Salim smiled at Gervais. “He is a living saint. Mian Mir has renounced the pleasures of this world, has schooled his mind and body to mirror his sweet soul. So much so, he only breathes but four times a night.”
Not wishing to give offense, Gervais picked his next words carefully: “Forgive me if I misunderstand, but if he renounced the world, why send you to Europe?”
Salim nodded. “A good question. The living saint renounced the pleasures and distractions of this world,” the Afghan gestured at the up-timers seated across the courtyard from them, “not the events of momentous import which shake the world.”
“I see. Will we have an opportunity to speak with him?”
“I do not know. He is quite frail, and has only recently recovered from illness. He’s nearly one hundred years of age as it is. I know he will be seeing Dara Shikoh to bestow blessings upon him, but I do not know if he will have time for private audiences with you. I sent a messenger, but have yet to hear back.”
Gervais heard the plaintive note in Salim’s voice. “Surely he will make time to see you.”
“I pray it is so. I had resigned myself to the possibility I would not see him again before Paradise, so it will be reward enough just to see him once more.”
“Both Dara and Jahanara were his students?”
“Yes, though Dara started as a youngster with Mian Mir and then, when returned to his father, continued to study with one of Mian Mir’s more accomplished disciples.”
“But, on the subject of Jahanara Begum, I thought purdah would prevent—”
“Oh, purdah was observed, I assure you.”
“Understood. You said something about Dara being returned to his father?”
“Indeed. He and Aurangzeb were both held hostage by Jahangir after Shah Jahan’s failed attempt to rebel against him.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“Why then, and correct me if I’m wrong, was Dara a student of Mian Mir while Aurangzeb was not?”
Gervais’ lifetime among liars served him well in that moment, allowing them to see Salim’s lie for what it was: “I do not know, Gervais.”
“I see. Thank you kindly for answering my questions, Salim. You have been a most gracious and good host.”
Salim looked away, tugging at his beard. After a moment he looked back at Gervais and lowered his voice. “I suspect Jahangir was attempting to punish Shah Jahan by ensuring that a divide existed between his sons like that which existed between himself and Shah Jahan.”
It was Gervais’ turn to look away in an attempt to cover the twinge of guilt he felt at manipulating the Afghan. “I had not meant to…”
“And it is not my place to make such comments on the royal family. Please forget that I did so.”
“Already forgotten,” Gervais, unlike his host, lied with the ease of a lifetime’s practice.
Lahore
The howdah’s sway usually calmed Jahanara’s restless mind, but not today. Today she would see Mian Mir, and receive his blessings, and her excitement would not be restrained.
Seeking distraction, she spoke to Nadira Begum, seated across from her: “Suleiman eats well?”
Nadira Begum smiled over the crown of her son’s head. “He does indeed. His milk mothers complain of how quickly he drains them.”
“Good, good. Mian Mir will, no doubt, offer blessings for our youngest prince.”
“Truly?”
“I will ask Mian Mir if he or my brother fails to offer it.” Dara had gone ahead this morning with Salim and several of his favorites, planning to spend the morning in prayer and contemplation in company with the saint.
“We have been truly blessed to see Dara come back to us. It seems presumptuous to ask for more.”
Jahanara ran a finger across the soft cheek of her nephew. “For a child, anything and everything.”
“I’m told the gardens your brother established in Mian Mir’s name are quite exceptional.”
Jahanara nodded, smiling. “My brother, your husband, certainly has excellent taste.”
“It’s true that he designed it himself?”
“He did. Father’s chief canal builder laid out the water forms for the garden, but did so entirely to Dara’s specifications.”
Nadira’s eyes shone. “I am so happy he lived, Jahanara. That I might have had to go on without him was so painful I could barely draw breath.”
Jahanara looked away, uncomfortable with the depth of feeling in Nadira’s eyes. Always, such words sparked that twinge of jealousy, her heart asking again: Will I ever have such a love?
