Chapter 27
The Red Tent
March 1635
John came to a halt before the emperor’s throne and bowed as he’d been taught.
Things seemed tense to him. He wished they could have had a moment with Salim before this, to try and get the lay of the land. His eyes flicked to the side, where their host was kneeling. At least he was here, and hasn’t been executed or something.
“Greetings, envoys of the Emperor of the United States of Europe,” Angelo translated.
“Greetings, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“You may have noted that we did not enter into battle against the Sikhs.”
“That we had observed and wondered at the reason, Sultan Al’Azam.”
Shah Jahan nodded, brightened considerably. “I do not know if you were made aware of it, but your wives were instrumental in delivering my grandson to me. My son’s wife is recovering safely, and in good spirits. I thank you for this boon, and will reward your women with their weight in silver or whatever they desire.”
Unsure he was hearing right, John looked at the translator, who nodded, then back at Shah Jahan. “Congratulations, Shah Jahan! Is this your first grandchild?”
A slightly sad smile. “Of my first wife, yes.”
Stupid, John, bringing up the man’s love.
The emperor went on after a moment’s sad reflection. “I thank you for your congratulations, but I have a favor to ask of you: Dara Shikoh, my eldest son, yet lives.”
So that was who had been in the palanquin!
“He was wounded in battle and taken prisoner by Hargobind Singh. He has been treated well,” the emperor gestured at Salim, “but I am informed that Dara has been slow to recover. Hargobind Singh will permit physicians into Ramdaspur to see to Dara’s recovery. I ask you: as a favor to me, would you apply your skills at medicine to speed his recovery?”
John shot a glance at Rodney, who did not look confident. Unsure what to say, John bowed again. “Sultan Al’Azam, we would not want to fill you with false hope, especially without having seen Dara’s condition. If you will permit, Mr. Totman may be able to further explain…”
The emperor waved permission.
From the set of his shoulders Rodney knew exactly how deep the waters were. He continued in the same cautious vein John had: “Sultan Al’Azam, as John says, we wouldn’t want to give you false hope, especially without having seen your son. Beyond which, my knowledge is most useful immediately after injury, and in keeping wounds clean and supporting the body’s ability to fight infection. From what you’re saying, it’s been a month and more since he was injured.”
Shah Jahan frowned; he spoke intently but in controlled fashion. Angelo translated: “I understand the qualifiers you have placed on your ability to assist and the fact that it’s possible that you may not be able to heal him. My questions still stands: Will you assist my son?”
Rodney bowed. “Forgive me, umm…Sultan Al’Azam. Of course I’ll do everything I can to help.”
The emperor nodded. “I will send my own physicians as well.”
Rodney opened his mouth but thought better of it.
Shah Jahan noticed. “What is it, Mr. Totman?”
“Forgive me, Sultan Al’Azam, but my wife is at least as good as I am. I think she could help a good deal more than…”
John fought not to cringe, knowing exactly what it was Rodney almost finished the sentence with: “your poor excuse for doctors,” or something similar.
Shah Jahan smiled, which showed either an astute appreciation of what had been left unsaid or a patronizing attitude toward the possible usefulness of women, John wasn’t sure which. “I appreciate the great differences in our cultures, but let us just say my daughter-in-law’s continuing good health outweighs the possible assistance your wife might lend you while treating my son.”
A little of both, then.
Rodney bowed. “The Sultan Al’Azam is wise.”
The emperor’s gaze shifted back to John. “I will not forget your help in delivering me my grandson, even should your attempts to save my son fail. I understand the difficult position I am putting you in. You must also understand that we are engaged in delicate negotiations with Hargobind Singh, and must therefore avoid antagonizing him. Please treat him with respect and honor, and answer any questions he has honestly.”
Ilsa and Priscilla must’ve really saved the day, for him to change his tune so thoroughly.
“I will, of course, provide anything you need to treat my son. Salim will also assist you as interpreter.” Salim glanced at the emperor, but otherwise didn’t seem surprised by this command.
Rodney either ignored the byplay or didn’t notice it. “Understood. When can I expect to see him?”
“I shall send you presently, if that is agreeable?”
“May I consult with John a moment, Sultan Al’Azam?”
“Of course.”
Rodney and John stepped back and put their heads together.
“You okay with going now?”
“No better time than the present, I suppose. I’ll need my bag from the tent, of course. Tell our minders I’d like to have dinner with Priscilla…Assuming I’ll be back in time to eat.”
“Will do. You sure about this, Rodney?”
