The Feast of Roses (49 page)

“Go then.” He stepped back further and called out to his comrades.

As the word passed through the Rajput soldiers that the woman was infected, they shrank back to allow them to cross the bridge. She hobbled across, leaning heavily on her son’s shoulder.

As soon as she was on the other side, the woman’s limp vanished, her back straightened, and she strode swiftly to the advance camp, dragging her son along with her.

Mehrunnisa threw the basket of fruit on the side of the road and smiled at the man next to her. “See how easy that was, Shahryar?”

•  •  •

Mehrunnisa ran to Abul’s tent. At first, he would not let her in, then she spoke to him and he recognized his sister under the putrid sores on her face.

“Why are you dressed like this?” Abul asked as Mehrunnisa called for water to wash her face. She told him, rubbing the makeup from her skin with a vigorous hand.

“Call for the nobles, Abul. You are responsible for this, and now I have to make it right.”

Abul’s face grew hard. “How was I responsible, Mehrunnisa?”

She turned to him, dabbing at her face with the end of her veil. “You were in charge of the advance camp, Abul, and you have brought most of the imperial army over here with you. There were too few men left to guard the Emperor.”

The nobles staggered in, woken from their sleep. The old woman in rags, her
ghagara
and
choli
ripped in places, the skin on her hands a dark, crumpled brown, began to speak. Their mouths gaped. What was the Empress doing dressed like this? When they heard what Mehrunnisa had to say, they became serious, alert. They were not to try and go over to the other side, Mehrunnisa said. Mahabat had left two hundred Rajputs on the eastern end who would set fire to the bridge when they saw the army crossing.

The army was woken up. Lights blazed on the western bank of the Jhelum, and the shouts of the men carried across the dark waters as Mehrunnisa prepared the men for battle.

On the eastern shore, Jahangir stood watching the flurry of activity. He knew Mehrunnisa would lead the army herself if she got a chance. He sent her a letter with his signet ring, telling her not to prepare the regiments. Mahabat meant no harm. But Jahangir also knew that she would not listen. After the messenger crossed over to Mahabat’s camp, his men set fire to the bridge.

At the first light of day, a huge army led by Abul Hasan started from the advance camp toward the Jhelum. When they reached the bank, scouts were sent out to find fords along the river that were passable. After some searching, a ford was identified by the boat commander.

But the choice was a poor one; that ford was filled with deep and unexpected pits. The soldiers found the soft mud giving way no matter where they put their feet. And across the river, on the other bank, Mahabat’s men stood waiting for them, patiently, armed with spears and swords. Abul’s soldiers retreated, already exhausted before the fight, to flop on the warm stones on the western bank.

Mehrunnisa, seeing the imperial soldiers scatter from their formations, urged her elephant into the river from her
howdah.
Ladli, Arzani, and the child’s nurse were with her—she did not want to leave them in the camp alone, in case Mahabat’s men found their way there. Seeing Mehrunnisa’s elephant plunge into the Jhelum, the imperial soldiers rallied and tried to cross again. A few made it to the other side, only to be welcomed by a volley of arrows and spears from Mahabat’s soldiers. Other fords were found downstream, and small bands of the imperial army crossed on them to the eastern bank.

With her elephant in the water up to its stomach, Mehrunnisa looked around her. A few hundred yards away, Mutamid Khan stood on a little patch of dry land between two branches of the river. Why were they not moving? Was this a picnic?

Mehrunnisa turned and shouted to Hoshiyar. “Hoshiyar, send a man to Mutamid and find out what he is doing. Tell him to go across.”

She watched as a eunuch swam to Mutamid. He bowed in her direction, and his men jumped into the river again. But the imperial army was too scattered to be effective. Here and there, a few men found their way to the eastern bank and were easily killed by Mahabat’s men. Abul’s horse was swept away by the current, and he seemed to give up; the other commanders plunged forward heedlessly and ended up killing half their men in the water before they could even get across.

“Mama,” Ladli said, pulling her down when an arrow whizzed past the
howdah.
“Do not do anything silly; let the men fight.”

Mehrunnisa thrust her daughter’s hand away. “But we must,
beta.
Keep Arzani on the floor.”

Ladli laid the child down and piled cushions on her. Arzani squirmed and started to wail. “Hush,” she said, looking at Arzani’s nurse in exasperation. This was her job, what was she doing, shaking like that? The nurse was hanging over the edge of the
howdah,
little whimpers coming from her mouth.