As always, there was no answer to be found in the hollow desolation of her loneliness.
Loud cries from up ahead roused Begum Sahib from her self-pity. Such disruptions were not the norm; eunuchs traveled ahead of the harem ladies to drive from the route any who were not fit to lay eyes on the procession. Such noise heralded some mishap on the road, and Jahanara did not want to have to intercede with some poor family that had their son beaten by her overzealous guardians, not today.
She looked through the ornate slats of the howdah, attempting to catch of glimpse of the cause of the ruckus but there was little to see but early-morning sunlight on billowing dust.
“Atisheh!” she called.
“Shehzadhi?”
“What is that noise?”
“It appears a large mob outside the home of Mian Mir, Shehzadi.”
Nadira tensed beside her, setting Suleiman to fussing again. “What manner of mob?”
“I know not. Shall I find out, Shehzadi?”
“Gopal, stop.” Jahanara ordered, considering.
By the time the mahout brought the massive elephant to a halt, Jahanara decided: “Yes, take some other swords with you, but be gentle. I do not wish to offer offense to the saint by injuring those at his doorstep.”
“Your will.” Atisheh rode off, five of her sisters following.
Expecting she’d have to wait some time, she asked Nadira, “Have you heard Priscilla and Ilsa speak of the home they plan to build?”
“I have. Strange that they should live under the same roof and not be wed to the same man or otherwise related.”
“Strange indeed, but perhaps some of the least strange things about them.” She shrugged silk-shrouded shoulders. “I suppose the place will be less a home and more a caravanserai for their trade interests, but still.”
“Have you seen the young men with them?”
“I have. One has blond hair, the other, red, and all of them are well-formed.”
Nadira snorted, whispered: “Well-formed, indeed. The slaves prattle endlessly about them, asking one another questions.”
“Oh, and what do they ask?”
“They ask if the carpets match the hangings.”
“If the carpets match—” She stopped, shocked to her very bones.
Nadira’s throaty laugh was infectious, and made it harder still for Jahanara to pretend she didn’t find the joke both provocative and funny.
They were drawn from their merriment by the hoof beats of Atisheh’s party.
The howdah swayed again as Atisheh gestured imperiously at Jahanara’s mahout and the elephant knelt. With the strength and grace of her people, Atisheh left the saddle and, without touching the ground, scaled the elephant. Armor chiming softly as she crouched beside the howdah, she said, “Shehzadi, the men outside his house mourn the passing of Mian Mir. They say he has passed to Paradise.”
“What?” Jahanara whispered, wind sucked from her lungs.
Atisheh, unable to hear her mistress’ distress, continued to relate the details. “Shehzada Dara Shikoh’s new sowar were on the gate, and told me he and Amir Salim were with Mian Mir when he breathed his last.”
Jahanara swallowed and tried to regain her wits.
“Did you see my husband?” Nadira asked, anxiety making Suleiman fuss yet again.
“Yes, Begum. He was in the courtyard, weeping openly, as were all the men.”
“Understandable, given the great loss the Order has suffered,” Jahanara said, mind lurching along in the wake of the sudden change in circumstance.
A shrug of armored shoulders. “Nadira Begum wept less, and there was far more blood, during the birth of the babe.”
The contempt in the other woman’s voice snapped Jahanara out of her funk and put a blade in her voice. “That may be so, but you will not repeat it where any man might hear.”
“Yes, Shehzadi, I will not speak of it again.” While the response and her demeanor were appropriate in every detail, Jahanara knew the warrior-woman’s opinion remained unchanged.
“Gopal, you did not hear a thing, understood?”
The mahout turned sideways, keeping his eyes down, and loudly inquired, “What was that, Shehzadi? Did this poor servant fail to hear orders again? I am most sorry, Shehzadi.”
“Do better, Gopal,” Jahanara said, silently resolving to see the thin fellow rewarded for his impeccable manners.
“I shall try, Shehzadi.”
“What do we do, Jahanara?” Nadira asked.
