The Feast of Roses (38 page)

Was she a criminal? Had she done wrong in killing a man who had practically put his neck out with his actions? She felt no guilt, no overwhelming sense of wrong. Nizam—that was his name—had come into the imperial
zenana
knowing full well that if he were caught he would die. She had merely executed the death sentence. Why this tremendous outrage? She was disliked . . . this she knew. Khurram had reason for it, so did Empress Jagat Gosini and the other ladies in the harem. But Abul, her own brother?

Her hand shook, and she cast away the embroidery. Abul’s devotion lay with money and titles. Had he forgotten that the very clothes he wore, the title that marked him as one of the grandees of the empire, the house he inhabited, his daughter’s marriage to Khurram, all had come through her?

Mehrunnisa picked up instead the thick volume of the
Shahnama,
the Book of Kings, by Firdausi. Her bookmark, a slender gold wire topped with a ruby button, glimmered at the middle of the pages. Pulling out the bookmark, she began to read of the glory of Persia, of the empire in ancient times until the arrival of Alexander, of the great capital of Persepolis, now south of Shiraz. It took Firdausi thirty years to conceive and complete the
Shahnama,
and in the end, his reward from Shah Mahmud was so paltry that Firdausi wrote a harsh criticism of Mahmud. She turned to the end of the volume to this poem—
Satire on Mahmud.
“Think not, O King! thy sceptre or thy pow’r, One moment can arrest the destin’d hour . . .”

She fretfully slammed the book shut and put it down. Only a miracle would save her; how that would come about, she had no idea.

If she were to die, what of Ladli? At this thought, Mehrunnisa looked up at Hoshiyar. He stood with his back to the door of her apartments, and his gaze had not left her in many hours.

“Hoshiyar,” she said, throwing away all fear. “Call for Prince Khusrau.”

•  •  •

Two eunuchs brought Khusrau into Mehrunnisa’s room and then bowed their way out. She rose and reached for the prince’s hand. He jerked away and stood where he was, his head inclined forward as though it would help him see better.

“Why am I here?”

“Come and sit next to me, Khusrau,” Mehrunnisa said in as placating a tone as she could. She moved in front of him and led the way. Khusrau followed. He stumbled on the edge of the carpet, righted himself, and dragged his feet along the pile, feeling for obstacles. When his right foot hit the divan, he bent down to touch its edges and sat down. He turned to where the light was brightest, toward Mehrunnisa, for she sat in the slanting rays of the westerly sun, the aquamarines on her ears and around her neck gleaming.

Khusrau leaned back from the light a little. He had aged, Mehrunnisa thought. It had been a long time since she had seen him, for Khusrau had been secreted away in the
zenana
’s darkest apartments by the Emperor. His name was not mentioned in Jahangir’s presence, for every time Jahangir regarded Khusrau, all his dislike for this once-loved son came flooding back. So the income that went to him from the imperial treasury was deducted automatically, and he was not invited to state functions.

“Why am I here?” Khusrau asked again, a quaver in his voice. He had been commanded to Mehrunnisa’s presence and had dared not refuse. In any case, he did not have that option. He bent to peer at Mehrunnisa, and his beard, long to his waist as a sign of his father’s disfavor, caught on his cummerbund. He wrestled with it madly, feeling the tug on his chin, until the Empress’s hands came to help him disentangle it.

“How is Khalifa?” she said.

“What do you care, your Majesty?”

Mehrunnisa felt a quickening of rage. Were all the princes to talk to her thus, without respect? “I hear,” she said crisply, “that your confinement has depressed her spirits. That she is sad.”

“She is my wife, your Majesty,” the prince said. “Where else would she be but with me?”

“Khalifa insisted upon being imprisoned with you. She will have to endure the discomfort.”

Khusrau hung his head. What the Empress said was true. When Khusrau had originally been incarcerated by his father, his wife had been offered apartments in the
zenana,
but she had wanted to be with her husband. That meant she had been placed under the same restrictions as Khusrau, for Jahangir had been wary of allowing Khalifa free access to the outside world, by which she could carry messages to and from Khusrau and his supporters.

That last sentence came out sharper than Mehrunnisa expected. In his own way, Khusrau was being as stubborn as Khurram, and he had less reason to be so. But she wanted something from him. “Have you seen Ladli?”

“Your daughter?
Seen
her?” Khusrau laughed. “I have
seen
her indeed, your Majesty, with these two good eyes my father has left me. A beautiful girl. Captivating.” He laughed again, and Mehrunnisa stared at him with distaste. He was so bitter, so without charm. What was she thinking?

“You will marry Ladli, Khusrau,” she said, all pretence at diplomacy gone now. She would order this upon him as she had not been able to upon Khurram. Khusrau had not Khurram’s advantages, he could not refuse.

