1636: Mission to the Mughals

  Smidha responded with a tiny nod.

  Aware she walked blind along a precipice, Jahanara asked: “Why not?”

  “I didn’t know he planned this! I had no part in it!”

  Jahanara waited for more. When Roshanara merely continued to weep, she decided to risk showing her ignorance. “They claim otherwise.”

  Roshanara looked at her, fresh tears making her make-up run. “He lies! I knew nothing of it, I swear!”

  He. “And the other?”

  “He said she was the one he wanted punished for betraying him, that no other would be hurt. That’s all I did: provide him with where Nur would be, I swear it!”

  Nur, whom they already knew to have been one of their targets. Now to determine who “he” was…“You were a fool to trust him.”

  Roshanara shook her head, fresh tears beginning. “He said he could be my teacher again once he was free from Nur’s slander, that Father would thank me for ridding the court of her presence, and that God would look upon me with favor for my help.”

  Jahanara’s eyes narrowed, guessing the author of the plot. “Mullah Mohan solicited information from you concerning Nur’s whereabouts and you provided that information to him, knowing he intended to kill her, our kin.”

  Roshanara did not correct her naming of Mohan, confirming her guess.

  “And because Father had her under his protection in the harem, Mohan could easily guess where Father was likely to be, as well, allowing him to place his fanatics at the construction site in advance.”

  “I swear before God: I had no inkling of the other thing!”

  Hot, bitter anger surged in her. Her feet, unbidden, carried her across the space separating them. “That other thing, the one you refuse to speak of?” she said, standing over Roshanara with an ugly knot of anger swelling beneath her breastbone. “It is the murder of our Father, our Father!”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Be silent!” she hissed. The angry knot ripped loose: Jahanara slapped her sister hard across the cheek. The vicious crack of the blow echoed from the courtyard walls even as Jahanara struck again and again, a blind rage overriding everything else: “Stupid fool! Stupid fool!”

  In her fury, she seized Roshanara and forced her head into the water of the fountain pool. It required Smidha and Monique’s combined strength to drag Jahanara off her sister.

  “How could you? You killed him! You killed Father!” she cried as they pulled her away.

  Slowly returning to her senses, Jahanara began to shake. It was all she could do to stand as she watched Ilsa help the nearly drowned Roshanara to the edge of the fountain.

  She ordered Roshanara be removed from her sight, commanding Smidha find two reliable eunuchs to guard her until the Sultan Al’Azam could decide her fate.

  Hollow inside, Jahanara stood by while her orders were carried out.

  As Roshanara’s choking whimpers slowly faded, Monique stepped in front of Jahanara.

  Resisting the urge to snap, Jahanara managed a half-civil, “Yes?”

  “Forgive me, Begum Sahib, but in light of what your sister said, I have some things to tell you.”

  “Not now. I need a bath and fresh clothes before I can bear any further revelations.”

  “Of course.”

  Jahanara Begum Sahib managed to make it halfway to her quarters before the tears began anew.

  Red Fort, The Harem

  Monique woke to a dry hand on her shoulder. She cracked an eye.

  Smidha stood over her, face etched with fatigue.

  She groaned and sat up. Dimly recalling the muezzin calling the faithful to morning prayer as she dropped off to sleep, Monique glanced out across the broad balcony. From the light just touching the tower tops, it was scarcely an hour past dawn.

  “So sorry to wake you, but Begum Sahib sends for you now, while Dara appears for the masses.”

  “Yes. All right.” Glad she’d taken the time to wash the blood off and change clothes before sleep claimed her, Monique followed Smidha into Jahanara’s apartments.

  The princess was immaculately attired, hair and make-up complete.

  Monique bowed.

  Jahanara gave her a tired smile in exchange. She gestured both Monique and Smidha to the cushions beside her. “Would you tell me what you wished to say last night?”

  Monique spent a moment organizing tired thoughts. “Due to the delays in construction on the mission caused by the riots, my father and I were discussing the court and recent events. Mullah Mohan, Nur Jahan, and Roshanara were all spoken of at that time.”

