Chapter 7
Agra
Red Fort, Diwan-i-Khas
“We are most pleased to raise you to the rank of one thousand zat and five hundred sowar, Abdul Khan.”
Jahanara, shielded from the court by jali, winced. Dara had reversed the ranks he’d agreed, in consultation with his advisors, to give. Setting the young Afghan’s salary at one thousand zat put him among the most respected of courtiers, while settling the maintenance salary for the number of sowar under his command at only five hundred meant Abdul Khan would not be obliged to recruit any of the additional men Dara—and his supporters—needed to bolster his forces. To be sure, Abdul Khan wouldn’t have easily recruited enough kinsmen to fill his sowar in any reasonable timeframe anyway, but Dara’s mistake had just removed the formal requirement for any further recruiting on Abdul Khan’s part. Afghan fighting men were scarce on the ground at the moment, and not just from the recruiting Salim and his kinsmen had done, but from the large armies both Dara’s brothers had drawn up for their Deccan campaign…and then there were those recruited into Asaf Khan’s army.
Dara only seemed to realize he’d made some error when Kwaja Magul shifted his bulk. Even then, he only glanced around and licked his lips, confusion scrawled across his features. Even from her place, Jahanara did not miss the glazed look in her brother’s eyes.
She bit her lip in frustration. Dara was still having bouts of dizziness and terrible headaches from the mostly healed head wound concealed under his turban, but there was nothing for it. He’d had the khutba read in his name, and the coins struck. If a new-made emperor was uncertain, he must not be seen to be. And if he was weak, he must not show it. If Dara was to rule, he must be seen to publicly wield the power and majesty of the dynasty. To do otherwise was unthinkable.
And yet, Dara’s thinking was slower. He was easily confused and quicker to anger than ever before. He was trying, but his efforts often led to frustration when progress wasn’t as quick or as great as he believed it should be.
The emperor’s closest advisors and family were left with a situation that, as the up-timer John Ennis had put it to his wife, was a matter of fake it until you make it. While she found the up-timer’s speech often lacked the poetic beauty of the average courtier’s, certain of their sayings were colorful, memorable, and, in this case, entirely apt.
The ceremony of elevation completed, Kwaja Magul led the freshly made courtier to his proper place in the ranks of nobles, adjusting on the fly to the emperor’s departure from his plan. The heavy eunuch had remained with Dara after Father’s assassination, and was already enjoying the traditional rewards of such loyalty: increased salary and power, not to mention increased proximity to the emperor’s person.
Jahanara was reasonably sure the eunuch could be relied on, but the court’s loyalty had yet to be tested. She suspected most of those bureaucrats of the imperial apparatus Father had appointed to her brothers’ courts would find it easier to remain with whichever prince they had been assigned to than strike out for another’s camp. At least until they were close enough to their preferred prince to defect: Mughal successions were replete with nobles changing sides on the eve of—or, less frequently, in the midst of—battle.
Dara brought the session to a successful conclusion without further lapses, and Jahanara departed the Diwan-i-Khas. Smidha fell in behind her with a slight grunt of effort. Her longest-serving servant and most trusted confidant, Smidha had taken to complaining of stiffness of late. Jahanara was not unsympathetic to her situation and slowed to accommodate her. A wordless sigh was Smidha’s thanks.
Red Fort, the harem
As they entered the Rose Court, Nadira Begum called out a greeting over the head of her infant son.
“Greetings, Nadira. My brother will retire to the Hammam-i-shahi before joining us for further refreshment.”
“Excellent,” Nadira said, her tiny nod telling Jahanara she understood the coded message: Dara was not well. Rising to join her sister-in-law, she handed the boy off to one of his milk mothers who in turn bundled him off to the nursery apartments with his kokas.
The cabal of Dara’s inner circle had, of necessity, developed a coded lexicon in the weeks since Dara’s injury. If Father’s death had taught Jahanara anything it was this: Even here in the harem, that most sacred of places for the emperor’s repose, there were those who would inform for their enemies. Everyone was watching—and listening—for signs of weakness, and the more Jahanara could do to conceal his condition, the better for everyone.
“Shehzadi Begum Sahib, the Amir Salim Yusufzai awaits the Sultan Al’Azam’s pleasure in the Hammam-i-shahi,” Firoz Khan provided as they entered the shade of the zenana.
“Very good,” Jahanara answered.
