“I think you said it quite well,” Jahanara said.
Priscilla looked down at the elephant fighting ground and didn’t answer.
Jahanara let her be, filing the implications of the conversation away for future reference and consideration.
Smidha left her side for a moment, retrieving a packet of messages, quite possibly among the last few to arrive at Red Fort before Aurangzeb invested the fortress. She was sorting them as she returned to her mistress’s side.
“Anything I need act on immediately?” Jahanara asked, eyes on her brother’s army as the older woman flipped through the folded notes. The distance made his army a serpent swimming in dark waters, its head visible but body shrouded in the dust of its own passage.
“Nothing pressing…” Smidha turned over another missive. “Though you may wish to look at the latest report from your diwan regarding the income from your jagirs in Surat.”
Jahanara nodded on hearing the code phrase. Talawat was ready. Salim was well on his way. The plan was coming together. All that remained was news of Asaf Khan’s army. That, and Aurangzeb cooperating. Oh, and Dara not suddenly developing a desire to assert direct control over events and disrupting all her carefully laid plans. Of course, allowances had been made for just such circumstances, but it would be far easier on everyone if he were to remain silent, regal, and ready to command the defenses rather than ask uncomfortable questions concerning what was to come.
Much as she loved Dara, he could not be allowed to interfere with her defense of his throne.
No one could. One delicately hennaed hand clenched into a hard-edged fist. She had been losing weight these last months, stress gnawing at her appetite until she barely ate.
I will see to it, my brothers. For a better future for all those we govern, I will see to it.
Taj Mahal
Completing the ritual cleansing of face and hands, Aurangzeb took a moment to look around Mother and Father’s final resting place, noting the fine work accomplished in his absence. The craftsmen employed by Dara had not shirked their duty, not in the least detail. Delicate tracery and fine Koranic script flowed along every surface not embellished with floral designs, Father’s dream and tribute made manifest in stone, lapis lazuli, and filigree. Thousands of gemstones caught and cast the light of lanterns, making the interior seem a star-studded dusk. It was beautiful, solemn, and bittersweet. A true monument to Mother.
Aurangzeb struggled to contain a bitter anger that suddenly welled, threatening to overtake iron control. While he had been on the march north, concerns of a rapidly dwindling treasury and insufficient supply a constant burden, Dara not only had enough cash to fritter away a fortune on the disastrous attempt at manufacturing up-timer weapons and recruiting as many warriors as would serve his flawed rule, but the vast treasury Father had amassed provided sufficient cash on hand to continue work on the vastly expensive tomb complex. Work that had continued right up to his arrival. The exterior was not yet complete, and the full complex was not yet half-finished. But here, where Father had seen to Mother’s final interment, it was complete, its perfection marred only by the seeming afterthought of Shah Jahan’s own stone sarcophagus, off to one side. Even with that flaw, the tomb was a fitting tribute to the immortal love his parents had shared. Mother had, even in death, always sat at the center of Father’s world.
All reports had Dara’s army weakened by Salim’s exile, in possession of no ammunition for the up-timer weapons, and was less than a third the size of Aurangzeb’s own. Indeed, Dara’s force was, according to all intelligence, a mishmash of foot and dismounted sowar suffering from low morale stemming from reports of Aurangzeb’s rapid advance and Dara’s own poor decisions. Aurangzeb’s advisors agreed that Dara’s forces would not withstand a determined assault despite Red Fort’s substantial defenses. The agreement between his sources should have eased Aurangzeb’s concerns, but they remained.
For one, despite the stores in Gwalior Fort, his supply situation was not good and the Europeans daily grew more and more impatient for the rewards he had promised. Just thinking of the Portuguese priest made Aurangzeb angry. The thin scholar’s impertinent and repeated requests that the Europeans be allowed to proselytize their faith among the citizens of the empire was proving an annoyance he could not shake.
Frustrated that the ritual cleansing had washed neither his anger nor his concerns away, Aurangzeb strove for calm. It was elusive, however. Thoughts of the upcoming showdown and plans for what would come after continued to crash into the nagging feeling his cause might not be quite as just as he would prefer.
But he was here to offer his respects to Mother and Father, not plot his future. Yet a small voice from a dark corner of his mind whispered, You have ever and always plotted your future. Such a habit is why you are here, poised on the verge of victory.
“Not my victory, but God’s,” he murmured.
Distorted echoes of his words returned to his ears from the dome above, mocking his justifications, his certainty.
Tears welled, grew, and raced toward oblivion along his cheeks to wet his thin, adolescent beard.
“God’s will or not, I only do what I must,” he choked out.
The sibilant echoes of this whispered admission returned to his ears as more a plea for forgiveness than the statement of certainty he’d intended.
As was often the case in such moments, Aurangzeb found solace and a measure of calm in the mere feel of the wooden prayer beads under his fingers. Taking them in hand, Aurangzeb knelt upon the simple prayer rug and began his prayers, asking forgiveness of his parents and God for what he must do.
Gardens of the Taj Majal
Nur
