The Feast of Roses (48 page)

Mehrunnisa wondered whether bringing Mahabat back had been such a good idea after all. Most disturbing was a letter from an obscure commander at Burhanpur. Mahabat and Prince Parviz, who was nominally at the head of this last campaign, had become . . . close. Parviz, for all his ineffectualness, his drinking, his dependence—or perhaps
because
of these qualities—had the astonishing ability to attract the benevolence of powerful ministers. First, the Khan-i-khanan, Abdur Rahim, and now, strangely, Mahabat Khan. Neglected at court, Parviz invariably found champions in his guardians. Mahabat was too friendly with Prince Parviz, the letter said, perhaps he was grooming him for the empire?

Being so recently rid of Khurram, Mehrunnisa and Jahangir had never considered Parviz to be a threat to Shahryar’s claim on the throne.

“I find it hard to believe this letter, your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa said slowly.

Jahangir laughed, the sound of his voice rumbling into her ear. “Mehrunnisa, where the crown is concerned,
every
rumor, however flimsy its source, must be heeded. Mahabat can no longer stay in the Deccan with Parviz. Together, they will grow too strong. Prepare a
farman
commanding him here to court.”

“But we did not ask for him to come before, your Majesty, when he begged for permission. What excuse can we give now?”

The Emperor rubbed his chin. “Hoshiyar, call for the barber,” he said, raising his voice. Then he said to Mehrunnisa, “Any excuse . . . did the letter not mention infractions of some sort?”

“Yes . . . ,” Mehrunnisa said. She rose from the bed and knotted her hair at the nape of her neck, smiling at her husband. “Are you feeling well today?”

“Yes,” he said, rising too. “After a long time. Where is Hoshiyar?”

“Gone to do your bidding, your Majesty.” She kissed him on the cheek, lightly, her lips scraping against the day-old stubble. “I must go write to Mirza Mahabat Khan.”

Then Mehrunnisa ran out of the apartment to her writing table. She paused for a moment to look into the little mirror on her thumb ring. Held so close, she could see sections of her face—an eyebrow, the dark circles under her eyes that bespoke a night not slept, the curving lines around her mouth. She was a grandmother today, blessed with a healthy grandchild, and a happy and content child. A husband who adored her. And finally, an empire at her command.

She wrote to Mahabat Khan. She had heard that Mahabat misappropriated funds for the Deccan campaign to line his own coffers. And that he kept the captured war elephants for his own stables. Was this true?

So Mahabat had an invitation to come to court finally, couched in phrases of insult and disrespect.

But both Mehrunnisa and Jahangir had forgotten that Mahabat Khan loathed her for various indignities, real and imagined, for being, quite simply, a woman with power in a man’s world. As much as Mahabat wanted to come to court, as much as he had languished in boredom during his ten years at Kabul, his pride had not broken. And neither had his hatred for Mehrunnisa.

I
n March of 1626, Mehrunnisa and Jahangir decided to leave Lahore for Kabul. Summer was upon them, and they retreated to the cool and verdant gardens of Kabul this time, instead of Kashmir. Before Kashmir was conquered, Kabul had been the summer resort of the Mughal kings, and Babur, the first Mughal Emperor and Jahangir’s great-grandfather, was buried there. The royal entourage was encamped on the eastern bank of the Jhelum River when news of Mahabat’s arrival in the area reached them. The minister came to pay his respects to the Emperor with an army of five hundred Rajput soldiers and two hundred war elephants.

Jahangir was outraged at this show of force. He sent Mahabat a message—he was to leave his army behind. If the charges against him were false, that could be easily proved; the truth would defend him.

Mahabat consented to the Emperor’s demands, anxious to clear himself. He sent his son-in-law Khwaja Barkhurdar as an emissary, along with his two hundred elephants, to the Emperor’s camp on the Jhelum. He was willing to even hand over his wives and children as a pledge of his loyalty, but he would not allow himself to be dragged in front of the Emperor like a common criminal.

•  •  •

Khwaja Barkhurdar was ushered in to see Jahangir and Mehrunnisa. He bent low in the
taslim
and, still with his head bowed, presented Mahabat Khan’s letter. The elephants were arrayed in the outer courtyard of the camp, standing in a solid line of gray, their tails twitching in the heat to whip at the throng of flies.

The Emperor read the letter. “Why is Mahabat not here, Barkhurdar?”

“He will be, your Majesty,” the young man replied. He kept his gaze pinned on the carpets below, not daring to look at Mehrunnisa, though she was veiled. “When you have forgiven him.”

“This is a strange way to ask for forgiveness.” Mehrunnisa’s voice was sharp. It had taken them six months to get Mahabat Khan from Burhanpur. He had disobeyed her orders the first time, or rather, Parviz had written and requested that Mahabat stay with him. He had grown used to Mahabat’s guardianship, the prince had said.

