Chapter 32
Nur Jahan’s Manor, Lahore
August 1635
Nur Jahan carefully set Mullah Mohan’s letter down. Trying to extinguish the flames of anger its contents had sparked was not as easy, however.
True to her Sufi education, she used several measured breaths to quell the flames enough to clear her head and focus on the underlying issue that fueled the fires of her anger: Leaving such instructions with her as if she were his servant! Watch and report! As if she had no value beyond her eyes and ears—here, in this place she ruled from.
Foolish bigot, of course the up-timers bore watching! Of course they needed to learn what Mian Mir tells Dara! And Shah Jahan: he always must be watched.
Gargi entered with the evening meal, servants in her wake. Nur Jahan made sure to conceal her correspondence as the servants went about the business of setting out her dinner, then lay back amongst the cushions, giving every outward appearance of the indolent widow.
It was foolish of him to even send her such notes, but he was so caught up in trying to show his superiority that she doubted he even realized the risks he was running.
She sighed as Gargi ushered the servants out. The failed plot against Dara had made Mohan think himself the leader of their little cabal.
“What is it makes you sigh as if for a lover, Nur Jahan?”
Nur smiled. “If my sighs sound thus, it is because power is the vilest of lovers: to raise one to such heights of ecstasy only to drop you at the first indication of a younger, livelier plaything is surely the hallmark of the most hateful of lovers.”
“Are you cast aside, then?”
“I have been so since the day my husband passed to his reward. Everything since has been the struggle to maintain some place in the world.”
Gargi gestured at the archway the servants had retreated through, “No matter how low, there is always further to fall. A servant is easily made a slave. I urge caution.”
Angry that even Gargi had been influenced by the failure of her plot, Nur sniffed. “As I said: I will not submit silently, I will not fade like the aged blossom, curled into colorless ignominy.”
Her most trusted servant bowed her head. “Your will?”
Nur smiled. “You needn’t reprove me with your perfect submission, Gargi. In fact, I think you will approve of my latest plans. I think it past time I rid myself of certain problematic persons.”
Gargi met her eyes, edging closer before folding her legs beneath her. “Oh?”
“Yes,” she whispered, handing the older woman the correspondence.
Nur selected a morsel, ate it daintily while Gargi read the first lines. “You see where he presumes to instruct me even as he denies knowledge of what it is Aurangzeb plans?”
“Such is the way of men,” Gargi answered with a shrug, reading on.
“Perhaps. For my part, I have decided I will no longer silently endure such slights.”
“Oh, you plan to shout about it instead?”
Nur felt her eyes narrow in anger. She carefully smoothed the irritation from her expression and said coolly, “No, I plan vengeance. But first I must determine what it is Aurangzeb has directed him to do.”
“And then?”
“And then I will decide whether to encourage Mohan to blunder far beyond his orders or discourage him entirely from acting on them.”
“A delicate process. One fraught with peril.”
“Your cautions are noted. Now advise.”
“If Aurangzeb has left firm instruction, your aims will be difficult to accomplish. If he has left those instructions vague, then you will find fertile ground.”
“One can safely assume Aurangzeb is not so confident in the security of his communications that he left such precise directions for someone else to discover.”
“Correct, but barring your presence at their final audience before they parted, it is difficult to know what was agreed to in advance.”
“Truth. It seems I must wait for a suitable opportunity.”
“From what you said of his reaction to Shah Jahan’s lifting of the jizya, he seems likely to walk into grievous error on his own anyway.”
“Perhaps,” Nur agreed, grudgingly.
“Forgive me for saying it, but I beg you to consider allowing Mullah Mohan to blunder into self-destruction. It might prove both satisfactory to your desire for vengeance and will certainly limit your exposure. He was, after all, merely a means to an end.”
“You speak sensibly, and I will consider carefully before taking any action.”
“But you will take action.”
Nur let an exasperated sigh escape her lips. “I may.”
But Gargi wasn’t ready to let it go. “Do not be like a man in this.”
“As you said, he was a means to an end. That end is not yet met, and therefore I do not consider my dealings with him concluded.”
“Yet you consider betraying him.”
“His betrayal, dear servant, is one of those ends that has yet to be met.”
Gargi bowed her head and said nothing more, her silence a reproval all its own.
Camp outside Lahore
“So, Salim, your teacher…Just who is he?”