Firoz Khan’s gesture launched another trusted servant to find Rodney or Gervais and tell them to meet their patient in the Hammam-i-shahi—the imperial bathhouse, where only the emperor’s doctors and closest advisors would have tongues to speak of what counsel was given there.
Smidha had carefully culled the imperial household for illiterate mutes who could be placed in service in the Hammam-i-shahi, and if they were not aesthetically pleasing to look on, nor particularly well trained to their tasks as yet, at least they were certain not to speak or write of what they heard there.
“Sister, my husband expressed the wish to have a quiet evening tonight, with only the very best dancers and his favorites in attendance,” Nadira said.
“As he wishes, sister of my heart and light of my brother’s life,” Jahanara said, pausing a moment to examine her brother’s wife as they took seats in one of Jahanara’s favorite chambers.
Nadira Begum was only four years her junior, already married, and mother to a prince. She had every right to assert control over her husband’s harem, yet she allowed Jahanara to persist as head of the imperial harem and her appointees remain in their positions. What’s more, she’d done so with grace and, more importantly under the current circumstances, without question.
“Firoz Khan?” Jahanara said, still watching Nadira.
There would have to come a time, though, when Jahanara would have to step aside and let Nadira be mistress of her husband’s affairs. That moment would come sooner rather than later if, God willing, Jahanara’s current plans came to fruition in timely fashion.
“Yes, Shehzadi?”
“Nadira Begum and the Sultan Al’Azam will dine privately this night, with only his favorite dancers, players, and body service. I will take my meal in my quarters with my nephew and anyone else that was to attend the Sultan Al’Azam’s dinner tonight and will settle for my paltry company.”
“Your will, Shehzadi.” The eunuch bowed and departed. Smidha ordered refreshments and took a seat behind Jahanara to watch that all was done according to her command.
Nadira met her gaze, smiled gently and reached out with hennaed, lovely hands to take Jahanara’s in hers.
“What is it, dear sister?”
“I marvel at you, who has so many cares, and yet carries through with such grace.”
Nadira released Jahanara’s hands to point at the jeweled ceiling above. “God as my witness, it is only because my husband’s sister loves him so, and takes such pains to be of greater service than any save Him could possibly command.”
Two women entered and deposited golden plates laden with dates and other fruits beside the women before retiring to sit just out of easy earshot.
“You are too kind.”
“I only return the kindness given to me…perhaps with some polish upon it,” Nadira said, an impish grin on her face as she mimed polishing one plate with the hem of her silks.
The very idea was so ridiculous, Jahanara chuckled. Smidha, too.
“Truth, now! You have some fresh worry, do you not?” Nadira asked, sobering.
“Beyond our already frequently discussed problems, no.”
Smidha cleared her throat.
Nadira looked from her to Jahanara. “It seems your conscience has it otherwise.”
Jahanara glanced over her shoulder at Smidha and stuck her tongue out.
Smidha, unperturbed, said, “I have asked my mistress repeatedly to let me send a letter to her old suitor, Nasr Khan.”
“Oh?” Nadira said, smiling mischievously.
“He is rumored to have taken service with Asaf Khan, and would certainly return to fight for Dara.”
Jahanara shook her head. “Nasr Khan serves our uncle, Shaista Khan,” she said, hoping to shift the subject from old wounds.
“Who, in turn, serves Asaf Khan,” Smidha insisted with a sniff.
“And both Dara and I have written Asaf Khan already, ordering his return that he might show the proper submission to Dara’s rule. I see no point in muddying the waters with personal requests for men already in service to those who are honor bound to serve us.”
“And yet…”
“And, as of yet there has been no reply.” Jahanara did not want to think about what that meant, just as she did not want to think on Nasr Khan.
“Surely messengers would have reached him with the news.”
“It is barely possible they have not. Bengal has killed many a horse and rider through the ages, imperial messenger or no.”
And if not, the up-timers have promised to help discover what is going on with Asaf Khan.
An uncomfortable silence descended, each woman alone in her thoughts. Rather than let it persist, Jahanara decided to tackle yet another of the problems assailing her brother and caught Nadira’s eye.
“Sister of my heart, there is another problem.”
Nadira grinned. “Just one?”
“Indeed.” Jahanara smiled at the joke. Nadira was in rare form today. Shaking her head ruefully, she plowed on: “Your husband has yet to approve any of the marriage prospects I have set before him.”
