The Twentieth Wife (32 page)

Outside her room, the slave boy awoke with a start and, still half asleep, began again to swing his leg from side to side, setting the
punkah,
whose rope was tied to his toe, into motion again.

Mehrunnisa turned to Ladli, sleeping by her side, and peeled her head away from where it lay pillowed on her arm. Sweat matted the child’s head and glistened on Mehrunnisa’s skin. She wiped her arm and blew on her daughter’s hair. Ladli sighed and flipped over, arms
and legs askew. Mehrunnisa raised herself on an elbow and looked down at her daughter. The heat of Bengal seemed not to bother her. Ladli slept blissfully, her mouth open, her breath coming in a whistle, for her nose was blocked by a summer cold.

Mehrunnisa touched her lightly, her fingers not lingering long enough for the contact to draw sweat. She skimmed over Ladli’s rounded calves and thighs, over the dimples on her knuckles, over the smooth skin of her chin. In the beginning, when Ladli had just been born, Mehrunnisa would stay awake nights just to watch her sleep. She had thought that need would soon wane. But now, six months later, it woke her sometimes with the same intensity. The wonder of her child never seemed to cease.
Thank you, Allah.
She leaned over to kiss Ladli’s nose. Still asleep, the baby put her hand on her mother’s head, and her tiny fingers curled tight around a lock of blue-black hair. Mehrunnisa smiled and gently disengaged the fingers.

The
punkah
on the ceiling creaked and then stopped again. Nizam must have fallen asleep again, Mehrunnisa thought. She looked up as the
punkah
started more furiously, swirling the air in damp circles around the bed. What was the boy doing? Just as she was mustering the strength to move, a figure loomed in the doorway. Ali Quli hesitated, then came rushing in, his footsteps loud in the almost silent night.

Mehrunnisa put a finger to her lips and pointed at Ladli.

Ali Quli stopped and beckoned to her. Mehrunnisa rose from the bed and slid out from under the mosquito net, lifting it just enough to let herself through. She tucked the net under the mattress again and then went to her husband. They stood at the window together, looking down at the garden below. The moon was on the wane but still shed enough silver light to let them see. Ali Quli pulled out a letter from the pocket of his
kurta.

“News from Bapa?” Mehrunnisa asked, reaching out.

“No. From the imperial court. Prince Khusrau has escaped.”

Mehrunnisa stared at him, her eyes darkening in the moonlight. “What?”

“You heard me. Prince Khusrau has fled to Lahore.”

“To Lahore . . .”

“And not here, where his uncle Man Singh is. Stupid boy!”

“But the Emperor would seek him here first,” Mehrunnisa said automatically. “It stands to reason that he went in the opposite direction. How did he get away? I thought he was under heavy guard.”

Ali Quli grinned. “The Emperor sent most of the prince’s supporters away, but he forgot the Khan-i-khanan. Mirza Abdur Rahim managed to rescue the prince from his guards. They are now on their way to Lahore.” Ali Quli’s voice rose as he spoke.

“Softly, my lord,” Mehrunnisa said. Nizam was outside the door. Like all their servants, he had elephant ears. He could not be trusted. She turned away from her husband as thoughts flew across her mind. Khusrau had escaped with the Khan-i-khanan. The commander-in-chief of the imperial army was a man of much influence and had powerful supporters. Could he possibly pull off this coup? Was Jahangir so soon to lose the crown that had barely rested on his head? How had he taken the news?

“What has the Emperor done, my lord?”

“He has left Agra for Lahore with the imperial army. But they will never catch up with the prince. Khusrau travels light, with only his men. Lahore is right now without a governor. The city will be easily taken. Once it is secure, the northwest will be ours, and then”—Ali Quli laughed, not bothering to keep his voice low anymore—“and then the whole empire.”

Mehrunnisa’s heart plummeted. What he said was true. The Emperor had just dismissed Lahore’s governor and sent another noble from court to take his place. He was still on his way. How would a leaderless city defend itself from an army led by the Khan-i-khanan himself? The Emperor should have dismissed him upon
his coronation, not forgiven Abdur Rahim’s role in Khusrau’s revolt and reinstated him as Khan-i-khanan. Suddenly, another word Ali Quli had just spoken stood out in her troubled mind.

“ ‘Ours’? Did you say the northwest would be ‘ours’?”

