The Feast of Roses (42 page)

A little piece flaked off the edge and went flitting down to the carpet.

Ladli’s hand shot forward to grip her mother’s wrist. “I . . . can I have that, Mama?”

Mehrunnisa let the dried rose fall into Ladli’s other hand, surprised at the vehemence of her touch. “Do you press flowers,
beta
?” she asked.

Ladli shook her head, cupping the flower carefully in her hand. “Just . . . this one.”

Why? Mehrunnisa wanted to ask, why this one? But her daughter was suddenly unreadable, as though she were miles away on some forgotten frontier of the empire. The sweet aroma of the rose swirled from the pages of the book. There was no mistaking it—this was a Persian musk rose, the one used to make attar. Its value lay in the heaviness of its perfume. But musk roses were precious, Mehrunnisa thought, grown in the imperial gardens only for the attar, and for little other pleasure. Yet, at Ajmer, in Khurram’s apartments, one bush thronged over the courtyard walls, branches laden with clusters of white musk roses, pearls in the moonlight. And only . . . in Khurram’s apartments.

She wanted desperately to ask if this rose was so cherished because Khurram had given it to Ladli. And why? Under what circumstances?

Instead, Mehrunnisa held Ladli’s face in her hands and kissed it, touching the skin on her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, and her nose with her lips. “It will be all right,
beta.
”

Ladli nodded. “Yes, it will. I know I have to marry sometime. And there are few of us who are fortunate enough to choose that person.” The words were philosophic, worthy of an old seer, not one as young as Ladli. At her age, Mehrunnisa would have raged, at least inside herself, and shown it in brief glimpses to people around her, Bapa, Abul, her mother. But Ladli had a cultivated sense of self-command, a thin sheath of protection she raised in front of everyone, even Mehrunnisa.

She kissed Ladli again softly on the forehead and rose to leave. Mehrunnisa stopped at the door at the sound of Ladli’s voice. She turned, but her daughter’s head was bent toward the stiff Persian musk rose in her hands.

“Mama, did you ever ask Khurram?”

•  •  •

The wedding took place in April of 1621, after the royal party returned to Agra. Shahryar sent Ladli a thick gold band set with a hundred tiny, perfectly faceted diamonds as a promise to marry her. She returned to him five leaves of
paan
—betel—with a small ball of jaggery, betel nuts, and sugar cubes, wrapped in a red silk handkerchief.
Let me sweeten your mouth, my lord, upon the occasion of your betrothal.
Music parties were made up on the lawns under the chenar trees, the
malis
worked hard in trimming rosebushes of thorns so no silk veils would catch as the women danced by. On the morning of the wedding, they rose early to pluck marigolds and lilies for garlands at the first blush of dawn. Gifts went from the
zenana
apartments to the
mardana
where Shahryar lived—silks, jewels, emerald-studded saddles, Arabian horses of immaculate bloodlines, sweets from the imperial kitchens, gold and silver jugs of wine, and
farmans
from Mehrunnisa for the prince. His
mansab
was raised and his income was doubled. Shahryar now was a commander in the army, with a
mansab
of eight thousand cavalry and four thousand infantry—almost as much as Khurram. Mehrunnisa signed the
farmans
herself. The royal princes were wealthy men, but none had as much wealth as their father’s favorite wife—Mehrunnisa’s income was equal to that of a commander of thirty thousand horses, only there was no commander in the empire who could put his name to that amount of money each year.

As the ceremony progressed, Mehrunnisa sat behind the curtain that separated the women of the imperial
zenana,
watching and listening. She heard the
qazi
ask Shahryar if he would take Ladli as his wife. His reply was weak, almost disinterested. He slouched on the divan, in looks a magnificent prince—fingers thronging with diamonds and emeralds from his dowry, his silk
qaba
embroidered with the finest gold
zari,
shimmering as he turned this way and that, the turban on his head sporting a ruby and diamond aigrette; but there seemed no spine in his back.

The
qazi
turned to Ladli and asked the same question.

“Yes, I will.” Her reply was quiet, but stronger. And when she spoke, her voice did not waver, and Shahryar turned to look at the woman who was to be his wife. She sat by Mehrunnisa, thickly veiled in red chiffon, behind the
zenana
curtain.

He had not seen her in many years. Though they had both grown up in the same palaces, they could well have lived miles apart, for Ladli had been with Mehrunnisa and Jahangir, Shahryar, in some corner with his myriad nurses.

