobind Singh.”
The Sikh guru smiled. “I but take a walk with my friend.”
Salim came to a halt, the man’s powerful personality palpable even at this remove. “Between two armies?” he asked.
Hargobind Singh spread his arms wide. “I knew I had guests coming and this is the welcome party.” He waggled a finger at Salim. “But my guests were less than polite in that they refused to accept my messengers, who would have informed everyone that we were prepared to welcome them and, perhaps, give them back what was lost.”
“I begin to worry that our host might have stood too long in the sun…” Salim blurted, immediately regretting it.
The men with Hargobind Singh bristled. One, riding at his right hand, snorted laughter and asked, “Who are you, to ask the guru his business and question his sanity?”
Salim noted the ease with which the man sat his horse and the hard, dangerous look in his eyes. A worthy opponent. I will have to seek him out during the battle, should God will that I survive that long.
He gave a slight nod of the head, acknowledging the other warrior’s point. “I have been most impolite. Forgive me, Guru. I am the amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz, humble servant and commander of five hundred in the name of Shah Jahan, Sultan Al’Azam, your rightful ruler.”
Eyes glittering, Hargobind Singh smiled broadly. Appearing to have had his fun, he backed his horse and, with a flourish, gestured Salim toward the palanquin.
Salim rode forward between the Sikhs. He dismounted next to the palanquin and pulled aside the curtain.
“I’m afraid I can’t get up to greet you, Salim, but it is so very good to see you,” Dara Shikoh whispered.
“Shehzada!” Salim shouted, stunned. “We thought you dead!”
Dara Shikoh swallowed, “As painful as life is, I am still in it.” One hand reached out, grabbed Salim by the shoulder. “Tell me: my wife, has she given birth?”
“Any day now, Shehzada. She is healthy and will be overjoyed to hear she may discard the white of mourning.”
“Good. Goo
d,” Dara Shikoh murmured.
Salim shook off his surprise and examined Dara more closely. The prince had a bandage across one side of his chest and a sling supporting the opposite arm—but, more alarming, was far too pale for good health.
He finished his examination to find Dara smiling weakly. “I do not look my best.”
“No, but that is to be expected, being held by your enemies.”
“Guru Hargobind Singh has been a gentle captor, and has rendered me every aid that was within his power to give.”
A gentle cough from behind Salim drew both their attention. Hargobind Singh sat his horse a few gaz away, looking down on them. “Amir, can I rely on you to convey my words to the Sultan Al’Azam?”
“Of course, Guru.”
The guru raised one hand and pointed heavenward. “I seek no further conflict with the Sultan Al’Azam Shah Jahan, and would return his first-born son to him, provided we can come to an equitable agreement regarding the rights of my people. A people who, in their love for him, would be his again if he would but allow them freedom to practice our faith in peace, free of the jizya that is both insult and burden to all who follow God.
“Dara Shikoh has been our guest since his defeat at our hands. We have done all we can for him, but his injuries are commensurate with his bravery in battle, and therefore prove difficult to heal. Should Shah Jahan have physicians he would send, they will be received with the utmost respect and courtesy.”
Hargobind Singh curled the fingers that had pointed heavenward, making a fist. “Should Shah Jahan wish to ignore my overtures of peace, then he will find us ready to die to the last man to defend our faith and home. Please bring these words to Shah Jahan with my blessing.”
Salim rose to his feet and gave the guru a respectful bow. “I will do these things.” He turned to Dara Shikoh. “Shehzada, do you have any additional words for your father?”
“Yes. I ask that he forgive me my failure and remember that all things happen according to God’s will.”
“I shall do so, Shehzada.” He looked again at Hargobind Singh. “With your permission, Guru?”
“Of course.”
Salim remounted and turned his horse toward the waiting army of Shah Jahan. He rode slowly, not wishing to put fear into either army and pondering what, exactly, was going to happen when he told Shah Jahan just who was in the palanquin…and then when he gave the Sultan Al’Azam the words of Hargobind Singh. Despite the warmth of the day, Salim shivered at the thought.
At least Aurangzeb and Shah Shuja would not be present when he told Shah Jahan he could get his favored son back.
* * *
A strange sort of sigh ran through the assembled army as Salim slowly rode back from the group of Sikhs.
“I’m not sure what the hell this means,” John said, lowering his binoculars. The male mission members were mounted up about two hundred yards to the rear and to one side of the emperor’s command group. They were not expected to fight, but had made sure to arm up anyway.
“Didn’t the emperor say he wasn’t gonna talk to them?”
John nodded.
“That was Salim went out there to see them, wasn’t it?”
“Yup.”
“But…”
John shrugged. “I got no idea. This stuff confuses the hell out of me. Everyone standing around ready to fight, then they send somebody out to talk about it? Like something out of the Crusades.”
Angelo cleared his throat. “This is unusual. Shah Jahan wasn’t supposed to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Shah Jahan said he wasn’t going to negotiate with Hargobind Singh at all. That any who even spoke to a Sikh were his enemies.”
John waved a hand in the general direction of the Imperial party and said, “Salim didn’t just do that on his own, though.”
“No, he did not appear to. Which seems to indicate that Shah Jahan has experienced some change of heart.”
“So…who was in the palanquin?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, though Salim seemed surprised and pleased by what he saw in there.”
Angelo shook his head.
“I know,” Gervais said, grinning.