Ali Quli nodded, peering at the letter in the dim light of the moon. “I leave tonight. Pack my belongings; I must go to the prince’s army immediately.”

“What about Raja Man Singh?” Mehrunnisa asked. “And have you heard from the Khan-i-khanan?”

“No. But no matter. Raja Man Singh will support his nephew. And the Khan-i-khanan will definitely need my services.”

Mehrunnisa looked at him. He was an idiot if he thought he could traverse the whole empire in search of Prince Khusrau and his army. How long would the trip take? Six months? Eight months? Much could happen during that time. If the Emperor captured Khusrau, Ali Quli’s life would be worth nothing. A second offense against the Emperor would be unpardonable. Ali Quli didn’t stop to think of those things, but he should at least have reflected on why they were in Bengal, so far from the imperial court—precisely to keep Ali Quli from consorting with Prince Khusrau. How could she convince him that he was making a mistake?

“Wait a while, my lord. It is better to hear from either of the two nobles before you make any decision. Let us wait to hear more news. Please.”

“Wait, wait! That is all I do now!” Ali Quli shouted. His voice resounded in the room, and Ladli awoke with a wail.

Mehrunnisa ran over to the bed, untucked the mosquito net, and picked her up. “Hush,
beta
.” She tried patting the child back to sleep. But Ladli had already been awakened by the sound of her father’s voice. She gurgled at him.

Ali Quli turned away and headed for the door. “I have to go. I must be with the prince’s army. What am I to do here?”

Ladli, seeing him leave, began to wail again.

“Keep her quiet,” Ali Quli said. “And pack my clothes. I leave soon.”

Mehrunnisa stared at him, furious. He could not, must not go. What would happen to them if he left? “Think, my lord. The Emperor spared your life once and sent you here. If the prince is captured again, he will not hesitate to take it. Wait until you hear from either Raja Man Singh or the Khan-i-khanan. What you do will reflect upon all of us—Ladli, me, even my Bapa.”

Ali Quli glared at her from the doorway, deep furrows creasing his forehead. He looked so angry that Mehrunnisa thought he would raise his hand and hit her. She stood there unflinching, holding a wailing Ladli in her arms. Ali Quli turned and stomped out of the room. As he passed Nizam peeping around the door on all fours, he bent and cuffed the boy on his head, sending him yelping and sliding across the stone floor of the verandah.

•   •   •

“H
OW MANY DAYS
have we been here?”

“Eight, your Highness,” Husain Beg replied.

Prince Khusrau turned to look down the desolate hill that sloped to the ramparts of Lahore fort. They had arrived at Lahore to find the fort barricaded and fortified against an attack. Even the terrain seemed as inhospitable as the people of Lahore. The ground was baked dirt; the trees and shrubs were stunted from a lack of water; the only relief in the dry colors of the land were gray rocks and brown boulders. During the day the sun raged, and at night the temperatures plunged to near freezing. The battle, the weather, and the lack of cohesion in his army were all taking a toll on his men.

“They will not hold out much longer,” Khusrau said, hope in his voice. But inside, his mind was dead, numbed by the fear that had been his constant companion these last few weeks.

“No, your Highness. Their supplies must be running out. Only—” Husain hesitated.

“We must take the fort before the imperial army arrives. I am
aware of that,” Khusrau said, sinking into his shoulders. “How did Ibrahim Khan hear of our arrival?”

“His Majesty sent him a message. Ibrahim Khan was already on his way to Lahore to take up his post as governor when we left Agra. He rushed to Lahore before us and fortified the city.” Husain Beg looked shrewdly at his young commander’s woebegone face. “There is one thing in our favor, your Highness. Ibrahim Khan’s army is made up of servants and tradesmen. He did not have enough time to amass an army of soldiers. Besides, for eight days, we have surrounded the fort and not allowed in any food supplies. They will soon surrender.”

“I hope so.” Khusrau ran a grimy hand through his hair. He shaded his eyes from the harsh sunshine and peered down. Every day, Khusrau’s army had set off mines near the ramparts, but each night, under cover of dark, Ibrahim’s men had worked swiftly to repair the breaches. For servants and tradesmen, they had shown an amazing amount of loyalty and resilience, neither of which Khusrau was able to evoke in his men. It had been eight long days since they arrived at Lahore. And the fort had held out.