Salim smiled at Gervais. “He is a living saint. Mian Mir has renounced the pleasures of this world, has schooled his mind and body to mirror his sweet soul. So much so, he only breathes but four times a night.”
Not wishing to give offense, Gervais picked his next words carefully: “Forgive me if I misunderstand, but if he renounced the world, why send you to Europe?”
Salim nodded. “A good question. The living saint renounced the pleasures and distractions of this world,” the Afghan gestured at the up-timers seated across the courtyard from them, “not the events of momentous import which shake the world.”
“I see. Will we have an opportunity to speak with him?”
“I do not know. He is quite frail, and has only recently recovered from illness. He’s nearly one hundred years of age as it is. I know he will be seeing Dara Shikoh to bestow blessings upon him, but I do not know if he will have time for private audiences with you. I sent a messenger, but have yet to hear back.”
Gervais heard the plaintive note in Salim’s voice. “Surely he will make time to see you.”
“I pray it is so. I had resigned myself to the possibility I would not see him again before Paradise, so it will be reward enough just to see him once more.”
“Both Dara and Jahanara were his students?”
“Yes, though Dara started as a youngster with Mian Mir and then, when returned to his father, continued to study with one of Mian Mir’s more accomplished disciples.”
“But, on the subject of Jahanara Begum, I thought purdah would prevent—”
“Oh, purdah was observed, I assure you.”
“Understood. You said something about Dara being returned to his father?”
“Indeed. He and Aurangzeb were both held hostage by Jahangir after Shah Jahan’s failed attempt to rebel against him.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“Why then, and correct me if I’m wrong, was Dara a student of Mian Mir while Aurangzeb was not?”
Gervais’ lifetime among liars served him well in that moment, allowing them to see Salim’s lie for what it was: “I do not know, Gervais.”
“I see. Thank you kindly for answering my questions, Salim. You have been a most gracious and good host.”
Salim looked away, tugging at his beard. After a moment he looked back at Gervais and lowered his voice. “I suspect Jahangir was attempting to punish Shah Jahan by ensuring that a divide existed between his sons like that which existed between himself and Shah Jahan.”
It was Gervais’ turn to look away in an attempt to cover the twinge of guilt he felt at manipulating the Afghan. “I had not meant to…”
“And it is not my place to make such comments on the royal family. Please forget that I did so.”
“Already forgotten,” Gervais, unlike his host, lied with the ease of a lifetime’s practice.
Lahore
The howdah’s sway usually calmed Jahanara’s restless mind, but not today. Today she would see Mian Mir, and receive his blessings, and her excitement would not be restrained.
Seeking distraction, she spoke to Nadira Begum, seated across from her: “Suleiman eats well?”
Nadira Begum smiled over the crown of her son’s head. “He does indeed. His milk mothers complain of how quickly he drains them.”
“Good, good. Mian Mir will, no doubt, offer blessings for our youngest prince.”
“Truly?”
“I will ask Mian Mir if he or my brother fails to offer it.” Dara had gone ahead this morning with Salim and several of his favorites, planning to spend the morning in prayer and contemplation in company with the saint.
“We have been truly blessed to see Dara come back to us. It seems presumptuous to ask for more.”
Jahanara ran a finger across the soft cheek of her nephew. “For a child, anything and everything.”
“I’m told the gardens your brother established in Mian Mir’s name are quite exceptional.”
Jahanara nodded, smiling. “My brother, your husband, certainly has excellent taste.”
“It’s true that he designed it himself?”
“He did. Father’s chief canal builder laid out the water forms for the garden, but did so entirely to Dara’s specifications.”
Nadira’s eyes shone. “I am so happy he lived, Jahanara. That I might have had to go on without him was so painful I could barely draw breath.”
Jahanara looked away, uncomfortable with the depth of feeling in Nadira’s eyes. Always, such words sparked that twinge of jealousy, her heart asking again: Will I ever have such a love?
As always, there was no answer to be found in the hollow desolation of her loneliness.
Loud cries from up ahead roused Begum Sahib from her self-pity. Such disruptions were not the norm; eunuchs traveled ahead of the harem ladies to drive from the route any who were not fit to lay eyes on the procession. Such noise heralded some mishap on the road, and Jahanara did not want to have to intercede with some poor family that had their son beaten by her overzealous guardians, not today.
She looked through the ornate slats of the howdah, attempting to catch of glimpse of the cause of the ruckus but there was little to see but early-morning sunlight on billowing dust.