  “Why?”

  “In the mullah’s case, we spoke of him because we noted the increased religious tensions, and entertained the idea he might be behind them.”

  Jahanara sniffed. “A safe assumption in light of yesterday’s events.”

  “Yes. From there the conversation moved on to, and forgive me for saying so, it seemed the court was out of touch with the tensions at large in Agra. My father said he would ask Salim when the opportunity presented itself.

  “I told him I would discuss the issue with you once an opportunity presented itself. He then remarked that I often spoke of you and Nadira, but rarely of Nur and Roshanara, asking why that was. I told him that Nur did not make any effort to interact with us, and that Roshanara was, to my view, lacking in social graces.”

  Another tired smile. “Diplomatically put.”

  “The very next day, the day before New Year’s by our reckoning, I asked a few questions of our translator, Sahana. She informed me that Roshanara and Nur had started spending time together after the death of Nur’s servant. From last night, I gather Nur Jahan believed she was milking Roshanara for information about the person who killed Gargi, when it was actually Roshanara on the milking stool.”

  Monique paused, gauging Jahanara’s reaction. She found Jahanara’s flat, steady gaze somewhat unnerving, especially after witnessing the woman’s capacity for sudden-and-final-violence.

  Realizing she had delayed overlong, Monique resumed her report: “Believing Roshanara to be in contact with the person who ordered the killing, Nur set her servants to watching Roshanara’s.”

  “That person being Mullah Mohan.”

  “I believe so.”

  “But why murder Gargi in the first place?”

  “To draw Nur out.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “What if Mohan believed her the author of his fall from grace at court?”

  “But he said nothing of it when Father was stripping him of his titles.”

  Smidha snorted derision. “The likes of him, admit to defeat at the hands of a mere woman? Better ask the sky to change color to suit your mood than believe Mullah Mohan would admit such a thing.”

  “I told Father that Nur had somehow arranged for Mohan to fall.”

  “You did?” Monique asked.

  Jahanara nodded. “A suspicion formed when the English had their firman revoked. Mohan appeared to cast happy glances at the jali where Nur and I—”

  She stopped, a faint line appearing between fine eyebrows. “Actually, Roshanara was also there.” She shook her head, shrugged. “I assumed Mohan was pleased with something Nur had done and reported as much to Father when he learned of the attack on the English. I suppose it could have been Roshanara, but that does not fit the narrative as we know it.”

  “No, we’re missing someone,” Monique said.

  “Don’t you mean something?” Smidha asked.

  Jahanara held up a hand. “No, Monique is right. At some point, someone had to stand between Nur and Mohan, make each think they could rely on the other. Otherwise, how could one enjoy enough trust to betray the other?”

  Monique pursed her lips, said thoughtfully, “Surely not Roshanara?”

  “However great her acting skills in deceiving Nur, last night’s display would argue against her being the spider at the center of a web of such intrigues.”

  Smidha grinned. “She did fold up like a tent at t
he least provocation.”

  Jahanara’s flat stare killed the older woman’s smile.

  “Who, then?” Monique asked.

  “Shah Shuja, Aurangzeb, or Wazir Khan, though Nur’s brother has never been known to be—” Her eyes went wide. “Aurangzeb! Firoz reported that it was he who petitioned Father to bring Nur here, and he was Mohan’s student when a child, eating up that man’s hate for non-Muslims.”

  “Surely he didn’t order Mohan to kill Shah Jahan?”

  Jahanara shrugged. “Some weapons are as dangerous to the hand that wields them as they are to any opponent, religious fanatics among them. Once unleashed, they tend to kill until stopped.”

  “But when and why did he unleash Mohan in the first place?” Monique asked.

  “Salim,” said Smidha.

  “What?”

  “I had reports that someone matching Salim’s description was waylaid in Agra just after his return from Grantville. Salim was a student of Mian Mir, as was Mullah Mohan.”

  “Wait, what?” Monique asked. “I thought Mohan as orthodox as they get.”