“Look after the child,” Ladli yelled, pulling the nurse from the
howdah
edge and placing her hands on the baby. “This is what you are paid to do.”

“Here.” Mehrunnisa thrust a loaded musket into Ladli’s hands and fit an arrow into her bow. The two women brought up the ends of their veils and knotted the cloth behind their necks, wearing their veils like masks. As the elephant lumbered slowly to the eastern bank, Ladli and Mehrunnisa loaded the musket and the bow over and over again and shot at Mahabat’s army. Suddenly, an arrow came hurtling through and pierced the nurse in her arm. She began blubbering incoherently, prayers and moans mixed with her wails. Arzani began to cry too, and their voices mingled with the shouts from the men, the trumpeting of the elephants, the booms of musket shots.

Mehrunnisa put her bow down, tore her veil off her face, and used the cloth as a tourniquet, tying it tight around the nurse’s arm.

“Keep quiet,” she commanded. “It’s only a scratch.”

She turned back to the battle and found that Ladli had not been able to keep the Rajput soldiers away with just her musket. A few floated dead in the waters of the Jhelum, but most of them were already close to the imperial elephant. Mehrunnisa let a few more arrows fly. The Rajputs surrounded her elephant, treading water. “Please surrender, your Majesty!”

Mehrunnisa hesitated. Ladli’s face was flushed, and gunpowder smudged her fingers and cheeks. Arzani cried again. She pushed the cushions off herself and leaned over the edge of the
howdah,
her hair falling in curls over her eyes.

Mehrunnisa threw down the bow and grabbed the waist of her grand-daughter’s
ghagara.
She turned to Ladli, whose eyes flickered to her mother just briefly, the Rajput soldiers held steadily in the musket’s sight. “Whatever you wish, Mama,” she said quietly.

With Arzani struggling in her grasp, the nurse still sobbing softly in one corner, Mehrunnisa called out, “We surrender.”

One of the soldiers climbed up the trunk of the elephant, knocked the mahout into the water, and guided it toward Mahabat’s camp.

But the fighting went on all day. By evening, as the sun was setting, the waters of the Jhelum ran red with blood. Bodies of the imperial soldiers lay in the shallow ends of the banks or against sandbars in the middle of the river. Horses and elephants caught in mud struggled in fear and pain, their neighs and trumpets added to human cries, until a benevolent shot from Mahabat’s soldiers cut those short. Two thousand imperial soldiers had died trying to cross the Jhelum, another two thousand had been massacred by Mahabat.

Abul had fled from the Jhelum long before the end of the battle. He had watched Mehrunnisa goad her elephant into the waters, and then he had mounted his horse and ridden away to his estates nearby, without lifting his matchlock once to his shoulder. Mahabat Khan went in pursuit of Abul and brought him back in chains. Now he had Jahangir, Mehrunnisa, Shahryar, Ladli, and Khusrau’s son Bulaqi as his prisoners.

He took them to Kabul, as originally planned. On the way, Mahabat finally realized what he had done. All he had wanted was a moment to talk with Jahangir, and now he had overthrown the Mughal government. If only Mehrunnisa had not decided to fight his soldiers, he thought. If only she had stayed in the
zenana
apartments as a woman should. He would have had the time to beg an audience with his Emperor, and all would be right. And now . . .

Now Mahabat Khan
was
the Mughal government. Unwillingly and unwittingly, as matters had spiraled out of his control, Mahabat Khan had effected a coup.

A
t Kabul, the court went about its normal business. Mahabat kept Mehrunnisa away from Jahangir as much as possible, determined that she would not interfere in the administration of the empire. He did not allow her to sit at the
jharoka,
insisted that the Emperor agree to all of his decisions, and acted the despot as much as he could. But his heart was not entirely in this. All Mahabat wanted was for Jahangir to forgive him for imagined faults. But the Emperor, ailing now and sick in his bed most of the time, would not even listen to Mahabat. He turned his face away when the minister entered his apartments, looked at the walls, would not pay any attention to him. Jahangir signed the
farmans
presented to him and asked for Mehrunnisa.

“She is busy, your Majesty,” Mahabat said.

Jahangir threw a cushion in his direction. It missed and went tumbling onto the carpets. “I want to see the Empress.”

And so he kept saying to Mahabat.
I want the Empress.
The minister tried to pacify Jahangir. He tried to tell him that Prince Khurram was the best choice of heir. Shahryar was a weakling; how could he rule?