In response, Khusrau’s shoulders stopped shaking. “So this is why you wanted me here, your Majesty,” he said quietly. “To force a marriage upon me. Why?” He paused. “Did Khurram say no?”

“You are in no position to deny me this, Khusrau. I can give you as much freedom as you want. Marry Ladli and it shall be yours. Khalifa will have full access to the
zenana,
and your sons will be given consequence. You yourself will be able to demand all the rights given to the royal princes. Say yes, Khusrau.”

A sudden smile of expectation lit Khusrau’s face at that word he had not heard in so many years—freedom. But it came at such a price as to make it unworthy. The prince’s voice was low and bitter. “
You
are offering me freedom, your Majesty?” He moved his gaze around. “From here? I hear you cannot step outside yourself. And that when you do step outside tomorrow it will be to greet your death.”

His words brought a wealth of uncertainty into Mehrunnisa. Had she fallen so low, and so suddenly, that even Khusrau, pitiful Khusrau, dared to strike out at her? What had he heard that she had not? She turned to Hoshiyar beseechingly, her hands spread out. What was she to do now?

The eunuch shook his head. He had tried to tell Mehrunnisa to wait until the next morning before she approached the prince, but she had not listened. He spoke now. “Your Highness”—Khusrau slanted his ears to the eunuch—“her Majesty will be absolved of all charges tomorrow. It behooves you to listen to her.”

“Hoshiyar Khan, is it?” Khusrau said. “My father’s most faithful eunuch, once Empress Jagat Gosini’s right-hand man. How do you like serving this new mistress, Hoshiyar? Your tenure here is going to be short indeed.” Khusrau got up from the divan. “Take me back to my apartments, Hoshiyar.”

Mehrunnisa nodded and let the prince go. He walked away with as much dignity as he could muster. When he reached the door, she said furiously, “I will not forget this, Khusrau.”

Khusrau turned. From this far, he could only vaguely gauge her direction. His smile was grotesque. “Then you will take it to your grave, your Majesty.”

“Y
ou are to enter now,
Sahib.
”

An Armenian slave came up to Sir Thomas Roe as he waited outside the
Diwan-i-am.
Another man accompanied the slave, and the two were dressed alike in white silk trousers and a thin silk
qaba.
Jeweled turbans weighted down their heads, and daggers with pearl-and-ruby-inlaid scabbards were stuck into their white brocade cummerbunds.

Roe got up slowly. His body still ached from the fevers he had suffered for the last month. He had lost so much weight that his waistcoat hung loosely from his shoulders.

Roe had arrived at Mandu ten days ago, but a fever had felled him almost as soon as he entered the doorway of his house. The illness had persisted all through the journey from Burhanpur, and Roe at times had simply let himself topple on his horse’s neck and allowed it to carry him where it would. He had dared not stop on the way, for the missives from the court were coming at a furious pace.

It did not help that Roe had fallen sick again upon his arrival at Mandu and so could not wait on Jahangir. The Emperor, suspecting that Roe was faking his illness, had sent a slave to Roe with a wild hog he had killed during a hunt as a present. The slave had stood in the outer courtyard of Roe’s house and insisted that he be allowed to see the ambassador. So Roe had staggered from his bed, barely able to hold his emaciated weight on his feet, to meet with the slave and thank him for the meat.

“I have requested the Emperor’s permission to salute him in the manner of the court of England,” Roe rasped weakly.

The slaves bowed. “So it shall be,
Sahib.
The Emperor knows of your wishes.”

“Let us go then.”

They moved ahead of Roe, the two men walking abreast until they reached the huge wooden doors that led to the
Diwan-i-am.
Roe flicked a speck of dust from the frilled cuff of his right sleeve. He would have dearly liked to be abed still, nursing himself back to health, but the last message from Jahangir had been particularly demanding and uncharitable to excuses of illness. The Emperor had set a date and time for his official introduction, during an evening
darbar,
specially convened to meet Roe. It just happened to be on the night of Mehrunnisa’s incarceration.

The rumors of the morning’s happenings had infiltrated into Roe’s house too. He had dismissed them, obsessed in the labor of dressing in clothes that seemed to have been sewn for a much fatter and prosperous man. Nothing fit anymore. His stockings flapped about his knees, loose like pajamas, and he could move his arms in and out of his coat sleeves without twisting himself out of it. He groaned when he saw his image in the mirror. His skin was the white of salt, his cheeks curved inward into his face, his beard drooped, and his auburn hair was a dull brown. How could he go into court, for the very first meeting, looking like this?

