The Feast of Roses (15 page)

“If the English are really that adept in the seas, if their navy is really that powerful, we can use them. They could protect our ships instead of the Portuguese, or rather, we can give both the
firangis
a chance for it—and profit from it. As long as the Portuguese are unchallenged, they grow arrogant,” Mehrunnisa said. Then she shook her head. “But Middleton’s behavior in the seas, against our ships, it does not bode well for a good relationship. Where is a demonstration of naval strength in that? He harassed defenseless trading vessels.”

“But with reason, as you just said, your Majesty,” Khurram said. “If nothing else, we know to be uncertain of Muqarrab Khan’s loyalties. Let the English come back to India if they wish to. We will welcome them.”

They talked into the night, and the candles burned low into their silver saucers. Most of the talk was about the
firangis.
They did not touch on the
zenana,
or Khurram’s claims to the throne, or what Ghias Beg and Abul Hasan wanted from this new rule. They all wanted something, even Ghias, who was not merely content that his daughter was powerful; he wanted the riches that power could bring. It was his one weakness, one that Mehrunnisa understood. For now, it was enough that they could talk, in private, in a place where the walls would not speak of their conversations.

Thus the
junta
was born.

And so Mehrunnisa stepped tentatively into history’s pages, dipping her foot into the ink that inscribed the names of men and writing her own.

She had, perhaps, acted too hastily in forming this
junta,
in bequeathing her allegiance to Prince Khurram.

For though no one knew yet, least of all Mehrunnisa, there could be another person who had the same claims as Khurram to the empire. And more, much, much more claim to Mehrunnisa’s affections and loyalty.

C
ourt was in session in the
Diwan-i-am,
the Hall of Public Audience at the Agra Fort. Every day, except for Fridays, Emperor Jahangir held court here—here the official business of the empire was conducted, news brought from every corner of its vast lands, and petitions read. It was late in the afternoon, the sun tumbling westward in the sky, waning in its strength. Coming into the Agra Fort from the westward Elephant Gate the nobles and commoners passed by the guards first, their passes checked there, before they stabled their horses in a front courtyard and then walked up the cobbled ramp into the
Diwan-i-am.
They would find their places in the square marble hall, with floors of marble coated end-to-end with the finest silk carpets Persia could provide, and forty marble pillars holding up a sandstone ceiling covered with a thin leaf of beaten gold. They took off their shoes and sandals before entering the hall, and this was court etiquette.

The
Diwan-i-am
was open on three sides. On the fourth it abutted the walls of the imperial palaces. Here Emperor Jahangir sat in a high marble throne with a canopy of gold cloth fringed with emeralds and supported by pillars of gold. On either side of the throne, built into the wall, were the
zenana
balconies, visible from the hall only as fine mesh screens of marble.

Mehrunnisa had come to the harem enclosure before Jahangir, finding her seat up front, near the screen, so close that if she put her fingers through, she could touch the Emperor’s back. She leaned to look at the assembled nobles in the
Diwan-i-am;
they could not see her, of course. Just below Jahangir’s throne were the royal slaves, two boys of seven years each, standing on huge wooden elephants so that their fly whisks would reach the air around the Emperor. Near them were the attendants, and Mehrunnisa counted their numbers silently—the keeper of the imperial ensign, which was a gold ball clasped in gilt hands hanging from a chain, the imperial standard, which was a yak’s tail, the Emperor’s flag imprinted and embroidered with a lion crouching in front of a rising sun, and the other flags.

The top nobles of the empire stood grouped around these men, Mahabat Khan and Muhammad Sharif, the other rajas of the empire—kings in name only, for their kingdoms belonged to the empire—and foreign ambassadors. Ghias Beg and Abul Hasan stood here too, just below Prince Khurram, two inches above Mahabat and Sharif; their places had been ordained the day Mehrunnisa married Jahangir. This was the exalted first tier of the empire, and they were separated from the second tier by a thick, hip-high silver railing. Beyond this railing was the next rank of people, merchants and businessmen, cut off from the commoners of the third tier by a red lacquered wood railing. Behind the commoners were the royal elephants, their mahouts seated atop their necks, awaiting the muster call.

Awnings of gold cloth stretched over the outer yard to provide shelter from the sun for those who were not weighty or important enough to be placed either in the
Diwan-i-am
itself or even before the imperial beasts. And every day, no matter what the weather, whether it rained or the sun was particularly unforgiving in temper, the court appearance of Emperor Jahangir always drew crowds numbering over a thousand, sometimes two.

