1636: Mission to the Mughals

  “I suspect something got in along one of the sutures if it’s not one of the sutures themselves. If it was closer to the surface I’d just lance it, pack it, and give him some oral antibiotics—but I think we need to cut him again to debride and drain whatever’s causing it. I hate to go in if we don’t have to, and there’s always the chance it’s fungal, in which case nothing we do will help.”

  “But can you get in and clean the wound?” Gervais asked, cutting off the other man’s rambling.

  Rodney’s lips twisted. “I’m not sure…I hardly trained to cut somebody, and then it was mostly bypassing a closed airway.” He held up one massive hand. “My hands are damn big for this kind of work. That’s why I wanted Pris here, she’s really good with a scalpel, not to mention the fact that my sutures look like football laces.”

  Deciding to leave the definition of that last for later, Gervais focused on answering the younger man’s unspoken question. “Yes, I am sure that’s so, but the emperor was quite clear: we aren’t getting your wife in here.”

  “I know, I know, I just doubt I’ll do a good job of it…”

  “I see.” Gervais sighed. “Well, I’ve wielded the surgeon’s knife before. I suppose I can do it again.”

  Rodney looked at him, eyes wide. “You have? I thought you were…I mean…you know…” He lowered his voice, glancing from side to side so surreptitiously it was comical, “a con man?”

  “Only when all other avenues were closed to me. I was once a student training to be a physician. That’s what Don Francisco was talking about back in Hamburg.”

  “Oh. All right, then.” Rodney’s initial relieved expression suddenly disappeared. “Wait a second! I thought down-time physicians didn’t go in for surgery before we came on the scene.”

  Gervais felt a bitter smile creep across his lips. “They didn’t. I was kicked out of school for exploring the mysteries of the body using De Humani Corporis Fabrica and other texts the administration felt an ‘inappropriate representation of our storied institution.’ My explorations were discovered and my work put to an untimely end.”

  How that memory still burns, even after all these years.

  “Exploring?”

  Gervais cocked his head, shrugged. “I had a cadaver I was dissecting.”

  Rodney’s eyes shot wide. “No. Really?”

  “To use one of John’s favorite expressions: No shit.” He took a deep breath. “So, now that you know more of my…unconventional past than I’m comfortable having anyone really know, can we get back to the matter at hand?”

  “Right. Think you’re steady enough on the knife to get in cleanly?”

  “Using the steel these people make, certainly.” He gestured at the Sikh. “I think we’ll use that physician to sew him back up when we’re done, though. I’ve rarely seen such skill with needle and gut.”

  “This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.”

  “From the smell, he’s smoked quite a bit of opium.”

  “Is that what that smell is?”

  Gervais nodded.

  “I wondered when he didn’t react all that strongly when we were probing the wound.”

  “Right. Shall we?”

  A deep sigh rumbled through the man’s vast chest. “Let’s get to it, then.”

  Gervais gestured at the local. “First I want to go over some vocabulary with our friend. Wouldn’t do to have him misunderstand something at an critical moment.”

  Rodney nodded. “Or wipe his nose halfway through.”

  Gervais chuckled. “Indeed.”

  “Which reminds me: we need pure alcohol and sterile water, lots of it.”

  It was time to put on a brave face and convince these people they knew what they were doing. So he put on his best big-con smile, turned, and clapped hands together. “Right, Salim, could you please help the prince’s good physician and us to develop a shared vocabulary? Words like: here, there, stop, tighter, that sort of thing? Oh, and we also need alcohol as pure as we can get…and a significant quantity of boiled water. Boiled in copper kettles, still in the copper, mind you.”

  “Of course.”

  Aurangzeb’s Tent

  “I am denied.”

  “For the moment, Shehzada. Just for the moment. Your father cannot deny your ultimate fate and glory.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “My astrologers, your character, and…” Nur held up a set of papers, “the contents of one of Amir Yilmaz’s books from the future.”

