“Do you think Shuja dead, then?” De Jesus asked, the quiet question jolting Methwold from pleasant daydreams of lovely women of experience in perfumed gardens exhibiting a healthy interest in him.
The bloody papist probably never thinks of women as anything but the whores, mothers, and saints contained in scripture.
“No, though he might as well be, as his every breath is at his brother’s whim now,” he said aloud. He shrugged. “Still, it does seem a great risk, keeping him alive.”
“The infidels keep some honor,” De Jesus allowed.
“Indeed,” Methwold said.
“Do you know how this was accomplished?” the priest asked, his wave taking in the fort and the gathering going on before it.
“Not the particulars of the deal, no. I do know that as soon as he seized power, Aurangzeb ordered a cease-fire and began negotiations.”
“Was one of their holy men sent to handle the negotiations?”
“No.” He considered stopping there, but decided the priest might learn something if he told all. “I am told it was Nur Jahan. I gather she is some relation or other to the commander of the fort. An aunt or some such.”
“They do seem to place great store in family ties. And even these barbarians recognize that women are to be protected…Now, just who is that?” the priest asked, standing in the stirrups and shading his eyes.
“Who?” Methwold asked, unable to make out any details. De Jesus’ eyes were much better than Methwold’s, especially at a distance.
“Someone is being handed over to the garrison commander, but I didn’t think we had any prisoners to exchange, did you?”
“No…What does he look like?”
“Richly dressed. Young. Perhaps twenty? Looks a lot like Aurang—Christ preserve us!” the priest cried out in astonishment.
“What!?” Methwold said, unable to bring the distant details into focus.
“They are handing Shuja over to the garrison commander,” De Jesus said.
Methwold could see for himself that a small group had detached from the main body and was walking toward the gate of the fortress. “Loyal men following the deposed emperor into his ex—no, not exile, but prison?”
“Not warriors, surely,” De Jesus said.
“Not likely, but certainly his body slaves and those servants judged too little a threat and too loyal to be trusted anywhere else.”
“But, to hand over a very real threat to your rule over to a man who, until just hours ago, was your enemy? It exceeds imagination!”
“The Holy Bible urges good Christians to turn the other cheek, does it not?” Methwold said, unable to resist taking a poke at the priest’s pious maunderings.
Realizing he might have undone any good work training the man to patience, Methwold tried not to laugh at the look De Jesus cast his way. A lifetime’s experience of trade negotiations stood him in good stead, allowing him to keep some semblance of serenity plastered on his face.
“As an infidel, he is doomed already. That he asks the lion to lie down with lambs under the false banner of his religion only makes it more certain he will end in the flames of hell…”
How did this man ever survive among the heathens? Because, if ever there existed a man unable to see the forest for the trees, it’s Father Cristovao De Jesus.
Chapter 29
Agra
Diwan-i-Khas
Salim released a slow, silent breath as the last of the petitioners filed from the hall of public audience. The day had been challenging, with rumors that Shuja’s army had declared for Aurangzeb confirmed while the Sultan Al’Azam had more than an hour of overseeing the daily durbar to get through.
The court had early warning of the news, of course, but only by an evening. Aurangzeb’s army was a mere two weeks’ travel away, and that at a comfortable pace. Salim did not begrudge the rumormongers or the news writers who had sold the information in the meantime. Such information was of great value, and there were many willing to pay a premium for it. But, to make matters worse, while Dara sat the Peacock Throne before the wide court, additional reports arrived concerning the pretenders. Those reports, announced before the full court, indicated Aurangzeb had taken possession of his brother’s army, suspended active siege operations of Asirgarh, and then sent Nur Jahan to begin negotiations with Rathore Singh.
That the messenger bearing that information had brought the news before all the court rather than wait for the end of the public audience had been either a boldly calculated move purchased by Aurangzeb’s supporters in Agra or the stupidity of an imperial messenger wagering that his post rendered his person inviolate even against an emperor’s wrath.
Salim tried not to sigh again. He’d been half tempted to send Iqtadar or another of his cousins to catch the messenger and beat some sense into him.
From the icy anger in Jahanara’s voice the few times she’d contributed to the proceedings, she might have already ordered something to that effect.
And Dara had not taken the news at all well, mumbling through the final proclamations in a rush to get away from the scrutiny of both needy petitioners and tense public. He’d barely allowed the master of protocol to announce the end of the durbar before departing the throne for the harem precincts.
Taking full advantage of a moment of semi-solitude himself, Salim leaned back and closed his eyes, silently reciting a swift prayer to God that all would be well with Dara. As he prayed, one of Dara’s champion elephants trumpeted from the ground between the river and the fortress. Jahanara had scheduled elephant combats for Dara’s enjoyment this afternoon. Indeed, Salim imagined the balcony overlooking the fighting ground was where Dara’s inner circle would be found. Knowing he’d delayed for too long already, Salim repeated a final prayer and opened his eyes.
He found the harem diwan, Firoz Khan, approaching on slippered feet. The eunuch’s robe was fine, alternating