As he turned and walked slowly into the camp, the all-too-familiar fear came flooding back. Would they capture the fort before imperial reinforcements arrived? If they didn’t, Khusrau would have no place to hide, no defense against his father’s army. It was too late now to flee to Persia in hope of refuge; the imperial army would catch up before they crossed the border.

The prince kicked a wayward pebble and watched it tumble in the red dust. Had he acted too hastily, without enough planning? For that, too, it seemed late for remorse. Jahangir would not forgive him this time. It was said that a price had been put on Khusrau’s life.

Khusrau shook his head from side to side, trying to ease the cricks in his neck that only rest—which had been almost unknown for these eight days—would erase. He would have to run from his father all his life, for to surrender meant sure death. Yet, there was some
hope. His army now numbered over twelve thousand infantry and cavalry, all dissidents who had joined him as they had passed from city to city on their way to Lahore. Khusrau shuddered as he thought of the manner in which his army had behaved en route. They had plundered and looted the villages, raped the women, left sorrow and misery in their wake. And he had not been able to control them.

“Your Highness!”

He turned to see Husain Beg leading a runner.

“Your Highness, the imperial army led by Shaikh Farid Bukhari is a day’s journey from here.”

Khusrau paled, the blood rushing from his face. “They have made good time. What else?”

“Mirza Hasan is dead.”

“How did he die?”

“The Emperor’s men captured him at Sikandara, where he was gathering forces.” The runner wiped his sweating face. “The Emperor ordered him to be trampled to death by elephants.”

Khusrau bit his lip to choke back sudden tears. He had lost another supporter. Pulling himself together, he turned to Husain Beg. “We will have to take Shaikh Bukhari’s army by surprise tonight. Where will they be pitching camp?”

“Near Sultanpur, your Highness.”

“Your Highness . . .” The runner hesitated and then went on. “The Emperor himself follows at the head of a large army. He is a day’s journey behind Shaikh Bukhari.”

His father was right at his footsteps. No time was to be lost now. Khusrau’s insides turned to sudden iron. He would die fighting if necessary, but he would not surrender.

“We cannot afford to be attacked from both sides. Prepare an army of ten thousand men. I will lead them into battle against Shaikh Bukhari. In the meantime, keep up the siege on the fort with the rest of the men. We should be able to vanquish at least
one of the armies.” Khusrau’s voice took on a new strength as he spoke.

He sat on a rock outside his tent as the arrangements went on around him, wanting the men to see him and to know that he was there to lead them. All this would finally be worth it, he thought, when the crown sat on his head. He had heard that Jahangir was furious with him, that the ladies of the
zenana
cursed him for his waywardness, that the nobles at court, who had once supported him, now denounced his actions. It was lonely and frightening to be at the receiving end of such invective. But he was doing exactly what his father had done for fifteen years: hunger for the throne. Why, then, this outrage?

That night, as Shaikh Bukhari’s army, only five thousand strong, were pitching camp at Sultanpur on the Beas river, they were attacked. Although taken by surprise, the imperial army fought hard. Khusrau’s men outnumbered them by far, but the rebels lacked the discipline and training of the imperial forces. The two armies fought all through the night and into the next day.

•   •   •

T
HE AROMA OF
ginger-spiced chicken and fragrant rice grown on the foothills of the Himalayas filled the imperial tent. Jahangir washed his hands and sat down cross-legged on the mat. He inhaled deeply as a slave set the silver plate in front of him, his mouth watering. Arranged against the outer rim of the plate were three silver
katoris
filled with steaming curries of chicken, lamb, and fish. In the center was piled a small mound of flaky rice, cooked just the way he liked it. A dollop of cucumber and tomato
raita,
smothered in sour yogurt, was on one side of the rice. On the other side were two wedges of green mango pickle, glistening red with chili powder and oil. The slave bowed and reverently rested two crisp rice-flour
papads
on the side of the plate before backing out of the tent.

Just as the Emperor bent over his plate, Mahabat Khan whipped open the flap of his tent and rushed in unannounced. “Your Majesty, Prince Khusrau’s army is fighting Shaikh Bukhari’s army. The Shaikh’s army is outnumbered.”

Jahangir grimaced. He had not eaten since the previous evening, and he was hungry. But this was the time for action. He scooped up a little of the rice, dipped it in the onion and tomato gravy of the chicken curry, and swallowed the morsel for good luck. Then he rose quickly.