Nadira’s smile disappeared. “He has not?”
“No,” Jahanara said, nibbling a date.
“But, he must!”
Jahanara waggled her head, grateful Nadira was on her side for this. “As I, and all of his advisors, have told him. But he claims his love for you is too great to even consider another wife.”
“Love!” Nadira scoffed. “He has love! He needs to secure life and throne before such personal considerations!”
“As I tried to tell him. Of course, he became quite angry with me when I did.”
“Ah, that is why he was so short with me last night when I brought the subject to his attention.”
Jahanara winced. “I did not wish to spoil your time with him, but the—”
“But these decisions are critical to our survival,” Nadira interrupted, waving her protest down. “You will recall that I was present for your father’s struggles, and the results of that for my father…” She looked down, but then appeared to take hold of herself. “Rest assured, I will make certain he hears my full opinion on the matter. We need marriage alliances to bolster our ranks, if for no other reason than I need him to take other wives if I am to be a proper tyrannical first wife!”
Jahanara smiled. Nadira did not seem the type to become an overbearing first wife, but one never knew exactly how the sexual politics and precedence of the harem would work out when adding new concubines—let alone wives—to the mix. Not until the deed was done, at any rate.
Regardless, she was glad of Nadira’s full support, and would count that particular battle won, or nearly so, with her in the vanguard.
Now if only they had other generals as fine as Nadira to launch against the other problems assailing her brother.
Red Fort, Hammam-i-shahi
Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz sighed as he stepped into the steam-filled bathing chamber. A week of hard riding, another of negotiations, and then the return trip had him on the verge of exhaustion. He’d not had time to return to his own palace for a much-needed bath, so the summons to this particular place was most welcome, especially as it had come with express permission to bathe before the emperor arrived.
Slaves entered, peeling away his sweat and dust-caked clothing in an utter, and unnerving, silence.
When he was naked and the slaves had scrubbed the worst of the road dirt from him, Salim waded into the pool. The heat felt amazing, even on the fresh, angry, puckered scars from the wounds received while trying—and failing—to defend Shah Jahan from assassins sent by Aurangzeb’s pet, Mullah Mohan.
Sitting on one of the submerged marble benches that formed the periphery of the octagonal pool, Salim leaned back and looked at the pattern repeated in the ceiling above. The heat quickly began to ease his aches and pains. He tried to let the warmth loosen the tightness that had dwelt in him since that terrible day without success. Meditating as Mian Mir had taught him so long ago also failed to work, as he kept slipping into a fitful doze plagued by images from that fight.
“It’s clear he’s recovering, my young friend, but why so slowly?” The question, in English, drew Salim from that place between sleep and consciousness. As his mind cleared, Salim recognized the speaker as Gervais.
“Well, I’m happy he is recovering.” This from Rodney’s far deeper voice. “Slowly, sure, but he is recovering. Some guys I used to play football with, they got one too many cracks on the head and were never the same. I wish we could take an X-ray and see if there’s something obvious we could do, but even back up-time brain injuries weren’t easy to diagnose. Even for qualified experts, which I’m definitely not.”
“So, we continue to ask him to take it easy, which he can’t, and try to cover for his lapses where we can.”
Salim decided it would be best to force them to change the subject. Ears were everywhere, even here, and it would not do for Dara’s enemies to learn his condition.
“It’s not ideal, but it’s the best we ca—” The sloshing of bath water as Salim stood reached the pair, interrupting them. A moment later, Rodney’s giantlike form fairly filled the archway leading to the cold bath in the next chamber.
“Hey, Salim! You’re back!”
The attendant approached to towel Salim off, but he waved the fellow away as he exited the pool.
“Greetings, Rodney. Gervais,” he said, walking past the big up-timer and directly into the cold bath where he submerged himself entirely. It was bracing, to say the least, and he felt more alert when he raised his head from the waters and sat on one of the steep steps of the pool.
“Good to see you, Salim! Did you have much success?” Gervais asked, clearly hopeful.
“I’m afraid not as much as we’d hoped.” Salim shrugged. “Not so many of my kinsmen were in Delhi for the horse trade as I had hoped. A direct result of Shah Jahan’s sensible policies…”
“What policies?”
Salim smiled and quoted from the law, “‘Those who come into my kingdom to trade in horses shall not number more than one rider for every five horses.’”
