“Still, we should not speak too much on this, at least not now. I will see if I can secure a private audience with the Sultan Al’Azam.”
John smiled again. “You know where to reach me.”
Lahore Fort, Jahanara’s Quarters
“We could have been staying here the whole time?” Monique asked, looking about in awe.
“Well, technically, yes,” Jahanara said, pleased at the uniform expressions of wonder on her visitors’ faces. Father had completed his renovations of Lahore Fort the same year Mother died, the project serving as the model for the later work on Red Fort. White marble was everywhere, pietra dura and inlays striking the eye from almost every surface. “And yet, at the same time: no. The emperor is the court, and the court is the emperor. Staying here while he marched to punish those he thought had harmed my brother Dara would have been disrespectful to both my brother and Father.”
“I see, it’s just that…knowing this is here when we were sweating it out in tents outside Ramdaspur is just…painful.”
Jahanara smiled. “Then I suppose it’s best we did not tell you.”
She joined Monique and the other mission women in a brief chuckle.
The up-time woman, Priscilla, looked Jahanara in the eye. “You seem at ease, Begum Sahib.”
“I suppose I am. I have always loved Lahore. My favorite teacher resides here still, and I have many fond memories of this place.”
“We are glad to see you happier.”
Jahanara smiled more broadly. “Also, I have news from my father that he will be summoning your husband and Rodney to speak with him. I made mention of your request, so I have every hope that Father will address your concerns with your husbands.”
“And my father?” Monique asked.
Jahanara nodded, “Yes, of course.”
Ilsa snorted in most unladylike fashion.
“What is it, Ilsa?”
“Just something my mother used to say.”
“Oh?” Jahanara invited.
The ferenghi woman spoke at length, Sahana translating, “When men gather to discuss marriages and other things involving women, they think they are the ones determining our fate, when really, they’re just parroting what their wives and mothers told them to say.”
Smidha laughed aloud from behind Jahanara, the sound surprisingly loud.
Jahanara turned to face her advisor, finding the older woman had covered her mouth with one hand, eyes round with shock at her own outburst. “I’m sorry, Begum Sahib, but those words could have been taken from my mother’s own mouth!”
“Be that as it may, Smidha, I hardly think Father would approve of this wisdom.”
Her guests went still, but Smidha would not be so easily silenced: “True, Shehzadhi Begum Sahib, but your mother would have thoroughly enjoyed it. I daresay she would have also made Shah Jahan laugh in the retelling of it.”
That made Jahanara smile with bittersweet memory. Mother had always been able to get Father to laugh, even when things were at their worst.
“That said, I overstep and beg your forgiveness.”
Jahanara waved the matter away. “It is good to be reminded of such things, especially here amongst friends. Father’s concubines and other wives do not offer him the same solace from care that Mother did.”
“To the detriment of the management of his empire,” Smidha added.
Surprised by her adviser’s sudden openness in front of the others, Jahanara again looked at Smidha.
The older woman wagged her head. “What? I merely speak of the purpose of the harem: to provide men with time free from care and those entertainments necessary to distract the mind and relax the body.”
“Father enjoys his wives and concubines every night.”
Smidha nodded most emphatically. “Indeed he does. But as you said, the pleasures of the flesh do not always soothe a troubled heart. Were it otherwise, your father would have long ago recovered from the wound the loss of your mother left him with.”
Lahore Fort, Harem of Dara Shikoh
“Why are we meeting here?” Rodney asked.
Bertram looked at the up-timer. “Because the emperor has every reason to see his son privately, and if those who were responsible for his care are also present, it raises few questions.”
“I understand that, I just don’t really understand why the emperor should be concerned about questions. We’ve been here for months and he never asked us a thing.”
John spoke up, “I think I said something to Salim that led him to believe now is the time. We were talking about trade and what the English might have done or did—or whatever—in our timeline, and he seemed surprised by my answers.”
Bertram and Gervais shared a look.
Acting on the older man’s tiny nod, Bertram said, “Don Francisco told us something like this might happen. He said one of the things that was most difficult for him to adjust to was how open and trusting you up-timers are with one another. Shah Jahan’s court is nothing like that. There is little to no trust, even among siblings. When you did not mention the history, the court’s natural instinct was to believe you were intentionally withholding information to your benefit.”
“But, Salim—”
“Is neither European nor an up-timer. As much as he’s been a good student of you and us, he does not intrinsically understand this difference of trust.”
Gervais cocked his head and gave a Gallic shrug, “And even if he did, we have no way of knowing whether he could explain the difference to Shah Jahan.”
“True,” Bertram agreed.
Slippered feet sounded from the corridor leading to the balcony overlooking the fort where Dara had slept. One of the palace eunuchs appeared, motioning for them to follow.
The four men were led out onto a wide balcony lavishly furnished with carpets, cushions, and pillows. Shah Jahan, dressed in rich silks and a fine turban, sat next to his son.
Sitting to one side, and looking far less relaxed than the royals, was Salim.
