Even as he offered the captains his assurances, Aurangzeb wondered, not for the first time, if he was not falling into some trap laid for him by the Adversary.
It would have helped to have someone to speak to candidly regarding his concerns. Other than God, of course, He was consulted at every opportunity. No, just someone to listen and offer commentary would be helpful.
Much to his surprise, he felt her absence was a detriment to his decision-making. Nur would have offered her opinions, but she had taken ill the night before last. Unsolicited as those opinions might be, Nur Jahan was the only person in the world with both the political acumen and sufficient awareness of his plans to comment with clarity on the repercussions of his decisions.
Suddenly irritated that he should have become reliant on anyone, let alone Nur, he turned his attention to the task at hand and rattled off the next day’s order of march.
The Red Tent
“Greetings, Sultan Al’Azam,” Methwold said, rising from his bow. He could hear De Jesus’ robes rustle as he climbed to his feet as well. Methwold hoped the priest would control himself at this, the first formal audience they’d had with Aurangzeb since he’d declared himself emperor of the Mughals.
“You requested an audience?” the emperor asked, entirely without preamble.
The gathered umara stirred, interest piqued. Supplicants were rarely admitted without the emperor knowing precisely what they wanted from him.
Feeling De Jesus tense behind him, Methwold quickly spoke: “Indeed, Sultan Al’Azam, we only wished to congratulate you on your victories. Surely the speed with which you have accomplished them is testament to the favor God shows you.”
Again he felt De Jesus stir, and again Methwold prayed silently—and without much hope—for the priest to keep silent. De Jesus had complained bitterly and at length that Methwold was not being assertive enough with their claims on the emperor before, and now that Aurangzeb had taken Gwalior and its vast food stores, the emperor was far less reliant on the Europeans for their maintenance. It had taken every bit of Methwold’s diplomatic skill and experience to talk the priest into allowing Methwold to take the lead in the audience.
“While I appreciate the sentiment, it is premature to offer such congratulations.” The emperor’s expression remained impassive as he spoke, though his gaze did slide from Methwold to the priest and back again.
“We pray God your victories will be repeated until your final triumph, Sultan Al’Azam.”
Again De Jesus stirred.
Damn the man’s religious intolerance.
The emperor had not missed the movement. “Your priest does not seem as certain of God’s will as you are.”
“I am not his—” De Jesus blurted.
Methwold spoke over his companion. “As you know, Sultan Al’Azam, Father De Jesus and I are not of the same church.”
An expressionless nod of the young man’s head. “I did know that, though it seems Father De Jesus wishes to speak for himself.”
“As he says, President Methwold is…” De Jesus paused, “…not a member of the Mother Church. I will not vouch for the efficacy of his prayers for your cause…Sultan Al’Azam.”
Bloody hell!
Methwold thought he saw a hint of a smile playing at the edges of Aurangzeb’s mouth. Though what, exactly, he found humorous in the priest’s statement was beyond the merchant.
“What, then, brings you before me?”
“Sul—”
Aurangzeb’s raised hand stopped Methwold. “I would hear it from Father De Jesus.”
William Methwold closed his eyes and began a silent prayer.
“As President Methwold states, we are here to congratulate you”—Methwold dared hope, opening his eyes—“and to see you make good on the promises made to our patrons in exchange for their assistance!” De Jesus finished in a rush, too loudly to be ignored.
Methwold stifled a fearful groan.
Aurangzeb’s slow blink was disconcerting. “Have you not received our words on this matter?”
“We have—”
“Certainly, we have, and we are gr—” Methwold tried to interrupt, but Aurangzeb again raised his hand. “Do continue, Father,” he said, dropping the hand.
Oblivious to the trap he was setting foot into, De Jesus went on. “But that is all we have received, Sultan Al’Azam.”
His courtiers began to mutter angrily, but Methwold was made far more nervous by Aurangzeb’s seeming calm. By comparison, Shah Jahan had been an easy read. His son was cut from a different cloth altogether.
“And what would you have of me now, priest?”
De Jesus wasn’t stupid. He caught the change in the emperor’s address. He was, however, young and far more of a hothead than his superiors had thought.
“Simply that you grant the firmans promised in exchange for our support…As well as provide for the protection of priests traveling in your lands.”
“All are—or will be—protected on the emperor’s roads, so I do not see why it is you see fit to make a point of it.”
Methwold opened his mouth to reply but stopped when Aurangzeb sent a sharp look his way.
“Of that I have no doubt, but—”
“You forget yourself, priest. I have yet to win this war.” The emperor’s delivery was mild, but only a fool could mistake the words that followed the interruption for anything other than a threat and a promise: “When I do, all who have been steadfast and true to their salt will see themselves rewarded and raised up in station and regard.”
“And when will you declare your victories sufficient to deliver what was promised?” De Jesus spat, proving he was a bloody idiot. “When you’ve conquered all of Hindustan?”
Methwold
