The Feast of Roses (30 page)

Khurram turned away from his men and sank deeper into the cushions of his divan. He felt over the front of his
qaba,
and his fingers traced the square, folded sheet of paper resting in an inner pocket. Then he picked up his goblet and drank from it. Lime juice with jaggery to sweeten it. Khurram did not drink liquor; he never had. He touched the letter again, wishing the commanders would leave so that he could read what Arjumand had written to him.

How many months had it been since he had seen her? Eight? Nine? Time blurred here, for each month had been the same. No change of seasons, nothing to engage his attention. Without Arjumand, there was nothing for him. Khurram had been ordered to command the army against Amar Singh, and he had obeyed. Not just from filial loyalty or a sense of duty as a royal prince, but because Arjumand had said that he must go. They had decided that he would not accept Ladli as a wife, and this would definitely upset Mehrunnisa, but a victory in Mewar would counter that with the Emperor. So Khurram had fought the Rana, not for the empire he wanted to inherit, not because it would bring him glory, not even because he wanted to please his father, but because he wanted to please his wife. Every action he had taken, every foray he had planned, every move his commanders and his men had made had been with Arjumand in mind. The sooner he vanquished the Rana, the sooner he could be with Arjumand.

He looked around at his men as they grew louder and more brash. One tipped over from his divan, and in doing so, upset a goblet of wine. It soaked into the carpet, and a red stain blossomed in the silk pile. The smell of fermented grape came to gag the prince. Khurram wanted to ask them to leave, but this was their celebration too. Tomorrow, Amar Singh was to come to the camp for the official surrender. And then, in a few days, weeks at most, Khurram could go to Ajmer, where Arjumand was with the Emperor and Mehrunnisa. He hugged his arms around himself at those words. Tomorrow, a few days, weeks . . . after all these months, finally he could speak of returning to Arjumand in smaller measures of time.

Ray Rayan, majordomo of Khurram’s household, noticed the prince’s restlessness and broke up the celebrations.

“His Highness is tired.” Ray Rayan pointed to the flap of the tent. The excited nobles stopped talking and turned drunkenly to Khurram.

The prince lifted his shoulders gracefully. “What he says is true.”

When the last noble had left or been dragged out, and the flap of the tent was pulled down, Khurram eagerly reached inside his
qaba.
He put the paper to his face, smelled the light hint of rose water in which Arjumand had dipped the edges, rubbed it against his cheek. She had touched this letter, she had been thinking of him when she had written it, she must know that he would think of
that
as he read it. Their third child had been born a few months ago at Ajmer, another boy, and the Emperor had given him the name of Aurangzeb.

Khurram unrolled the letter and let his eyes run greedily over the graceful, flowing handwriting. “All is well with the grace of Allah.” Here was that first line of assurance; before Arjumand began her letters, she always put this line on the top. It was something she had learned from her grandfather; Ghias Beg had taught her to tell the reader, upon first perusal, that the letter bore no bad news. And leaving out that line would be warning of what was to come. She wrote:

Khurram clutched the letter to his chest and rocked back and forth on his divan. It was not enough to have just the letter from Arjumand; he wanted her in his arms. He was the one who should look after Arjumand, so he had promised when he had married her. And why this separation indeed? Because Mehrunnisa had suggested it, she had said that Arjumand was pregnant, that she could not possibly travel with the army, that she would slow them down, that the child, possibly a future emperor, could not be born on the roadside without the royal physicians in attendance. That Khurram would endanger his wife’s life if he insisted upon taking her with him. It was this last argument that had given Khurram pause. And though Arjumand had wept and thrown a tantrum, he had withstood her demands. She could not come with him in her condition. But now, after all these months apart, all these months when Khurram felt as though his body was here in Mewar but everything else, his thoughts, his heart, his every breath was where Arjumand was, Mehrunnisa’s reasons no longer seemed valid.

The Empress had wished to separate them, to bring a break in their relationship, to cause them this grief. What would have been so bad if Arjumand had traveled with Khurram and lived in his camp? He would have brought the royal
hakims
with him to be at her service when she needed it. As for the child, Arjumand had already been safely delivered of two other sons, with seemingly no distress at all. And even if Aurangzeb was going to be emperor after him—this Khurram did not think very possible, because there were those two other sons, Dara Shikoh and Shah Shuja, whose claims were a mite stronger because they had come into the world earlier—Emperor Akbar had been born in a tent while Humayun was fleeing India.

Khurram held up the letter and started to read again.

The prince kissed the letter, folded it up, and put it into a silver box that he kept with him always. In the box were Arjumand’s other letters. He suddenly realized how silent it was—the rain had stopped as abruptly as it had started. He could still hear water flowing through the camp sewers, but his men were now moving around outside. Khurram put his head through the flap of his tent. The humidity of the night had come to take the place of the rain. Mosquitoes buzzed furiously, fireflies came out to twinkle in the darkness, and in the center of his camp, some of the soldiers had set up logs of
neem
wood in a fire pit. It was too hot for a fire, but the acrid, smoldering smoke of the
neem
would keep the mosquitoes away in the night, and for the first time in many months they could even light a fire for this without worrying that Amar Singh would ambush them.

