1636: Mission to the Mughals Read online

  “The one who was banished? The last of your allies at court, wasn’t he?”

  “I would hope that you speak of past days, and not current state of affairs,” she said, a gentle rebuke he refused to acknowledge.

  “I remember him.”

  “He is gone to his greater reward.”

  “Oh?”

  “Poisoned, though we do not know by whom”—she waved a hand—“but the ‘who’ is really not that important. Of greater interest is that word has reached me that the amir Yilmaz left Baram Khan’s party without leave. I am told he is carrying information of great import to the court.”

  “What news?” he asked, immediately annoyed at how easily his voice betrayed his interest.

  “I do not know. The message I received was conveyed in a medium which is, for reasons I am sure you’ll understand, not trusted to keep secrets from parties who would read my correspondence without permission.”

  “I see. What did you say the man’s name is?”

  “Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz.” That was the very man Mullah Mohan had petitioned him for permission to slay. Interesting.

  “Does the name mean anything to you?” she asked.

  “No, should it?” The lie was easy.

  “He and Dara Shikoh became fast friends while you both were your grandfather’s guest.”

  Anger flashed, made him snap: “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

  “I believe it a polite fiction that serves everyone involved.”

  “Yes, I can see how you would take comfort in that belief. It was not you who was taken from the arms of loved ones.”

  Her only response was to sit silent, expression unreadable.

  Silently, he cursed himself. That had not been a useful thing to say. She needed to think that all was forgiven, that she was a partner in his plans, if he wanted her to be the lodestone for any ill-will his actions might cause.

  Resolving to exert more control over such fits of temper, Aurangzeb looked her in the eye: “That was unworthy. It was not my intent to speak thus. Forgive me?”

  She nodded.

  “Any idea what news this amir carries?”

  “None.” A delicate sniff. “My astrologer claims the man carries news from the future.”

  He smiled. “She does, does she?”

  She did not return the smile. “Yes.”

  Aurangzeb cautioned himself to have a care with casual dismissals of possible truths: such was the claim of the Portuguese, as well, and all things were possible in God’s Design.

  Agra, The River Yamuna

  As his hired boat turned in toward Agra’s docks, Salim noticed a boat that had departed Red Fort just after his changing course for shore. Two armed men stood behind the boatman paddling at the bow, but there was no visible cargo for them to guard, and both looked away when Salim turned his face in their direction.

  He leaned over and spoke to the boat’s master. “If you can push the men hard for shore without appearing to, it will mean another rupee for you.”

  The boatman, likely experienced with court intrigues, simply bobbed his head and started pulling deeper and harder with his paddle. His men took their lead from him and did so as well. Salim, not wanting to give the game away, looked straight ahead and fished in his sash for the payment.

  During the last hundred paces to the dock, his boat had to maneuver around an outgoing craft. Salim took the opportunity to cast a surreptitious glance at the other boat. The distance between them had grown to nearly fifty paces, but he could see one of the armed men was bending their boatman’s ear about closing the distance while the other openly stared in Salim’s direction.

  Now certain they were following him, Salim wondered who they served: Nur Jahan, would-be chooser of emperors, or her brother, Asaf Kahn, the emperor’s first minister—or perhaps Mullah Mohan, Aurangzeb’s strictly orthodox teacher and advisor?

  Not that it mattered if they were sent to do him harm. And, being armed and lacking in subtlety, just watching him go about his business didn’t seem likely.

  Their lack of skills at intrigue did seem to rule out Nur Jahan, but she might be running short of skilled servants this long after being consigned to the harem with her grandniece.

  Asaf Kahn was still in favor at court, and therefore had no need of subtlety, but Salim knew of no reason the wazir would want him accosted or killed.

  No, the more he thought on it, the more likely it seemed that Mullah Mohan was behind these men. The mullah had no love of Mian Mir’s accepting policy toward the Hindus and other religions of the land, and had tried to get the living saint removed from his position as teacher to Shah Jahan’s children on more than one occasion.