  “And just how did you obtain that?”

  “As I informed you when you first approached me, I have my sources.”

  Impassive, Aurangzeb picked up the paper. “It is even in Persian, but what is this word in Latin letters?”

  “Encyclopedia. I am told that they are collections from the future consisting of short treatises on periods of history, scientific advancements, and the biographies of persons of note.”

  Aurangzeb quickly read the few pages of script, then reread them.

  Nur Jahan watched him closely, belly tight with anticipation.

  At length the prince put the paper aside and regarded her with a steady gaze. “And just how reliable is this information?”

  She admired his calm. The information was explosive, especially for him. “The translation is as close to the original as possible. There are some issues of vernacular, of course, but I am assured and confident in that assurance.”

  “And just who—”

  She held up a hand to forestall the question. “I’m afraid I cannot say.”

  “No, you choose not to.”

  She smiled and waggled her head: “Choice, or the lack of it, are two sides of the same coin in this. Were I to tell you, my utility to serve your cause would be diminished.”

  “Oh?”

  “Should my agent learn I had informed others of their character and placement, they would be most displeased and refuse to serve further. Bad enough that I have revealed,” she nodded at the papers, “this.”

  “Is that not always the problem with secrets and spies: when to reveal what is known…?”

  She smiled. “Exactly so, Shehzada.”

  His gaze went back to the papers: “So this is why Father acted so differently since the arrival of the amir; sending my brother out to command when at all times previous he made excuses to keep Dara close. He’s been trying to season him for the inevitable clash.”

  Nur nodded.

  “This…This changes everything.”

  “Indeed. Shah Jahan’s desire for secrecy regarding the contents of the works is certainly explained, as is his interest in the ferenghi and his elevation of the Afghan amir, Salim.”

  He shook his head in wonder and picked up the papers again.

  Trusting the seeds she had planted would ripen on their own in the young man’s fertile mind, Nur let him read it through once more.

  At length he looked at her and said, “I must pray on this.”

  “Of course.” Just don’t speak of it to Mullah Mohan, she thought but did not add.

  He sat back.

  Taking that as a sign the interview was at an end, Nur stood and bowed. “I am at your service, Shehzada.”

  He nodded permission for her to depart.

  She made to leave, but Aurangzeb stopped her: “It makes no mention of you, Nur Jahan. I wonder why that is?”

  “I do not doubt that women—even in that time that will be or would have been—lived in the shadow of their men, and therefore did not figure prominently in the histories.”

  Aurangzeb was scratching thoughtfully at his thin beard as she departed.

  He was too clever by half, thought Nur, but still a victim of every man’s desire to believe himself superior to women. She smiled. Men, so full of themselves and their place in history. Anyone sent in search of the story of India would hardly learn of the power wielded by women from the shade and comfort of the harem.

  Chapter 28

  Jahanara’s Tent

&nb
sp; April 1635

  “How do negotiations proceed, Father?”

  Shah Jahan smiled as his grandson’s tiny fist grasped his finger. “They proceed slowly, Jahanara. Hargobind Singh attempts to drive a hard bargain, thinking I have not received God’s message.”

  Jahanara resisted the urge to ask what that message was. Father had been avoiding her presence for so long, she did not want to drive him away.

  “Your up-timers have proven their worth again: your brother, I am told, is recovering well. This, when my own physicians told me there was little to no hope for him—claiming the infection would kill him.”

  “It was your wisdom, not mine, that kept them close.”

  “You are too modest.” He sighed. “And I have missed you, Daughter. I fear I was too hard on you. Fear and uncertainty made me suspicious of everyone. Now I know better…” He didn’t quite finish the sentence, lapsing into silence.

  The baby cooed, drawing him from his thoughts. “How is his mother?”

  “She is well, and resting. Would you care to see her?”

  “Let her rest. This one is likely a challenge.”

  Such a strange mood. I hope he will not take offense: “Do you think Nadira might see Dara soon?”

