The Feast of Roses (31 page)

“I am ashamed of the meager offerings,” Amar Singh said. “But as your Highness probably knows, they are the only things left to me.”

“This is more than generous,” Khurram smiled. “We have captured all the other animals in your private stables. The Emperor is pleased with your surrender. A royal
farman
will be sent to you bearing the imperial seal. The
farman
will provide you with protection and will name you as a vassal to the empire. As proof of the Emperor’s intentions, please accept these gifts from me.”

Khurram turned and signaled to Ray Rayan. The eunuch brought forward a robe of honor and a jeweled sword that the prince gifted to the Rana. Attendants led an Arabian mare into the enclosure with a jeweled saddle and an elephant strapped with a silver
howdah.

The Rana bowed his head. “Thank you, your Highness. Your kindness is much appreciated.”

“One more thing,” Khurram said. “You are still a king, Amar Singh. You will retain your title and your lands. Mewar is given to you as a
jagir,
yours to rule while you live.”

The Rana spent a few days at camp, where he was feted and his every need tended to. After he left, his eldest son Karan came to pay his respects to Khurram, according to custom. The heir apparent never accompanied his father to pay his respects to an Emperor or a prince; he always came later. Karan would go with Khurram to Ajmer and pledge allegiance to Jahangir on behalf of Amar Singh. Khurram accepted this, and did not insist upon Amar Singh’s accompanying him himself. This much dignity the old Rana was allowed. And so the empire and Jahangir told Amar Singh that he had fought a worthy fight, that he was a mighty king too.

Soon after Karan’s arrival, the royal party broke camp and began their journey back to the court at Ajmer.

Prince Khurram returned to the imperial court victorious in a siege his father had once fought as a prince. With this triumph, many things changed. Khurram found a confidence he had not had before. He could lead an army, so he could wear a crown. He would find a way to tell Mehrunnisa that a marriage with Ladli was impossible.

M
ehrunnisa glanced at the letter in her hand thoughtfully. News had come from Surat. The Portuguese had burned four Indian ships at the Gulf of Cambay in direct disobedience to imperial orders.

Hoshiyar Khan coughed. “What is the reply, your Majesty?”

“Do you know what is in this letter?”

“I have an idea,” Hoshiyar said. “I talked to the runner who brought the letter.”

Mehrunnisa nodded. Hoshiyar had probably not just talked to the runner but as the letter had found its way to her on the silver salver, it had also probably unrolled itself. The seal was broken, but she said nothing about this. Finally, after all these years, she had come to trust Hoshiyar. What she knew, he knew. He would never betray her.

She spread her fingers on the satin cover of the divan. The tendrils of jasmine vine, drawn on with henna paste, were now a feeble orange. Tonight, no, tomorrow, soon anyhow, she would have the maids repaint the henna. Khurram was coming home from Mewar, bringing the captured Prince Karan Singh with him. The court would celebrate, and she had to be prepared for the festivities.

Mehrunnisa sighed. There was so much to think about, and here she was, wondering about her toilette. What was to be done with the Portuguese? Ever since the capture of the
Rahimi,
they had taken possession of at least a hundred more Indian ships. If they could dare to seize the Dowager Empress’s ship, how long before they took one of hers? Mehrunnisa had ordered the Portuguese to return the
Rahimi
—there was no question about the ship not being restored to Ruqayya—but her language had been honeyed, her tongue imprisoned by the passes the Portuguese Viceroy had sent for her ships.

And Khurram would come home a hero, feted and pampered, still as much a worry as the Portuguese Viceroy. She rose from the divan and walked around the room. She needed to make a decision, needed not to feel helpless against these men. Mehrunnisa stopped and dug her toes into the pile of the carpets. She willed anger to flood through her, to take over her thoughts and drown out everything else. If the Portuguese wanted war, they would get war.

A few minutes later the Empress whipped around to Hoshiyar, her mouth set in a tight line. “Send an order to Muqarrab Khan. He is to lay siege on the Portuguese city of Daman.”

“Your Majesty, why Muqarrab? He will do all he can to help the Portuguese. You must know that he has been converted to their religion. He is on their side.”

“He cannot openly defy imperial orders. If he does, it will mean death. This order will test his loyalty to the empire. Muqarrab will get no more indulgences from the court. Yes,” Mehrunnisa nodded, “it will have to be Muqarrab Khan. As governor of Gujrat, he is closest to Daman. The Portuguese will not be granted any more privileges. They have enjoyed the magnanimity of the Emperor for too long and have misused their power. Daman must be captured.”

Hoshiyar bowed and turned to go, but Mehrunnisa’s voice stopped him. “Also prepare a
farman
to Agra. The Jesuit church in Agra shall be shut and the salaries paid to the priests stopped. Send the priest Jerome Xavier to Muqarrab Khan, he is to keep Xavier in custody until further orders come from me. All the Portuguese in India are to be arrested and their belongings seized.”