  As the boat nudged the dock, Salim dropped payment in the master’s lap and stepped off. The man’s breathless but cheerful thanks followed the Pashtun as he turned for the crowded market at the foot of the docks. He glanced back as he neared the first of the merchant’s stalls. The men had made landfall and were hurrying to catch up, shoving people out of their way.

  Salim merged with the crowds of shoppers, bearers, and traders. The market had the frenetic atmosphere such places took on before the muezzin called the faithful to sunset prayers. Not that all, or even most, of the people shared faith in Allah and His Prophet; but the Hindus of the capital were cautious, not inclined to even the appearance of disrespect toward the religion of their ruler, and would slow or cease business during the hours of prayer. That could pose problems once the call to prayer began.

  He lost track of the men within three steps. Hoping they would do the same, he started in the direction of his lodgings. The sun continued its dive to the hills beyond the river.

  Salim saw the boy hanging by one hand from the trellis of an inn as he was leaving the market. He wouldn’t have thought anything of the skinny urchin but for the fact the boy pointed straight at him and continued to do so as he moved through the crowds.

  “Paid eyes,” he muttered. Were he given to cursing, Salim would have. Instead he quickened his steps, hoping to get out of sight before the boy could direct the men to him.

  “There!” It wasn’t a shout, but the word was spoken with an air of command.

  Salim turned and saw one of the men from the boat. The man was already pounding his way, naked steel in hand. The more distant man was waving an arm, most likely summoning more men.

  Breaking into a run, Salim looked for places to lose his pursuers or, if he must, make a stand. Nothing looked promising in the first length of road but he hesitated to take one of the side streets for fear it would dead end. He held little hope of outrunning the pursuers. Had he a horse, even a nag, under him, things would be different. But afoot—he could already hear the first man closing the distance.

  He picked a spot, deciding it was as good as any. Placing his back to a stack of great clay urns, Salim turned to face his pursuer, blade flickering to hand.

  The younger man didn’t slow, charging in, howling “God is great!” as he swept his blade down in an untrained and fatally stupid overhand cut.

  Salim deflected the blade to his outside right and twisted his wrist, sending his own slashing across the man’s torso.

  Unable to stop, the man ran up the blade and opened his gut to the evening air, the battle cry becoming a wail for his mother. He tripped in his own entrails, fell to his knees. Salim hacked his head from his shoulders, counting it a mercy.

  He turned and saw that the easy killing of the one had given his other pursuer pause. Knowing he was done for if the man waited for more assistance, Salim smiled.

  The man didn’t respond.

  Salim rolled his wrist. Steel hissed as it parted air, casting a thin line of blood in the dust of the street. By happenstance instead of intent, a drop of blood just reached the other man’s boot.

  Eyes wide with rage, uneven teeth bared behind his thick beard, the man advanced. Despite the anger, this man was a far more capable adversary. Salim was forced to retreat, working to d
eflect several fast and powerful strokes.

  Timing them, he found an opening and chopped a short hard strike at the other man’s hand. It missed the mark but slapped the inner curve of the other’s sword, sending it out of line.

  Switching tactics, Salim stepped closer and forced the other man’s sword farther out of line. He shot his free hand around the back of the man’s neck and pulled, hard, even as he threw his own head forward.

  Cartilage and bone ruptured under his forehead.

  Fireworks exploded.

  Still blinking, he chopped a blow at his reeling opponent that had more of savagery than art. His sword cleaved the man’s collarbone and hacked through the first three bones of the upper ribcage.

  “Heretic!” the man burbled, mouth quickly filling with blood.

  Mullah Mohan, it is, then.

  The dead man collapsed, eyes still full of hate.

  The muezzin called the faithful to prayer as Salim turned and resumed his run.

  Chapter 11

  Agra, Red Fort, Diwan-i-Khas

  August 1634

  Dara joined his younger brothers, standing before Father’s throne in the Diwan-i-Khas.

  As befitted the hall of private audience, there were comparatively few courtiers present, and those who were held high zat and sowar ranks—either diwans, holders of large Zamind, or extensive Mansabs.

