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Chapter 9



Western Ghats, the Deccan

Southwest of Aurangzeb’s camp


“And what does the comte want with me?” Carvalho asked as he shifted in his saddle, tone and bearing utterly insolent.

“The crown and Christ both wish you to provide an introduction for us at court, Captain Carvalho,” De Jesus said.

“And this one?” the artillery captain waved a hand at William Methwold.

“Company business aligned with that of Father De Jesus,” Methwold answered. More calmly than the priest, he hoped.

“And why, besides my fierce devotion to king and Christ, should I endanger my position with Shehzada Aurangzeb?” Carvalho asked, returning his gaze to De Jesus. Methwold was impressed with the man’s ability to say such things with a straight face. According to the intelligence he’d had from De Jesus and the other papists, Carvalho’s reputation was for mercenary self-interest first and foremost, with his skill as an artillerist a distant second.

De Jesus, an earnest priest if ever Methwold had met one, either didn’t acknowledge Carvalho’s irony or flat-out didn’t recognize it, saying, “The Comte Linhares has authorized an offer of certain incentives and perquisites in exchange for your assistance, Captain Carvalho.”

“Such as?”

“A title, lands, money, the blessings of Mother Church.”

Carvalho’s demeanor did not change. In fact, Methwold thought he detected some anger at the mention of Mother Church.

“You do not seem moved,” De Jesus said.

“I was waiting to see if you were done.”

Methwold hid a smile.

“I am.”

Carvalho’s mount twitched an ear, but the man himself sat still, expressionless. Eventually, he looked at Methwold.

“And you?”

“Me?” Methwold asked.

“What does the English Company’s president in Surat offer?”

“What would you have of me?” Methwold asked, deciding not to correct the mercenary.

“What, you do not offer silver or gold for my service?”

“I await knowledge of what it is that you want in exchange for rendering us this small assistance.”

“So you think it small, the assistance I can offer?”

“Without you to tell me differently, I can but proceed on my assumptions.”

The corner of Carvalho’s mouth turned up. “What manner of title can the English Company offer me?”

“None.”

“And with your firman revoked, how much can you afford to pay?”

“Very little.”

Carvalho nodded, seeming unsurprised with Methwold’s honesty. He eventually looked back at De Jesus. “And the viceroy? What does he offer?”

De Jesus did not hesitate. “The comte will seek royal permission to elevate you to knightly orders, give you lands in Goa, as well as offering a healthy stipend of cash for your support.”

Still the mercenary showed no interest. He had to be the coldest fish from the Iberian Peninsula Methwold ever met.

“What you fail to realize is that I have all these things already from Shehzada Aurangzeb.”

De Jesus shook his head angrily.

Methwold covered an exasperated sigh that, despite his efforts, made his gelding toss its head.

“Will you tell us what would move you to assist our cause?” Methwold asked, laying a soothing hand on the gelding’s neck.

De Jesus just grated out,“What, then, can we give you?”

“You may think it cheap, should I tell you…”

De Jesus colored, clearly impatient. “I tire of these games. What is your price?”

Carvalho dropped his insolent manner, his eyes flashing as he answered, “I will take what is offered, but I have one additional condition.”

“And what is that?” De Jesus asked, anger sharpening his tone.

“That the viceroy find some pretext for the removal of Father Vittorio di Roma from Goa and the Estado,” he snarled, deep-seated passions overcoming iron control. “That the viceroy put a stop to the burnings of the Nuovo Cristao in the Estado.”

Father De Jesus must have flinched, because his mount sidled sideways in Methwold’s direction.

The Englishman narrowly avoided having his leg pinned between the two horses. When Methwold looked up from controlling his mount, Carvalho was expressionless once more.

His own mount under control again, De Jesus apologized to Methwold, but his voice failed him and all color drained from his face when he looked at Carvalho once more.

Methwold wondered why the priest was so discomfited by the mercenary’s requirement, but could not fathom it. He knew, of course, about the Spanish and Portuguese kingdoms’ systematic persecution of Jews even after they’d converted to Christianity as the Catholic church and those crowns that bowed before such popery required, but didn’t see any reason the priest should be so moved.

“My price too high for you, Father?”

De Jesus shook his head and visibly gathered himself. “I am not without feeling on this matter myself.”