Rodney shrugged. “Best to get it over with. It’s been a month or so. Hard to say if I’ll be able to help the guy at all. If it’s an infection, we might be good to go. Jesus, I hope it’s an infection.”
“We don’t have that many antibiotics.”
“I know, John. But I think if this guy needs them, we couldn’t ask for a better patient to get us an in with the emperor.”
John couldn’t argue with that.
“And really, it’s not too hard to manufacture some more. It was one of the things we’re planning on giving them anyway, remember?”
“Yeah.”
Rodney nodded toward the emperor. “I think we left him waiting long enough. The man’s aged a year since we first saw him.”
“All right, you want one of the boys with you?”
“No—wait. On second thought, I think Gervais might be helpful. I trust his instincts on the politics a lot more than my own. You notice how quickly he’s picking up the language?”
“Sure have.”
Sensing the impatience coming off the emperor—and impressed again with the man’s ability to fill a space with his personality—John turned back to Shah Jahan, who was tugging his beard. “Sultan Al’Azam, Rodney and Gervais will go and see what can be done to speed your son’s recovery.”
Shah Jahan released his beard. “Good. God willing, you will be successful.”
Ramdaspur
The man assigned to guide them—Gervais wasn’t yet sure whether he was a minor court functionary or something more—told them to wait. At least, he assumed it was the command. He hadn’t learned a single word of Punjabi yet. Hard enough to learn sufficient Persian to be of use in most situations and he hadn’t yet found the time to even attempt any of the myriad other languages spoken in these lands.
“Salim?”
“Yes, Gervais?”
“The emperor’s physicians have any luck?”
Salim punched his beard at the passage their guide had disappeared down. “They’re in there now.”
Deciding Salim was a bit intense for his mood, Gervais stepped around Rodney, who as much occupied the whole passage as stood in it, and over to the nearest archway.
“Nice digs for a hospital prison,” Rodney said.
“If by digs, you mean quarters, I’d have to agree.” By force of habit, Gervais mentally cataloged every valuable in sight. The gilt and jewels lining the ceiling of the halls and side chambers could have easily paid for a ship, perhaps two.
Rodney joined Gervais in the arch, looking about with that simple wonder and pleasure in things that had already struck Gervais as an odd characteristic of the up-timers: each knew so many practical, powerful, and world-shaking things, yet they were so often like country bumpkins; tickled to see a building taller than their home village’s windmill.
Their attendant returned. The emperor’s physicians were with him, muttering among themselves. They didn’t appear all that hopeful.
Rodney didn’t hear them and continued his observations: “This place is almost as gaudy as Red Fort.”
Salim sniffed. “If you are ready, Mr. Totman?”
Startled, Rodney flushed, “Sure. Sorry, Salim. Just a bit nervous, you know.”
Salim stopped and looked up at the larger man. “My apologies for being short. I am worried about Dara Shikoh. He did not look well, and I doubt the emperor’s physicians proved any better than the one Hargobind Singh provided. If I am right, you are the prince’s best hope for recovery.”
He must really be rattled. I don’t think he’s been this open about anything since the day we met, Gervais thought, retrieving Rodney’s medical kit and setting out after their guide.
The sickroom they entered at the end of the hall was large and, unlike most such sickrooms in a Europe, sun-lit and well ventilated.
A man stood on the far side of the bed. Gervais pegged him as a local physician from his soft hands, rich robes, and tense, watchful expression.
The prince was dozing, dressed in a fresh silk robe and sitting up among the pillows. The pillows and silks were likewise clean, and there was none of the smell of corruption Gervais associated with most sickrooms. There was, strangely, a hint of an odor of vinegar in the air…
He puzzled over it a moment, then realized: opium.
“Shehzada Dara Shikoh?” Salim said, holding up a hand to halt Gervais and Rodney.
“Uh?”
“Shehzada, I have brought one of the up-timers we spoke of. He will examine your wounds.”
“Oh.” Dara slowly nodded. “Hurts…” The responses were slow and slurred.
He’d smoked opium recently, and not a little.
Salim gestured for Rodney to join him, then eased the silken robe from Dara’s shoulders.
It required some work, but they managed to remove the bandages and Rodney spent some time in a thorough inspection of the prince’s injuries.
The belly wound was a shallow, lengthy cut just above where a man’s sword belt rode and, thankfully appeared well on its way to healing.
Both wounds were well-sewn, but the one extending from the back of the pectoral into the armpit was mottled in shades of pink, white and red that Gervais didn’t associate with healthy flesh.
“Mr. Totman, can I get a better look?”
