The Feast of Roses (45 page)

“No, of course, if this is the Emperor’s command, I will . . . but what does safer mean? Who would dare to lay siege on the treasury of the empire, Mehrunnisa? It is safe enough at Agra.”

“Khurram.” Mehrunnisa said this quietly. Abul glanced at her and then away at the blurred green images of the soldiers outside. Their horses marched in unison, or so it sounded to him, with a steadfast rhythm. This is what Mehrunnisa saw during those long hours of travel when she chose to journey by palanquin.

“What has Khurram done now?” he asked carefully. What
had
he done? Abul had heard nothing of their plans from Arjumand the last time she had written. But she rarely told him anything in writing, there were too many eyes eager to read, too many hands that would willingly put her letters under Mehrunnisa’s gaze.

“We are too far away from Agra, Abul.” His sister’s voice had taken on that resigned tone again, as though she were talking to a child. “The Emperor wishes to return to Kashmir when state duties allow him to do so; the court will not visit the capital for some time. If we are to be so far north, the treasury will not be safe from Khurram.”

“He would not capture the treasury, Mehrunnisa.”

“Oh?” She leaned forward and caught one of his hands. “How do you know this?”

Abul pulled his hand away and backed into the wood wall of the palanquin. “I know nothing. I have had no contact with Prince Khurram in many years.” Only with his daughter, but he was not going to tell Mehrunnisa this.

“You are to leave the entourage tomorrow. Itibar Khan has orders to give you the treasury, along with an army to guard it. Look after it well, Abul.”

“I will,” he mumbled.

Mehrunnisa rapped on one of the pillars with the back of her fan. The bearers stopped and Abul climbed out, jumping to the ground. The palanquin swayed to adjust to the loss of his weight and then went on again. The soldiers passed him, some bowing from their saddles. Abul Hasan waited until his own horse was led up to him. He mounted it and let it follow the entourage. The green and gold coverings of Mehrunnisa’s palanquin glittered in the bright sunlight. Abul bent his head. What was she up to? Why order him of all people to bring the treasury to Lahore? Did she not know that he would never let his Arjumand down?

Abul had said nothing when their father’s estate had been given to Mehrunnisa. What could he have said, anyway? He could not have protested; no one questioned the Emperor’s commands. But hatred and jealously and greed had seared their way inside him. It was
his
money, and in giving it to Mehrunnisa, the Emperor and she had made Abul into a eunuch. The
amirs
at court had snickered, some openly, asking if he suddenly found himself poor, if a loan would not be amiss. Even as they traveled to Lahore, the stonemasons and architects were hard at work in Agra, building Ghias Beg’s tomb. Abul had seen the plans for it when Mehrunnisa had held them out in front of him excitedly.

Look, Abul.
So Abul had looked, holding the paper in his hands. A jewel of a building on a raised and decorated platform. It was to be square with four octagonal towers and sharp and thick eaves along the top. Silk thin marble latticework for the main chamber where Ghias and Asmat would lie. A garden around, with long lawns, shade and fruit trees, water in channels. The tomb was to be of marble, unblemished and pure as newly fallen snow. And into each surface was cut a
pietra dura
inlay. What was that, Abul had asked. And Mehrunnisa had mimicked the stonemasons, digging out inch-thick slivers of marble from a sheet of stone and filling the spaces with jasper, cornelian, topaz, onyx, lapis lazuli, all polished to show their grain to the greatest advantage. The whole would then be smoothed down until it would look like, and feel like, one piece.

“When you lay your hand on it and close your eyes, you will not be able tell that there even is an inlay, Abul,” Mehrunnisa had said.

“It sounds expensive,” Abul had said. The plans showed that
every
surface of the tomb was to be covered with this work—interlocking circles and hexagons, tulips on slender stems, betel leaves.

Mehrunnisa had laughed. “I wanted them to build the outer walls of silver, the architects persuaded me that marble would endure longer. So the cost is but little, Abul. And the money means nothing to me. I have so much.”