The
qazi
called them all to prayer, and they prayed, heads bent, voices following his command. Ladli began to tremble, violently, and Mehrunnisa clasped her daughter’s hand and brought it to her heart, suddenly harshly angry. This was all because of Khurram. They would not be here at Ghias Beg’s house, inaugurating a sham marriage, if not for Khurram. Mehrunnisa had
wanted
Khurram to be her son-in-law. She did not like him any more, but Ladli did . . . Ladli did, and that was enough. He would have treated her well, this Mehrunnisa knew. And for Ladli, his very kindness, perhaps a visit every now and then when Arjumand was unwell, this would have sufficed. She had not her mother’s ambition.

Mehrunnisa kissed Ladli’s hand and put it against her cheek. The prayer was over, and the men and women rose on both sides of the curtain, calling out congratulations and best wishes, hugging each other. Ladli sat still, her head bowed under the wedding veil. To Mehrunnisa most voices were strained, even her own. She smiled and laughed, tried not to look at her daughter when she spoke of her happiness. She sent slaves to carry news of the ceremony to Asmat, who was ill and in bed. That in itself was an omen, one Mehrunnisa would not think about, that Ladli’s grandmother had not been here to witness the wedding.

On the other side, Ghias Beg went to his son and held out his arms. Abul and he embraced.

“Congratulations, Bapa,” Abul said.

“And to you too, Abul, your niece has been married,” Ghias replied.

Then they fell silent and glanced at Mehrunnisa. She nodded to them, watchful of their expressions. Ghias looked tired, and old. This was an occasion of joy, yet neither was happy. Abul would write to Khurram of this marriage. But where did
his
affections lie? With her or with his son-in-law? Their
junta
had perished now; this marriage was the final break between them.

The rooms were cleared, and food was brought in for the wedding party. Mehrunnisa ate slowly, without tasting the golden
naans,
the bread freshly peeled from the walls of the tandoor oven and brought to her plate. Ladli did not eat, her plate was returned to the kitchens as it was, heaped with the
naans
and curries of lamb and goat. She was crying, but softly, tears running down her face.

Mehrunnisa pushed away her plate, wishing she could gather Ladli in her arms as she had when she was a child and tell her everything was going to be all right. This was a wretched beginning, and for the first time in a long time, she doubted whether she had done right. But what other alternative did she have?

A few weeks later, Jahangir’s hacking cough returned, and he fell ill again. Mehrunnisa decided that they should go to Kashmir, perhaps the clean air of the mountains would help.

In the Deccan, the first place Khurram reconquered was Burhanpur, where Parviz had ruled, and where he had met Roe and indulged in the finest English brandy the East India Company could muster. From there, the prince pounded south into Khirki, the capital of Ahmadnagar, and set fire to it, determined that Khirki would never call itself a city again. The houses were forlorn blackened skeletons, men, women, and children were locked inside and burned with them, and the wells and reservoirs were filled in with sand and rocks. The stench and stumps of charred oxen and cows smoldered in the streets. Khurram then pursued Ambar Malik to Daulatabad, cornered him, and waited patiently for Malik to die or surrender. And it was here the letter found Khurram.

Sitting outside his tent on a rock, Prince Khurram read the news of Ladli’s marriage. He tossed it into the fire in disgust. How could anyone want to marry that
nashudani
? Ladli deserved someone like him, Khurram—a prince worthy of the title, a warrior, the man who would be Emperor . . . He remembered how she had always been an enchanting child. He remembered too how she had suddenly grown into a graceful woman, with a light step, with smiles that bespoke secrets. After that night at Ajmer, Khurram had not seen much of Ladli. She still came to their apartments, but much less than before, shyer with him than she had ever been. The temptation to take Ladli, to marry her and bring her into his harem, had been almost crushing in its intensity. But he had not . . . and she had to marry someone. But
nashudani
?

This changed everything. He had taken Khusrau away with him so Mehrunnisa would not have a chance of forcing him to marry Ladli. But he had taken away the wrong prince. She must have been planning this marriage even as he had left for the Deccan.

He pulled so hard at his hair that some of it came away in his hands, and Khurram threw it into the fire. A sour smell rose. Khurram bent over, coughing, and turned away. What was he to do now? Jahangir was ill again, if he died . . . Shahryar would become emperor, and he, Khurram, was too far away to be effective. Besides, Ambar Malik was at the edge of surrender here; if he left now, all these months of fighting would come to naught. And if he was victorious, and his father survived, he could claw his way back to the Emperor’s good graces. So through the night, as the camp slept around him, as the fire dwindled to a few glowing embers, Khurram sat outside under the stars and thought.