Carvalho’s raised brows asked a question.

“The Konkani people of the interior, the ones I have been ministering to…”

“Yes?”

“Many of those who have converted, even those who have been baptized with by my own hand, have recently been threatened with investigation by the Holy Office of the Inquisition.”

Carvalho’s smile was bitter as he reached for a skin hanging from his saddle.

“So you see, we could agree to your stipulation, but any promises we make would not be binding on the viceroy until he and the archbishop decide the matter…” The mercenary seemed to ignore the churchman’s answer, removing the stopper with red-stained teeth and putting it to his lips. The bulging skin shrank considerably as he swallowed several mouthfuls from the skin.

Only when he was done did he answer. “Well, if they—and you—want my continued support, then you will make every effort to see that he follows through on any promises you make here today.”

“So you will help us?” Methwold asked.

“I will,” Carvalho said, offering the wineskin to William.

“Thank God,” De Jesus said as the Englishman took a long pull on the skin.

“For now,” Carvalho said, looking the younger man in the eye, “and provided you can present sureties regarding those things you claim to be authorized to grant in order to gain my assistance.”

“We have letters and grants sufficient to back our offers,” De Jesus said, bristling slightly, clearly not happy with the mercenary’s tone.



Aurangzeb’s camp

Aurangzeb’s tent


“A group of ferenghi seeks an audience, Shehzada.”

“What manner of ferenghi?” Aurangzeb asked, refreshed in spirit if not in body. Prayer always steadied him that way.

“They are brought before you by your Portuguese umara, Carvalho. They include another Portuguese—this one a priest—and an Englishman I am almost certain your father exiled and that Mullah Mohan later caused to be attacked as he fled to Surat.” A moment’s thought. “Methwold, I believe he is called, though I cannot recall any titles or other names.”

Interesting. I suppose I should not be surprised. The English would want to return to our good graces so they can resume trade. And yet, to come with the representatives from the Portuguese…

“Their stated purpose?” he asked, still musing.

“Carvalho claims they are here to offer the assistance of the Estado da India to your cause, Shehzada.”

“The nature of that assistance?”

“They were not forthcoming with your humble servant, Shehzada.”

Aurangzeb resisted the urge to smile as he arranged himself among the cushions. While the diwan he had selected from among the many munshi that applied for the position, the eunuch Painda Khan had certainly not been blessed by God with an overabundance of humility. And Aurangzeb was not inclined to reward such a lack with smiles or any other sign of indulgence.

“Bring them before me.”

“As you command, Shehzada,” said Painda Khan. If offended by the prince’s curtness, he had the good sense not to show it.

Aurangzeb filled the time the heavy eunuch required to summon the ferenghi to his presence by reading the reports coming from the courts of Dara and Shah Shuja. As they were written by those who had already declared for one side or another, the reports generated by the imperial news writers were generally not the most reliable sources for intelligence—especially on the motives of his brothers—but they did provide information on the promotions and other announcements of the courts they reported on. From such information, he could deduce a great many things.

One particular report from Dara’s court gathered his attention. It seemed that Dara had promoted the Afghan, Amir Salim Gadh Yilmaz, to command five thousand. The large number of men nominally at his command did not signify. It was never easy to find quality sowar to fill out that high a rank, and after the last year of heavy, repeated recruitment, it would be doubly difficult. And that was before considering mounts. Then again, Dara had access to Father’s enormous treasuries at Agra and Gwalior Forts.

No, Aurangzeb’s interest was more personal: by all reports from Father’s assassination, Yilmaz was a warrior of great skill and courage. Given his ascendance, the man must have been more politically astute than Aurangzeb had originally given him credit for, having become first Father’s confidant and now rising ever higher in Dara’s service. Such men of quality were not common among those who were in Dara’s service before he’d ascended the throne, and it was important to study those who might serve as his elder brother’s chief general before ever meeting them on the field of battle.

The ferenghi party was ushered into the tent, distracting him with their mere presence. Unknown quantities were either opportunities or liabilities waiting to be identified by the wise.

Deciding he wished to begin determining which category his visitors would fall into, Aurangzeb nodded permission for them to approach rather than making them wait upon his pleasure.