While they were at Kabul, Parviz had died at Burhanpur, and Mahabat had found his loyalties shifting to Khurram, the prince he had hounded to the southern rim of the empire. Shahryar, the
nashudani,
the good-for-nothing prince he would not support, for he was Mehrunnisa’s son-in-law. But Khurram was a
bidaulat,
a wretch, Jahangir said.
Bring the Empress to me.

But Mahabat was adamant.
He
refused to see Mehrunnisa too, although she commanded him many times. The only person Mahabat would see, on Mehrunnisa’s behalf, was her brother Abul. So Abul ferried phrases of curses and disrespect between the two, back and forth, for Mahabat would not allow Mehrunnisa out of her apartments.

She sweated there, literally, confined within four walls. If she ever stepped out, Mahabat said—and he sent his Rajput soldiers to make good his word—she must be heavily veiled. Not the flimsy covering of chiffon that showed her teeth and her smile or even the blue of her eyes, but a thick black cotton under which she would be faceless. She must not raise her voice in public; a Mughal woman’s voice must never be heard. What Mahabat once demanded of Jahangir all those years ago—that Mehrunnisa be subdued, that it must not be her hand that ruled the empire—he now made true. He made her pay for his ten years at Kabul, for the years he had aged while there.

So Mehrunnisa paced the carpets in her apartments threadbare, fury simmering inside her. Mahabat had taken from her every duty, little and big, and each day the irritation grew. On the other side of this anger was a deepening hurt. She missed Jahangir desperately, the bed beside her an ocean of emptiness every night. She fretted about him—was he well, had his cough come back, did he eat properly, was he smoking too much opium, drinking too much wine?

Mahabat allowed just one meeting, at which he was present.

Mehrunnisa stood at the door to Emperor Jahangir’s rooms, shock rendering her immobile and silent. Jahangir had suddenly grown old in the time she had not seen him. He could no longer breathe without gasping, and she could hear the air scraping against his tired lungs. He cried when he saw her, she did too, kneeling by his bed, his trembling hands cradling her face. They talked, heads close to one another, indifferent to Mahabat Khan standing at the door.

“Let me stay here, Mahabat. His Majesty is unwell,” Mehrunnisa said, despising the timbre of pleading in her tone.

“That is simply not possible, your Majesty.”

A eunuch came to lift her from her knees and take her out of the room. Mehrunnisa paused in front of Mahabat long enough to say in a quietly furious voice, “If his Majesty dies in your care, Mahabat, I will have your skin cut in strips from your body while you still live.”

He did not answer, merely turned away, eyebrows arched. But for a brief moment, Mehrunnisa saw a quiver of uncertainty around Mahabat’s lips.

Back in her rooms, she was only furious. No longer frustrated, or debilitated by Mahabat, or even apprehensive, but quite simply in a rage. Jahangir was dying, and she could not be with him. She would demolish Mahabat Khan. He did not allow her to step out of her apartments, so she would decimate him from within.

“Hoshiyar,” Mehrunnisa said.

The eunuch rose from his place at the door and came to her. He led her to her bed, and Mehrunnisa leaned into him. To the guards at the door, it seemed like her Majesty was too tired; she needed Hoshiyar’s help. They did not see—for Mehrunnisa’s back was to them—that with her head on the eunuch’s shoulder, her lips moved softly.

•  •  •

A week later, in the very middle of the night, as the city of Kabul lay hushed and silent, wreathed in dreams, the Ahadis, the imperial bodyguards, stormed the camp of Mahabat Khan’s Rajput soldiers.

Before the soldiers could even awaken or take a breath of air, throats were slashed, chests perforated, heads hammered against stones. The Ahadis proceeded to massacre them methodically. At the end of three hours, the soldiers’ cries had stilled, along with the life from their bodies. Those who were fortunate enough to keep their lives—having hidden in rice bins, or under piles of sheets and clothes, or inside trunks—were yanked out and sold as slaves in the Kabul markets, clad in iron chains and led away like cattle by their new owners.

When Mahabat heard the news the next morning, he was at breakfast with Muhammad Sharif. The ten years apart had changed the views and behavior of the two former friends; they no longer were one in thought and deed. At Mehrunnisa and Jahangir’s first command to come to court to answer the charges against him, Mahabat had written to Sharif, asking for help.
Go to the Emperor, Sharif,
he had said,
make his Majesty see reason. If anyone can do this on my behalf, you can, dear friend.

