The Feast of Roses (40 page)

•  •  •

Khurram strode the length of his apartments. When he reached the end of the long room, an arrow of sunshine touched the diamonds on his turban and his cummerbund. He turned and marched up to the divan where Arjumand sat.

“I will not go to the Deccan!”

Arjumand looked up from her embroidery. Khurram had stormed into their apartments half an hour ago. This was the first time he had spoken to her, but Arjumand knew her husband well. When he was in a rage, it was better to let him work things out for himself. So she had kept silent.

“Who says you are to go, my lord?” she asked now.

“The Emperor ordered me to the Deccan, but it is obvious where the orders come from.”

“Softly, my lord. It is said she has spies even in our palace.”

Khurram looked around and then twisted his young face to hers. Jahangir had sent for him early in the morning. Ambar Malik had rebelled again, and Parviz was a poor leader. So Khurram had to go and relieve him of his command.

“What did you say?”

“What could I say? I had to agree.” Khurram ran his fingers through his hair worriedly. “Why does she want to send me away?”

Arjumand frowned. “Why indeed? Is there some real danger to the empire from Ambar Malik?”

“I do not think so. The lands he has stolen from us were ones we took from him. He has gone no further, but he is too close now.” Khurram sat down on the divan and hunched forward, hands resting on his knees. “Why should I have to go, Arjumand?”

She smoothed the hair on his nape, and Khurram leaned into her hand. “Because there is no commander like you, my lord. You must go, if you obey the Emperor in this, and return victorious, as I am sure you will, his Majesty’s approval will fall upon us again. Then, no one can shake it, not even the Empress.”

“Do you think that is all there is to this order? The Deccan is a long way off, Arjumand, and will be farther still when his Majesty returns to Agra.”

“What do you worry about, my lord?”

“You,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his chest.

“I will come with you,” Arjumand said with a laugh. “This time, I will come. And no one will be able to stop me.”

“Are you sure?” Khurram asked anxiously. “It is not comfortable on campaign.”

“I will come.” Arjumand’s back grew rigid. “I will come,” she said again.

Khurram rubbed her hand over the silk brocade of his
nadiri.
Upon his return from Mewar, the Emperor had gifted him this coat in the
Diwan-iam.
It was a sign of imperial favor, favor he knew Mehrunnisa would dearly like to tear off his back. So he wore it every day—once the coat was bestowed the wearer could have many more sewn. Khurram had three hundred
nadiris.

Arjumand said he must go to the Deccan; as she spoke more of it now, Khurram saw that it would be to his advantage indeed. He would return to court and be showered with gifts, perhaps even a new title. His succession would be secure. He had stayed by the Emperor’s side all this while, watching Mehrunnisa at court with a thick sense of dread. She flaunted rules, flirted with conventions, but her hold on his father was as strong as ever. She could do no wrong, and so Khurram worried if he had done the right thing in refusing Ladli. He could no longer go to Mehrunnisa and ask for the alliance again—it would be like asking for forgiveness. Another thought rose to disturb him.

“I cannot leave Khusrau here,” he said suddenly, interrupting Arjumand. “If I do, the Empress will make him marry Ladli.”

She sat up and turned his face to her. “Then take him with you, my lord.”

“Take him . . .” Khurram smiled at her in delight. “Yes, I will take him with me. He will be safer with me than with the Empress.” He kissed her on her mouth. “You are brilliant, Arjumand.”

The next day Khurram approached his father after the afternoon
Diwan-i-am
session and walked back with him to the
zenana
apartments. He would go, he said, if he could have Khusrau’s company during the journey. Why, the Emperor asked? Where had this sudden brotherly affection come from? Khurram protested that he had always had that affection. Khusrau was blind, a burden on his Majesty, surely a trip away would benefit all of them? Jahangir let Khurram trail beside him as he went on. Any liking he had had for these two sons had vanished. They had insulted Mehrunnisa, and in doing so, had insulted him. In the end, he agreed to Khurram’s request.

So Khurram left Mandu for the Deccan to enormous fanfare. He rode out in a copy of the English coach Roe had given Jahangir; a new jewel-studded sword worth one hundred thousand rupees hung from his belt, and tucked into his cummerbund was a short dagger worth forty thousand rupees. The coach had two copies, one for Mehrunnisa and one for Prince Khurram. The original had been dismantled and reupholstered in brocade and jeweled silks. Brass nails had been replaced with silver nails, and the floor of the coach had been covered in beaten silver sheets.