Carvalho, wearing the robe Aurangzeb had given him on promotion to command five hundred, was first behind the diwan as they were led forward. The artillery captain had proven his worth on the campaign into the Deccan, commanding and being commanded without regard for race or religion. Such was rare among the ferenghi, who preferred adherents to their own religion in all things.

Thinking of Christians, Aurangzeb let his eyes slide to the man a step behind and to the left of Carvalho. The priest appeared an unimposing, slope-shouldered man. His robes were gray, and not cut in the same fashion as those of the Jesuits Aurangzeb had encountered in Shah Jahan’s court. In fact, they were quite plain in comparison.

Such was the small size of the tent that Aurangzeb was unable to examine the third man before the diwan stopped and led the visitors in the proper obeisance.

“Shehzada Aurangzeb,” the eunuch said, “I present Amir Carvalho, Father De Jesus, and President Methwold of the English Company.”

“Peace upon you, Captain Carvalho.”

“And upon you, Shehzada.” The commander of five hundred bowed again. “Shehzada Aurangzeb, my associates have come from Goa in order to present certain offers from the viceroy of the Estado da India, the Comte de Linhares and the English East India Company.”

“I have been expecting an answer from that noble person, though I did not expect the reply to be accompanied by a Catholic priest of an order I do not recognize and an Englishman my father banished from the empire.”

The Englishman colored above the lace collar and the priest looked likewise discomfited, but it was Carvalho who spoke into the uncomfortable silence that followed the prince’s pronouncement: “Shehzada Aurangzeb, I thought it wise to allow them to make their offers rather than send them packing without being heard.”

Carvalho’s quick yet careful response made Aurangzeb reassess the man’s political acumen. The Portuguese might be worthy of more than simple field command.

“As you vouch for them, captain and commander of five hundred, I will hear what offers they convey immediately, and from their own lips, knowing that you only offer introduction, and not surety of the content of their message…”

The priest stepped forward and bowed again. His Persian was not polished, but was smooth enough for easy understanding as he outlined the viceroy of Goa’s offer of assistance. Aurangzeb felt his hopes rising as the narrow-shouldered fellow spoke.

Careful now, do not show that this is exactly what you need before they have revealed the price of their assistance…

With such cautions in mind, Aurangzeb set himself to treat with the ferenghi.



Shah Shuja’s camp

Shah Shuja’s tent


The lavish meal complete, Nur watched her host from behind the jali as she waited for Shah Shuja to address her. Her niece’s middle son, Shuja had never been among her favorites. Not that she knew him well, but his reputation for impropriety and pleasure-seeking had been well established by the time Aurangzeb had secured her return to Shah Shuja’s court.

Now he held a goblet in hand, drinking wine from it as he watched the dancing girls perform with a hungry, lustful eye. His court were an extension of his own licentious nature, laughing and speaking crassly, each as deep—if not deeper—in their cups as their boy-emperor.

Interesting I should think of him as a boy when I have come to think of his even younger brother as a man, and a dangerous one at that.

The meal itself had been an unnecessary extravagance, given the supply situation. Of course, the livestock suffered more than people, having little water and poor forage. Why, she’d had great difficulty securing fodder for the few horses of the retinue Aurangzeb had provided for her mission.

It seemed to Nur that Shuja had decided to pursue all his grandfather’s vices and few, if any, of his virtues. Too much a slave to his desires and still without a fine wife to guide and support him through the many pitfalls of ruling the vast empire of the Mughals, Shuja would never be a success as emperor—even if Aurangzeb were inclined to let him sit the throne for an appreciable length of time.

Nur shook her head. Never had she felt so old, so surrounded by inexperience and folly.

Interesting that I do not feel this way when at Aurangzeb’s court. Jahangir—my own parents, for that matter—would never believe I would find comfort in the court of a prince so conservative he forbids dancing, and even some music.

As if her thoughts of Aurangzeb’s policies had killed the music, the dance came to an abrupt climax with the dancers stretched in supplication to some Hindu god or other. Nur knew the tale; she just could not be bothered to place it just then. The gathered men roared their approval, more for the dancing girls’ uniformly firm and shapely sweat-sheathed bodies heaving from their exertions than any proper appreciation of the tale they’d told, Nur was certain.

