1636: Mission to the Mughals Read online

  “I…see…” He glanced at the tax farmer. “It really isn’t up to this fellow, but…” Retreating to stand beside the local, he mouthed, “I’ll do what I can.”

  Gervais stepped back and let Ennis and Strand engage with the tax farmer. Watching Angelo translate, Gervais didn’t see any of the few tells Angelo had. But if he wasn’t working a swindle, why do this? It was too much like actual labor for the Angelo he knew.

  The meeting went on for some time. As it neared the end, Strand offered another, larger bribe. Gervais could tell the man was tempted, but Angelo looked directly at Gervais as he translated: “Begum Sahib has installed a new representative here, and the representative must be consulted before any action is taken in matters of trade.”

  With that, the meeting drew to a close and the boarding party departed.

  Strand turned to him, expectant.

  Gervais shrugged. “He’ll do what he can for us.”

  “You hopeful?” Ennis asked.

  Gervais cocked his head. “Hopeful, yes. Confident, no. I am unsure what Angelo is doing in such a lowly position.”

  “Lowly?”

  “He’s a brilliant man. Very accomplished and truly gifted.”

  “So he’s underachieving,” John said, dismissive.

  Carefully controlling the urge to snap, Gervais answered: “All I’m saying is that I doubt he would be translating for some third-tier tax collector if he had other prospects.”

  “I…see. He did not appear to be in bondage,” Strand said.

  “True.”

  “What, like leather and shit?” John Ennis interrupted, a strange expression on his face.

  “No, like slavery, though what you mean by leather and feces, I’m a afraid I don’t understand…”

  Blushing, John shook his head. “Never mind.”

  Surat, Palace of the Diwan

  “Well, shiiiit…” John said, drawing out the word. The principles of the USE mission been sweating for hours in the courtyard, waiting for Diwan Kashif to see them.

  “John!” Ilsa snapped.

  “What?”

  “Stop cursing at every turn.”

  He gestured dismissively at the supplicants crowding the courtyard. “Like there’s anyone who understands me around here.”

  “Your wife can, John Dexter Ennis,” Ilsa returned, an edge to her voice.

  “Yes, dear.” He’d meant to assure her he’d try to abstain from cursing, but something in the way he said it made her eyes tighten above the veil. She stalked away, joining Monique and Priscilla, the shapeless bag she wore failing to conceal the rigid set of shoulders.

  Thankfully, none of the women had raised a fuss about having to wear those stupid modesty tents here.

  “J.D.—” That came from Rodney, this time.

  “I know, man, I know,” he grated. “I just need folks to back the fuck up for a bit.”

  He was saved from finding some way of apologizing to his wife by the appearance of the translator, Angelo, at the entrance.

  “The diwan will see the petitioners now.”

  “About damn time,” Ennis muttered.

  “Monsieur Ennis?” Gervais asked, as he joined John and Rodney as they left the rest of their party to enter the building.

  “Nothing,” John said.

  “Patience, Monsieur Ennis—”

  “I have been patient.”

  Gervais grinned. The expression seemed honest, though John suspected from his words that it was forced: “Indeed we have all have been patient. Just a bit longer, I think.”

  They were led into another courtyard, this one lined with a covered portico. John shook his head. The place looked like someone had gone through and rubbed gold on everything that wasn’t covered in jewels, bright tile-work, or silks.

  A fat man in ostentatious clothing sat on a raised dais, deep in the shade of the portico, his rotundity fanned by sweating slaves. Failing to deal with the heat and discomfort, John’s mind wandered as the mission was introduced: The number of honest-to-God slaves and what they had to put up with just seemed unbelievable to him. People so thin, they made the hardest-up homeless guy from back up-time look fat.

  That’s the fate Strand says that kid I…that kid would have sent us to, given half a chance.

  Diwan Kashif Khan started speaking in an improbably high voice, interrupting John’s train of thought.

  After a moment Angelo translated into flawless German: “The diwan has heard your petition, and decided you may leave Surat with your goods.”

