1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 27

“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