Rodney looked puzzled, but Gervais’ thoughtful expression quickly turned sour as he muttered a short curse in some language Salim wasn’t familiar with.
“Not sure I follow?” Rodney said, looking from Gervais to Salim.
“That is because you do not think in terms of our armies. Horse traders coming overland use the same routes into India that every invasion force has used since the time of Alexander. Indeed, Babur, the founder of Dara’s dynasty, was a sometime horse trader himself. So, since Akbar’s time, at least, most emperors seek to limit the numbers of such traders coming into the country to avoid providing them with ready-made concealment for an invasion.”
“Huh. Didn’t realize you all imported horses.”
“Oh, the empire imports something like eight in ten of its horses. The trade is quite lucrative,” said Salim. “I myself came down from the high country with a herd to sell. India is not considered very healthy for most breeds, and the better areas have to compete with farming intended to feed the people rather than livestock. Besides, Uzbeks, Persians, Arabs, Afghans, and even the Turks provide better horseflesh than any domestic bloodline.”
“The Rathores may differ with you on that, Salim. They do think the world of their Marwari breed!” the emperor pronounced, entering the chamber with a pair of attendants on his heels.
“Greetings, Sultan Al’Azam!” Salim said, unsure how to proceed. His protocol lessons, while thorough, hadn’t covered nakedness before the emperor.
“Did my doctors prescribe the cold baths for you, too, my friend?” Dara asked with a wave at Gervais and Rodney that almost struck one of the attendants removing his robes of state.
“Indeed, Sultan Al’Azam,” Salim answered, watching closely as one silent eunuch raised his hands and waited for permission to unwind the turban covering Dara’s head. The emperor leaned over slightly to allow the young slave to work. They made no sound as they finished disrobing the emperor. That part of his mind not examining the scar Dara had taken trying to save his father’s life began to wonder after a moment if they were all mutes or something.
Dara’s scar looked like some of his own, but Salim knew the head injury was more problematic. He had hoped to find Dara fully recovered, but knew from earlier conversations that the up-timers were concerned about the wound. A “severe concussion,” they called it.
“We really just want you as rested, relaxed, and comfortable as you can be, to better speed your recovery, Sultan Al’Azam,” Gervais said, approaching his patient with a smile.
“How are your energy levels? Your thinking remain clear?”
“Sultan Al’Azam, are you certain you wish your doctors to speak so freely—” Salim said before he could answer, glancing significantly from the emperor to the attendants.
“I am.” He gestured at the slave to his right, who bowed and leaned his head back, revealing a thin white scar beside his Adam’s apple. “They are all mutes, by one cause or another. I was told that Ishaan here was stabbed in the throat by some street rat when but a child, yet through the grace of God, survived.”
The mute nodded, bowed, and withdrew with the emperor’s clothing.
Dara lowered himself into the cool bath beside Salim.
Gervais bent to examine Dara’s head from beside the pool.
“I apologize, Sultan Al’Azam. I should have guessed that you would be well protected in your own harem.”
“I count it no sin to err trying to protect me, even from myself. I might have said Jahanara was being paranoid just a few months ago…”
“A wise thing, then, to take such precautions.”
Gervais cleared his throat.
“My doctor wishes an answer, Amir.” He pushed off from the bench, turned, and submerged himself. He came up, long hair dripping, and said quietly, eyes haunted, “I tire easily. I am easily confused. I cannot concentrate. My head aches abominably from time to time.”
“What happened to make you confused?”
“I made a mistake today in court. Then, after, I could not recall what that mistake might have been, only that I had made one.” Dara let himself sink beneath the surface again.
Salim looked over his shoulder and caught Rodney and Gervais sharing a look of concern.
“A complex task can exhaust even a well-rested, healthy brain,” Rodney said as the emperor resurfaced.
“This was not complex. It was simple. I had only to carry through with what Jahanara and I agreed—not an hour before—was the best course. Instead I reversed the man’s ranks, and then could not remember what my mistake might have been…Such mistakes frighten me, my friends.”
“The brain is a mysterious organ, Sultan Al’Azam, and your recovery not yet complete. Be patient. Wait for it to heal,” Gervais said.
Dara’s expression darkened, scar pulsing scarlet. “The war for my throne will not wait for anyone or anything, least of all for me to recover my strength.”