Epilogue
February 1636
Bijapur
Mahabat’s horse archers, responsible for covering Aurangzeb’s exposed right flank, fell back before a determined charge of Bijapuri heavy cavalry. They fled up the slope and away from the sharp action along the banks of the Bhima. Fired by the possibility of easy victory, the heavy cavalry followed. Both units disappeared over the ridge after a few minutes’ hard riding.
Aurangzeb shifted his gaze, watching as a large, well-armored mass of infantry charged his lines. The main Bijapuri advance slowed, then stalled as the Rajputs met them blade to blade, shield to shield along the riverside. After several long minutes of hand-to-hand the Rajput line flexed, consuming the inroads the Bijapuri had won with their charge.
The response was not long in coming. Another unit of Bijapuri footmen swung from behind the swordsmen and worked around outside the flank of their vanguard. Taking up positions along the base of the slope leading up out of the valley, they raised arquebuses and began to fire into the Rajput flank.
Their sustained fire started to take its toll, men dropping.
Hold, just hold, Aurangzeb willed them from his elephant. He didn’t like to command from the animals, prone as they were to go berserk when stung, but, stationed some four hundred gaz behind his Rajputs, the massive animals were the perfect bait to draw the infantry onto Rajput arms.
More men died, cut down, shot, it made no difference to the dead.
Hold.
With a thunder of hooves, a mass of cavalry appeared from behind the enemy lines. Sweeping out and up the slope around the arquebusiers, they slowed, forming a wedge. Aurangzeb identified Shahaji near the point. Lines dressed, they galloped forward, heading toward the exposed flank of the infantry forces.
Aurangzeb held his breath.
Shahaji’s charge crashed home in the Bijapuri line like a high mountain avalanche meeting the tree line: screaming men rolled under, crushed, shoved aside. Dying on two fronts and unable to retreat into the river, the Bijapuri foot broke and ran to the rear, pursued by Shahaji’s men.
Aurangzeb let the stale air in his lungs fly free. It was one thing to buy a man, quite another to rely on him.
He called down to a waiting messenger: “Remshad to bring the camel corps forward after they’ve mopped up the Bijapuri cavalry that chased Mahabat over the hill.”
“Yes, Shehzada!”
“And bring me my horse!”
He was just changing mounts when a rider in stained messenger greens rode up.
Content that the rest of the battle would resolve according to his wishes, Aurangzeb waved the man permission to approach.
The man threw himself on the ground at Aurangzeb’s feet.
Bad news.
“Speak.”
“Forgive me, Shehzada, I bring terrible tidings.” He reached into his messenger case.
“Speak.”
He pulled a sealed letter and held it up as if the flimsy paper could shield him from a prince’s anger. “Shehzada, I beg your forgiveness, I…”
“Speak, damn you!”
“Forgive me: Shah Jahan is dead!”
Aurangzeb feel the earth shift like sand beneath his feet, stammered, “H-how?”
“Merciful God forgive me, but the Sultan Al’Azam was murdered, Shehzada.”
“What?”
“Assassinated.”
“Who?”
“No one knew at the time I was dispatched by the newswriter.”
“Who?”
The man buried his face in the dirt, mumbling.
“Speak clearly, man!”
“No one knew, Shehzada.”
A part of him spoke from the dark vaults of his heart: This is what you wanted.
Not this.
Aurangzeb turned away from the man, from the news, from the voice in his head, from everything.
But the voice was cold and unrelenting. Yes, this. This is what you wanted.
No.
You lie, even to yourself.
“I must pray,” he mumbled.
Be quick, though, said the cold voice. Shah Shuja and Wazir Asaf Khan will be marching to seize the throne from that weakling Dara.
Goa
The Compte Linhares, Viceroy del Estado da India and Governor of Goa, handed his practice blade to a waiting page, chest heaving in an effort to catch his breath. Having long since found such exercise an excellent way to clear the mind and keep his martial skills in order, he made a point of engaging in heavy practice in the salle every day.
As a slave approached to begin mopping the rivulets of sweat from his owner’s round shoulders, Linhares snatched the towel and began working to dry himself, irritated, not with the slave, but by the fact he had yet to find the right words for the letter he must write the king.
The additional troops required to maintain their possessions in Africa and elsewhere would not be forthcoming if he appeared to have let the opportunity pass him by.
