“I’m sure all the cash Dara is throwing his way doesn’t hurt.”
Bertram laughed aloud. “There is that, my friend. He does pay well.”
“Sure does. You see the robe Talawat was wearing? All those gemstones?”
Bertram nodded, still chuckling, and added, “And the stone stuck in his turban would choke a horse.”
Hell, my own wardrobe is starting to look a lot more Liberace than The Man in Black.
The pair of men, far from home but still with loved ones near at hand, laughed long and hard.
Part Six
July, 1636
Joys of the sense, delights of eye and ear
—The Rig Veda
Chapter 28
Asirgarh
Red Tent
“It is done, then?” Aurangzeb asked. He had only just come from morning prayers and, as ever, was feeling refreshed, reinvigorated, and ready for the day. He had decided, on Nur’s sound advice, to make a habit of granting private audiences—on short notice—to his diwans and others whose characters he wished to directly assess. And with the need to placate and fully seduce his brother’s supporters to his cause, Aurangzeb thought carving out the time necessary to do so was time very well spent.
“It is, Sultan Al’Azam,” Ghulam Khan answered.
“That was quick work.” That the tall, darkly handsome and freshly appointed diwan of the Imperial Mint did not have an actual physical mint to direct did not signify. All things happened at the place and time mandated by God, and God would provide. In the meantime, Aurangzeb had promoted Ghulam, one of Shuja’s many erstwhile supporters, to the post. The move had been carefully considered, as Ghulam was well connected with other umara, but not so well connected he must be given a field command. Thus, he’d been raised to the nearly empty office yet given the prestigious task of creating the silver rupees that would mark the regnal year of Alamgir Aurangzeb according to his specifications.
Aurangzeb seated himself and waved permission for Ghulam to do the same.
“Your kharkhanas had several worthy silver smiths and engravers ready and eager to practice their craft on your behalf, Sultan Al’Azam,” Ghulam Khan said as he sat at the proper distance and artfully arranged the gem-encrusted robes Aurangzeb had awarded him upon promotion to the post. That done, he removed a slim sandalwood box from one sleeve.
“They were able to read my calligraphy, then?” Aurangzeb asked, gesturing his body slave to retrieve the box.
“Of course they were, Sultan Al’Azam. Your skill with the qulam was recognized by all the court.” Ghulam smiled at Aurangzeb as the slave returned to his master with the small box held before him.
Do not think I fail to see how that smile does not reach your eyes. Upstart. Fakir.
The experienced courtier must have read something in the emperor’s eyes, because he quickly bowed his head low. “I have said something to displease you, Sultan Al’Azam?”
“It is nothing,” Aurangzeb dissembled. “Only that I must be cautious of letting such flattery incite unseemly pride.” His slave knelt to one side and slid the small box open in front of his master, revealing its contents. Aurangzeb ignored it, staring at Ghulam Khan.
“I beg forgiveness, Sultan Al’Azam. I merely intended to make you aware of the esteem not only I, but many other members of your court, hold you in. Not just for your piety, which everyone recognizes as a fine example, but for the small things…”
“The small things?” Aurangzeb asked.
“Indeed, Sultan Al’Azam,” Ghulam said, bowing again. He waited, head bowed.
Aurangzeb could not decide if the humble pose was genuine, decided it did not matter. “Say on,” he commanded.
“My father, before fleeing that country under the present sultan, was one of the many courtiers who served the court of Shah Abbas, Sultan of Persia. There, he claimed to learn that one could judge a sultan’s character far better from the small works they produced than the great ones.”
“How so?” Aurangzeb was intrigued. He had not planned on giving much more of his valuable time to this interview, but found his interest snared by the man’s smooth manners and articulate speech, even in the face of displeasure from his emperor.
“The small works, the ones from a ruler’s own hands, from his own pen, those are examples of what matters to the man seated on the throne, while the large works, the ones visible to all, and commanded into being by them, tend to represent the concerns of the monarchy, not the man. So, when I see the fine calligraphy laid down by your pen”—he gestured at the open box between them—“and the thoughtful selection of the sura you choose to place upon your regnal coins, I believe I see something of the man the Sultan Al’Azam is.”
“And if a ruler should avoid creating things by his own hand?”
A smile. “Then he may avoid such assessment…and possibly, any feeling of fulfillment in life.”
“And what does my calligraphy show you is in me, then?”
“A man of many parts.”
Aurangzeb sniffed. “Hardly an answer.”
“Forgive me, Sultan Al’Azam. The tongue is slow to articulate the thoughts of the mind.”
Aurangzeb, disinclined to play the man’s game any longer, said, “Then perhaps you should simply say what is on your mind.”
“As you command, Sultan Al’Azam, so shall it be. I believe you to be quiet, alert, serene, and thoughtful as you prepare…something like a lion waiting for the proper moment to strike, or perhaps a falcon on the verge of stooping…”
“And what did you compare my brother to when you served him?” Aurangzeb said, staring at him with the blank expression he’d cultivated.
“Shah Shuja has ever been inclined to indolent pleasure. You do not give in to such pleasures of the
