Shahaji lunged forward, sword a blur.
Once, twice, three times Koyaji parried the impossibly fast, desperate attacks of Shahaji. The fourth, though, crashed past the knife in Koyaji’s left hand to bite deep into his side.
“We are,” the older chieftain coughed blood, “free men…”
“Free to die,” Shahaji said, spitting in Koyaji’s face as his opponent slumped to earth.
A long moment later the victor stooped and wiped his sword on his opponent’s corpse. With a grunt of effort he stood and turned to face Salim.
Salim returned a respectful nod.
Shahaji smiled bitterly. “Did not Veerabathira say I would die in the hills of my homeland, a victim of my own pride?” He sighed and started to sag. The chieftain who’d claimed kinship with Koyaji was first to the younger chieftain’s side, putting an arm around his chest to keep him standing.
“Well played, Salim,” Shahaji said, slurring as if drunk. “Well…played.”
Salim did not reply. He was too busy searching the faces of the other men for signs they contemplated violence against him.
“Stabbed in the back…Dattaji, can you believe it?” Shahaji snorted weakly.
Easing Shahaji to the ground, the man called Dattaji spoke too quietly into Shahaji’s ear for Salim to hear. The wounded man sighed and did not draw another breath.
Riders from both camps were, by now, approaching at the gallop.
Salim cleared his throat.
Dattaji looked at him, conflicting emotions warring openly across his face.
“I have kept the truce,” Salim said, hands still as distant as he could keep them from his weapons.
Dattaji thought about that for the space of a few heartbeats. The earth was starting to tremble under their feet as hundreds of horsemen from both camps converged on them.
Salim was about to arm himself when Dattaji stood up with raised arms and shouted for his warriors to stop.
Relieved but aware he might have only postponed the battle, Salim turned and did the same to his own men. There were a few horses injured as his sowar complied with his sudden order to stop their charge, but no blood was shed and the truce stood unbroken.
Trying not to let wild hope cloud his judgment, Salim started thinking about how to turn the truce into something more substantial. The Maratha had no love for Aurangzeb—or any Mughal for that matter—so he would pursue his goals along that broad path.
Thanking God for the story Jahanara had spun to explain his departure from court, Salim considered how to best capitalize on the animosity he’d seen on display and any of the greed Sunil said claimed their hearts. That the supplies came from Portugal should help. The Europeans held less and less sway the farther one traveled from the sea, their only true protection being the Mughals. And, as long as the empire was at odds with itself, those who enjoyed its protection would be fair game.
It might—just might—even be possible to enlist them in raids on Aurangzeb’s caravans coming north from Gwalior. Raiding and banditry were something of national pastimes for the Maratha, just as it was for his own people. Failing that, there was a far better chance he could buy these men off or otherwise convince them to stay out of his way than he would have originally believed.
He said a brief prayer to God, thanking Him for this chance.
Chapter 38
Red Fort
Diwan-i-Khas
Jahanara gathered herself as the last rolling beat of the drums announcing her presence settled into silence. She had spent the ride back to the fort in silent, furious thought. The rain had let up by the time she left the garden, giving way to a stunning sunset of burnt umber, ocher, orange, and gold she could not enjoy. Her thoughts were fully preoccupied with planning how best to give her report to Dara, with how to strike just the right notes, hit the exact tone necessary to bend and unify Dara’s umara behind Dara. She must not only speak before all the court, but gather them to hand, thorns and all, in order to forge a strong sword and shield that Dara could wield against his brother. Thankfully, Nur had unintentionally given her the exact course Jahanara believed would best secure her ends.
“Well?” Dara asked the question without preamble, giving voice to the question that everyone present, from the lowest slave to the greatest umara would have answered.
Grateful for the jali that prevented the eyes of so many from staring at her, Jahanara took a deep breath of rain-washed evening air before responding, “It went as expected, Sultan Al’Azam. He requires your abdication and offers safe passage to Mecca and exile for both you and little Murad. He even presumes to offer a small stipend for your maintenance in Mecca.”
Dara nodded, impassive. Jahanara was happy to see her brother in control of both his expression and, apparently, his faculties. She hoped it would continue. All the court were watching. Everyone needed reassurance that Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh could lead them, would defend them, and would overcome his enemies.
“And you, sister?” Dara asked.
“Your sisters,” Jahanara saw no harm in including the others, “are offered safety beyond his lines, even should we remain faithful to your cause.”
“Even should you remain faithful?” he sounded incredulous. “Why should he offer such a thing?”
“It was claimed that our safety in the battle to come is of great importance to the pretender. Nur claimed that Aurangzeb was very concerned for his, and I quote, ‘powerless sisters’ who had been ‘led astray’ by ‘honeyed words and the foolish promises of my elder brother.’” Jahanara allowed some of the scorn she felt to permeate her words, carefully avoiding mention of Nur’s reminder of the cannonball that, when fired from a fortress Father was besieging, had nearly taken Mother’s life when she was in labor. That incident occurred when the Red Tent was set at what was thought to be a safe distance from the battle, not the focus and target of it. That they were all in danger