“Mian Mir outlived both wives and daughters, so I can but think we would be a burden on the household should we continue on,” Jahanara mused aloud. “I’m afraid we must turn back. Atisheh, send a messenger to inform Dara of my decision, I doubt he will be back soon…”
“Yes, Shehzadi.” With a strange noise that wasn’t quite whistle nor raspberry, Atisheh called her horse to the elephant’s side. She dropped from her perch into the saddle with a show of unconscious athleticism that reminded Jahanara that her confidence in the woman’s prowess as a fighter was fully justified.
Nadira was nodding. “Funeral preparations…”
“Yes, there will be a great deal to do. I doubt Dara will have much time for anything, even family.”
Nadira waggled her head, “I meant that, surely, as one of his students, you would be included in his funeral rites?”
“Men rarely think to ask,” Jahanara rasped.
“But, as one of his most accomplished students, your loss is surely as great as my husband’s! You should be allowed to take part in the funeral preparations.”
Jahanara found she could not answer aloud, so tight had her throat become.
Chapter 33
Lahore Fort, Diwan-i-Am
August 1635
“He what?” Dara said, unsure he’d heard his advisor correctly. He was, as yet, unused to the new personnel Father had assigned to him in order to reconstitute his household court. So much so he could not even recall this one’s name, especially with all the funeral preparations to see to.
“Hargobind Singh rides to Lahore, wishing to be present for the internment of Mian Mir, Shehzada,” the eunuch clarified.
“He does, does he?” he said, noncommittal. I don’t have time for this. I must begin writing the eulogy.
“Yes, Shehzada.”
“Very well. Make sure he is accorded every respect, then.”
“Is that wise, Shehzada?” The eunuch persisted.
Kwaja Magul, Dara finally dredged the name from memory. He sniffed, irritated at the eunuch’s manner but powerless to dismiss the fellow. As an imperial appointee to his household, there was little Dara could do without offending Father and adding to the perception he could not manage his own court.
Besides, it was not this one’s fault that Dara lost so many loyal men and advisors at Ramdaspur. That was his alone.
“He will be accorded every respect as he attends the funeral of my teacher, understood?”
A respectful bow of the head accompanied the eunuch’s next words but did not stop them: “Of course, Shehzada. I only ask as some of the other Orders will be present, and may resent his presence…aggressively.”
“So be it!” Dara snapped.
“I merely—”
“And I heard your concerns. Now do as I command.”
“Are you certain, Shehzada?”
Restraining, just barely, the urge to cuff the eunuch about the ears, Dara felt his cheeks flush. “Is there some other concern you have yet to voice? Something so critical that you decide to question orders twice given?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Forgive me the effrontery, Shehzada, but Shah Jahan himself commanded me to be certain you were making the best decisions possible, and ordered us”—he gestured at the other advisors—“to confirm you gave careful consideration to every decision before making them public, purely because of your recent…illness.”
Dara looked at the rest of the advisors, each of whom silently nodded agreement. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, asked: “And what is it that I am failing to consider, my advisors?”
Kwaja waggled his head and answered as if Dara had not laced his question with bitter sarcasm: “Certain powerful groups, among them the Naqshbandi Order, are, how shall I say it? Content to see Mian Mir and his conciliatory rhetoric gone from this world, and will take it amiss if Hargobind Singh is present at what they view as a properly Islamic rite.”
“View? They would co-opt it, given half a chance!” Dara surged to his feet and began pacing.
“Correct, Shehzada. Shah Jahan’s orders that the tax on nonbelievers be rescinded has already caused a great deal of unrest among the nobles and orders most affected by it…” The eunuch trailed off, looking sidelong at Dara’s military advisor, Vidur Khan.
The Rajput nodded, taking up the thread. “It is as Kwaja Magul says, Shehzada. I would add that the entire Muslim population of the region, not just the nobility, are uneasy. They are like the grass in the dry season, waiting for the least spark that brings the wildfire. And the presence of Hargobind may just prove the match that lights a conflagration that will not be contained.”
