1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 32
“Salim, I know you need someone with experience in infantry stuff, but I am no drill sergeant. In fact, I got out of basic training back in the USE and felt like I hadn’t learned anything about being a soldier.”
“I know you think you are not qualified, but you are. At least, in all the ways that matter here and now.”
“You said that when you first asked me to do this. I still don’t get it.”
“And I thank you for not requiring that I explain it in front of the court. They do not need to know the particulars of Dara’s reasons.”
“I can’t believe I have to ask, but what—exactly—does he think he’s getting in me?” John asked.
“The Mughals often recruit military specialists from outside the limits of the empire. There are not many here with Dara’s military establishment, but Aurangzeb and Shah Shuja both have artillery parks and other specialist troops overseen by and composed of ferenghi.”
John shook his head again and shifted in his saddle. “I don’t know anything about cannons, friend.”
“Let me finish, if you please, John.”
The up-timer gestured apologetically for him to proceed.
“The common sowar and, possibly more importantly, the umara of the court are used to seeing foreign experts training their comrades. They were used to it even before the arrival of such technological marvels as those Talawat created in copying your L.C. Smith shotgun.”
John’s eyes widened. “Oh, hell.”
“Yes. So you see, it is as important you are seen to be training the men as providing it in the first place, not because we cannot figure out a way to adapt to the technology ourselves, but because those who are in Dara’s camp expect to see you in charge. If you, an up-timer, are not visibly in charge, then they will not have much faith the weapons will serve to redress some of the imbalance of forces we face. Without faith in that strength, Dara will be abandoned for one of the pretenders.”
John nodded. “And word will get back to the brothers that I am in the thick of things, maybe making them cautious.”
“Exactly so, my friend. Keeping the appearance of strength is as—if not more—important than actually being strong right now. Everyone is holding their breath, hoping to see who will make the first error and thereby indicate the eventual winner.”
“I get it.” A sly grin spread across his lips.
“What?” Salim asked.
“You’re not going to insist I wear one of those silly robes, are you?” he asked, gesturing at Salim’s clothing.
Salim laughed. Then laughed harder, making their horses shy.
“What?” John asked as he got his horse back under control.
“Dara may! In fact, I will suggest the very thing to him this afternoon if you cannot beat me to the manufactory!” Salim called over his shoulder, snapping heels to his horse and riding for the gap in the berm.
Chapter 11
Agra
Red Fort, Jasmine Tower
Drums rolled, echoing across the river and burying the snap of silken banners in their thunder. The soldiers beneath the banners and marching behind the drums were uniformly big, bearded, broad-shouldered men, with tall helmets wrapped in fine turbans making them appear even larger.
The two thousand men sent by Hargobind Singh crossed the open ground before the walls in solid blocks of several hundred each. Each battle was armed in different fashion: swords, spears, arquebus, and, leading the way, cavalry.
“I cannot believe you made Dara accept their offer of support,” Nadira said, in tones of flat anger.
“Are we so strong that we can afford to turn anyone away?” Smidha asked before Jahanara could formulate a response more sensitive to Nadira’s feelings.
Nadira’s hands tightened into fists on the sandstone wall.
Inwardly sighing, Jahanara said, “Sister, he asked the guru for fighters, and these”—she gestured at the marching men—“are the result.”
“But their leader nearly killed my Dara,” Nadira said, more softly.
“That he did,” Jahanara said, taking one of Nadira’s fists in both her hands. “And then he treated Shehzada Dara Shikoh honorably, as he now sends his followers to serve upon request of the Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh.”
Nadira shook her head. “I do not speak of Guru Hargobind Singh. I speak specifically of that man.” She nodded stiffly at the rider at the front of the cavalry contingent.
“Bidhi Chand?” Jahanara asked. Even without his place in the front, the man was not hard to pick out. His horse was a magnificent white beast, taller by a hand than the rest of the mounts. It was a gift from Dara, given before his ascension to the throne in respect for the warrior’s great skill and chivalry. Aside from his mount, the saint-soldier was dressed no more richly than the riders following him. It was his bearing, handsome features, and personal charisma that drew the eye.
“Yes, him.”
“Surely Chand’s presence, as one of the guru’s greatest warriors, speaks of the strength of that man’s desire to fully support your husband.”
“I know it does.” Nadira turned steady eyes on Jahanara. “Just as I know I must tolerate his presence. That does not mean that I must enjoy it.”
Jahanara smiled at Nadira. “At least he does not have another prospective wife for Dara in tow.”
“There is that.” Nadira looked again at the men passing below. “There is that.”
“At least, as far as we know,” Jahanara teased.
Mission House
“Do you think it’s enough?” Bertram asked, handing Monique a cup of wine as he sat among the cushions next to her.
“I think so, but I don’t know how much proof will be required,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Proof of what?” Gervais asked, entering the chamber set aside