  John bowed and recited the words Gervais and Angelo had offered as least likely to offend: “We thank the diwan for seeing us, and for granting his permission. We hope the diwan will find a use for the gifts offered in friendship.” The bribe Strand claimed to be appropriate had seemed bizarre to John: a load of sequins, most of which looked like they came straight off the disco-era clothing stored in some of the attics of Grantville.

  From the tone of his high-pitched voice, the diwan seemed genuinely pleased. Angelo translated: “The diwan will certainly find a use for them.”

  “Diwan, may we inquire as to the location and status of the court?” The Mughal court was nomadic, and Bertram and Gervais had thought it wise to ask.

  “Still in Agra, despite the season. The emperor is still in rude health, Allah be praised.”

  “Indeed.”

  Angelo picked up a scroll. “These papers grant you and all your goods safe passage from Surat.”

  From Surat? Wait a second, we need protection and guides to Agra, not just out of town!

  He took the paper from Angelo, seals dangling. “We were hoping for passage and protection to Agra, perhaps even an introduction to the emperor’s court.”

  Angelo bit his lip, turned and translated.

  The diwan shook his head, high voice detracting from the firm speech he was clearly trying to deliver to his subordinate.

  “The diwan clarifies his position: he has no authority to introduce you to the court nor can he give offer safe passage to Agra. Such is not his place.”

  John reined in his first impulse, which was to grab the fat functionary by the throat and bellow, “Then why the hell are we here?” Instead he tried to keep his voice level, asking, “Are you not a servant of the emperor?”

  John could feel the rest of the mission tense behind him as Angelo worked through the translation.

  “We are all servants of the emperor.”

  “And?”

  John watched the chubby functionary’s eyes narrow as the man took issue with John’s curt question. Angelo’s translation of the single German word into Gujarati required quite a few words. He’d have to remember to thank the man for trying to smooth that over.

  “While it is not my usual habit to answer rude questions, you are foreign, so I shall educate you: I serve Diwan Firoz Khan, who is Diwan of Shah Jahan’s Harem, chosen for that position by Jahanara Begum Sahib, herself.”

  Temper, John. “I’m grateful for your patience, Governor. I meant no offense.”

  Listening to Angelo’s translation, the diwan’s expression softened. He wagged his head, said something in a conciliatory tone.

  “There is the source of your misunderstanding, John Ennis of the United States of Europe. The diwan is not what you would call a governor, he is…a manager of Begum Sahib’s interests here in Surat.”

  John glanced at Rodney. “Forgive my ignorance, but could the diwan please explain?”

  “The diwan collects the incomes from Shehzadi Jahanara’s jagirs here, which includes an income from all trade passing through the port of Surat. He has authority over some other aspects of trade here and in the surrounding lands, but does not govern the province or command many soldiers.”

  “Sorry, we did not know how things work here…” John let the words trail off, looking from Rodney to Gervais for help.

  Gervais stepped forward. “But, as a trade mission, his authority extends to our protection, does it not?”


  The diwan nodded.

  “And, given that we carry gifts for Begum Sahib, the most wise Diwan would have every right, indeed a duty, to ensure her gifts were protected on our journey to Agra, would he not? We would, of course, inform the Diwan Firoz Khan of the excellent service done us by his most wise and forward-looking subordinate.”

  A calculating look crossed the diwan’s face.

  John held his breath.

  A few moments passed in sweating silence, then: “The diwan promises twenty sowar with your goods to provide for their protection.” Gradinego explained further: “The men were charged with delivering the diwan safely on his journey here, and have asked leave to return to Agra, and so cost the diwan nothing.”

  Gervais gave a courtly bow. “The diwan is most wise. I beg forgiveness if I offer insult or difficulty in asking, but would it also be possible to employ Mr. Gradinego as our translator as we travel inland?”

  John thought about telling Gervais to drop it, but thought better of it when he caught the gratitude in Gradinego’s eyes before the other man turned to translate.