Khurram’s entourage was not ten days on its journey when Empress Jagat Gosini died. The illness came upon her suddenly, a fever one night, delirium the next, a coma the following morning from which she never woke. After Mahabat Khan, her one ally, was banished to Kabul, Jagat Gosini was crushed into obscurity. Even Khurram was lost to her—lost, really almost from the first year of his life, given to Ruqayya, and then to Arjumand. The woman who merely gave birth to him had little place in his affections, and this Jagat Gosini realized at last. That Ruqayya had defeated her.

There might have been some solace in the news that came to Mandu just before Jagat Gosini’s passing, but she died without hearing it. At Agra, a month before, Ruqayya Sultan Begam had died too. She had chosen not to travel to Ajmer and Mandu with the royal court. And one day, in the
zenana
palaces of the Agra Fort, Ruqayya saw the dreaded rat flee shrieking through her apartments to dash its head against the wall. The bubonic plague took her. But Ruqayya died as she had lived, greatly daring, a woman of substance.

Mehrunnisa mourned Ruqayya’s passing with a depth she had not expected. It was not a daily grief, for Ruqayya had been at Agra these past few years, and so there had not been a daily connection. But she had always been there, someone Mehrunnisa could ask for advice, someone to talk with, even through the written word . . . now no more.

Parviz was still, in his desultory fashion, living in the Deccan. Only Prince Shahryar was at court. Khurram went on his new campaign with a lightened heart, sure that he had taken out yet another arrow from Mehrunnisa’s arsenal. But he forgot that his youngest brother was seventeen, born the same year as Ladli.

Shahryar was old enough to be married.

S
ir Thomas Roe had been in India for two years now, and he was wretched. He was no closer to a treaty than when he had first come to the Emperor’s court. The fevers that had caught him upon his arrival never really let go—they came and went with a frightening regularity, leaving Roe feeling sick most of the time. He had taken no trouble to learn the local languages; Roe knew just a smattering of Persian, with which he haltingly communicated with Emperor Jahangir. When it came to the treaty itself, or any talk of it, Roe had to let his interpreters do the talking. It was frustrating to not know whether the formality of his language and his respectful tone and manner had been communicated. He could only watch Emperor Jahangir’s reactions, and as always, Jahangir kept a bland face and always gave Roe a polite reply. Diplomacy was a tedious, time-consuming, temper-keeping process, and Roe was running out of both time and temper.

His royal hosts were very kind, though. Almost every day, fresh kill from the Emperor’s hunt—boars, wild pigs,
nilgau (
a kind of blue ox), venison, and partridge meat—found its way to Roe’s kitchens. Mehrunnisa sent him slave girls for his use too, which Roe returned with a respectful thanks, but his was a bachelor establishment, your Majesty, he explained, women had little place in it. She gifted him golden and luscious muskmelons that she had grown in the
zenana
gardens—Roe found these irresistible and cool in the heat of the summer months.

Roe doggedly reciprocated to each of the offerings with something of his own. The Company sent huge cargoes of gifts of all kinds to India, hoping to buy their way into the country. But Roe could not match Mehrunnisa and Jahangir’s generosity—their pockets ran deep into the imperial treasury itself.

The imperial couple dithered, their quills never quite hovering over Roe’s much desired treaty, though always open in courtesy to Roe. The Empress had what she wanted from the ambassador—protection from the Portuguese for her ships in the Arabian Sea. Her ships, somewhat incongruously, also carried the Portuguese
cartaz.
Roe woke from one of his illnesses to find the Jesuit priests reestablished at court and a special new envoy from the Viceroy a pace away. Mehrunnisa had acquired a double indemnity of sorts. Both the English and the Portuguese patrolled the shipping routes, both of them guarded her ships, both wished the other to damnation, and neither knew how to achieve it.

Roe said nothing, knowing he had been cleverly finessed. He still hopped around the topic of the treaty, of course. For her part, Mehrunnisa did not ask Roe,
what
trade with England?

It was not a ridiculous question. What was it England had to offer in trade for all they wanted from the empire?

There was literally
nothing
from the English markets that would sell in Indian markets in large enough quantities to own the title of trade. The English offered broadcloth; in the beginning it was a curiosity, but so impractical in the end, too thick and heavy and unsuitable to the searing heat of India. The advantages lay with the empire. Roe was here not merely as the first official ambassador from England but very much as the chief representative of the East India Company. He had orders to buy a number of items such as gumlac, copper, brass, silver, cotton, indigo, saltpeter, opium, and spices like pepper, turmeric, and saffron. The two most important were indigo and cotton.