“What?”
“It never ceases to amaze us how good those are,” Gervais pointed at John’s binoculars. “I have used telescopes before, but there’s just no comparison with those for depth of field and being able to quickly bring something into focus.”
John nodded, failing to see a need to comment, especially as Salim had finally returned to Shah Jahan’s party.
He quickly raised the binoculars again and focused on Shah Jahan. He could only get the emperor’s back, but could clearly see Salim’s expression as he related something.
The emperor swayed like a drunkard in the saddle.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“What?” nearly everyone in the party asked.
“Nothing, I just never saw someone actually reel in shock.”
Harem Tents, Shah Jahan’s Camp
“I hate men! Leaving us to face this alone!” Nadira gasped.
Jahanara smiled, mopping Nadira’s brow. “You don’t mean that, it is just the pain talking.”
“You would hate them too, were yoooooh!” Nadira hissed, gasped, spat: “In my place. Oh!” She clamped Jahanara’s hand, hard, squeezing until it felt the bones must break.
“Breathe, Nadira Begum. Breathe,” Priscilla said, her thick accent odd in Jahanara’s ears. The up-timer’s hands were busy pulling a series of metal implements out of the heavy bag she’d brought with her and dropping them into the cauldron of boiling water she’d demanded be brought in.
“I fail to see the value this ferenghi brings to this, Begum Sahib,” Smidha groused. “Breathe? As well tell the fish to swim!”
Jahanara shot a quelling glance her way even as the midwife spoke: “No, Smidha, it is sound advice. Childbirth requires as much air as the mother can take.”
Priscilla looked over at Sahana, who shook her head and said something in rapid-fire English.
Still looking at Smidha, Jahanara announced in a loud, clear voice, “Sahana, please inform Priscilla that I will not allow anyone to interfere with her kind assistance to the midwife. And that the midwife also knows that Priscilla is to be consulted at all times during and after Nadira’s delivery.”
Sahana bowed at the waist and translated for the benefit of the two foreigners. But Jahanara kept her gaze on Smidha.
The older woman pretended not to hear.
There was a disturbance at the tent entrance. Jahanara nodded in that direction, glad to have somewhere to send the older woman. “Smidha, see if the battle has begun.”
“Yes, Begum Sahib.”
“Priscilla.”
“Yes, Shehzadi?”
“Are we missing anything that you or my brother’s wife might need?”
“No, Shehzadi.”
Nadira’s death grip on Jahanara’s hand relaxed. She took a deep breath and another.
Priscilla said something, looking at the up-timer device on her wrist. Ilsa took note of whatever was said in the small book before her.
“Soon,” the midwife said.
Priscilla nodded in apparent agreement. Speaking slowly and clearly, so that Sahana could keep up, she said: “Nadira, I’m going to take a measurement now, and find out if it is safe for you to push.”
Nadira nodded her sweating head, and groaned, “Merciful God, anything to get this over with!”
Priscilla drew the tray from the cauldron and set it aside and out of Nadira’s view. The shining, oddly shaped steel implements were vaguely sinister, sitting there, steaming, even in the heat.
To distract herself as much as make sure Nadira could not see them, Jahanara squeezed Nadira’s smaller hand in hers.
The younger woman smiled at her, then winced as another contraction struck. Jahanara tried to hide how much Nadira’s grip hurt. It was the least she could do.
A strange noi
se, something she had never heard in camp before, rumbled in the distance. She looked away from Nadira’s sweating face, instinctively trying to identify the sound.
It wasn’t a battle—those she had heard before. Nor was it defeat, something she had also had the misfortune to hear.
Almost…
Disappointment?
Smidha returned to the tent flap and hurried to her. Such was her shocked expression that Jahanara momentarily thought the worst had happened, and Father lay dead. She opened her mouth to tell Smidha it was not so, that she had heard no sounds of combat, but Smidha spoke before the words could leave her lips, “Nadira Begum, your husband yet lives!”
“What?” Nadira asked.
“Your husband, Shehzada Dara Shikoh, lives. He is prisoner of the Sikhs, but he yet lives!”
“What cruel joke is this?”
“From who do you have these words?” Jahanara asked at the same time.
“Begum Sahib, Amir Yilmaz was sent to treat with Hargobind Singh and met with Dara Shikoh himself.”
Releasing a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d held, Jahanara looked down at her brother’s wife and smiled, tears in her eyes.
“Am I dead, to have my one wish—” Another contraction robbed Nadira of breath.
“No,” Jahanara kissed the back of her hand, “sweet Nadira, you are not dead.”
“Very close now, I can see the…a foot.”
Jahanara glanced over, detecting a note of worry in the midwife’s voice.
More rapid-fire exchanges between the Ilsa, Priscilla, and Sahana. Priscilla rattling out a series of what sounded like commands, voice calm and controlled.
Nadira’s sudden scream was no less loud for issuing between clenched teeth.
Ears ringing and heart hammering, Jahanara kept smiling. “You will live to present my nephew to my brother, I am sure of it.”
The Red Tent
“Out! All of you, out!”
Salim made to rise.
“Not you, Amir Yilmaz!” Shah Jahan barked. “I may have questions. Nor you, my sons. I have orders for you…”
Within moments, Salim was the only person not a family member or slave of Shah Jahan’s in the Red Tent. For his own part, Salim found it hard not to look with longing at the exit.