  The diwan and Angelo exchanged a few quiet words.

  “What terms do you offer?”

  “I do not know what I am negotiating for.”

  “I am working off a debt of ten thousand rupees.”

  John calculated the amount in terms of the goods they carried for trade and “gifts,” then shot a questioning look at Gervais.

  Gervais put his hand on his heart and nodded.

  Damn. He’d better be worth it. John returned the nod.

  “We can make such a payment, if you will accept goods instead of specie?”

  The diwan said something and waved a fat hand.

  “The men will be assembled for you the day after tomorrow, including this humble translator. We have the diwan’s leave to depart in health,” Angelo said, a broad smile creasing his tanned face.

  Chapter 14

  Dara Shikoh’s Camp

  September 1634

  Dara stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight, striding past his personal nökör to greet Wazir Khan. He allowed himself a moment of pride that these men were his to command.

  Grandfather dismounted smoothly. A life spent in the saddle might have given the old Persian decidedly bowed legs, but he remained otherwise unbent and unbowed. “God is great, Amir of Amirs, Dara Shikoh.”

  “God is great, Wazir Asaf Khan.” Dara smiled and gestured toward the awning spread above the entrance to his tent. He had come out merely so that his followers could see the esteem in which he held Asaf Khan, and to allow Father’s wazir a chance to inspect the warriors who would accompany him into battle. Such political maneuvers were important, even here among the warrior elite.

  “All the sowar are mustered?” Asaf asked, inspecting the dismounted troopers lining their path as the pair walked slowly toward the tent.

  Each of the men of his personal guard wore a metal helm over padded armor, a cavalry sword and leather shield, and had a heavy composite bow ready to hand. Their mounts were sleek and well fed. While the rest of the men of his command were not so well equipped, they all bore hand weapons and bows, and had at least one remount.

  “Yes, the men are ready—eager, even,” Dara answered with a smile.

  “All are the proper age and skilled?”

  “Yes, Wazir.” There were mansabdars who tried to pass false rolls on to the reporters, hoping to collect pay for mansabs greater than their actual ability to field troops would justify. When called upon to muster, they would try to make up the lack with old men, grooms—even slaves—on mounts good only for the knackers.

  “Their mounts?”

  “Twenty thousand and several hundred more horses, all up. Fodder for same. Eight elephants. I have no guns, but my advisor indicates such would only serve to slow our advance.” Amir Mukhlis Khan was in a terrible hurry, greedy for the productive farmlands the Sikhs held.

  Slaves presented refreshment as the prince and his grandfather turned, more slaves placing cushions beneath them as the pair settled in to watch the camp. It was already smaller than that of the wazir’s army, as the Deccan excursion would require tens of thousands of fighting men.

  “I had thought to see matchlock men,” Asaf said, gesturing at the camp.

  Dara wagged his head. “I thought it best to avoid any…possible rumors that I used some trick of technology to win against my opponent, rather than through honorable and traditional strength of arms.”

  Asaf Khan fixed him with a penetrating stare, taking a persimmon wedge and biting into it.

  Recognizing the wazir was considering how best to say something his grandson might not wish to hear, Dara gave him permission: “Speak freely. I value your experience above all but Father’s.”

  Asaf swallowed, spoke quietly: “You have read the biographies of your ancestors, have you not?”

  “Of course.”

  “Traditions have their place, but your ancestors put little stock in them, most especially Babur. I would remind you how his twenty-five thousand, lined up behind carts, succeeded against Sultan Ibrahim of Delhi’s hundred thousand.”

  “Guns.”

  “Yes. I can cite other battles won with the tools created by the artifice of men like your Atishbaz gunsmith, but I think you get my point.”

  “Yes, but Babur was a blooded general with years of experience and on the rise to power by then. I am not…do not…know…my advisor, he…”

  “The advisor your father appointed?”

  Dara nodded, glad for the sudden change in subject. “Amir Mukhlis Khan has been most helpful.”