“Yet he and Mian Mir held one another in mutual admiration and respect,” Dara mused. “With the recent peace concluded between the emperor and Hargobind, it may be that denying him the opportunity to pay his respects would lead to outright war, not just unrest.”
“A difficult quandary, Shehzada.”
A quandary that would, should Dara defer it to his father for a decision, not only fail to meet the religious requirements of their faith, but cause whatever esteem he might have with these men to evaporate, never to return.
Dara stopped pacing, feeling their eyes on him. “Hargobind will come to the funeral, as he wishes. I will write to make him aware of the delicate situation. Let the news-writers inform everyone that he comes under my protection and with my full friendship and regard.”
“Yes, Shehzada,” his advisors chorused.
Did his solution please them? he wondered. Or were they merely humoring him, having followed his father’s instruction? It was impossible to know.
“Are there any other matters of import before I begin writing the eulogy? How goes recruitment?”
“Slowly, Shehzada. With his recent deployment of such large armies into the Deccan and Bengal, Shah Jahan depleted much of the readily available manpower.”
“I see. I would prefer quality over great numbers regardless. Perhaps some of your kin would take up arms in my name? Rajput arms are respected the world over.”
The Rajput smiled so broadly his teeth were visible as his large mustache curled up. “Of course, Shehzada. I have already posted to my holdings and among the families of my home, asking for sons to join your household.”
“Excellent. I will ask the same of Salim.”
The mustache drooped, teeth disappearing.
“What is it?”
“Few are the people who trust the Afghans, Shehzada, and rightly so.”
“The Afghani rulers of the petty kingdoms in Bengal have been a problem, I’ll admit, but those from the North are a different breed. Besides, the Afghans may be fractious and unruly, but they are excellent fighters, as their possession of so much of Bengal proves.”
“And rather more intolerant of nonbelievers than those that have lived here long, Shehzada,” the eunuch
added.
“True. Who would you have me recruit, then? From among the Maratha? The Mewari?”
Vidur Khan waggled his head. “If you wish it, Shehzada. Recruiting from among those who do not share in power now has proven an effective path to power in the past.”
Father had done exactly that. And yet. And yet…
“You would have me avoid recruiting Afghans and in the next breath advise me to recruit from among those who have no share of power under my father. How do you reconcile these two?”
Vidur Khan bowed his head, “Shehzada commands, we obey.”
In other words: we’re giving you options, and we will not only carry out those orders, we’ll report exactly what you tell us to your father.
“Very well. Recruit from among the Afghans to the north and continue your drive to collect more of your kinsmen.”
“As you command. There are also a great number of Atishbaz who would gladly serve,” Vidur continued. “Speaking of which, Talawat the gunsmith, the fellow you employed before, he wishes to meet with you.”
“Oh?” Dara asked, interested. Most of the craftsmen employed by his establishment survived his failure in battle but had found employment elsewhere while he was believed dead. That the gunsmith wished to meet with Dara might indicate a desire to return to his service. He would certainly be welcome.
“Yes, Shehzada. Something about wishing to explore the ferenghis’ firearms.”
“Ah, yes. Have him come to me and I will arrange it personally.”
Lahore Fort, Dara’s Quarters
“Amir Salim Yilmaz,” Dara said, looking up from qalam and paper before him.
“Shehzada.”
Dara waved a hand. “Please, be seated and at your ease. I yet have some writing to do.”
Sitting, Salim waved away a slave’s offer of refreshment and sat silent while the prince continued to work on the document.
The prince’s brow was furrowed, but not with pain or frustrated desire for the pipe, as it had so often in the recent past. No, using qalam, the reed pen of calligraphers, was no easy task, and the prince had a reputation to uphold.
He really was good. One misplaced stroke and the entire sheet of paper would be wasted, yet he worked with the surety of a scribe decades at his craft.