All four guests made the proper obeisances and were given leave to sit in the emperor’s presence, arrayed in a half-circle before and below him.
“The amir tells me you men have things to say regarding the English and the histories brought to us by him,” the emperor said through Salim.
John nodded, spoke for the mission: “Sultan Al’Azam, rather than try and direct your thoughts, we wish to make ourselves available to you to answer any questions you might have about the English and the Europeans. We will answer with what we know.”
“Very good. How is it you were not a part of the British Empire, up-time?”
“The United States—of America, not Europe; the one we had up-time—fought a war for independence some hundred and fifty years or so from now. And we won the war. Later, though, the British pretty much handed power back to the native peoples in just about all their possessions, India and Pakistan included.”
“It only took a couple of world wars and the spawning of revolutionary movements advocating self-rule almost everywhere to finally make them see the light,” Rodney added, his tone tinged with sarcasm.
“When was this?”
“Around two hundred years after the United States gained its independence.”
Shah Jahan’s eyes narrowed as he calculated. “That’s three hundred years of occupation by the English.”
“Not quite, Sultan Al’Azam. In our timeline, Aurangzeb ruled into the dawn of the eighteenth century of our calendar, adding to the empire considerably. His successors were not able to keep the empire together, however. So the English came in and played one sultanate against the other until they ruled it all.”
“I see.” Shah Jahan took very little time to digest that information before asking his next question: “What do you know of the Indian mutiny?”
John looked across at Rodney, who shrugged and said, “Not much. The English, or rather…The East India Company used local men as indigenous troops, drawing them from both Hindu and Muslim soci
ety. Some rumor got started about greased cartridges—”
“The muskets had the powder and shot in a paper container. Oiled paper, torn open with the mouth,” John clarified.
“Anyway, the troops were concerned, as Muslims, that the grease was from pork fat, while the Hindus worried that it was beef. The English, making a huge mistake, disciplined the troopers harshly for daring to question. The East India Company’s response made a bad situation far worse.”
Shah Jahan nodded. “And where were the Dutch in all this?”
John shrugged. “I couldn’t really say, Sultan Al’Azam. Until this mission became a reality, we didn’t know much about India. See, we grew up about as far away from India as it was possible to get.”
“Yet you claim to know the details of this moment in Indian history.”
“Our teacher in what we call high school felt it was infamous enough we should know about it. She pointed it out as one of the clearest-cut moments in the history of racist colonialism.”
“She?”
“Ms. Mailey, Sultan Al’Azam, our most formidable history teacher.”
Rodney muttered something Bertram didn’t quite hear. Shah Jahan asked Salim to translate it.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Rodney repeated.
The emperor’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”
“I didn’t attend her school but my wife did. Priscilla said Ms. Mailey cut her students no slack at all. She had them reading things they considered pure torture.”
“But they weren’t?”
Rodney shrugged his huge shoulders. “Later, Priscilla said she came to appreciate a lot of it. But at the time—”
John interrupted. “What did we know? We were just kids, all we wanted to do was chase girls and play ball.”
Shah Jahan’s Persian was liquid and fast, too fast for Bertram to understand. The tone he understood quite well, however.
Salim smiled a bit uncomfortably. “Sultan Al’Azam understands this desire to chase women perfectly, having enjoyed more than a few himself. He does, however, wonder what this ‘playing of ball’ is.”
“Sports, of different kinds—but they almost all involve playing with a ball.” John shook his head. “But the Sultan Al’Azam moves far afield from his original question. We are happy to discuss up-time sports, but understand the Sultan Al’Azam probably does not have all night to listen to us.”
“Quite right.” Almost without pause, the emperor shifted subjects: “How is it that you speak English, after so long apart from the British Empire? Did you not revert to your mother tongues?”
Bertram glanced at Gervais, saw the older man hadn’t missed the way the emperor was testing John and Rodney. Rapidly shifting from one subject matter to another was an excellent method for finding liars and hucksters. Or, in this case, differentiating between practiced courtiers wishing to advance themselves and these strange people from the future.
“Neither of us are Native North Americans. My people came over from England, near as we can tell, in the eighteenth century. Rodney’s sometime in the nineteenth.”
Rodney nodded. “Late nineteenth, on my father’s side anyway. Came from Germany.”
More liquid Persian, including a gesture meant to encompass both the up-timers. “So your people conquered America?”
“In a sense, yes. The English had settled colonies all along one coast. For a couple reasons; disease, wars, and a whole series of bad faith agreements, the indigenous people—the Native Americans, they were called”—Bertram noted how careful John was in selecting his terms—“were either killed, moved off the desirable land, or died from European diseases they had no immunity to.”
“These Native Americans, did they have religion?”
“Yes, many. I couldn’t tell you much about those religions though.” Another shrug. “There weren’t that many Native Americans around to ask, where I grew up, at least not intact cultures. And those that were around, well…It just never occurred to me to ask.”
“But they were not Muslim? Not Christian or Hindu?”