When Hoshiyar left, Mehrunnisa wrote to the captains of her ships; they would find the letters waiting for them when her ships returned to Surat. The passes from the Viceroy were to be sent to Goa with thanks from her Majesty. She had no more use for them.

The imperial
farman
s were prepared and sent to the
zenana,
where Mehrunnisa read them with care before affixing the seal of the Emperor. Then she picked up a smaller green jade seal in the shape of a rose with six petals, dipped it in ink, and firmly affixed it on the
farman
s. The seal read, “By the light of the sun of the Emperor Jahangir; the bezel of the seal of Nur Jahan has become resplendent like the Moon.”

She used her personal seal rarely, but in this case, she wanted the Viceroy to know that this was on
her
orders. That she would play no more games of diplomacy with him, that if he wanted to keep his head in India, it should be bowed toward her.

Next to Jahangir’s name, Mehrunnisa wrote with an unwavering hand, “Nur Jahan, the Queen Begam.”

•  •  •

The streets of Ajmer were decked with flowers and banners. Torches flared from sconces in doorways, pillars were wrapped in marigold garlands, and the stone-flagged paths had been washed clean. Fire and color welcomed Khurram. The streets were thronged fifteen deep, men and women pushing against each other and the imperial soldiers who kept them from the path. The balconies of the houses overhanging the lanes were filled with women and children, leaning over the parapets to look at the head of their triumphant prince, hoping for an upward glance.

Khurram rode into the city in style. He sat upright on his black Arabian mare, his person glittering with jewels and brocade. Gone were the dull mud colors of the campaign, the heavy weight of the armor he had worn daily for months, the unwashed hair, and the sweat-rimmed collars. Khurram was well rested; he had slept on the road to Ajmer on divans sent for his comfort by Mehrunnisa, and the cooks from the imperial kitchens had come to meet him halfway so that delicacies their Majesties ate would fill his own mouth. Unlike the mad dash from Agra to Mewar, when speed had been necessary, this trip had been more leisurely. The imperial favor shown to Khurram was not only for Khurram himself but also to awe Prince Karan, the mountain prince, and to show him the grandeur of the empire.

And here, Khurram thought, as he nudged his horse into a slower trot, was another example of magnificence. Karan rode behind him astride another horse, not as splendidly clothed as Khurram’s but one befitting a prince nonetheless. Khurram glanced at Karan and then looked up at the balconies. The women clapped, their expressions pretty with delight, and threw down jasmine flowers that floated starlike in the afternoon air around Khurram. He lifted his face to the gently falling flowers which settled like snow over his hands and his horse. The crowds cheered wildly, and he bowed to them from the saddle, over and over again.

When he reached the royal palaces, he saw his mother and various ladies of the harem gathered there to welcome him. He jumped off his horse and ran to Jagat Gosini. The Empress embraced her son.

“Welcome back,
beta,
” she said. “You have made us all proud.”

“Thank you, your Majesty. Where is my father?”

“He awaits you in the
Diwan-i-am.
”

Khurram hurried to the Emperor. The drums of the prince sounded in the hall, and he entered after the last note had died down. While all the courtiers bowed to him, he went down on his knees in front of Jahangir and kissed the ground. Jahangir rose from his seat and came down to Khurram.

“You have brought much happiness to all of us, Baba Khurram,” Jahangir said. He raised his voice to the assembled courtiers. “I declare that from this day, the prince shall be known as Shah Jahan.”

Khurram knelt again, clutched his father’s hand, and kissed it reverently. Jahangir had said nothing about a new title in his letters; Khurram had expected to be feted, a mighty prince returning victorious from war, but this . . . to be called Shah Jahan, King of the World. He grew dizzy with happiness. The title of Shah was one none but a reigning king had held since the time of his ancestor Timur the Lame. And he was just a prince. He started to cry, his heart full at such honor, and Jahangir raised him to his feet and wiped his tears away.

“Come, you must not cry,” the Emperor said, half-laughing, half-crying himself. “You are a warrior, Khurram. You have done what I was not able to.”

They stood together in the midst of the court, Khurram with his head on Jahangir’s shoulder until attendants came up behind them, bearing in their arms the
nadiri,
a coat of honor Jahangir had designed for himself and ordered that no one else in the empire could wear unless it was bestowed upon him by the Emperor. Jahangir lovingly wrapped the
nadiri
around his son and stuck a jeweled dagger in his cummerbund. He then ordered that a special chair be brought into court for Khurram. The chair was set just below the Emperor’s throne. It was a great privilege, for never before had anyone, royal or otherwise, sat in the Emperor’s presence at court.