When morning came, he wrote to Abul Hasan. It was a plain and direct letter. He knew his father-in-law’s loyalties lay with him, not with his sister. If Jahangir died, Abul was to secure the throne for Khurram. The prince watched the runner leave his camp. It was easy for him to command this of Abul. But the logistics were terrifyingly complex. How was Abul to keep a crown safe on an empty
gaddi
when Shahryar was right there to sit on it? Khurram needed to return to Agra.

As though on cue, Ambar Malik was vanquished in less than a week’s waiting, starved into submission. The negotiations for peace took longer—treaties were drawn up, terms agreed upon, much talking and drinking and celebrations indulged in. Impatient, Khurram decided to give the kingdoms of Bijapur, Golconda, and Ahmadnagar easy terms; five million rupees were to be sent to Emperor Jahangir.

He rushed back to Burhanpur and wrote a long letter to his father. Khurram embellished details of the siege on Ambar Malik, giving himself more consequence than he deserved, desperate to return to court. And he waited for a reply.

It came, but there was no invitation to the imperial court. The Emperor thanked him, Mehrunnisa thanked him for his efforts on behalf of the empire; he was a brave son indeed, and perhaps . . . the air at Burhanpur suited him well enough?

Khurram ranted to Arjumand, to anyone who would listen, went on hunts and drinking binges until he had to be carried to bed each night. He would not be feted again at court, he was no longer the victorious and triumphant prince returning to a father’s benign gaze. Shahryar, that good-for-nothing, had replaced him.

A month later, Khurram sobered up. Shahryar he would deal with later. But if he wanted the throne for himself,
any
other man within shouting range who had royal blood in his veins was a danger too. His head keen and unclouded without liquor or opium, Khurram began to think again. He had asked to be Khusrau’s guard for more than one reason. Half-blind and half-mad, Khusrau was still the eldest son, still the prince who was hailed as the next heir to the throne. He was a threat.

Emperor Jahangir had once said that kingship knew no kinship.

Prince Khurram was about to prove him right.

K
hurram watched as the commanders of his army came into the outer reception hall of the
zenana.
Each man stopped at the doorway, performed the
konish,
and walked up to the prince, where he bowed again. Abdur Rahim came in last. Khurram had insisted that the commander-in-chief of the Mughal army join him in this Deccani campaign—it had been one of the conditions he had placed before the Emperor. So Abdur Rahim had left Parviz’s side, where he had been stuck for so many years, and joined Khurram’s army. He too bowed to the prince. When he straightened his back to look at Khurram, his face was a vacant mask. All the nobles were tense, vigilant. They had been called here to be part of a momentous decision, they knew, for Khurram had invited them into the
zenana
itself. This reception hall was one rarely visited by men not belonging to the imperial family. The prince was showing them favor, but why? What was he going to ask in return?

Khurram sat down on his divan at the head of the hall and waved his hand. “Please sit.”

The nobles glanced at each other briefly. Another privilege—only in camp, at the battlefield, were such courtesies dispensed of with the royals. But they were no longer at war, and they had to treat Prince Khurram as they would the Emperor himself. They hesitated, and then sank on shaky knees to the carpets, sitting on their heels, toes flat out, hands resting on their thighs.

“You are all sworn to secrecy. Not a word of what is said here today must pass to any other ear.”

The men nodded.

“I have received news that the Emperor is dying,” Khurram said. The men looked on the ground, stealing glances at each other. They had only heard of Jahangir’s illness, and that he was recovered now. The prince said softly, “His Majesty Emperor Akbar had a great fondness for me. He wished the throne to be mine . . .”

Abdur Rahim, to Khurram’s right, spoke. “Prince Shahryar is with the Emperor, your Highness. It is generally believed that he has both his Majesty’s and her Majesty’s support.”

“But that would go against Emperor Akbar’s wishes,” Khurram said, watching the old soldier. Rahim sat with difficulty, his arthritic knees gave him distress, but if he was in pain, it did not show either in his face or in his voice. If any trouble came to change his plans, Khurram thought, Rahim would be the man to start it.

“As you say, your Highness,” Rahim said now, “his Majesty wished for you to shoulder the burden of the empire. But that was a long time ago.”

“Who else is there, Rahim?” Khurram flared.

“Now that is an interesting question, your Highness,” the soldier replied. He met the prince’s eyes without flinching. Abdur Rahim had lived too long to fear anything. His entire life had been spent at the helm of a marauding army; he was not to be cowed by a prince’s petulance. “You are but one of four princes.”