The
zenana
balconies also bustled—every woman who could find a free hour from her siesta or her studies came to the court. Mehrunnisa had always come with Ruqayya, and then they had sat at the back, following the implicit hierarchy of the harem, the heads of other ladies blocking their view, the words from the
Diwan-i-am
coming splintered to their ears. Empress Jagat Gosini had sat in front, of course. And she did so still.

Mehrunnisa turned to her. Jagat Gosini sat to the Emperor’s right, Mehrunnisa to his left, even though she thought that the premier position ought to be hers. The Empress did not turn to Mehrunnisa; her back stiffened though, and Mehrunnisa knew she was aware of her without moving her eyes away from the
Diwan-i-am.
What was she scheming? Did she know of Khurram’s defection?

Mehrunnisa wanted to know the answer to this last question more than any other. For she had taken Prince Khurram away as surely as if she were his wife or his mother. And she was neither. She smiled to herself. Let the Empress meet with Mahabat Khan as much as she wanted, let her talk with him and even hold his hand in supposed flight and fright. If Mehrunnisa were to tell the Emperor of this, everything would be shattered for the two. She had no intention of telling Jahangir, not now anyway. But later . . . if she needed something from the Empress, or simply to break her.

They had met to talk of her, this much Mehrunnisa knew, for her servants had repeated some of their conversation. Not very much, just as much as they could hear. Hoshiyar had brought her news of this meeting through Shaista Khan, Jagat Gosini’s eunuch. Did she know that a devil lived within her own walls? That it was Shaista’s step she had heard at Fatehpur Sikri?

The kettledrums announced Jahangir’s arrival. They all rose in the
zenana
balconies, and all of them, the nobles in the courtyard, the war elephants, the women of the harem, bowed in the
konish.
When they raised their backs, Emperor Jahangir was already seated on the satin divan of the throne. The nobles did not sit. No one was given the privilege of bending his legs in front of the Emperor, and even in standing there was an etiquette. Their arms were clasped in front, the fingers of their right hands cupping the left elbow and the left hand the right elbow, splayed just so. Their necks would bend too, conveying submission even as they stood at attention. And no one spoke.

Of the thousand people present at the Hall of Public Audience, not one voice made itself heard. They could speak only when directly addressed by Jahangir. They could not leave until he had left, for if they did, they would give up their places in the hall—and their heads, by sunset.

This rigidity of rules was what kept Jahangir foremost in the empire. The Emperor
was
the empire. There was no mistaking that.

Emperor Jahangir nodded at the Mir Tozak, the Master of Ceremonies. He bowed and unrolled his scroll. The first order of the court was to confirm that yesterday’s orders had been carried out. This done, news was read from around the empire.

“In Lahore, your Majesty, a chick was born with three beaks, two on either side of the main one,” the Mir Tozak said.

Jahangir leaned forward. “Where is it? Command it brought to court so all may see this unusual thing.”

“It did not live beyond two days, your Majesty. But the keepers are trying to mate the same hen and rooster again, so another such chick may be born.”

“A chick with three beaks,” Jahangir said. “There has been no such thing before, has there?”

The nobles all shook their heads, although the Emperor had unconsciously turned to his left, talking to Mehrunnisa, as if the entire
darbar
did not stand before him. Mehrunnisa smiled at Jahangir’s wonderment. She had once asked him why it was important for such trivialities to be brought to his notice in the
Diwan-i-am
—surely, only matters of state ought to be discussed here? Jahangir said that nothing was trivial. In him was vested
every
concern of the empire, small and large. The news from its farthest reaches, local and consequential only to its own district or
jagir,
had to be read in open court. For it was too easy for the nobles and
amirs
of the empire to be swept away by a sense of their own importance, to belittle what went on elsewhere, to think of Agra alone as being significant. It was easy for Jahangir to do so too, but he was not Emperor merely of Agra but also of every other village and town and settlement in the empire. The news brought notice of these little places. And again Mehrunnisa was reminded of what Ruqayya always said, that in knowledge lay true power.

And so other oddities were read out, commented upon by Jahangir, acknowledged by the court. He gave orders on a few matters and simply talked about others. And then the petitions were read out, who was to be given a larger
mansab,
who was to be commended for bravery, who stripped of his lands and titles publicly. A few nobles came forward to beg Jahangir’s permission to marry their daughters. Alliances had been found and decided upon, but the Emperor had to bless any future union.

