Bertram was glad he wasn’t the one who had to drink it, though. The stuff tasted awful.
“And another,” Pris commanded again.
Aurangzeb’s command group
“You have no choice, Sultan Al’Azam,” said Sidi Khan. He pointed to the battlefield that was becoming more visible as a breeze cleared away the gun smoke and dust. “Our losses are great, the walls of Red Fort still stand, and we no longer have Carvalho’s experienced gun crews.”
Aurangzeb’s jaws, already tight, grew tighter. He glared at the abandoned guns before him.
“We no longer have Carvalho, for that matter,” added Sidi. He gestured with his head toward a group of men some distance away who were tending to the wounded. “I think he will survive, God willing, but his wounds are enough to end his life as a soldier. He will lose the foot, for a certainty.”
Aurangzeb started to shift the glare onto Sidi, but managed to restrain himself. The Habshi leader was simply doing what any good subordinate would, giving his best advice to his commander. After a moment, the young Mughal prince exhaled.
He hadn’t even been aware that he’d been holding his breath. At the end, it turned into a soft sigh.
“Yes,” he said. “But where do we retreat to? Our men are too exhausted to build fieldworks—and I don’t trust my brother to keep the truce he agreed to.”
The truce was to hold for hours only, at Aurangzeb’s own insistence. Had that been another mistake?
“Gwalior,” said Sidi. It was more of a statement than a suggestion.
Impertinent, perhaps, but Aurangzeb didn’t bridle. Today, after his blunders, he had no right to resent advice.
“We can’t all fit into Gwalior,” Sidi continued, “but it will shelter us well enough. It’s a very strong fort, and—”
He pointed again at the battlefield. There were bodies everywhere. Some were moving, some even with vigor. But many were not.
“—Dara Shikoh has suffered losses of his own.”
It was a good suggestion, Aurangzeb decided. Gwalior was no more than a two-day march, or perhaps three. There was no chance of pursuit, he thought. His brother’s strongest forces had been those damned Sikhs, and they were mostly infantry.
That left—
“What about Shaista Khan? Can he intercept us?”
Sidi shifted his shoulders slightly. The gesture was a shrug, but not one of uncertainty. It was that of a man dropping a weight from his shoulders.
“He’s coming from the east and we’ll be going south. Not impossible, maybe, but…not likely.” The Habshi’s chuckle was dry—harsh and cynical. “He’s not moving quickly. At all. I believe he intends to keep his own army intact and untouched to further his agenda.”
Aurangzeb nodded. That made sense. Shaista Khan would be able to negotiate the best possible terms for himself if he had forces that were still strong and unbloodied. The bastard.
“We will do it,” he said. “To Gwalior.”
That left some unfinished business. “Bring Nur Jahan to me.”
Aurangzeb’s camp
Nur’s tent
“Whatever you wish done must be done now, Nur Jahan,” said Tara.
She did not give any explanation for the statement, but none was needed. Nur squinted toward the battlefield, wishing she had eyes that were thirty years younger. Her sixtieth birthday had been in May and everything at a distance was no longer very clear.
Then she turned her gaze toward Red Fort. That, at least, she could still make out well enough. The walls were imposing both in size and color. The striking red sandstone that Emperor Akbar the Great had used in its construction a few years before Nur’s birth shone wet with blood in places where it wasn’t shattered by cannonballs.
“There,” she said, nodding toward it. “We will go there.”
Tara turned in her saddle. “You are certain, Nur Jahan?”
“I have no choice. Lahore is too far away. If we try to reach Shaista Khan, we will be intercepted.”
That last wasn’t certain, but it was not a risk she was prepared to take. And judging by Tara’s head nod, she was in agreement.
Nur didn’t bother to explain the rest. Tara knew more than enough to understand the peril she was now in.
Perils, rather. There were at least two in Red Fort—Jahanara as well as Dara Shikoh. Both had reasons to want her dead. But she might be able to negotiate something with them. Whereas with Aurangzeb…
Now? After the disaster—which is what the battle was, even if the boy didn’t understand that yet because of his pride—which he was sure to blame at least in part on her faulty advice?
And it had been her failure, incorrectly assessing the information she’d obtained. Her own pride resisted the admission, but her intelligence would have none of it. She had been fooled—badly fooled—by Dara Shikoh and Jahanara.
Mostly by Jahanara, she was sure. Only the most powerfully confident woman would be ruthless and brave enough to risk her very reputation for the sake of a daring military maneuver. It was a wonder she’d managed to persuade her brother to allow it.
Nur had no chance with Aurangzeb. Not now; probably not ever again. He would surely have her executed.
“Get me to Red Fort,” she commanded.
Red Fort
Pavilion of the Healers
Jahanara had not stayed to watch Priscilla clean and sew up John’s wounds. By now, the pavilion was spilling over with wounded men. There were no benches or cots left. The newcomers had to be placed on the floor—and then on the ground in the gardens outside. She found herself doing what Priscilla called “triage,” knowing full well she didn’t have the medical training or knowledge to do more than make rough estimates of what a man’s