  “He is.” Smidha waggled her head as she clarified: “But he was not always so. I remember, Begum Sahib: Mohan was among Mian Mir’s entourage when your grandfather Jahangir paid him a visit. You were about five, then. It wasn’t until a few years later that Mohan left Mian Mir and joined the Naqshbandi Order.”

  “And no one hates like the freshly converted.”

  Jahanara nodded. “Indeed. And then one of Mian Mir’s students returns to court from Grantville, rising in royal esteem almost instantly and without apparent effort.”

  “So Mohan asks Aurangzeb’s permission to kill this student of his rival?”

  “Yes, though Mohan may see Salim himself as a rival, too.”

  “Why ask Aurangzeb, though? Why not just do it and keep it secret?” Monique asked.

  “In hopes of demonstrating his loyalty and desire to serve, of course.”

  “But—”

  Jahanara stopped her with a raised finger. “You are, I think, a victim of the history of your European dynasties. Because there is no primogeniture among us, once a male of the Mughal Dynasty reaches adulthood he is forever surrounded by those who would either offer support in exchange for favors or seek means by which they may demonstrate their willingness to subject themselves to that prince’s authority.

  “Through such people, each prince develops a court that he hopes to use to secure the throne for himself. Should he prove successful in vying with his brothers, his court becomes the ruling one, and those who supported it reap great rewards.”

  “But Dara—”

  “Lost most of his court and all of his personal military strength at Ramdaspur.”

  “Oh.”

  “Indeed.”

  Red Fort

  Another wave of shouted acclaim reached them from the riverfront. Dara Shikoh was making his first public appearance as Mughal emperor.

  As his advisors deemed it best if the ferenghi were absent during the presentation of the new emperor, Dara had asked them to remain out of sight.

  Rodney and Gervais were still caring for Salim and Atisheh as well as the other survivors among the harem guards, so John and the rest of the mission men retired to the cool morning shadows of one of the outer courtyards.

  Firoz Khan ordered the slaves from the courtyard and departed himself once he was certain they had enough food and drink.

  “Where we gonna bury him?” Bobby asked.

  Ricky hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a church in Agra.”

  “I thought I heard bells on New Years,” John said.

  “Yeah, nice one, too, at least from the outside.”

  Bertram scrubbed his face with both hands. “Ricky’s right. There is a church in the city, and it’s got a graveyard, but it also happens to be run by Jesuits.”

  “Will they allow it?”

  “Maybe. I can ask.”

  John shrugged, shaking his head. “Dara’ll probably have a tomb built for Randy if we ask.”

  “True, though I doubt it would be politically wise for him to go to such lengths for a non-Muslim just now.”

  “I was half-kidding anyway…” He ground his teeth in frustration, finally mumbled: “What the fuck are we doing here, anyway? Randy got killed because we’re a bunch of hillbillies here to make a damn buck, not act like some sort of SEAL team.”

  “The mission has done good work here, John. Some have earned quite enough to live on comfortably for some time, the ladies especially.”

  “I know that! It’s just…you know as well as I do we haven’t even come close to doing the one thing we were sent here to do!”

  “We’ll get there, John. The man we fought beside and Randy died in front of is now Sultan Al’Azam. I can only think that a firman of trade will be the very least of the recognition the Mughal mission will receive.”

  “Sure, but then how do we get us and the dope out of here? Not to mention the saltpeter. There are at least two other brothers—both with bigger armies than Dara’s, mind you—who will shortly be on their way here, looking to topple Dara. Do you think they’ll look kindly on us ferenghi? Let us stroll out with a shipload of opium and saltpeter, let alone come back for more?”

  Bertram shrugged. “One problem at a time, John.”

  John threw up his hands. “Sure! One problem! One problem with twenty thousand and more troops!”

  Bertram rounded on him and said calmly: “John, I’m getting a bit tired of your constant anger and bitter sarcasm. We are where we are. We can control a very few things about our situation.

  “As our leader you have made good decisions at every turn and, yes, bad things still happened. That’s not your fault. It’s not mine.” He poked a finger into John’s chest. “It’s just what damn well is.”