  Shah Jahan sighed again. “Not yet. Neither myself nor Hargobind Singh want to add potential hostages to the situation. I wish it were otherwise, but there it is.”

  Jahanara bowed her head. “Perfectly understandable, Father. You see why it is I felt I must ask, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” He looked down at his suddenly fussy grandson, “I would not keep my son from my grandson any longer than absolutely necessary. I have even gone so far as to tell Hargobind Singh that I will, formally and completely, lift the jizya—not just for his people, but for everyone: Hindus, Jains, Sikhs, even the Christians.”

  “But the mullahs…”

  “Let them piss and moan, I care not. They will do as they’re told and be happy about it or risk having the jagirs I gave them to support their madrassas and mosques returned to the crown.”

  Jahanara bit her lip against the ingrained instinct to respond with her own thoughts about the wisdom of that course.

  Father didn’t notice, continuing to speak as his grandson’s other hand rose to wrap his ring finger in a tiny fist, “It was not as if I was zealous in collecting the jizya anyway, especially to hear the mullahs tell it. But I have had enough of listening to all of their prattling. I will decide the fate of this empire. Not foreigners, not imams, not mullahs, not Sikhs, nor gurus.

  “Me. And what I want—no, what I will have is my son returned to me. He shall not be made to atone for my sins. This chance at redemption, God has given me.”

  Jahanara bowed, overcome by the intensity of his manner.

  Shah Jahan snorted. “Get up. I must sound like a hermit emerging from his cave to spit prophecy and doom. But I am not claiming any powers of prophecy, merely telling you, my sweet child, that I have had an epiphany.”

  He leaned over the child and tickled his belly with one finger. “I have done things…Actions I thought necessary and right. Actions that, according to the up-timer documents, pave the way for Aurangzeb to kill his brothers, imprison you and me, and seize the throne. In so doing, he expands the empire to its greatest extent, while at the same time sowing the seeds of its destruction. We cannot rule India—not for long—without the consent of our Hindu subjects. And the Sikhs.”

  Jahanara bit her lip, fearful of interrupting, yet still more frightened of what else Father might say.

  “What, no advice?” he asked, gently mocking.

  A most unflattering noise, only vaguely similar to a giggle, escaped her lips.

  He chuckled and gently rescued his fingers from the wrestling match his grandson was determined to win. He stepped around the child and opened his arms to Jahanara. “I am so sorry, Jahanara. I was cruel and unfair. Please forgive me, I will do better in future.”

  Tears in her eyes, Jahanara clung to her father for some time.

  Ilsa’s Tent

  Grinning like an idiot, John rolled to one side of Ilsa and tried to catch his breath.

  Ilsa sat up and poured herself a drink, blonde hair falling in waves down her naked back.

  For his part, John drank in the sight of her.

  Up until a short while ago she’d been wearing some of the sheerest, sexiest stuff he’d ever seen. That, and the intermittent separations forced on the couple by their living arrangements had led to surprisingly intense sex each time they’d had an opportunity.

  Half-fearing she might disappear, John reached out a hand and ran it down the hollow of her back, delighting in the shiver his touch elicited.

  “I’ll give you exactly one fortnight to stop doing that,” she said, a smile in her voice.

  He did it again as he sat up and kissed the nape of her neck. “How’s the littlest prince?”

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “He’s fine. Fussy, but fine. And before you ask: Nadira is fine, too.”

  “Sorry, but you and Priscilla really saved our asses by helping deliver the boy. I don’t think Shah Jahan was about to give us the time of day, let alone believe us capable of providing what we promised until you two came through.”

  “Oh, we know what we did. We’re just a little bit impatient, waiting on Shah Jahan to make up his mind whether he is going to take Hargobind Singh up on his offer or not.”

  “I’m not sure it is the emperor that’s slowing us down. Hargobind Singh seems…Well, Salim seems to think the guru doesn’t believe Shah Jahan is actually willing to grant his requests.”

