The audacity of using the ferenghi to carry such a thinly concealed message made the hand holding her qalam tremble with fear.
Aurangzeb wants me to inform for him. The thought rattled, reverberating through her mind, an echo of a bull elephant’s trumpeted threat.
She took a deep, steadying breath and set the now thoroughly cleaned qalam down again, proud that it did not clatter against the cradle this time.
Briefly, she thought of telling Jahanara of the message, but then she’d already destroyed the poem and…sudden tears born of frustration and fear formed in the corners of her eyes.
No. Dara and Jahanara would never let me alone if I told them I’d been contacted by Aurangzeb. And certainly not if I revealed that I’d destroyed the message before reporting it.
But did that mean she must be Aurangzeb’s creature? That she must spy for him in Dara’s court? She had always liked him best of her siblings. He, at least, was steadfast in his manner with everyone, where Dara was always alighting on some new subject, some new way of seeing the world, and never seemed interested in the world as it was. Shuja—Shuja was the most predictable, but he’d also always been crass and wild, not given to speaking to his sisters regarding anything of importance or even mutual interest.
And then there was Jahanara, who so resembled Mother in her manner and behavior that when Jahanara grew upset with some minor infraction of hers, Roshanara always felt Mother’s stare issuing from her sister’s eyes.
And then there was Father’s death and Jahanara’s knowledge of her role in it…
Shame made Roshanara’s cheeks heat, and tears spilled free from her eyes. She sniffed, hands twisting expensive silks between her fingers, staining them black with errant ink from the qalam.
The dam she’d erected against the pain and guilt of the last few months shattered. With sudden, breathtaking speed, her heart flooded and her thoughts drowned in emotions she’d kept at bay for too long.
Unsure whether she was crying for Father, for the state of her own soul, or for some sin she had yet to commit, Roshanara could only let the tears flow.
She collapsed forward, sobbing uncontrollably.
It was nearly an hour before she could be convinced to lie down, and another hour before she would drink the calming elixir pressed upon her at Jahanara’s direction.
At last, she drifted on a sea of unconcern, and eventually, into a deep, drug-induced sleep, plagued by dreams of being pulled one way and the next…
Part Four
May, 1636
As smoke blots the white fire
—The Rig Veda
Chapter 15
The Deccan Plateau
Aurangzeb’s column on the march
“Shah Shuja has not seen fit to meet with us,” Father De Jesus said, angry voice loud enough to carry through the noise of the column to reach Aurangzeb’s ears.
The prince briefly considered ignoring the priest but decided it would prove counterproductive. He’d already been avoiding the ferenghis for some time, hoping they would press their claims on Shah Shuja. Unfortunately, Shuja—or, more likely, his advisors—had immediately seen what rode toward them, proven wise, and studiously avoided interfering with any and all of Aurangzeb’s obligations to the Europeans.
Then again, the Portuguese priest must be kept content, and if he did not wish to field their questions in open court, where even the questions asked might raise suspicions among the brighter of those serving Shuja, then Aurangzeb needed to quietly bring this particular dog to heel as soon as possible.
“Bring them to me, then make certain none can hear us,” Aurangzeb murmured.
“Yes, Shehzada!” the captain of his nökör said, ordering the other riders to chivvy the scribes, messengers, courtiers, and other hangers-on into a loose circle just out of earshot. The captain then went to collect the Europeans and bring them to ride alongside the prince.
“Shehzada Aurangzeb, you are kind to see us on such short notice,” a red-faced Methwold said, after they’d all made their obeisance from the saddle. It was hard to tell if it was the heat of the day or some embarrassment that held the man’s color so high in his cheeks, as his fluent and courtly Persian left no hint of embarrassment.
“It is you men who have been most kind to me, President Methwold.”
A moment passed in relative silence as the ferenghi digested the platitudes sent their way. Relative, because even at the head of the army, the noise of thousands of men and horses riding to his will was an ever-present rumble, not unlike the thunder of an angered heaven.
Methwold seemed to take the platitudes and silence for the warning Aurangzeb meant them to be.
Father De Jesus did not: “We have only acted as we were instructed by the viceroy, Shehzada. Under the agreed-upon terms.”
“Whatever do you mean to imply, De Jesus?”
Aurangzeb’s cool tone and lack of honorific penetrated the priest’s armor of self-righteousness. He swallowed audibly and glanced at Methwold for support. When none was forthcoming he said carefully, “I imply nothing untoward, Shehzada Aurangzeb. I ask the question as we have wondered when you will be in a position to return the favors the viceroy, the Company, and the Church have provided your cause these last weeks.”
Aurangzeb, patience strained, curbed the desire to lash out at the impertinent foreigner. De Jesus, annoying though he was, had the ear of those in power in Portuguese Estado, making him someone who should not be offended, with or without cause.
Aurangzeb would not reveal plans to Europeans that he couldn’t reveal even to his most trusted subordinates. So, instead, pretending a greater calm than he actually felt, Aurangzeb patted his horse’s neck and asked a question he already knew the answer to. “How long have you been in
