Tent of Methwold and De Jesus, Aurangzeb’s camp
“I can’t believe I let you silence me,” De Jesus groused as Methwold’s slave cleared the remains of their meal. “My orders were to get him to agree to allow us a permanent presence here, and he has yet to even tell us when he will be in a position to make good on his numerous pledges.”
William, already impatient with his companion’s recent behavior, knew De Jesus’ concerned mention of “us” actually meant the Catholic Church and its interests, but let that fact sit without comment in favor of a more important point: “Press for that now and you’ll see our collective cause ruined. His plans are in motion, and our position more delicate than I think you appreciate.”
“Oh, I know exactly how ‘delicate’ our position is. He has given us only the vaguest assurances that we will be given what he promised, and then only when pressed! And I now know the viceroy has informed the archbishop that as we move farther and farther from Goa, he has—at great expense, mind you—had to arrange shipment of the supplies first by sea from Goa to Bombay before they are transported inland for the use of these ungrateful heretics.”
That was always the plan, you fool.
“As you know, Father, the viceroy’s plan has inherent financial risks.”
“Oh, I know. What I do not know is how I will write the archbishop and viceroy with yet another rendition of Aurangzeb’s vague and infrequent assurances that he will make good on his pledges. Still more reporting of such ‘delicate’ positions will eventually result in orders that we abandon Aurangzeb and approach Shah Shuja directly and without hesitation.”
Methwold didn’t bother to hide a wince. “Should they direct us to such action, I would think it solely the result of how little they appreciate the peril such a move would place their agents—that’s you and me, Father—in. Aurangzeb is powerful, and very…effective in his politics. He would take umbrage, certainly, and that would result in our deaths and the death of our chances for success. No, we have the tiger by the tail, and must hold on or be rent and torn by the very power we wish to place in harness.”
“All such earthly power pales before the will of God,” De Jesus asserted, again testing William’s patience.
“That’s as may be, Father.” Methwold had found the use of the honorific could placate the priest somewhat, and felt the need to do so now. “But we mortals can only work with what circumstances God places before us. I, for one, do believe Aurangzeb’s assurances that he moves to attain those heights from which he can reward our support.”
“Why believe him over the evidence of your own eyes?” De Jesus asked, an angry flush darkening his cheeks.
“That we cannot see those moves speaks to his skill at intrigue, not inactivity.”
“But you must admit that such skill could just as easily be used to dupe us into continuing our support even as he pursues some goal other than the ends he proclaims to us.”
“That I cannot argue, but consider: Why does Shuja rebuff our every attempt to approach him directly?”
De Jesus twitched his shoulders as if he thought little of such a question.
Methwold waited, having discovered quite early in their association that while the younger man was often impetuous, De Jesus was too intellectually honest to completely ignore any approach or line of questioning simply because he was angry. All that was required was time and patience, and the young priest would eventually apply his intellect.
“I believe that he,” De Jesus said after an uncomfortable few moments, anger making a growl of it, “like Aurangzeb himself, does not want to be seen publicly placing himself in debt to foreigners.”
“That is my belief as well…though I’ve come to believe that was not the entirety of his reason…” Methwold let the thought hang, marshaling his thoughts and giving De Jesus’ anger more time to cool.
“I presume you have some new thoughts on the matter?” De Jesus asked, calm at last.
“I do.” He sat forward on the cushions. “I grow certain that if we attempt to transfer our arrangement to Shuja, we will alienate both brothers, with results detrimental to our desires and ends.”
“While I know it’s a risk, I’m afraid you’ll have to convince me how staying with Aurangzeb improves our position.”
“The young prince is more astute than I gave him credit for when we first decided on this course—”
The priest smiled faintly, interrupting, “Did you mean to present me with further argument supporting Shuja over Aurangzeb?”
Methwold grinned. “No, I recognize that a powerful and wily emperor will prove more difficult to manage in the long term, but any pretender must first win the throne. And really—the Company’s interests here are purely mercantile, whatever the up-timers say about our future…conquests.”
That the Company had come to rule India had seemed absurd to Methwold when he’d first learned of it, but far less so since Shah Jahan had acted upon the merest possibility by first revoking their firman and then attempting the murder of the Company’s representatives even as they fled for Surat. He’d lost a lot of good men in that debacle, including those of the natives he’d relied on most for their insider’s views on the political situation at court.
Shaking free of memories of some of the darkest, most fearful experiences of a life of varied adventure and travel, Methwold resumed: “So I do not see a need to ‘manage’ whatever man sits the throne so long as we gain the concessions agreed to in exchange for our services.”
De Jesus thought a moment before speaking his mind. “I am not certain the archbishop or viceroy would fully agree with you, but even if they were to do so, you still have not explained why you think it such
