Jadar touched the infant's warm hand as he examined him for imperfections. There were none.
Someday, my first son, you may rule India as Moghul. If we both live that long.
"Is he well?" Mumtaz spoke at last, her normally shrill voice now scarcely above a whisper. "Are you pleased?"
"He'll do for now." Jadar smiled as he examined her tired face. She had never seemed as beautiful as she did at this moment. He knew there was no way he could ever show his great love for her, but he knew she understood. And returned it. "Do these unbelievers know enough to follow Muslim tradition?"
"Yes. A mullah has been summoned to sound the azan, the call to prayer, in his ear."
"But a male child must first be announced with artillery. So he'll never be afraid to fight." Jadar wasn't sure how much belief he put in all these Muslim traditions, but the troops expected it and every ceremony for this prince had to be observed. Lest superstitions begin that he was somehow ill-fated. Superstitions are impossible to bury. "This one is a prince. He will be greeted with cannon. Then I'll immediately have his horoscope cast—for the Hindu troops—and schedule his naming ceremony—for the Believers."
"What will you name him?"
"His first name will be Nushirvan. You can pick the others."
"Nushirvan was a haughty Persian king. And it's an ugly name."
"It's the name I've chosen." Jadar smiled wickedly, still mulling over what name he would eventually pick.