Rodney looked at him a moment, shrugged, and moved aside.
Gervais bent close and examined the problematic wound: a sharp sword had cut from a spot about a handspan above the nipple, through the pectoral and tendons back to the mid-point of the armpit, getting shallower as it went.
“May I, Shehzada?” he asked, raising his hands above the wound.
“Yes, you may.”
Gervais gently touched the skin around the prince’s wound. The sutured flesh at the pectoral end of the cut felt hotter than the flesh around the rest of the wound, a bad sign. He probed a little less gently, had a mild twitch of discomfort from the patient despite the opium haze, and removed his hands.
Still, it was quite an impressive display of surgery.
“Did you reconnect the tendons?” he asked.
“I did,” the physician replied, Salim translating. “The wound was a clean one, and the flesh vital.”
“What manner of material was used for the sutures?”
The answer was quick: “Sheep’s intestine for the internal and silk for the external. He had lost quite a bit of blood, but recovered from that quickly, as the young are wont to do.”
“Has it been weeping?” Rodney asked.
“Yes, but not strongly for a wound of that size.”
“How long has it looked like this?”
“Two days ago, it weeped a bit more before, then stopped. The discoloration started yesterday. Dara Shikoh was in better form then, though he complained much of pain and has had a slight fever for as long as he’s been in my care. Now the fever has grown more intense.”
Gervais nodded, waved at the prince: “Is all of this your handiwork?”
The physician’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“Excellent work,” Gervais said, meaning it. European physicians would never stoop to such menial labor, leaving it to barber-surgeons and similarly disreputable types.
The man bowed but offered no sign whether the recognition pleased or angered him. He was not a man Gervais would care to wager against, not with that stone face.
Salim looked at Rodney, a gambler’s desperate hope in his eyes. “So he’ll recover?”
Gervais glanced at Rodney, who was still looking at Dara’s wound, spoke for him: “That remains to be seen. Rodney and I need to talk for a moment now we’ve seen Dara Shikoh.”
“Of course.”
Rodney and Gervais stepped aside and put their heads together.
“What do you think, Rodney? It looks like they did a clean job of sewing him up.”
“They did, it’s just not enough. That shoulder is infected. Back up-time, they’d have put in a drain to prevent the injury forming a walled abscess. Between the drain and a course of antibiotics, they could be reasonably sure of recovery.”
“So…?”
The big man shrugged. “We lucked out, that infection was slow to start and must be walled, preventing it from spreading too far, otherwise he’d be in a lot more pain and probably be beyond saving without a complete operating room and injectable antibiotics, the kind we just don’t have.
“I suspect something got in along one of the sutures if it’s not one of the sutures themselves. If it was closer to the surface I’d just lance it, pack it, and give him some oral antibiotics—but I think we need to cut him again to debride and drain whatever’s causing it. I hate to go in if we don’t have to, and there’s always the chance it’s fungal, in which case nothing we do will help.”
“But can you get in and clean the wound?” Gervais asked, cutting off the other man’s rambling.
Rodney’s lips twisted. “I’m not sure…I hardly trained to cut somebody, and then it was mostly bypassing a closed airway.” He held up one massive hand. “My hands are damn big for this kind of work. That’s why I wanted Pris here, she’s really good with a scalpel, not to mention the fact that my sutures look like football laces.”
Deciding to leave the definition of that last for later, Gervais focused on answering the younger man’s unspoken question. “Yes, I am sure that’s so, but the emperor was quite clear: we aren’t getting your wife in here.”
“I know, I know, I just doubt I’ll do a good job of it…”
“I see.” Gervais sighed. “Well, I’ve wielded the surgeon’s knife before. I suppose I can do it again.”
Rodney looked at him, eyes wide. “You have? I thought you were…I mean…you know…” He lowered his voice, glancing from side to side so surreptitiously it was comical, “a con man?”
“Only when all other avenues were closed to me. I was once a student training to be a physician. That’s what Don Francisco was talking about back in Hamburg.”
“Oh. All right, then.” Rodney’s initial relieved expression suddenly disappeared. “Wait a second! I thought down-time physicians didn’t go in for surgery before we came on the scene.”
Gervais felt a bitter smile creep across his lips. “They didn’t. I was kicked out of school for exploring the mysteries of the body using De Humani Corporis Fabrica and other texts the administration felt an ‘inappropriate representation of our storied institution.’ My explorations were discovered and my work put to an untimely end.”
How that memory still burns, even after all these years.
“Exploring?”
Gervais cocked his head, shrugged. “I had a cadaver I was dissecting.”