  She turned to face him, folding one knee under her. “Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Shah Jahan imprisoned Hargobind Singh and had his predecessor executed.”

  “What?”

  “Jahanara told us last night. Apparently, the Sikhs were not at all militant until this guru. You saw those banners, the ones with two swords?”

  John nodded.

  “They represent the two swords that Hargobind Singh wore at his coronation: one indicating his spiritual power, the other his power in temporal matters.”

  John nodded. “Makes sense. Have you seen him?”

  “No. Being in the harem, I don’t get out much.”

  “Sorry, stupid question…It makes sense. He looks at least as much a badass as Salim. Not one I’d want to tangle with at all.”

  “I’m sure: Being kept like this,” she gestured at the walls of the tent, “is slowly driving me mad, John.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything we can do about that right now, Ilsa. Especially since you and Priscilla have shown how valuable your skills are.” He shook his head. “And I don’t know if it will be offensive for us to even ask if we can, as Christians, forego the requirements of purdah while still inmates.”

  “I understand that. I just wanted to ask you if you thought it was safe for me to broach the subject with Jahanara, especially since the emperor mentioned a reward.”

  “Yeah, about that: you might want to consider putting on some weight.”

  She shook her head. “Wait, why?”

  “Because, my dear, His Jahaniness offered a reward of your weight in silver.”

  Her eyes went round.

  “But if you want out of this decadent prison,” John snorted, “We can always forego a king’s ransom in silver…”

  She smacked his chest with her palm. “Oh, that’s cruel.”

  He grinned wider, leaning into her hand. “But getting back to your question about Jahanara: I wouldn’t know. Hell, with the restrictions in place between men and women, I haven’t even spoken to her. I have no idea how she’ll take it, do you?”

  Ilsa shrugged, making it exceedingly difficult for John to keep his eyes level with hers. “She really seems quite open-minded, and interested in everything Priscilla has to say. That said, something is going on between her and her father.” She lay down against him, snuggling up to his side and
throwing one leg over him.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, but the first time I actually saw them together was just a couple of days ago, and Jahanara was…I suppose relieved would be the best way to describe her, after.”

  “You ask any of the servants what’s up?”

  “Yes, but our translator was brought in after whatever happened to estrange them, so she didn’t know. I didn’t think it safe to ask anybody else.”

  John nodded. “Yeah, that was probably the smart move.”

  “Speaking of smart women: did you know she’s in charge here?”

  “Meaning?”

  “She’s responsible for the finances of the harem.”

  “I thought Diwan Firoz Khan was responsible for all that.”

  “He is, to a degree. But he got his position because Jahanara asked Shah Jahan for him and she manages the books with his assistance. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he makes reports to Shah Jahan, but she manages the day-to-day affairs and finances of the harem.”

  “Wait, doesn’t he have some other wives?”

  He felt her nod against his chest. “At least four wives, and…I can’t even begin to count the number of concubines.”

  “So shouldn’t one of those wives be in charge?”

  “Jahanara’s mother was the man’s true love, and that’s why he only seems to consider her children together as possible heirs. Which also explains why he dotes on her, and gave her the position.”

  “But aren’t princesses these days valued more for potential political marriages than anything else?”

  “Normally, yes. I had not—” She sat up abruptly. “I don’t think we’ve even asked Jahanara what her marriage prospects are. I don’t even know if she wants to get married. Now that I think about it, that might be the cause of the tension between her and her father. I mean, if he wanted to marry her off to some old, ugly, politically powerful man and she resisted…”

  “Then there would certainly be tension between the two.”

  She settled her warm weight against him again.

  “Lucky,” he sighed.

  “What’s that?” she asked, idly running the knuckles of her hand across his ribs.

  “I was just thinking that, as an old, ugly man, I am very lucky to have fooled you into thinking I’m politically powerful. Otherwise, we’d never have mar—”