And so still worrying, Roe almost bumped into the Armenian slaves in front of him. They had stopped and now faced the closed doors. An invisible signal must have been given, for the doors began to swing open on slick hinges, and Roe heard his name being announced.

Roe stepped into the
Diwan-i-am
and bowed low from the waist. He straightened and gasped. Diamonds, rubies, and emeralds twinkled in profusion off the clothing and persons of the noblemen. Their coats and trousers glimmered with patterns of gold
zari.
Prince Parviz’s court at Burhanpur had awed him, but here he was stunned. He had not thought it possible that this land, so barren and bereft on the outside, with violent winds and a killing heat, could hold such hidden riches.

The light from the oil and wood torches was pure and clean. Even the smoke from them, that wisped out occasionally, was perfumed with civet. The light went everywhere—caressing the bright and dazzling jewels, bringing out a cool white in the Armenian slaves’
qabas,
deepening the thick reds of the Persian carpets beneath Roe’s feet, painting the faces that looked upon him in unblemished shades of wheat and brown. Roe’s palms swam with damp, and he rubbed them on his waistcoat. His eyes and his mind were filled with these flitting impressions of grandeur, more grand and fantastic than anything he had been told, anything he could imagine. The nobles were all silent, gazing upon him, their heads twisted toward him but their chests firmly facing the Emperor, for they could not turn their backs upon Jahangir. It must be awkward, Roe thought, to hold one’s head like that for a long time. As though in response, a small, almost imperceptible movement bolted through the
Diwan-i-am.
There were no smiles, no shrugs, nothing as blatant as that. But Roe, his vision heightened to sharpness, saw it, and realized that his mouth was agape. He shut his mouth and moved forward.

Roe was barefoot, like the other courtiers. He had been asked to remove his boots, and this still rankled, but as his feet sank into the thick pile of the carpets, he marveled at their richness. And this silence, this quietness even of breath . . . Roe had never been in a courtyard thronging with men and animals and been able to hear the soft
shirr-shirr
as his feet glided over the carpets.

For a moment he was glad for his illness. Having been deprived of all sensations for over a month from his enforced seclusion and having been too sick to care, now it was like a new birth. The air was scented with sandalwood and patchouli. Roe drew the perfumes into his lungs, walked up to the first railing, and bowed again. The two Armenian slaves in front of him bowed to the Emperor and melted noiselessly to the sides. At last Roe could glimpse Jahangir, well down the path of glittering courtiers. Proceeding to the second silver-wrought railing, Roe bowed again, and then he entered the very last enclosure. Here there was little space for him to walk, the nobles crowded on every side. But they moved aside politely to let the ambassador through.

Now Roe was directly below the imperial throne. He bowed, and straightened, and looked upon Emperor Jahangir. The man who sat on the divan was about fifty years old. His hair—what showed of it under the gold brocade imperial turban—and the long sideburns caressing his cheeks were dusted with gray. Jahangir’s eyes were calm, a tranquility that seemed to pervade his whole body. He sat cross-legged on the divan, his back straight, his waist not quite as thin as a young man’s. Jewels gleamed everywhere. The Emperor wore pearls, rubies, diamonds, and emeralds in his ears, on his fingers, around his neck, studded into his cummerbund. Parviz had been a caricature of a prince, betrayed by the deep and dark circles around his shifty eyes, an insubstantial voice, and an unprepossessing presence. His father was all Roe could have wanted in an Emperor. He had been told that one of Jahangir’s wives dominated him and the empire. He had expected then a man much like the ineffectual Parviz, but this was a man Roe could respect.

Jahangir made a sign to the official interpreter.

“The Emperor welcomes you to India, Sir Thomas Roe,” the interpreter said. “He hails his brother across the seas, King James of England.”

“Thank you, your Majesty. I come as the ambassador of King James and bring good wishes. As a token of friendship I bring these gifts and a letter from his Majesty, King James.” Roe handed the letter to the Mir Tozak. It had been painstakingly translated into Persian. “This is the letter of commission from King James, appointing me official ambassador of England to your court, your Majesty.”

Jahangir looked over the letter of commission curiously. “How is your health, Ambassador? You were unwell upon your arrival at Mandu.”

“I am much recovered now, your Majesty. Thank you for asking.”

“That is good. If you need any further assistance, the court physicians will attend you.” The Emperor looked away, and Roe felt his heart pound again. He had done something wrong. What rule of etiquette had he breached? Then he realized what he had forgotten.

“Please accept these gifts on behalf of his Majesty King James.” Roe gestured behind him and stood aside. His attendants brought forth brass platters bearing mounds of delicate frothy laces, English swords, scarves, belts, cases of fine English brandy, English hats and boots, and pieces of china.