“Atisheh!” she called.
“Shehzadhi?”
“What is that noise?”
“It appears a large mob outside the home of Mian Mir, Shehzadi.”
Nadira tensed beside her, setting Suleiman to fussing again. “What manner of mob?”
“I know not. Shall I find out, Shehzadi?”
“Gopal, stop.” Jahanara ordered, considering.
By the time the mahout brought the massive elephant to a halt, Jahanara decided: “Yes, take some other swords with you, but be gentle. I do not wish to offer offense to the saint by injuring those at his doorstep.”
“Your will.” Atisheh rode off, five of her sisters following.
Expecting she’d have to wait some time, she asked Nadira, “Have you heard Priscilla and Ilsa speak of the home they plan to build?”
“I have. Strange that they should live under the same roof and not be wed to the same man or otherwise related.”
“Strange indeed, but perhaps some of the least strange things about them.” She shrugged silk-shrouded shoulders. “I suppose the place will be less a home and more a caravanserai for their trade interests, but still.”
“Have you seen the young men with them?”
“I have. One has blond hair, the other, red, and all of them are well-formed.”
Nadira snorted, whispered: “Well-formed, indeed. The slaves prattle endlessly about them, asking one another questions.”
“Oh, and what do they ask?”
“They ask if the carpets match the hangings.”
“If the carpets match—” She stopped, shocked to her very bones.
Nadira’s throaty laugh was infectious, and made it harder still for Jahanara to pretend she didn’t find the joke both provocative and funny.
They were drawn from their merriment by the hoof beats of Atisheh’s party.
The howdah swayed again as Atisheh gestured imperiously at Jahanara’s mahout and the elephant knelt. With the strength and grace of her people, Atisheh left the saddle and, without touching the ground, scaled the elephant. Armor chiming softly as she crouched beside the howdah, she said, “Shehzadi, the men outside his house mourn the passing of Mian Mir. They say he has passed to Paradise.”
“What?” Jahanara whispered, wind sucked from her lungs.
Atisheh, unable to hear her mistress’ distress, continued to relate the details. “Shehzada Dara Shikoh’s new sowar were on the gate, and told me he and Amir Salim were with Mian Mir when he breathed his last.”
Jahanara swallowed and tried to regain her wits.
“Did you see my husband?” Nadira asked, anxiety making Suleiman fuss yet again.
“Yes, Begum. He was in the courtyard, weeping openly, as were all the men.”
“Understandable, given the great loss the Order has suffered,” Jahanara said, mind lurching along in the wake of the sudden change in circumstance.
A shrug of armored shoulders. “Nadira Begum wept less, and there was far more blood, during the birth of the babe.”
The contempt in the other woman’s voice snapped Jahanara out of her funk and put a blade in her voice. “That may be so, but you will not repeat it where any man might hear.”
“Yes, Shehzadi, I will not speak of it again.” While the response and her demeanor were appropriate in every detail, Jahanara knew the warrior-woman’s opinion remained unchanged.
“Gopal, you did not hear a thing, understood?”
The mahout turned sideways, keeping his eyes down, and loudly inquired, “What was that, Shehzadi? Did this poor servant fail to hear orders again? I am most sorry, Shehzadi.”
“Do better, Gopal,” Jahanara said, silently resolving to see the thin fellow rewarded for his impeccable manners.
“I shall try, Shehzadi.”
“What do we do, Jahanara?” Nadira asked.
“Mian Mir outlived both wives and daughters, so I can but think we would be a burden on the household should we continue on,” Jahanara mused aloud. “I’m afraid we must turn back. Atisheh, send a messenger to inform Dara of my decision, I doubt he will be back soon…”
“Yes, Shehzadi.” With a strange noise that wasn’t quite whistle nor raspberry, Atisheh called her horse to the elephant’s side. She dropped from her perch into the saddle with a show of unconscious athleticism that reminded Jahanara that her confidence in the woman’s prowess as a fighter was fully justified.
Nadira was nodding. “Funeral preparations…”
“Yes, there will be a great deal to do. I doubt Dara will have much time for anything, even family.”
Nadira waggled her head, “I meant that, surely, as one of his students, you would be included in his funeral rites?”
“Men rarely think to ask,” Jahanara rasped.
“But, as one of his most accomplished students, your loss is surely as great as my husband’s! You should be allowed to take part in the funeral preparations.”
Jahanara found she could not answer aloud, so tight had her throat become.