And all through these six months of waiting for Mahabat to present himself, Mehrunnisa had had spies send her daily missives of Mahabat’s doings in Burhanpur. The reports had worried her, he was clearly procrastinating. But why? Finally, she had sent Parviz another guardian because he could not be without one, he had said, and she had commanded Mahabat to leave Burhanpur immediately.

“Your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa said quickly, putting a hand on Jahangir’s arm. “Before you decide anything in Mahabat Khan’s favor, you should know who his emissary is.”

Jahangir turned in surprise to her. “Who is he?”

Mehrunnisa told him. Abul stood behind her and filled in what she did not know about Mahabat’s son-in-law. Who his father was, what his position was at court, and other details about their
jagirs
and holdings in the empire. Abul Hasan was with Mehrunnisa at this meeting because she had called him here. She knew that Abul disliked Mahabat Khan, and that this dislike went back to the early years of her marriage to Jahangir. For as her power had grown at court, so had Abul’s. He was her brother and had been part of the
junta
that had taken away Mahabat and Sharif’s importance. As much as Khurram drove them apart, Mahabat brought them together.

“A fine young man,” the Emperor commented. “The two families are fortunate in the relationship.”

Barkhurdar was nervous. He tried to hold himself still as etiquette demanded, but he could not. Something was not right, he thought, but what?

“No doubt, your Majesty, but . . .” Mehrunnisa hesitated. “The marriage was not sanctioned by you.”

“Is that right?”

It was a Mughal custom that all courtiers had to get royal permission to contract any marriages in their families. Consent was perfunctory but nonetheless required, for ritual had to be followed. Mahabat Khan, left to languish at Kabul, so far from the imperial court, had forgotten to ask Jahangir for permission before he married his daughter to Khwaja Barkhurdar.

“Your Majesty, Mahabat Khan insults you by sending this man as an emissary, knowing well that you did not consent to the marriage,” Abul said, bending to Jahangir’s ear.

“Throw him in prison,” Jahangir said. Whether Mahabat meant it as an insult or not, the Emperor could not, after having been made aware of Barkhurdar, react any other way.

Barkhurdar moved suddenly, his hand on his dagger, but the Ahadis pounced on him and dragged him away. The young man’s property, especially the dowry he received on his marriage, was confiscated and added to the imperial treasury.

•  •  •

In his encampment, a few miles upstream, Mahabat Khan paced restlessly up and down the thick Persian rug. He went to the main flap of the tent, lifted it, and gazed out. There was no sign of his son-in-law.

Mahabat let the flap fall back. What was taking Barkhurdar so long? He could have talked to the Emperor twenty times by now. Horse hooves came clipping up the riverbank. Mahabat ran out of his tent and waited there with his soldiers. The rider was too far away, awash in a cloud of dust. When he neared, they saw that it was one of the imperial mahouts.

“What happened?” Mahabat demanded, even before the tired man could dismount.

“My lord, the Emperor has imprisoned your son-in-law,” the mahout said as he fell out of the saddle. He was not used to the discomfort of a horse’s back.

“Why?”

“You . . . you did not request permission for the marriage. The Emperor has confiscated all his property.”

“Is he safe?”

The mahout nodded, still gasping. “Safe enough. He tried to fight, but they put him in irons. He is alive, though. I saw him.”

Mahabat turned away, enraged. He would have to see the Emperor personally and explain all of this. It was a misunderstanding. But he needed to see Jahangir alone, not with Mehrunnisa present. And where she was, her hated brother would be too.

“I will go to the Emperor immediately,” he said. “Saddle my horse.”

“No, my lord. That would not be judicious. The Ahadis have been ordered to arrest you on sight,” the mahout said. “And most of the camp moves today to the west side of the Jhelum, my lord.”

“Where will the Emperor be?” Mahabat asked, with a glimmer of hope in his voice.

“Here, on the eastern side, with the Empress. He is too unwell to travel tonight.”

If most of the camp moved, the imperial guards would move too. Mahabat turned to his soldiers, plotting in his head, and they listened when he spoke.

•  •  •

The soft, dark night stole upon the Jhelum River, turning its waters indigo. The advance camp was just settling down on the western bank under Abul Hasan’s supervision. Earlier in the day, he had escorted the royal
zenana,
the officers of the court, the baggage, the arsenal, and the imperial treasury across the bridge. The treasury resided with the camp now; after Khurram’s attempts at storming it, it had been commanded from Agra to the Emperor. A few hundred Ahadis and Rajput soldiers were left on the eastern bank to guard the Emperor and Mehrunnisa.

When the last of the sun died, lights glimmered on both banks of the river as the camps prepared dinner. The aroma of roasting venison from the day’s hunt and thick gravied curries mingled with the smoke from the cooking fires. The night was clear, with a cool edge in the air. Stars littered the clear sky.

Horse hooves, muffled in cotton cloth, pounded up the eastern riverbank to the Emperor’s tent.

“We are almost there,” Mahabat Khan said softly to one of his commanders. “Take two hundred soldiers and go to the bridge on the Jhelum. Make sure that no one is allowed to cross from the western bank. If they attempt to, burn the bridge.”