  “I am sure he has.”

  “Indeed, he is most eager to come to grips with the upstart.”

  “Be sure not to let his eagerness lead you into folly. He is not known for his restraint. By all reports, his ambition exceeds his ability.”

  A twinge of annoyance bit through Dara’s good humor. “Perhaps you should have told this to Father?”

  Asaf Khan nodded, jeweled turban glittering, “I did. I can only caution you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I suspect Shah Jahan wishes to see exactly how you deal with such unpredictable subordinates in uncertain circumstances.”

  “All the more reason to restrict myself to traditional forces, commanded in traditional fashion.”

  “Success breeds tradition.”

  “I don’t think I follow.”

  “I do not wish to contradict you, Shehzada, but is it not more important that you take command and win than worry what the court might say about how you secure that victory?”

  Agra, Red Fort

  “He cuts a handsome figure: my husband, your brother,” Nadira said, as Dara led his men in a long parade along the riverbank before the court.

  “He does.” Jahanara smiled, taking her sister-in-law’s hand in her own. Dara was in full military kit, sparkling like a jewel among the barely-more subdued dress of his bodyguard.

  “I do not see the gloves I gifted him,” Roshanara grumbled from Nadira’s other side. She was leaning hard against the jali, trying to get a better look.

  Trust my sister to try and make this moment about her.

  Aloud, Jahanara said: “Do not squint so, Sister. It will line that smooth brow of yours with wrinkles. Besides, he bade me tell you that he has set them aside to wear into battle.”

  Roshanara sniffed, but said nothing more. She left the balcony a moment later, whether in search of other entertainments or better company, Jahanara could not say.

  Jahanara felt Nadira squeeze her hand in thanks and smiled gently at her. To be left behind—pregnant—she could not imagine the fear. Her mother always shared her father’s campaigns; was always there, even when her father was losing, to support him even as he returned to the tent each night to support her in her latest pregnancy.

  She turned, saw Nadira wiping tears from her face and tried to comfort her: “He will return victorious, I’m sure.”

>   “But he has only five thousand, while the wazir is taking tens of thousands south into the Deccan.”

  “True, but eight elephants and five thousand troops, all of them mounted, is a significant command. Besides, Father says the Sikhs can barely field two thousand, most without horses. I do not claim to know a great deal about such things, but it seems to me Father would not have sent Dara without sufficient means to accomplish the task.”

  “Did the emperor…did he change his mind about giving Dara a command because of—” She glanced around, making sure no one could overhear. “Of what you showed him?”

  Having failed to consider that possibility, Jahanara’s brows rose. “I do not know, Nadira. It may have been that.”

  “Then I wish God had seen fit to stop Salim coming here.”

  Jahanara shook her head. “Nadira, you must not say such things. Grantville did appear, and Salim did bring back such proofs. We can argue all we wish to with Him, but in the end we must submit to God’s will.”

  “I know, it’s just so…”

  “Difficult. I know. Take heart. Dara will likely return before you give birth.”

  Nadira nodded, tears still falling through long lashes to glisten on smooth cheeks.

  Jahanara resisted the urge to shake her head. Her sister-in-law even looked pretty crying! She could never have managed that herself.

  They stood in companionable silence for a while, watching the rest of Dara’s troops parade past.

  “You said your good-byes last night?”

  “Oh, yes, at length.” Nadira’s grin was wicked. “I’m even a little tender.”

  A startled laugh escaped Jahanara’s lips. “Is that safe? I mean, with the baby coming?”

  “My mother always told me it was good for the baby, but then she was always after Father for more pillow time.”

  “Really?” Jahanara said, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation.

  Be honest—you are not uncomfortable with it, you’re angry. That I’m to never know what it is that other women experience in the arms of their husbands is an idea I shall never find comfort in.

  “Oh, yes,” Nadira said.

  “I am sure he will not stop thinking of you while he is away.”

  “Nor I, him,” Nadira replied, laying palms across the gentle rise of her belly.