More like a pride of young lions watching a herd of antelope just emerging from an exhausting river crossing.

“Enough, my umara! Enough! Leave me!” Shuja’s suddenly slurred command was missed in the tumult. He sloshed wine from his goblet as he gestured for quiet. It required a moment for his drunken entourage to quiet enough to hear the rest of what he had to say. “I must speak with my brother’s emissary, Nur Jahan.”

A few drunken umara mumbled protests, but were silenced by their more sober—or simply smarter—brethren.

“My kokas and diwan will remain, of course,” Shuja slurred. “I will want their counsel.”

What counsel does a drunkard heed when the fermented grape has poured its sweet song into his ears, blocking them from receiving any wisdom beyond that in the bottom of his own cup?

Nur remained silent and still as roughly half of the assembled umara slowly departed, reflecting that Shuja’s “milk brothers” should be content to be allowed to stay, as most of them were unable to rise, having drunk far more than she or her late husband would have allowed even common sowar to have while on campaign, even after a hard-fought victory.

And my beloved remains famous for his love of intoxicants, even if the rest of the world does not know that I was chief among those…She hid a sigh, longing for the touch of a man long departed from this world.

Shuja was impatient, ordering the jali be removed before half those who were to depart were within a few paces of the tent flap. Nur affixed her veil as the slaves bent and removed the screen. Hardly necessary, as those who would remain to see her were family in all but blood, but it would not do to give detractors even a hint of impropriety, not while performing as Aurangzeb’s intermediary and messenger.

“Well, what is it my brother wished of me, but was too frightened to ask in person?” Shuja asked, grinning at his sycophants as if he’d exhibited some great wit.

Setting her voice to cut across the tittering and chuckles that followed, Nur answered, “Sultan Al’Azam, Shehzada Aurangzeb desires only to meet with you in person to pledge his support for you as rightful emperor, and seeks your surety as Sultan Al’Azam that he will have the opportunity to do so.”

Shuja blinked as if he’d been rapped on the nose with a stick.

Hiding her pleasure at holding the reins of an emperor once again, Nur waited for the drunken child to catch up.

“He doesn’t want the throne?” Shuja murmured it so quietly that only those nearest him could hear.

“It is well known that Shehzada Aurangzeb is a religious man, his heart more suited to study of the Quran than ruling over the hearts of his fellow man. He wishes only to submit, first to God, and then to you, his elder brother.”

Her reply drew nods from those of his kokas sober enough to follow the conversation. Nur ignored them in favor of watching Shuja. She could see him wishing he’d remained sober for this interview. Too late, of course.

“And what of Dara?” he asked after a moment’s rumination.

“Shehzada Aurangzeb loves his brothers. Hard as it is to countenance, Shehzada Aurangzeb finds it hard to believe that Dara knew nothing of the plot against Shah Jahan, happening as it did right under his nose. Beyond that, Aurangzeb knows his eldest brother pays heed to all manner of idolatry and mysticism, where you are concerned with ruling wisely.”

Shuja began to shake his head, but Nur went on before he could refute her words: “Aurangzeb bade me say that he wishes peace upon the kingdom of your forefathers, and that he knows only you are strong enough to end the war quickly and thereby hasten his own steps to Mecca and the life of contemplation and worship that has always been his sole and most fervent desire.”

One of the kokas sniffed derision on that, earning a sharp, if unsteady, look from the Shah Shuja. A drunken young man blanched and muttered a muted apology.

Shuja looked again at Nur, a thoughtful look he was too drunk to hide crossing his features.

“Does Aurangzeb offer any sureties beyond these pretty words of yours, Aunt?”

“The words are not mine, they are his, as I have said.”

“You do not answer my question.”

“Shehzada Aurangzeb remains a prince. He does not order the khutba said in his name, nor order men to strike coins with his likeness nor name upon them. He remains a prince. He makes no claim to be other than what he is.”

“For”—Shuja belched wetly—“now, at least.”

Shuja’s men chuckled.

He again shook his head. “You have given me much to think on, Nur Jahan. Present yourself tomorrow…” He picked up his goblet and drank from it. “In the afternoon sometime.”

“Your will, Sultan Al’Azam,” Nur Jahan said. Long reins were as useful as short for control of a well-broken mount, after all.


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