  “Any idea what this is about?” Shah Shuja asked, as Dara came to a halt beside him.

  “None.”

  “Possibly,” Aurangzeb answered at the same time.

  Both elder brothers looked at their younger brother, who punched his thin beard at the pair of generals standing to one side. “Military matters. Either the Deccan or the Sikhs.”

  Field command, then. Dara tried to hide his excitement.

  “The Sikhs?” Shuja scoffed, “What, did they refuse to pay their taxes?”

  “No. The new guru, he has caused a dais to be built. One, it is said, higher than that of our father.”

  Shuja made a throwing motion. “An insult, but not a threat requiring an army.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Farmers?” Shuja sneered, “How could such as they prove a threat sufficient to warrant Father’s attention?”

  It was Dara’s turn to disagree with Shah Shuja: “Guru Hargobind has not sat idle, Brother. It is said he took up two swords at his investiture, one denoting temporal justice and the other, spiritual. Further, he trains his followers to defend themselves.”

  Shuja didn’t look convinced.

  Aurangzeb nodded. “Still, barring some further provocation I’m not aware of, I doubt the Sikhs are the reason for this sudden summons. It almost has to be the Deccan.” He looked at Dara. “Wasn’t your teacher a friend to the last guru?”

  Dara nodded, uncomfortable at the thought. “He was. I—I don’t doubt that he still is.”

  “Then he will not be pleased to hear of this.”

  “We shall see,” Dara murmured as Father entered.

  The emperor strode across to his dais and seated himself on the throne, the majordomo declaring the audience open and announcing to the Diwan-i-Khas the emperor’s lengthy title and honors.

  For his part, Dara watched Father closely: the emperor’s expression revealed little, but one of his slippered feet was gently tapping the floor, a sign he was deeply concerned by what he was about to reveal. Eventually the majordomo wound down, and Father revealed the purpose for the assembly.

  “My sons, my people, there has been yet another incident with the Sikhs. A party of my nobles, Mukhlis Khan chief amongst them, were entrusted with the training of the royal hawks and were engaged in that duty to me when my white hawk went missing.” A murmur went through the crowd. The white hawk was a rarity, and losing it would surely mean Mukhlis Khan would suffer the emperor’s ire.

  “They discovered the hawk, shining in the mews of a Sikh hunting party encamped nearby. When they went to claim the hawk from this party of Sikhs, they were not only refused and insulted, they were assaulted! The insult might have been forgiven, but this Hargobind refuses to return my hawk, given to me by my friend, the Shah of Persia!”

  Angry murmurs went through the assembled nobles. There was, if Dara wasn’t mistaken, a strong undertow of contentment beneath the anger. War meant plunder and glory, and a chance to rise.

  “Told you,” Aurangzeb muttered.

  Dara caught the dirty look Shuja cast Aurangzeb’s way. He didn’t like having his face rubbed in it. Their younger brother just smiled.

  That was neither kind nor wise. Things had been unpleasant enough since Aurangzeb published his damned poem. It was one thing to talk like that to Dara himself, but Shuja wasn’t one to lie down and take it.

  “Check your tongue, little Brother,” Shuja grated.

  “Why, does a fool wish to add something?”

  Dara felt Shuja tense beside him and glanced at the throne. Sure enough, the muttering of his siblings had brought Father’s gaze down on them. He did not look pleased.

  Probably Aurangzeb’s design, this making his brothers look bad before Father. Ah well, each must be disappointed, from time to time.

  Dara stepped forward, bowing his head and waiting to be recognized.

  He heard Shuja stop mid-mutter, saw Aurangzeb twitch out of the corner of his eye. Thought you’d keep us off-balance and secure the command for yourself, did you? I’m tired of the whispers at court: those that say I am content to sit in Father’s shadow, that I avoid fighting as distasteful. I long to put paid to the rumors that it is my wish that makes it so.

  The truth is, Father refuses to send me away from him, fearing I might turn against him, as he turned against his father.