The Emperor surveyed his gifts. “What else?”

“I have also brought an English carriage for your use, your Majesty.”

Jahangir clapped his hands. His smile was like that of a delighted child. “A carriage! Where is it?”

“It awaits you outside, your Majesty.”

“Go outside and see the carriage,” Jahangir ordered. Two courtiers immediately backed out of the
Diwan-i-am
to see the coach.

While they were gone, Jahangir talked with Roe. He asked him who had accompanied him, and Roe brought Thomas Armstrong forward. Armstrong was a musician and carried his virginals with him. What sound did that make, Jahangir asked. If his Majesty would be so pleased, Thomas would play for him. They listened until the nobles ran back to court with news of the coach. Roe strained to make out what they were saying to the Emperor, but he could understand only a few words of the Turki they were speaking. He bent toward his interpreter, who tried to decipher the rush of sentences. The coach had been harnessed to four impeccably white horses from Jahangir’s stables. It was curiously wrought, with big wheels that looked rather flimsy. It had doors and windows like a real house. But most impressive of all was the English coachman who had been brought along from England, sweating outside in the heat of the torches in full gold-braided livery.

Jahangir smiled at Roe again and then turned away. His audience was over. He had been warned that he could not expect but a few words of greeting from the Emperor, but Jahangir had been very gracious indeed. Any business would have to come later, in the slow fashion of this empire. The Emperor would meet with Roe many times, and become familiar with him, before talk could turn serious. And then, if the time was right, the stars beneficial, Roe could ask Jahangir for the trade treaty. For today though, this was enough.

Roe bowed again, trod backwards to the doors, bowing at each railing until he was ushered out. Still dazzled by the lushness of the
Diwan-i-am,
Roe rode home slowly. As he reached the front yard, the fever came to swamp through his bones again. He fell from his horse and, delirious, had to be carried inside to collapse on his bed.

•  •  •

When Roe left, Jahangir got into his new coach and rode around the courtyard a few times. He examined the coach minutely. The cushions were covered with red velvet from China, the body was made of a light wood, nailed with brass nails. Jahangir complained about the Chinese velvet to the courtiers present. Why did the king of England have to send him cushions covered with Chinese velvet? He had heard that there was better velvet to be found in Europe. And the hats and scarves and lace—were those gifts one king would send to another? Where were the jewels and precious stones? Even Rana Amar Singh, a conquered king, had gifted a large ruby, horses, and elephants to the empire.

Jahangir walked around his new coach, swung the doors open a few times, checked the wheels, and finally looked at the English coachman. The man bowed as low and deep as he could, his breath stifling in his tight clothes. The Emperor laughed and sent him away to change into something cooler. He gave him a new salary. The coachman could stay in India as long as he wanted, the imperial treasury would fund him.

Of Mehrunnisa, the Emperor said nothing. The nobles all watched him carefully. But he seemed unconcerned about the trial the next morning. Was this the end of Empress Nur Jahan? they wondered to each other at meetings all through the night. Jahangir behaved as though nothing was going to happen that was not usual or routine. He had not been to see his wife, this much the nobles knew, everyone knew. Once, just once during the day, Hoshiyar Khan had been commanded to meet him, then Hoshiyar had left the
zenana.

Well before the break of dawn, the streets of Mandu thronged with people. The nobles passed through the crowds, clutching in their hands the cherished passes for the morning
jharoka.
They went into the courtyard and waited for the next few hours until the sun saw it fit to rise.

•  •  •

Khurram positioned himself at the very back of the courtyard, where he leaned against a wall and waited. The
zenana
women stood behind the balcony. There were no petitioners in the crowd; the only event that would take place would be the trial. The men stood shoulder to shoulder. They had been standing for quite a few hours now. The imperial orchestra began to play. As the trumpets lifted into the air, the Mir Tozak shouted, “All hail Emperor Jahangir, the Adil Padshah!”

“All hail!” the courtiers responded.

Jahangir entered the balcony above them. Backs bowed in the
taslim.

“Bring in Empress Nur Jahan,” the Emperor said to Hoshiyar Khan. When Mehrunnisa appeared, she stood an arm’s length from Jahangir. Her veil was of a thin white muslin spangled with tiny silver buttons. Through it, she surveyed the sea of faces before her. They were all there—Muhammad Sharif, Abul, Khurram, and Bapa. Abul was by Khurram’s side again, not right under the balcony as he should have been. No matter. She knew where she stood. Alone.

The Amir-ul-umra was at one corner. She wondered if he had let Mahabat Khan know of this yet. If he had dispatched runners to Kabul, they would not have reached by any means, and by the time they did, this would all be over. But so much repugnance from the men . . . what had she done to deserve such distaste?