But Sharif had not sent him a reply, only months of silence. And this morning, as they sat together, Sharif said, “You have done wrong, Mahabat.”

Mahabat flared up, his brown face set in clean lines of anger, eyes afire. “And what is it you have done, Sharif? Lived at court like a pig in a pen, content with your meals, wallowing in a sty filled with stink and sloth. Fed by a woman’s hand. The whole empire has rotted thus.”

But Sharif would not rise to meet Mahabat’s words. He said again, shaking his head with the disapproval of a strict
mulla,
“You have done wrong. You are not Emperor, Mahabat. This is not your place. Allah Himself has ordained who is to be king and who a subject—one blood cannot mix with the other.”

Mahabat was fighting panic at Sharif’s words when an attendant bent to tell him of the slaughter at the Rajput camp. Mehrunnisa was responsible, of this he had no doubt. How could she have managed to mobilize the entire contingent of the imperial bodyguards from behind her prison walls?

He turned to his friend, tears swamping his face. “Sharif . . .”

But Muhammad Sharif merely rose from his seat, bowed to Mahabat, and left his house. He no longer wanted a part of this. He left his unspoken accusations behind:
if these men died, it is because of you. It is because you chose to stomp on the normal order of things, Mahabat.

Mahabat Khan wiped his face and raced to Emperor Jahangir’s apartments. He put up as much of a bluster as he could, complaining about the behavior of the Ahadis, demanding retribution.

Jahangir, propped up against the divan’s pillows so his breathing could be easier, did not budge. He even smiled at the quaking minister. His body had weakened, but nothing would take away the dignity of royalty. The Emperor gave Mahabat two Ahadis, who were said to be the leaders.

“If you speak anymore, Mahabat, of
anyone
else complicit in this, I will have your tongue cut out,” Jahangir said. He then banished Mahabat from his presence. “If your soldiers cannot defend themselves, perhaps they should look for another leader.”

•  •  •

At the end of that summer, in September of 1626, the imperial court set out from Kabul with Mahabat Khan still nominally in the lead. They were one day’s march from Rohtas when Mehrunnisa decided that the minister had weakened enough. She stole into Jahangir’s tent one night, cutting a slit through the canvas and slipping in. So lax was the guard around her that though the soldiers had seen her leave, not one hand had dared to raise itself to block her way. With the Rajput camp massacre, the balance of power had shifted, for Mahabat had had charge of those men, and he had not been able to defend them.

The next morning, Abul went to Mahabat Khan’s camp to inform him of Jahangir’s wishes. “The Emperor wishes to delay his march to Rohtas,” Abul said.

“Why?” Mahabat asked suspiciously.

“He wishes to stay back at camp to review her Majesty’s cavalry. You are to proceed to Rohtas.”

Mahabat listened to his new orders. He had been by the Emperor’s side for the last three months, knowing that if he left, he would lose everything. But he wanted to be gone. This was not the life for him. Mahabat did not want Jahangir’s hatred, and that was all he had now. He was tired of playing king. He had not wanted this coup, or the power that came along with it. Once . . . many years ago, when he had been younger, he could have seen it through. He also knew that Sharif was right—there was no royal blood within him, and the crown could only belong to those so blessed by Allah. He
had
done wrong.

Mahabat gathered his few remaining Rajput soldiers and fled as far away from Rohtas as possible.

For Mehrunnisa, Mahabat’s defeat was but a small victory. There was too much still to be done. Jahangir was going to die . . . and soon. Shahryar had to be groomed for his new position as Emperor, and this would not be easy. In the last few months the prince had cowered in his apartments, done what Mahabat had told him to do, played at marching and wars with his mock armies. And, more worryingly for Mehrunnisa, Shahryar had been falling ill too often lately, with strange and sudden fevers that came and went, rashes that blossomed in patches on his face and hands.

But there was one result of Mahabat’s coup Mehrunnisa had not yet come to fully recognize. With Mehrunnisa confined to her apartments, Abul had been her voice to the outside world, carrying her commands to the court and the nobles. The courtiers had not seen her at the
jharoka,
and without this sight of her, without the sound of her voice, they had lost their faith in her. Mahabat’s coup, ineffective as it ultimately was, had injured Mehrunnisa too.

If Jahangir died soon, it would be Abul they would turn to, not the woman who had directed their lives for the last sixteen years.

And if they turned to Abul, they would turn to Prince Khurram.