He had felt impotent that day. His father’s tomb was
his
to build;
he
was the oldest son. Now Mehrunnisa’s name would be over it. She would be the one commended and lauded for its beauty. She was the one who had the resources to pay for its construction. Abul had gone back home trembling with anger. He knew that only royalty had the right to leave their mark on the face of the empire’s soil. He knew that in marrying Emperor Jahangir, Mehrunnisa had become royal.

He could never be royal. In being born a man, and being born into a family with no imperial pretensions, he could never change his status. At best though, Abul thought, yanking at the reins when his horse veered off course, he could be father-in-law to the next Emperor.

Before he left with a small army to Agra the next morning, he wrote to Khurram.

•  •  •

Prince Khurram read his father-in-law’s letter and made his plans quickly. He sent out word among his nobles that he was going into the forests for a monthlong hunt. As the preparations for the hunt commenced, his army was ordered to ready itself for a march. Khurram left the city, headed south to the hunting grounds, and when his army of seventy thousand cavalry joined him, they moved up north toward Agra.

There was an irony in this plan of Khurram’s—once, about twenty years ago, Jahangir had done this same thing, leaving his futile war in Mewar to storm the treasury at Agra, hoping that with the money he would vanquish Akbar and grab the crown that was his anyway. Jahangir had not succeeded in this quest, but the empire was his now. Prince Khurram, riding through the long and hard days and nights toward Agra, knew that he had little chance for the throne of the empire . . . he
had
to do this, or Shahryar would be Emperor.

•  •  •

Abul Hasan reached his mansion in Agra at nightfall. He forced himself to wait through the night, and ended up lying in bed staring at the flapping
punkah.
Long before dawn broke, Abul was up and ready. He ate little at breakfast, a cup of
chai,
half a
chappati
with duck eggs scrambled with onions, ginger, and cumin seeds. Abul entered Itibar Khan’s offices with slow and measured steps. Soon, he thought, very soon he would be guardian of the richest treasure in the world. Once Khurram came, they would have the empire too. Emperor Jahangir could never compete with the wealth of the treasury, it would buy them armies by the thousands, entire towns and villages, fealty from every noble at court. Abul had had a long time to think about all of this during his ride to Agra, traveling with only a small group of soldiers.

The moment his letter to Khurram left his door, Abul knew he had cut ties with his sister. Mehrunnisa had been very stupid, he thought, in giving him the guardianship of the treasury after insulting him so constantly since their father’s death. There were brief moments of fright, of course, always what if . . . his venture were not successful, if Khurram did not come, if something went wrong. If his letter to Khurram went elsewhere, and in doing so, found its way to Mehrunnisa. But he had left the entourage, ridden to Lahore, then to Agra, and nothing had happened.

Itibar Khan met him at the door and bowed. “
Al-Salam alekum,
Mirza Abul Hasan. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

In the Mughal Empire, where
every
man’s shoulders supported his head only by the Emperor’s whimsy, Itibar Khan had enjoyed a relatively long reign as the warden of the imperial treasury at Agra, some thirty years. It had been Itibar then, who, standing outside the fort at Agra, arms crossed over his chest, cannons and soldiers lined up behind him, had turned Emperor Jahangir away from the treasury that had not been his yet.

“
Walekum-al-Salam,
” Abul replied. “I have come from the Emperor to escort the treasury to Lahore.”

“Certainly. But if I may have some proof . . . ,” Itibar said and then added, “please, do not misunderstand me, I require a letter for the files.”

“Of course not.” Abul Hasan handed the royal
farman
to Itibar Khan.

The treasurer read the
farman
slowly. It clearly ordered him to release the contents of the treasury. Abul fidgeted on his feet. He wanted to lean over and shake the old man. Khurram would have left Burhanpur by now, and if he was traveling with an army, it would not be long before news of that reached every corner of the empire.

“The entire treasury!” Itibar spread out his hands. “The inventory will take weeks.”