  John opened his mouth to respond, but Bobby spoke over him, “Bertram’s right, John. You’re taking this stuff way too personally. Get a grip. We need you thinking straight and sharp.”

  “Especially now, John,” Bertram said, looking over John’s shoulder.

  John turned. Dara walked from the portico lining the courtyard, leaving his advisors behind.

  The side of his face was purple and swollen, the sewn gash an angry red eye at the center. He stepped very close to them before speaking, voice a raspy, exhausted remnant: “I did not wish to interrupt your important discussions, but pressing business limits the time I might spend with you.”

  Noting a very slight slur to Dara’s speech, John bowed. “Not a problem, Sheh—” he corrected himself, “—Sultan Al’Azam.”

  Dara ignored the slip. “You came here seeking a firman of trade from my father. It shall be my pleasure to grant the United States of Europe such a firman at this afternoon’s durbar. Later we will discuss the details of what I am certain you will find to be very favorable terms.”

  John, feeling Bertram’s smug look without needing to see it, bowed more deeply. “My thanks, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  “None are necessary. It is I who must thank you. Indeed, it is I who has yet another favor to ask of you, now that you have discharged your duty to king and country.”

  Swallowing the correction that immediately sprang to mind, John merely nodded.

  “Will you help me preserve my family, my rule? My brothers are sure to resist me. I would enlist your knowledge, your ideas, in securing for my people a better future, one free from such fanaticism as that which caused my father’s death and plunged this land into servitude for hundreds of years.”

  Red Fort

  Smidha entered Jahanara’s quarters at a carefully controlled pace.

  Her caution was warranted. The palace was uneasy: everyone from the basest, low-caste slave to Begum Sahib herself was consumed with dread for what the future held. Only eight years had passed since the last emperor had gone to his eternal reward, and while that emperor’s death had not resulted in an all-out civil strife, the years preceding that event had
contained much of rebellion and war.

  Jahanara was on the verandah despite the cool evening.

  Smidha thought to fetch a shawl and offer a gentle reminder about catching a chill, then realized Jahanara had selected the location with an eye to preventing eavesdroppers.

  She collected the shawl anyway, approached, and made the proper obeisance.

  Jahanara looked up from her correspondence. “You have something to report?”

  Smidha nodded, stepped close and presented the shawl, murmuring, “We have him.”

  The princess waved the shawl away. “By whose hand?”

  “Abdul and Iqtadar.”

  Jahanara stood, “Who?”

  “Abdul and Iqtadar, kinsmen of Amir Salim. They were…most enthusiastic in their efforts.”

  “He yet lives?”

  “Yes, Begum Sahib.”

  “See them rewarded, and warned to keep their silence on it.”

  “Yes, Begum Sahib.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I had him brought to the Jasmine Tower, Begum Sahib. None but the men involved know of his presence.”

  “Good. Tell Atisheh. Ask if she wishes to have her litter brought there.”

  “Yes, Begum Sahib.”

  “Do not trouble my brother with this report.”

  Smidha winced. “Yes, Begum Sahib.”

  “You do not approve.”

  Smidha waggled her head. “Not exactly: I worry that your brother will not approve, Begum Sahib.”

  “The Sultan Al’Azam cannot be associated with what I am about to do. If it were known that he had a hand in the killing of”—she nearly spat the next word—“a respected mullah such as he, no matter the provocation, it would spark rebellion in many quarters. No, this must be done quickly, and in complete secrecy.”

  “I do not believe your brother would see it that way, Begum Sahib.”

  “A good thing he will never learn of it, then.”

  Smidha shrank from the flat anger in Jahanara’s eyes. “Your will, Begum Sahib.”

  “Yes. My will.”

  Epilogue

  February 1636

  Bijapur

  Mahabat’s horse archers, responsible for covering Aurangzeb’s exposed right flank, fell back before a determined charge of Bijapuri heavy cavalry. They fled up the slope and away from the sharp action along the banks of the Bhima. Fired by the possibility of easy victory, the heavy cavalry followed. Both units disappeared over the ridge after a few minutes’ hard riding.