The commander nodded silently and signaled to his troops. They rode off into the night. Mahabat and his men waited in silence for an hour. The bridge would be secure by now. He then yanked at his reins and rode to the entrance of Jahangir’s tent.

The royal guards were drowsy, sleep heavy upon their eyelids. They had eaten well at the night’s meal, and drunk many goblets of wine. There was no threat to the Emperor, so a short nap would surely not be amiss. The men woke to see sword tips pointed at their throats. They dropped their spears, muskets, and daggers to the ground and raised their arms.

From within the royal enclosure, an attendant wandered out to smoke a
beedi.
He saw Mahabat and yelled, “Mahabat Khan is here! Inform the Emperor!”

As he fled back into the tent, a soldier flung a dagger at him. It hissed quietly through the air and caught him between his neck and his shoulders. The attendant fell, and the soldiers trampled over his body into the tent. The Ahadis had scarcely heard the shout; they had moved, hands to sword hilts, but the Rajput soldiers were in front of them. It was too late to fight.

Jahangir was asleep when Mahabat Khan entered. He woke to his minister’s touch. “Mahabat,” he said, opening his eyes. Then he sprang up. “What are you doing here?” Mahabat’s Rajput soldiers stood around his divan. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Your Majesty, I have come to answer the charges against me.”

“Why could you not come during the day?” The Emperor sank back into the cushions.

“You must come with me to my camp, your Majesty,” Mahabat said. He still held his unsheathed dagger in his hand.

“It was not necessary to force your way here, Mahabat,” Jahangir replied. “I would willingly have granted you an audience.”

“Now, your Majesty,” Mahabat said. “Please rise or I shall have to help you do so.”

Jahangir rose from the divan. What was going on? Where were his Ahadis? How had they allowed Mahabat to come so far into the royal tent without resistance? And where was Mehrunnisa? At this thought, the Emperor shuddered. He hoped she was safe, that she would not fight with Mahabat—there was no telling what Mehrunnisa would do if she was in a rage.

He thought quickly. “I will not go unless I ride on my favorite Arabian.”

“As you wish, your Majesty,” Mahabat replied. He signaled to a royal attendant.

“My lord, the steed has been taken to the western bank. I could ride over to bring it,” the attendant said.

“No, that is not possible,” Mahabat said. He bowed to Jahangir. “Your Majesty, perhaps another horse could be found for you. Any of my soldiers would willingly give up his mount.”

“I want my Arabian steed,” Jahangir insisted. “I cannot ride out without the steed.”

“Please reconsider, your Majesty,” Mahabat said in desperation. Any moment now, the army on the western bank would be alerted of his presence. How long would his soldiers be able to stave off an attack? He had to get the Emperor to his own camp or he would not be safe.

They argued for the next ten minutes, and finally, with great reluctance, Jahangir gave in to his minister. The Emperor climbed into a
howdah
atop a royal elephant. Mahabat Khan’s Rajput soldiers formed a circle around the elephant, and the Ahadis watched as Jahangir was taken out of the camp. Jahangir looked around him, but he could see no sign of Mehrunnisa. Perhaps she had fled already? If she had, she would lead an army against Mahabat. He talked loudly, of trivial things, and mostly of Mahabat and his early friendship, the days they had spent together as children, the games they had played, their most successful hunts. Mahabat began to smile and laugh at the memories, and his expression softened. At least his mind was now elsewhere, Jahangir thought.

They reached Mahabat’s camp without incident. As he was helping Jahangir dismount, Mahabat remembered Mehrunnisa. He pushed the Emperor back into the
howdah,
and they left for the royal encampment. Jahangir complained, making his voice as querulous as possible; he knew Mahabat would not dare injure him, but he would Mehrunnisa. But Mahabat was firm too. He could not leave Jahangir even at his own camp, for it was possible that the Empress might have already rounded up an army to rescue the Emperor.

•  •  •

As Mahabat Khan was riding back to the royal camp, an old woman and her son approached the Rajput guards on the eastern bank of the Jhelum. One of the guards ran forward and pointed his spear at them. “Who are you?” he shouted.

“It is I, Saliha, and my son, Sharif,” the woman’s voice trembled.

“No one is to cross the Jhelum,” the guard said harshly. “Go back, old woman.”

“But I have to get to the other bank,
Sahib,
” the woman begged. “I sell fresh fruit for the
zenana
ladies’ breakfast.” She showed him a basket full of apples and pears.

The guard brought up his lantern to peer into her basket. As the light fell upon the woman’s face, he recoiled and stumbled back. She was ugly, with deep wrinkles on her skin, but more frightening were the purple and red sores on her forehead and cheek. Were those signs of the plague?

“Stay away from me, you wretch,” the guard yelled, raising his spear again.

“Let me go,
Sahib,
” the woman wheedled. “I have to earn my livelihood.”

The guard thought quickly. If this woman carried the plague, then she would infect all of them. It was better to allow her to go to the western bank, as far away as possible.