“Parviz and Shahryar? Tell me what their value is?” Khurram demanded.

Abdur Rahim smiled. “But little.”

“Khusrau?” Khurram’s tone was contemptuous. “He is mad.”

Abdur Rahim nodded. “The prince is unfortunately circumstanced.”

“Do you still support him, Abdur Rahim?” Khurram said, referring to the role Rahim had played in Khusrau’s rebellion against Jahangir. “If you do, it is best you leave now. What I am about to say is not for you.”

Rahim spread his hands out. It was a placatory gesture. “Slowly, your Highness. You must act slowly and with discretion. I merely pointed out that as much as we may swear fealty to you here, there are others in the empire whose loyalties sway toward the other princes. Prince Khusrau did not live up to his early promise . . .”

He let the words hang between them. Khurram picked at the sash of his cummerbund with unsteady fingers.
This
was what he had wanted. This was why he had taken the chance of bringing Abdur Rahim to the conference. Once his advocacy of Khurram was so readily evident, the rest of the commanders would follow Khurram’s lead.

Khurram spoke then of what he wanted to do. There were no voices raised in protest, no murmurs even. They all knew that when Khurram became Emperor, he would remember who had been in this room. The men rose from their places and, one by one, knelt and kissed the ground in front of the prince. When they departed, Khurram called for his slave Raza.

•  •  •

A few days later, Khusrau was laid up in bed with colic pains. Khurram solicitously sent the royal physicians to attend to him. The
hakims
looked at the prince’s white, pain-wrought face, ran their fingers over the thin pulse on his wrist, and clucked to each other in one corner of the room. They did not dare effect a cure—there was no cure against the determination of one brother to kill the other. This had merely been a rumor for so long. When Khurram had demanded to take Khusrau with him, Jahangir had been plagued with wailings from the
zenana
ladies. Why did Khurram request this? He must have some devious plan in progress. The Emperor had listened to all the women, but in the end, only one woman’s voice had prevailed, Mehrunnisa’s. She had said Khusrau must go. If he would not marry Ladli, it did not matter whether he was at court or with Khurram. Mehrunnisa did not suspect that Khurram would try to murder Khusrau—that thought did not cross her mind, for it was one so incredible. Khurram would be a fool if he followed through with this. His brother was in his care, and if he died in obviously suspicious circumstances, royal blood or not, Khurram’s head would roll.

The
hakims
hung around in the room, as far as possible from the prince, trying not to hear Khalifa’s mumblings as she knelt by Khusrau’s bed. The princess was praying. Every now and then she would touch her husband’s hand, but he was in too much pain to react. He did not know she was there.

One of the
hakims
split from the group and went down on his knees beside Khalifa. He raised his hands as if to pray and, still looking ahead, said in a whisper, “Your Highness, what has the prince been eating?”

Khalifa turned to him in surprise. “What he normally eats, why do you ask?”

“Please,” the
hakim
said hurriedly, “please do not look at me when I talk.”

“All right.”

“Perhaps . . . ,” the
hakim
paused, “it would be better if you personally oversaw his meals.”

“Poison!” Khalifa’s voice rose. “You suspect poison.”

The
hakim
stumbled to his feet. “I have already said too much, your Highness. I have to leave.”

He almost ran out of the room, leaving a dazed Khalifa staring after him. That evening, the princess commanded a mud and brick
chula
to be built outside their rooms. She inspected every piece of meat and vegetable, washed each thoroughly before she cooked the food on the
chula,
and tasted the dishes before she put anything in Khusrau’s mouth. She watched over him for the next few weeks thus, and slowly the pains lessened, Khusrau’s stomach felt less raw, he became stronger. He recovered.

•  •  •

The dark night lodged over Burhanpur, smothering the city with a warm and humid coat of velvet. A few hours passed, and all the lamps were extinguished one by one as the city went to sleep. A thick silence settled in the streets, and the night watchman’s tapping stick rang out on the cobbled stones, accompanied by his voice singing out the hour. The moon in the skies was a broken half melon, with enough light to paint black and silver shadows under the mango and tamarind trees.

Within the fort all was quiet. Khusrau’s palace was at the southern end, where the sun seared through the very walls during the day. The guards outside the palace were asleep, sprawled against the front walls, their spears slung over their laps.

Two shadows detached themselves from behind a tree and crept up to the gates. They pushed the gate open and froze as it creaked. The guards did not move. The men slipped silently into the courtyard, pulling the gate shut behind them.

“Why didn’t the guards awaken?” one man whispered to the other.

