“You would, Padishah Begum?” Dara asked, smiling.
Startled, Jahanara nearly dropped the grapes she’d just retrieved from the tray between them. Dara had never before called her by that great title, one usually reserved for princesses and dowager queens. It was one thing to have lesser men call her such, but to have the emperor declare it so, even in the privacy of the harem, was another thing entirely. He did her great honor.
“Yes,” she said, setting aside the sudden urge to tell him everything. But some things must remain secret, even from him. Especially from him.
Far too many ears listened to every conversation Dara had to risk telling him, even here.
He gestured for her to continue, popping a pair of grapes into his mouth with a hand bearing nearly as many rings as Father, a notorious lover of such jewelry, had been given to wearing.
“Your armies grow by the day, Sultan Al’Azam, and I would see their power preserved…” She trailed off, uncertain how to continue.
He chewed, swallowed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, sister?”
“I had a thought—”
“Surely an event to cause the world to tremble!”
She gave him a hard stare. When that didn’t quell his laughter, she plucked a grape from the bunch and threatened to throw it at him.
Dara raised both hands in defense of his person. “Stop threatening me with such a deadly weapon, or I shall call my bodyguard!”
“It is good to see that your sense of humor, such as it is, has returned, brother.”
Dara lowered his hands. Still smiling, he gestured for her to continue. “A small joke, sister. Do go on.”
“I was watching Rodney and Priscilla work…” Again she let the thread of conversation lapse, unsure what to say, or how to say it.
He nodded encouragingly. “Rodney Totman is like a magician in his skills at medicine.”
Deciding on a course, she said, “And, by his own admission, his wife’s needlework is even better. I would remind you that both of them oversaw the initial treatment of both Salim and Atisheh for their injuries.”
He looked at the guard post leading from the garden to the harem, where Atisheh stood with the other guards, and said, “I need no reminders, sister. In addition to her healing of our wounds”—he touched the scar just out of view under his turban—“as well as those of our men, I well recall Nadira’s praise for the skills Priscilla Totman showed during the delivery of our son.” He took his time pronouncing the up-timer’s name, clearly enjoying the way the odd-sounding name sounded.
Jahanara, moved by his suddenly serious tone, nodded and pressed on. “It was my thought that your army could be well served by them.”
His brow furrowed. “What service can they do the army they do not already do me? They only have so many hands…”
“Exactly so, Sultan Al’Azam. Having only four hands, they can only do so much. I would ask them, instead, to use their minds and tongues to train others. Men and women who wish to learn the science and art of healing. Monique tells me such people, called ‘medics,’ march now with the army of the USE. I think your army needs such.”
“Women, serving with the army?” he asked, frowning.
She waggled her head, sensing he was on the verge of denying her. “Not with the army, but here, in your capital, and in your camp, and not to treat the men. With your permission and blessing, I wish to establish a hospital where women will care for women.”
And if they should be available in an emergency, and treat injured fighting men, I hardly think anyone will complain of it.
“An interesting idea. Have you asked the up-timers if they will do such a thing?”
“No, Sultan Al’Azam. I would not presume.”
“Would not presume?” he repeated dryly, unscarred brow rising.
She held her tongue, unsure what he meant to imply. She searched his face but could not discover his meaning. He looked thoughtful, only.
At length Dara tapped golden rings against the heavy golden tray of fruit. “I think it a good plan. There are many among our people who cannot fight for reasons of their faith, and yet would serve. If Rodney agrees to it, I will make him an umara, and his zat will be commensurate with his contributions to our health and that of my army.”
“And his wife, Sultan Al’Azam?”
He waved her concerns away. “She will rise with her husband.”
She bowed her head. “As you say, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“You think she deserves more?”
“I do, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“Then you can give it to her. I grant you leave to establish your hospital here in Agra, or wherever the Red Tent goes. You may name whomever you please to its administration.”
“Forgive me, but I believe that in order to overcome the most recalcitrant of the physicians I shall be interviewing for posts, I must ask for more. If I am to ensure Priscilla is taken as seriously as her husband…”
“What then?” he asked, somewhat sharply.
“Assign her a mansab, Sultan Al’Azam. Make her an umara.”
“An umara?”
“Yes, Sultan Al’Azam,” she said, forging onward.
He almost scoffed, but read the deadly seriousness of her expression, and quite likely thinking he would hear no end of it once his wife learned he’d had a falling out with her, Dara moderated his tone and gestured for her to continue.
“No rank of sowar, naturally. But of zat—”
“Naturally?” he asked, shaking his head.
“But of zat,” she continued doggedly, “you can grant her rank just below that of her husband.”
“Sister, you ask a great deal. My brothers already speak of how I plan to overthrow all that is decent in my wanton efforts to offend all religions and upend the order of the universe.”
“And yet it is a small thing for an emperor to order his house as he pleases. We women, your relations, have always had our own rank, our own mansabs.”
“That is different.”
“Only in that she is not a blood relation. The precedent still stands.”
“Not only is she not a relation, she hardly has your education,