Indigo was a dark blue vat dye used to color silks, wools, and cottons. It came from a plant that grew in the brackish water in places like Bayana, southwest of Agra. The dye was precious, named
neel,
or “blue,” in India, though Roe called it as all others did: indigo, or “the color of India.” The leaves of the plant were soaked in huge vats of water for two days until the blue dye seeped out. The water was then drained, and the indigo sank to the bottom of the vat. This was allowed to dry and then rolled into balls and stored in clay jars for shipment. The warehouses that housed these precious indigo balls were huge buildings, lit by the sun through ceiling skylights, with massive shelves reaching to the roof, each stacked with jars of indigo.

The English were vying with the Portuguese and the recently arrived Dutch for most of the Indian goods. As a result, the price of indigo fluctuated wildly, depending upon the demand for the dye or the supply, which in turn depended upon the indigo harvest. Roe was almost daily in touch with news from Bayana about the price of indigo, and when it fell, he bought large amounts to store in their factories for the next ship to England.

Not having a very favorable balance of trade, having nothing to offer in return for what they were taking out of the empire, the English were pouring gold and silver coins into India for the goods they bought. England’s coffers were slowly depleted, and the Mughal imperial treasury grew fat with gold and silver. As soon as the English coins came to the treasury, they were promptly melted down and recoined with the Emperor’s stamp.

Roe wrote numerous letters to the East India Company warning them of the consequences of pouring too much silver into India. The imperial treasury was so surfeit that the silver deposits in the empire lay unmined, the miners off in search of a new trade. When the empire needed silver, the English practically
gave
it to the Mughal treasury, to melt and export as the need arose. So with all his worries about diplomacy and courtly behavior, Roe had this other added headache. Finally, the Company decided to trade with their imports.

Porcelain came from Macao, camphor from Borneo, spices from Achin and Bantim, raw silk and lignum aloes from Thailand, ivory and amber from Africa, and silver from Japan. The markets at Agra were lavish with all these curiosities from so many countries around the world that no Indian merchant had ever set foot upon.

So Roe plodded on in India, executing his duties as conscientiously as he could, and all the while yearning for the cool dampness of England. One afternoon, Roe was lying in a hammock strung in his gardens when an attendant brought news that Jahangir’s entourage was passing by. The ambassador hurried out to pay his respects. When Jahangir was abreast of him, Roe bowed from the waist. The Emperor reined in his horse.

“How are you, Ambassador?”

“I am doing well, your Majesty.”

“What do you have for me?” Jahangir asked, looking curiously at the book that Roe held.

Since it was etiquette to never appear before the Emperor without a gift, Roe had hurried out of his house with the latest edition of Mercator’s atlas. The ambassador had nothing else in his house to give to the Emperor; he was still waiting for the latest shipment from England. Upon arriving in India, Roe, comparing Mercator with the local maps, saw that the atlas wrongly showed the Indus River emptying into the Gulf of Cambay instead of the Sind. Lahore was nowhere near the Ravi, and of Agra, the capital of the empire, there was no mention.

He offered the atlas. “Since you are emperor of so vast an empire, your Majesty, please accept this book of maps. I give to a mighty king the world.”

“Everything that comes from you, big or small, is greatly welcome, Sir Thomas.” Jahangir laid his hand on his chest as he spoke. “Tell me, has your latest shipment arrived?”

“I expect it any day, your Majesty.”

“Where do you live?” Jahangir looked around. Roe pointed to the ruined mosque that was his home.

“That is very fine,” the Emperor said gallantly, as he signaled his attendants to move on. Roe bowed and waited until Jahangir was out of sight.

•  •  •

A few days later, news was brought to Roe that the English ship had docked at Surat. Among the gifts it carried for Jahangir were two mastiffs. Edwards had first brought the Emperor a mastiff as a present. That dog had gone to the hunt ferociously and killed a leopard and a boar, while the dogs from Persia had sniveled in fear. Impressed, Jahangir had demanded more dogs from Roe. Six mastiffs had left England, and only two had survived the journey.

Jahangir ordered that the two mastiffs were to always travel with him, borne along in gold and silver palanquins. Each dog was to have four attendants specially assigned to its care, and a pair of gold tongs was fashioned so that Jahangir could feed the dogs pieces of meat himself, without having his hands bitten off.