“No, Sultan Al’Azam, although many of them—probably most of them—eventually became Christians. While some people did say they were bringing religion to the poor benighted savages, I think their motives were far simpler and cruder. Some folks wanted land and had the power to take it from those already on it.”
“Is this what you think happened in India?”
John nodded. “Although the English didn’t settle very many colonists here in India, because the climate and diseases were hard on them since they weren’t accustomed to it. They—the English, I mean—were helped along by some native Indians—as they were in North America. Some people will always turn on others for the right incentives.”
The look that accompanied Shah Jahan’s nod quickly disappeared, like a stone dropped into deep waters. Bertram saw it anyway. Saw it, and feared for those who entertained thoughts of betraying the emperor.
Chapter 32
Nur Jahan’s Manor, Lahore
August 1635
Nur Jahan carefully set Mullah Mohan’s letter down. Trying to extinguish the flames of anger its contents had sparked was not as easy, however.
True to her Sufi education, she used several measured breaths to quell the flames enough to clear her head and focus on the underlying issue that fueled the fires of her anger: Leaving such instructions with her as if she were his servant! Watch and report! As if she had no value beyond her eyes and ears—here, in this place she ruled from.
Foolish bigot, of course the up-timers bore watching! Of course they needed to learn what Mian Mir tells Dara! And Shah Jahan: he always must be watched.
Gargi entered with the evening meal, servants in her wake. Nur Jahan made sure to conceal her correspondence as the servants went about the business of setting out her dinner, then lay back amongst the cushions, giving every outward appearance of the indolent widow.
It was foolish of him to even send her such notes, but he was so caught up in trying to show his superiority that she doubted he even realized the risks he was running.
She sighed as Gargi ushered the servants out. The failed plot against Dara had made Mohan think himself the leader of their little cabal.
“What is it makes you sigh as if for a lover, Nur Jahan?”
Nur smiled. “If my sighs sound thus, it is because power is the vilest of lovers: to raise one to such heights of ecstasy only to drop you at the first indication of a younger, livelier plaything is surely the hallmark of the most hateful of lovers.”
“Are you cast aside, then?”
“I have been so since the day my husband passed to his reward. Everything since has been the struggle to maintain some place in the world.”
Gargi gestured at the archway the servants had retreated through, “No matter how low, there is always further to fall. A servant is easily made a slave. I urge caution.”
Angry that even Gargi had been influenced by the failure of her plot, Nur sniffed. “As I said: I will not submit silently, I will not fade like the aged blossom, curled into colorless ignominy.”
Her most trusted servant bowed her head. “Your will?”
Nur smiled. “You needn’t reprove me with your perfect submission, Gargi. In fact, I think you will approve of my latest plans. I think it past time I rid myself of certain problematic persons.”
Gargi met her eyes, edging closer before folding her legs beneath her. “Oh?”
“Yes,” she whispered, handing the older woman the correspondence.
Nur selected a morsel, ate it daintily while Gargi read the first lines. “You see where he presumes to instruct me even as he denies knowledge of what it is Aurangzeb plans?”
“Such is the way of men,” Gargi answered with a shrug, reading on.
“Perhaps. For my part, I have decided I will no longer silently endure such slights.”
“Oh, you plan to shout about it instead?”
Nur felt her eyes narrow in anger. She carefully sm
oothed the irritation from her expression and said coolly, “No, I plan vengeance. But first I must determine what it is Aurangzeb has directed him to do.”
“And then?”
“And then I will decide whether to encourage Mohan to blunder far beyond his orders or discourage him entirely from acting on them.”
“A delicate process. One fraught with peril.”
“Your cautions are noted. Now advise.”
“If Aurangzeb has left firm instruction, your aims will be difficult to accomplish. If he has left those instructions vague, then you will find fertile ground.”
“One can safely assume Aurangzeb is not so confident in the security of his communications that he left such precise directions for someone else to discover.”
“Correct, but barring your presence at their final audience before they parted, it is difficult to know what was agreed to in advance.”
“Truth. It seems I must wait for a suitable opportunity.”
“From what you said of his reaction to Shah Jahan’s lifting of the jizya, he seems likely to walk into grievous error on his own anyway.”
“Perhaps,” Nur agreed, grudgingly.
“Forgive me for saying it, but I beg you to consider allowing Mullah Mohan to blunder into self-destruction. It might prove both satisfactory to your desire for vengeance and will certainly limit your exposure. He was, after all, merely a means to an end.”
“You speak sensibly, and I will consider carefully before taking any action.”
“But you will take action.”
Nur let an exasperated sigh escape her lips. “I may.”
But Gargi wasn’t ready to let it go. “Do not be like a man in this.”
“As you said, he was a means to an end. That end is not yet met, and therefore I do not consider my dealings with him concluded.”
“Yet you consider betraying him.”
“His betrayal, dear servant, is one of those ends that has yet to be met.”
Gargi bowed her head and said nothing more, her silence a reproval all its own.
Camp outside Lahore
“So, Salim, your teacher…Just who is he?”