In this he turned more often to Mehrunnisa. Once, he even used her name, saying, “What do you think of this, Nur Jahan Begam?”

She said nothing, and the whole court strained to hear even a whisper. But her silence was enough, and Jahangir said to the supplicant, “Your daughter is too young, Mirza Chingaz Khan, perhaps you should wait a few more years.”

Chingaz Khan bowed and backed away to his place. He had wanted to ally himself with one of the court’s grandees, whose
mansab
was greater than his was, and who had the friendship of Mahabat Khan. For this reason, Mehrunnisa did not allow the marriage. The fewer people who had an opportunity to be grateful to Mahabat, the better. This petition, like all others, had been brought to her the night before in the imperial
zenana,
and she had read through them and talked with Ruqayya and Hoshiyar about why they were being requested and what the advantages would be. Mehrunnisa had no sheet of paper listing her final decisions. She committed these to her memory, not wanting any physical evidence of her careful deliberation and motives to remain.

At the end of the
darbar,
the royal elephants were mustered first. Jahangir asked the name of each elephant, where it was born, how much sugarcane it ate each day. Then came the horses, and then the camels.

Mehrunnisa did not watch the muster; instead the two Jesuit priests at court caught her attention. Fathers Xavier and Pinheiro, they called themselves. Unlike the nobles, no daggers or swords adorned their persons. They were a curiosity at court, or had been when they had first arrived, clad in long black robes even in this heat, their heads and faces shaved clean of hair, with round black caps on their heads. They stood out like stones among pearls in this assembly of silks and brocades, rubies and emeralds.

The priests came forward to ask for a higher monthly allowance. They brought only a pair of gloves with them as a present for Jahangir, in kid leather, unadorned with either embroidery or jewels.

Mehrunnisa watched Jahangir’s neck turn red as he listened to the two men. He held his anger in with a force of will. They had not performed either the
konish
or the
taslim
—their religion did not allow them to do so, they claimed. And the request, such as it was, was made in an insolent tone. That they would approach the throne today, both Mehrunnisa and Jahangir knew, and that their wishes would be acceded to, this also had been decided upon. The whole court knew of Middleton’s trashing of the Indian ships in the Arabian Sea, and there was no other protector left but the Portuguese, who accompanied the ships now and guarded them from pirates. So Emperor Jahangir raised their salaries, the money coming from the imperial treasury, and gave them greater freedom to convert his subjects, but not with coercion. He despised having to do this, but his hand had been forced.

When the
darbar
ended, Mehrunnisa rose to leave, after Emperor Jahangir had gone back into the palaces. And all at once, a thick wave of fatigue blindsided her, and she fell back on the divan. She lay there trembling, her hands shaking. Mehrunnisa tried to wave off offers of help from the slaves and the other ladies. The room went to dark and then a bright white, making it hard for her to see.

Suddenly, Mehrunnisa realized that it had been ten days since her monthly blood should have come. This tiredness was familiar; she had felt it numerous times before Ladli. She had been so engrossed in matters of the mind that she had not listened to her body. She had not thought that there might be a child.

Even as she adjusted to the possibility of a child, she wanted a son. She had Ladli, now there should be a boy child. It had not been important before Ladli, but now, with the empire in her hands, this child should be male. Fear came to crawl up her spine as she saw Jagat Gosini scrutinizing her. Nothing would touch this child, no one’s evil eye or malevolent hand. If this were true.

But if this were true . . . what of the favor she had shown Khurram?

•  •  •

Ladli ran to hide behind a pillar, pulling the skirts of her
ghagara
in and tucking them between her legs. Then she peered around it, carefully. Arjumand had stopped farther down the verandah. Her back was to Ladli, and she was looking down, seemingly at nothing. Still breathing hard from all the running as she had tried to keep up with Arjumand, Ladli withdrew and waited. Arju seemed to do this a lot nowadays—this standing still, her eyes glazed with thought.

Sweat ran in tiny rivers down the sides of Ladli’s face and pooled thickly at the nape of the neck, where her hair was plaited down her back. She wiped her face, bending to use the
ghagara
’s silk, leaving a damp spot on the front. Then she looked out again. Arjumand had gone, the arch where she had stood was empty, and the afternoon light slanted on the verandah floor unblemished by her shadow. Ladli slipped from behind the pillar and ran into someone with a soft thud. She fell to the ground and lay there, looking up at Hoshiyar Khan.