The shipment also brought the requisite hats, coats, and paintings that the Emperor was so fond of. After looking at them, Jahangir and Mehrunnisa chose the paintings that they liked the most, and these were sent to the royal ateliers, where the empire’s painters copied them in every exact detail. The paintings were given out to
zenana
ladies and courtiers as signs of favor. So English hunting scenes, battle scenes, pictures of the ladies of James’s court all adorned the palaces of the harem and the homes of the nobles at Mandu.

A few days later, Jahangir summoned Roe to his presence and showed him one of the paintings. It was of Venus and the Satyr, showing the Satyr with his horns and swarthy skin.

“You must remain silent, Roe,” Jahangir said. “I shall ask the nobles in the court for an interpretation of this wonderful painting you have brought for us from England.”

The Emperor turned to the assembled courtiers.

They eagerly gave their explanations, but Jahangir was not satisfied.

“No, none of you is right,” the Emperor said when the last person finished speaking. “You tell us what it means, Reverend,” Jahangir said to Reverend Terry, Roe’s companion and chaplain.

“Your Majesty,” Roe said. “The reverend is a preacher, a man of God. He knows very little of such matters.”

“Very well then, Sir Thomas, give me your explanation.”

Roe hesitated. Something was wrong, but what? “Your Majesty, the artist simply intends to show his skill, but the interpretation escapes me. I have not seen this painting before,” Roe said cautiously.

“I will accept your excuse and give you an explanation myself,” Jahangir said. His tone was as gracious as ever, but the words were not. “The moral of this picture is this: the painter scorns Asians. This is evident from the fact that the naked Satyr represents us, with his swarthy skin. See here,” Jahangir pointed, “Satyr is being held captive by the nose by Venus, who is a white woman. The painter means to show contempt for all Asians by portraying them as captives of the white people.”

“Most certainly not, your Majesty,” Roe said hurriedly. “I beg pardon if the artist has somehow offended you. There has been some misunderstanding.”

“Never mind.” Jahangir waved a hand. “I shall accept the gift nonetheless. You may go now, Ambassador.”

Roe bowed.

“By the way, take Mercator’s atlas back with you.” Jahangir handed Roe the book of maps. “I have shown it to the
mullas
at court, and none of them can understand it. I could not rob you of such a jewel.”

Roe bowed and cursed under his breath. He had made two mistakes, and both had not been directly of his doing. He rushed home and wrote a furious letter to the East India Company detailing the incident with the painting and cautioning them against sending any more allegorical pictures for fear of offending the Emperor.

Giving the atlas to Jahangir had been his own mistake, but only for the lack of anything else to give. Mercator showed the Mughal Empire to be but a paltry piece of land on the earth. There were other vast countries, some explored, some not. The Emperor had called himself “World Conqueror” upon his ascension—according to Mercator he was no such thing. Roe had insulted Jahangir.

The Emperor made no further reference to the painting; his point had been made—it was a diplomatic glitch, and if the English wished to remain longer in India they would not make such a blunder again. The oils and watercolors that came from England were now of benign and happy scenes, pleasing to the eye, not even remotely reprehensible to the sensibility.

And so time passed. The plague waned and finally came to its death in northern India. Another winter came, it was awaited with terror, but no, Agra, Delhi, and Lahore survived. Jahangir and Mehrunnisa decided to return to Agra, and from there go to Kashmir for the first time since they had been married.

The Emperor made Roe the same offer he had made William Hawkins—if he wished to stay on in India and quit the East India Company, he only had to say so. The imperial treasury would give him a huge salary, one much bigger than what the Company was paying him now; he would be a legitimate
mansabdar
of the empire, a commander of a thousand horses, and finally, he would get the title of Khan. Sir Thomas Roe Khan. Or Khan Thomas Roe. Any way he wanted it.

Roe wrote one final letter to the East India Company directors, resigning his duties. He advised against another “official” ambassador to take his place. It was useless, he said, to try and wrangle a treaty from the Emperor—his Majesty was too canny to lose the tremendous advantage he had, that of playing the English and the Portuguese off each other.

On February 17, 1619, a fleet of ships put to sea from the bar off Surat, headed for England. Sir Thomas Roe was aboard the
Anne.

He wanted to go home.

1
. The amount must indeed have seemed enormous to our author, as the regular revenue of England at that time could scarcely have exceeded a single million.