Mehrunnisa watched the display of affection from the
zenana
balcony. She had not gone out to meet Khurram when he had arrived because Jagat Gosini had wanted to be there instead. Hoshiyar, already leaning to her ear, told her that their conversation had been short—an embrace, a few words, that was all. Arjumand sat next to her, her face pressed against the screen, alit with smiles. They both saw Khurram glance up at the balcony, but he could see little of them; the marble latticeworked screen hid them from view. Arjumand put her fingers through and waggled them, and Khurram raised his hand from his lap in response.

“He has made us all proud, Arju,” Mehrunnisa said.

Arjumand turned to her aunt, her face suddenly hard and unyielding. “
I
am proud of my husband, your Majesty.”

It was as if she had reached out and slapped Mehrunnisa. The women in the
zenana
balcony grew quiet.

“Why the disrespect, Arjumand?” Mehrunnisa said softly. “I am as proud of Khurram as you are. He is like a son to me. You must know this.”

Arjumand looked away and did not reply. Mehrunnisa let her be, and said something of no consequence to Hoshiyar, something meant to be humorous, and the ladies laughed dutifully. All of this escaped Ladli, who, like Arjumand, had her face glued to the screen. When she turned into the balcony, her eyes sparkled with laughter.

“He is so handsome, Arju,” she said, and went to sit next to her cousin. “You are very lucky. If only I could be so lucky too. Mama,” she turned to Mehrunnisa, “you must find me a husband like Khurram.”

And again there was that silence until Arjumand said to her aunt, “Yes, your Majesty, find Ladli someone
like
Khurram. Just
like
him. That will be best for everyone.”

Mehrunnisa sat without moving, anger coming into her unbidden this time. She could not trust herself to speak. Ladli had begun to chatter again, leaning against her mother. She smoothed her daughter’s hair out of her eyes, and Ladli smiled briefly at her mother. Mehrunnisa’s hand trembled, and she moved it into her lap. Just
like
him, Arjumand had had the gall to say. When had the mouselike Arjumand acquired such courage? Had the bearing of three heirs suddenly placed iron in her blood? Who did she think she was? Khurram
would
marry Ladli, there was going to be no argument about that. And Arjumand was the last person who could have a say in this matter. Were she and Khurram stupid enough to think that the Emperor’s affections for his son were stronger than his love for Mehrunnisa?

Sweat dampened her armpits and Mehrunnisa shivered. She was startled as Ladli came forward to kiss her cheek, put her arms around her neck, and say, “Mama, the
darbar
is over. I am going with Arju to welcome Khurram. You must come too. He’s a hero!”

Ladli ran away, one edge of her
ghagara
tucked into her waist to keep her from tripping—she had not yet learned how to fly in the voluminous skirts with the ease of a woman. But Ladli was growing up. She was fifteen, the age when Arjumand herself was betrothed to Khurram, the age at which
she
could just as easily be betrothed to Khurram.

One chance, Mehrunnisa thought. She would ask Khurram again, and he would get only one chance to respond. His star may be on the rise now, but hers was firmly lodged in the skies and would not fade until Jahangir died. If Khurram said no again . . . there was no way she would allow the crown to adorn his head.

•  •  •

After the last spin, when the slave’s hand left his arm and she melted away with a whisper of skirts on the marble floor, Khurram stood quiet, swaying on his feet. His eyes were shut under the blindfold, the cloth of which covered his ears too, but he could still hear if he strained to do so. The prince stumbled and someone giggled to his right, and then the sound was snuffed out. Khurram breathed evenly through his nose and mouth, waiting for the weakness to leave his legs, waiting for his center of balance to return.

It was some weeks after his court appearance, and Khurram was playing
ankh michauli
—blindman’s bluff—with the ladies of his harem. This was one of his rewards from Arjumand. Tonight, she was fatigued, lethargic from symptoms that presaged another pregnancy. Arjumand was fertile like volcanic earth, Khurram thought; he merely had to
look
at her and a child would grow within. And when she tired from carrying the child—if indeed it was a child inside her—she let him take one of the harem women to his bed. But only every now and then.

Night had long settled over the courtyard in Khurram’s apartments, and a bright moon rose to cover the marble slabs with a coating of pale lilac. The verandah arches were in deep darkness, and no lamps had been lit. This was on the prince’s orders; if he was going to be blindfolded, the women should have no light to escape from him. Before the cool cloth was tied over his eyes, Khurram stood in the shadowed yard, looking long and hard at the slaves and concubines around him. They were all clad in white, glimmering silks, brilliant
zari
embroidered into their bodices and
ghagaras,
wrists bare of bangles, diamonds glittering in their ears. They wore no anklets and their feet were bare, so they could flit about him without noise. The blindfold covered his eyes, and then someone twirled him around in circles and let him go until he no longer knew which direction he faced or who was in front of him.