Rodney’s eyes shot wide. “No. Really?”
“To use one of John’s favorite expressions: No shit.” He took a deep breath. “So, now that you know more of my…unconventional past than I’m comfortable having anyone really know, can we get back to the matter at hand?”
“Right. Think you’re steady enough on the knife to get in cleanly?”
“Using the steel these people make, certainly.” He gestured at the Sikh. “I think we’ll use that physician to sew him back up when we’re done, though. I’ve rarely seen such skill with needle and gut.”
“This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.”
“From the smell, he’s smoked quite a bit of opium.”
“Is that what that smell is?”
Gervais nodded.
“I wondered when he didn’t react all that strongly when we were probing the wound.”
“Right. Shall we?”
A deep sigh rumbled through the man’s vast chest. “Let’s get to it, then.”
Gervais gestured at the local. “First I want to go over some vocabulary with our friend. Wouldn’t do to have him misunderstand something at an critical moment.”
Rodney nodded. “Or wipe his nose halfway through.”
Gervais chuckled. “Indeed.”
“Which reminds me: we need pure alcohol and sterile water, lots of it.”
It was time to put on a brave face and convince these people they knew what they were doing. So he put on his best big-con smile, turned, and clapped hands together. “Right, Salim, could you please help the prince’s good physician and us to develop a shared vocabulary? Words like: here, there, stop, tighter, that sort of thing? Oh, and we also need alcohol as pure as we can get…and a significant quantity of boiled water. Boiled in copper kettles, still in the copper, mind you.”
“Of course.”
Aurangzeb’s Tent
“I am denied.”
“For the moment, Shehzada. Just for the moment. Your father cannot deny your ultimate fate and glory.”
“And you know this how?”
“My astrologers, your character, and…” Nur held up a set of papers, “the contents of one of Amir Yilmaz’s books from the future.”
“And just how did you obtain that?”
“As I informed you when you first approached me, I have my sources.”
Impassive, Aurangzeb picked up the paper. “It is even in Persian, but what is this word in Latin letters?”
“Encyclopedia. I am told that they are collections from the future consisting of short treatises on periods of history, scientific advancements, and the biographies of persons of note.”
Aurangzeb quickly read the few pages of script, then reread them.
Nur Jahan watched him closely, belly tight with anticipation.
At length the prince put the paper aside and regarded her with a steady gaze. “And just how reliable is this information?”
She admired his calm. The information was explosive, especially for him. “The translation is as close to the original as possible. There are some issues of vernacular, of course, but I am assured and confident in that assurance.”
“And just who—”
She held up a hand to forestall the question. “I’m afraid I cannot say.”
“No, you choose not to.”
She smiled and waggled her head: “Choice, or the lack of it, are two sides of the same coin in this. Were I to tell you, my utility to serve your cause would be diminished.”
“Oh?”
“Should my agent learn I had informed others of their character and placement, they would be most displeased and refuse to serve further. Bad enough that I have revealed,” she nodded at the papers, “this.”
“Is that not always the problem with secrets and spies: when to reveal what is known…?”
She smiled. “Exactly so, Shehzada.”
His gaze went back to the papers: “So this is why Father acted so differently since the arrival of the amir; sending my brother out to command when at all times previous he made excuses to keep Dara close. He’s been trying to season him for the inevitable clash.”
Nur nodded.
“This…This changes everything.”
“Indeed. Shah Jahan’s desire for secrecy regarding the contents of the works is certainly explained, as is his interest in the ferenghi and his elevation of the Afghan amir, Salim.”
He shook his head in wonder and picked up the papers again.
Trusting the seeds she had planted would ripen on their own in the young man’s fertile mind, Nur let him read it through once more.
At length he looked at her and said, “I must pray on this.”
“Of course.” Just don’t speak of it to Mullah Mohan, she thought but did not add.
He sat back.
Taking that as a sign the interview was at an end, Nur stood and bowed. “I am at your service, Shehzada.”
He nodded permission for her to depart.
She made to leave, but Aurangzeb stopped her: “It makes no mention of you, Nur Jahan. I wonder why that is?”
“I do not doubt that women—even in that time that will be or would have been—lived in the shadow of their men, and therefore did not figure prominently in the histories.”
Aurangzeb was scratching thoughtfully at his thin beard as she departed.
He was too clever by half, thought Nur, but still a victim of every man’s desire to believe himself superior to women. She smiled. Men, so full of themselves and their place in history. Anyone sent in search of the story of India would hardly learn of the power wielded by women from the shade and comfort of the harem.