Trying to explain how such adventurism would further drain their already limited coffers would fall on deaf ears, despite the fact they had to know the governor of Goa didn’t have the manpower on hand to garrison the forts, let alone mount a military expedition!
The church bell rang, reminding him of his other great aggravation as viceroy: the Jesuits.
The damn Jesuits. They recruit every soldier that comes off our ships, making brothers of them!
Not that he really blamed the soldiers. Lacking proper pay from the crown and any good prospects, the religious orders made for a tolerably good life and a guarantee of at least two meals a day. The same could hardly be said of service to the king.
But the Jesuits were constantly making their own reports, trying to inflame Philip’s crusading spirit and undermining Linhares’ reputation at court.
Worse still, lacking knowledge of what they wrote in their reports, he had very little room to maneuver, and none to dissemble.
Linhares covered his scarred torso with a fresh tunic and left the salle.
The Jesuits were as much a headache for him as the Dutch were these days, and far less easily dealt with. A man could rely on the Dutch to fight their battles with blade and shot, as a man should.
At least the English were no longer in a position to contest their dominance here. The Danish, now, they seemed to be in the ascendance after the events in Europe, though Christian’s man Crappé knew what he owed Linhares.
And if the king, or more likely, Olivares, orders me to back one or another of the claimants to the Mughal throne and I refuse? At least ten months remain before I must be concerned with direct orders regarding the Mughal succession. Given the reports on the comparative talents of Shah Jahan’s sons, I doubt the succession will take that long to be decided.
Linhares smiled.
And that is what I shall write of, to both preserve my reputation and secure the necessary assistance from home…
“Fetch me pen and paper. I will write on the verandah.”
Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe
“So, all things considered, Michael, it seems as if your negotiations with Gustav Adolf are going well.” Rebecca Abrabanel finished her cup of tea and set it down. Across from her at the table in the dining room of their townhouse, Mike Stearns had his hands clasped behind his head and was gazing at their daughter Sepharad. The three-year-old girl was absorbed with a new doll Mike had brought her from Dresden. The doll was just a thing of stuffed linens, not the fancy porcelain figurines for which Dresden would become famous in the next century.
That assumed, of course, that the course of history in this universe would run parallel to that of the one the Americans had come from. As propositions went, that one fell in the category of “dicey.”
“Yes, they are,” Mike mused.
But his thoughts were still on the doll. “Do you remember that trade mission we sent to India? It’s been almost two years now.”
“Yes. Has a report come in?”
“Not a word, so far as I know, in almost a year. We know they made it to India, but after that…They just seem to have vanished.”
“Communications are very slow, across that distance,” Rebecca pointed out. “And will be until a radio connection can be set up.”
“Yeah, I know. I just hope they’re okay.”
“It is a dangerous world. Here, as much as anywhere.”
“Don’t remind me. I just got done fighting a battle in the middle of a snowstorm because I figured it was my best shot at beating a general who was a lot more experienced than I was.”
“And you proved to be right.”
“So I did. That time. We’ll see what the future brings.”
“What is the worst that could happen to them?” Rebecca asked. “After all, they will be under the protection of one of the world’s most powerful dynasties. Shah Jahan’s rule has stabilized and he should remain in power for another…”
Her brow creased with thought. “I cannot remember the exact history. But at least another twenty years, I am sure.”
Mike grunted. “Maybe. But you see that doll?” He nodded in the direction of their daughter.
“Yes. What of it?”
“Well—supposedly—sometime in the next century, Dresden will become famous for its porcelain dolls. But will that actually happen? There’s just no way—”
Sepharad chose that moment to accidentally tear off her doll’s arm. The thing really wasn’t very well made. Immediately, she set up a wail of grief and displeasure.
“I rest my case,” Mike concluded. “For all we know, our trade mission triggered off a civil war, Shah Jahan’s been assassinated, all hell is breaking lose—they’re between a rock and a hard place.”
Rebecca rose and went over to calm their daughter. “Michael, please. I really think you are engaging in hyperbole. Surely the situation will not be that tempestuous. They may already be on their way home.”
Mike thought about it, for a while. “In other words,” he said, “maybe they’re now between the Devil and the deep blue sea.”
“Michael!”