Khurram withdrew and went to his desk. He pulled out a sheet of paper and sharpened his quill with his knife. He would write to Arjumand immediately. Then he pushed the paper away. No, he would be with her soon, before the letter found its way to her hands. He dipped the quill in the ink cup and sketched the outlines of his ship in Surat. Khurram had started dabbling in overseas trade only recently, mostly because Mehrunnisa found so much in it to interest her. The money was excellent, so Ruqayya had always told him, and Khurram had seen her throw bags of
mohurs
at servants who brought her something she really wanted. Why, the Portuguese had captured Ruqayya’s ship, so there must be some value in this kind of trading. Besides, Khurram needed the money, he had only the income from his
jagirs
and his
mansabs,
and he wanted more so that he could buy Arjumand as many jewels as she wanted, and as many jewels as he pleased. He was poor, he thought, compared to Mehrunnisa. The Emperor had the most income, as was only befitting, but
he
should have been next in the empire, instead of being third, behind Mehrunnisa.

If Mehrunnisa would not give him a
cartaz,
he would write to the Portuguese Viceroy himself. The Viceroy would be a good ally and would not refuse a royal prince, especially one who had the most chance of becoming the next emperor. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.

Khurram was just finishing the letter when Ray Rayan lifted the flap of the tent. “Your Highness, would you like to come out? The men wish to see you.”

“Yes.” Khurram put his seal on the letter, folded it, and handed it to his eunuch. “See that it gets to Goa as soon as possible.”

He went outside to the circle around the fire. The soldiers cheered when they saw him.

“Hail to the conqueror!” they shouted, waving their arms and clapping their hands.

He stood there smiling, exulting in this praise. All the commanders were older than he was, but he had planned every detail of the siege. And these men had followed his orders, trusted in his judgement. He let them hoot and yell, and then he held up a hand. The soldiers quieted down, wine bottles were raised to their mouths, and they waited for Khurram to speak.

“We have succeeded,” Khurram said. “It has taken us a long time, but now it is all over. The credit lies with all of you, brave soldiers and able commanders. The Emperor will be pleased with your service to him and the empire. Tomorrow, the Rana comes to the camp to surrender.” At this, the soldiers began to snigger and boo, but Khurram stopped them. A few weeks ago, his father had written to him. Even then it had been evident that the war against Mewar was over.
Treat the Rana with dignity and honor,
Jahangir’s letter had said.
He is a king; he comes to us still a king. Regard him as one king would another, Khurram.

So, standing there in the hot light of the
neem
fire, Khurram told his men of the Emperor’s wishes. They fell quiet, looked at each other with shame, and bowed their heads. Khurram clapped his hands when he saw their somber faces. It was enough that he could tell them of this—he knew he would be obeyed.

The prince signaled to the musicians behind his soldiers. Music started to play, and the
nautch
girls came out from behind the tents. They swayed in front of the soldiers, the light searing through their thin muslin skirts and veils, illuminating a slender thigh here, the shape of a barely covered breast there. The soldiers drank some more, flung silver rupees into the air, lurched drunkenly after the women, who giggled and escaped their hands. They would eventually succumb, of course, but the longer they held out, the more money they would make.

Khurram turned to go back to his tent. Someone touched his arm, and he turned back. The girl was young, perhaps no more than sixteen. She had a warm, earthy beauty. Heavy breasts, well-curved hips, a tight waist. Her skin was clear and golden in the light from the fire. She smiled at him, her eyes full of a rich promise.

She put out a hand. And Khurram, suddenly hungry for the taste of a woman’s skin, took it and led her to his tent.

•  •  •

Rana Amar Singh came into Khurram’s camp to the sound of trumpets. The imperial army stood along the path the Rana was to take, and when he walked among them, the men bowed. They had fought him for very long, and though Amar Singh was subdued, even cornered, he was still a king. Their commander had said so, and if Khurram was going to treat the Rana with respect, they could do no less.

Amar Singh was now in his sixties, his hair and thick moustache were white, in startling contrast to the brown of his face, where the sun of Mewar had painted its colors. Amar Singh had come into the camp almost tentatively, not quite sure of his reception. He was in full armor, and his boots and mail clanked as he walked. His back was straight though; even had he been boorishly received, Amar Singh would not have let his pride fall as his kingdom had.

Khurram stood outside his tent and watched the Rana. Amar Singh went down on his knees and touched Khurram’s boots. The prince immediately bent and raised the old man to his feet.

“There is no need to ask for forgiveness, all is forgiven,” Khurram said. “You have shown your fealty to the Mughal Empire by coming here today. The Emperor shall protect you at all times, and it is your duty to respond to his call when he needs you.”

“I will do so, your Highness.” Rana Amar Singh lifted his head and looked at Khurram. He gestured to the soldiers behind him. “Please accept these offerings.”

The soldiers came forward and set down a huge ruby. It was enormous, about the size of a polo ball, and it glowed like the heart of a fire. So the rumors about the existence of this ruby were true, Khurram thought. It was said that the ruby had belonged to the Rana’s family for many generations, and his gift of the stone proved his loyalty and complete surrender. He had to restrain himself from grabbing the ruby and running his fingers over its many-faceted face. What a lovely jewel it would make, set in a turban, the light catching its pomegranate redness. But Khurram would have to give the ruby to his father, and it would most probably end up in Mehrunnisa’s hands. He looked at the black velvet cushion he held with wistfulness, thinking, at least for now, this stone was his. The Rana’s soldiers also brought in bales of silks and jeweled daggers. Seven elephants and nine horses were led into the enclosure. Each animal was clad in cloth of gold and silver with gem-studded reins and bridles.