Raza Bahadur turned to his accomplice. “They have been drugged. We can dance on their stomachs and they would sleep on.” He grinned, his teeth gleaming in the light from the moon. “However, be careful, perhaps someone is still awake.”

The men ran up the stairs to the prince’s apartments. Their feet were bare and made no sound on the stones. Raza wiped his sweating face on his sleeve. At the top, they leaned against the door to Khusrau’s bedroom. The door was of solid and heavy wood, embellished with brass fittings. It did not give way. As they stood there, a lamp came flickering toward them in the darkness of the corridor.

“Who goes there? Identify yourself,” the guard shouted, raising his lantern in front of him.

“It is I, Raza Bahadur. I have a gift for Prince Khusrau from the Emperor,” Raza replied, whipping his turban off his head.

“What is it?” the man asked. Raza watched as the man stumbled along the stone floor. He was drugged but had somehow managed to keep awake. He did not ask why they were here so late, why the gift couldn’t wait until daylight. The man swayed from one side to the other along the corridor.

The guard groggily accepted the parcel from Raz and bent his head to look at it. Raza moved behind him. His dagger gleamed briefly in the light before he jerked the man’s head up and sliced his throat. The guard crumpled to the floor, dead before he hit the ground. His lantern crashed and the light went out, leaving a thick darkness. The smell of fresh blood swirled upward, and Raza’s accomplice gagged.

“Was that really necessary?” he gasped, leaning against the wall to fight off nausea.

“Yes. We must not be identified. Now let us find a way to get into the prince’s room,” Raza said curtly.

“Wait a minute, Raza. Is the princess in the room? I will not be responsible for her death.”

Raza dragged him to the parapet, where the moonlight lit up their faces. “We have a duty to perform and we will, irrespective of whom we have to kill. If Princess Khalifa is sleeping with her husband we may have to dispose of her also. But set your mind at rest, I hear that she is back in her apartments tonight.” Raza strode back to Khusrau’s door, his feet squelching in the pool of blood.

•  •  •

Inside the room, Khusrau was asleep. He woke at the knocking and instinctively reached under his pillow for his dagger. “Who is it?”

“Your Highness, it is I, Raza Bahadur. I have come from his gracious Majesty, Emperor Jahangir.”

“What do you want?” Khusrau asked irritably. “What is so important for you to wake me in the middle of the night?”

“Your Highness, the Emperor has sent you a robe of honor.”

“Leave it with the guards.”

“Your Highness, I was asked to deliver it to you personally,” Raza argued.

“Please open the door so that I can give it to you.”

“Go away!” Khusrau yelled. “Guards, take this madman out of here.”

“The guards are asleep, your Highness,” Raza replied. “It will be better if you open the door, or we will have to force our way in.”

Prince Khusrau flung himself backward into the wall, pulling at the sheets for cover. “Go away!” he shouted again. What was going on? Where were the guards, and who was this man? Why did he come like this, in the darkness of the night? Khusrau began trembling and shivering. He pressed into the stone behind him. He could hear a loud thump. The door groaned. Another thud. And another one.

Khusrau clutched his dagger close to him and rose from the bed. The men were working in darkness, that much he could tell. If they had no light, he could still fight them. He knew every divan and carpet in the room, could walk in it without hitting anything. The prince ran to the side of the door and stood against the wall, his heart banging. The door creaked on its hinges one last time and then toppled onto the floor in a rush of air and sound.

The men crashed into the room and stood for a minute trying to get their bearings. Before they could realize that Khusrau was not in his bed, the prince jumped on Raza’s accomplice. His dagger went cleanly into the man’s shoulder. The man shouted in pain and Khusrau saw a blur of motion, then a fist smacked into his chin. As he staggered back, stunned, the two men grabbed his arms and lifted him off the floor.

He yelled and screamed.
Help. Help me. Who are you?
But there was no one to hear him. Raza held Khusrau down, his knee crunching into the prince’s thin chest. His accomplice looped a sheet over a broad beam on the ceiling. Khusrau was hauled upright and dragged to the center of the room. They knotted the sheet around his neck and yanked hard at the other end. Khusrau went bellowing and flailing into the air. His fingers grappled with the tightening cloth around his neck, and then they fell to his waist and to his thighs. His body twitched, life slowly ebbed away.

In silence the two men let go of their end of the sheet until Khusrau slumped on the ground. They carried him to the bed, laid him on the mattress, and arranged the wrinkled sheet around him. In the light of the moon that came into the room through one of its windows, the prince looked as though he were asleep. As though he was, at last, at peace.