“That is not possible. I have to leave in five days,” Abul said quickly. “The Emperor wishes it.”

“He says nothing in this
farman
about that.” Itibar pointed at the writing with one finger. “I cannot send you on your way in five days.”

“Please, his Majesty may not have mentioned anything about the time, but he told me that he wants the treasury at Lahore as soon as possible,” Abul said.

“Certainly, his Majesty must not be kept waiting.” Itibar put an arm around Abul’s shoulders and led him to a divan. “In the meantime, perhaps you will enjoy our hospitality?”

Abul sat down. He did not wish to sit. He wanted to be in the treasury vaults hanging over the huge chests of gold and silver coins, the strings of pea-size and grape-shaped pearls, the diamonds and emeralds, the rubies set in gold. But he said nothing.

“I shall give orders immediately to start the inventory, Mirza Hasan.”

For the next two weeks, Abul Hasan watched as the treasurer counted the gold
mohurs
personally. New leather bags were ordered to carry the coins. Copious notes were made of every item in the treasury in ledgers. The gem-stones were counted, restrung, and then sealed in silk pouches.

At the end of the second week, Abul Hasan insisted that he would take the treasury as it was and answer personally for any losses to the Emperor. Itibar Khan was shocked at the suggestion. It was unthinkable that he would be so derelict in his duties. Abul retreated into apologies and returned to his smooth diplomatic talk. He could do nothing until Khurram arrived, and there was no news of the prince. At least that was heartening. If he had heard nothing, chances were that Itibar had heard nothing too. Praying that this was so, Abul waited through the immeasurably long days.

•  •  •

Finally, the day arrived when Abul Hasan was to get the treasury from Itibar Khan. His attendants had already packed his belongings; as soon as the treasury was handed over, he would leave Agra. He wanted to put as much distance between him and the city as he could before Prince Khurram arrived, for Agra was well armed against invasion.

A fanfare of trumpets and drums greeted him at the main gateway of the fort. Abul Hasan felt a little prickle of apprehension when he saw cannons wheeled to the ramparts of the fort. What was Itibar Khan up to? A small contingent of soldiers came out to escort Abul into the fort. In the main courtyard, two divans had been set up under a canopy of gold cloth.

Itibar and Abul sat back on their knees on the divans, facing each other. The treasurer began to speak about the rituals involved in moving the treasury.

“Why all the formality?” Abul asked impatiently. “Just give me the treasury and I will be on my way.”

Itibar Khan shook his graying head in outrage. “My dear friend, there is a protocol for everything,” he said. “If we, as officers of the court, forget etiquette, how shall we answer to his Majesty?”

“You are right,” Abul mumbled. He was on edge, shifting his weight about. He had not slept in quite a few nights, wondering whether this moment would ever come. Itibar Khan was an old man, one stuck in ritual and formality, and in this lay his entire life. How could a few minutes’ delay affect his plans? Abul settled down for the ceremony, composing his face to the same gravity he saw in Itibar. It took a few hours.

Finally a long procession of servants came out, weighted down with heavy leather bags, caskets, and wood trunks. Abul watched as the treasure was piled onto elephants, camels, and bullock carts. Itibar showed Abul the ledgers and inventory books. Abul Hasan brushed them aside, bowed to the treasurer, and swung up on his horse.

As he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, Itibar called out, “Mirza Hasan, you have forgotten something.”

Abul turned back slowly. What now?

“You have to sign the letter of release,” Itibar said. Abul grabbed the letter and scrawled his name on it. Then, without another bow to the treasurer, he pounded out of the courtyard. The elephants, camels, and carts followed at a slower pace. They rode through the fort to the Hathi Pol on the western side. Abul’s heart thumped heavily in his chest. A few more steps and they would be outside. A few hours and they would be on the outskirts of Agra. A few days and the imperial army would never catch up with him.

As he approached the gateway he realized that it was very dark in the entrance, and with good reason. The drawbridge was being cranked up slowly, swallowing the sunlight outside. Abul raced to the soldiers at the doorway.