  Realizing the emperor was watching him, and conscious of the entire court standing silent behind, Dara spoke: “Your son stands ready to ride out and punish your enemies, Father.”

  “Does he?” The emperor’s tone was not enthusiastic, and his expression dark.

  “If it pleases you, yes.”

  “Your first wife is pregnant with Our first grandson, is she not?”

  “She is, indeed,” Dara answered, swallowing fear. It had occurred to him that Father might use his unborn child as yet another excuse not to send him.

  “And you would suffer to be parted from her at this time?”

  Dara, expecting the question, answered immediately: “To serve you, I will…while taking comfort in the knowledge that they will have the very best of care here.”

  In Father’s day, Mother had gone with him on every campaign, but her death in camp guaranteed he’d never allow another pregnant member of the family on campaign.

  “Will you listen to the general I will send with you? More than that: will you heed his advice?”

  “I will.” Though he would like to know who, exactly, the emperor would send to be his shepherd. He glanced at the gathered nobles, but none met his eye or gave indication that they knew who would command.

  “Very well, I name you Amir of Amirs; you shall command five thousand, and have the Red Tent to crush this upstart, take his wealth, take his women, take his life. Bring all before me and be rewarded.”

  Dara bowed, glowing inside. At last, the Red Tent, symbol of the emperor for the campaign!

  “I will personally oversee the gathering of your staff for this campaign, Dara Shikoh. Be ready in a week’s time, when all is in readiness for your journey to Ramdaspur.”

  “I shall, Your Majesty!” The words came louder than he’d intended, such was his excitement. Not even the jealous looks his brothers cast in his direction could dim the fires of his enthusiasm.

  * * *

  Aurangzeb quickly smoothed his expression. It would not do to let Father see how displeased he was with Dara’s good fortune.

  Shuja did not bother to hide his displeasure, and Aurangzeb saw Shah Jahan’s eyes tighten fractionally as the emperor watched his sons.

  Wazir Asaf Khan strode before the emperor and bowed. “I woul
d serve you, Shah Jahan. With your permission I will assist Dara Shikoh as he enacts your will.” Aurangzeb thought that was typical of his grandfather: clinging to whoever held the reins of power.

  “I must deny you, Asaf Khan. Mukhlis Khan will be Dara’s subordinate and chief advisor for this, as it is his complaint we seek redress for. Fear not, father of my most beloved, I will be sending you to face down Ahmednagar.”

  Aurangzeb did not miss the surprise the emperor’s order caused to flit across Asaf’s face, as their eldest male kinsman bowed and said: “Certainly, Shah Jahan. I serve.”

  “You will command my armies there, and coordinate with Mahabat Khan to bring the Sultan to heel. You will assist Dara ordering his troops as you gather your own.”

  “Yes, Shah Jahan. May I invite you and your sons to hunt with me? The sowar will need training, and there have been reports of tigers to the east.”

  The emperor waved a jewel-studded hand. “Affairs of state prevent me, but my sons will be happy to accompany you.”

  Aurangzeb hid his displeasure. A hunt would hardly prove a sufficient sop to this new injury.

  “While regretting the affairs that keep you here, I am honored to host your sons to the hunt.”

  Dara, still riding the high of his appointment to command, nodded acceptance of the invitation.

  Shuja actually looked excited by the prospect of hunting.

  Aurangzeb let none of his thoughts show. They were always a disappointment to him, his elder brothers: one a heretic lover of Hindu philosophy constantly rewarded for his mediocrity, the other easily baited into dissolution by whatever new entertainment crossed his path. He did still hold out hope that Murad might prove a man worthy of respect.

  Aurangzeb supposed he should be content enough at the situation, however. Dara was not likely to succeed as a general, and failing to do as ordered would surely wake his father to the fact that he’d chosen to favor the wrong son. Shuja would be dealt with, when the time came, and Murad was still young enough to be easily influenced, once he was free of the harem.

  Court went on. Aurangzeb scarcely paid any attention, so caught up in thinking through his next moves that he almost missed Shah Jahan declaring the session at an end.