The Twentieth Wife (34 page)

Khusrau buried his face in quaking hands. He recognized the men; they were all soldiers who had served with him. He had brought these men to their gruesome deaths. It was all because of him that they hung here in disgrace, that they were dying horrible deaths.

The Emperor watched the prince, his face grim. Then he pulled Khusrau’s hands away from his face.

“Look,” he commanded harshly. “Look at the fate of those ill-meaning souls who served you. It is your fault that they die so horribly.”

Khusrau stared around him, his face white, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Mahabat Khan leaned over the prince’s shoulder.

“Your Highness, allow me to introduce you to these men. This is . . .”

Khusrau listened, horror written over his face, while Mahabat Khan proceeded to “introduce” each of the dead men to him as the royal entourage passed along the road. The wind blew fiercely as the procession neared Lahore, and Mahabat Khan directed Khusrau’s attention to the bodies swinging from the trees, flapping against the trunks.

“Prince, see how your brave soldiers battle with the trees,” he said, malice dripping from each word.

The prince shut his eyes tight, and this time Jahangir let him be. Khusrau would not easily rebel again. The lesson had been taught. Finally, the procession reached Lahore, and Jahangir entered the fort, smiling only from his mouth. He threw silver rupees among the people, acting the role of the benign Emperor.

Khusrau sat by his side, pale and trembling, a wild, haunted look in his eyes, knowing that nothing in his life would ever be the same again.

•   •   •

T
HE SUMMER MONSOONS
had begun, and all around Bengal, trees and grasses grew lush and wet. It rained day and night. The houses were constantly damp, mildew flourished, hairpins rusted overnight, termites greedily gnawed at the furniture, and mosquitoes went after their hapless victims with unerring accuracy.

Mehrunnisa turned with a sigh from the window. Bardwan was unlike the Gangetic plains. Here the rain did not bring new life to the countryside. It brought an overabundance of life: insects, earthworms, and even the trees and bushes seemed predatory. They grew wild and unchecked, with leafy, succulent fingers reaching out of every crack in the stone pathways to snag pedestrians.

Mehrunnisa and Ali Quli had been at Bengal for over a year, and there was no indication that they would ever return to court, no sign that the Emperor remembered them. Even so far away from the nucleus of life in the empire, Mehrunnisa had heard of the punishment meted out to Khusrau and his followers. It was a cruel punishment; yet, she approved of it. Nothing was more important than the crown, and if it meant taking a firm stand to discourage any further attempts on Khusrau’s part, the message must have surely gotten through to the errant prince. He would not soon try another rebellion.

As for Ali Quli, he was still here too. If he had gone chasing after the prince to Lahore, he would not have escaped Jahangir’s wrath. Mehrunnisa’s words of reason had finally penetrated his excited mind. When the news had come of Prince Khusrau’s capture—and it had come surprisingly soon, as bad news always does—Ali Quli had flung the letter at her. Mehrunnisa had read it carefully and stored it in one of her trunks.

She leaned back against the windowsill, her hands resting on the edge. It was frustrating having to hear news of court from runners and travelers, wrenching not to be there to see it happen, to experience it firsthand. If her husband had not been stupid enough to support Khusrau’s first attempt at the throne, they would still be at court. At least, no one but she had known of his desire to go with Prince Khusrau this past time. The slave boy Nizam had been pensioned off to his native village; Mehrunnisa had thought it too much of a risk to have him around in Bardwan where he could, and would, talk sooner or later.

She went to the ivory-inlaid wooden box where she kept all of her precious letters and pulled out the
farman
that lay at the bottom of the pile. Her fingers traced over the Turki words. The ink was fading now; it had been many years since Prince Salim had written the
farman
giving Ali Quli the title of Tiger Slayer. Mehrunnisa’s eyes
lingered over the strange phrase at the bottom of the paper.
May you be forever peaceful.
She touched the words, blotting one, then another, with her finger. Had the prince written that? No, it could not have come from his hand, but from that of an overzealous clerk. Still, it was a strange phrase to put in an official document. She put the
farman
back in its place and piled her veils over the papers. The letters lay hidden again under lustrous silks of blue, green, yellow, and red. Then she rose and went back to the window.

A sudden feeling of restlessness stole over her. She would give anything for a visit to Lahore—even a short visit—to the seat of power, to court life and the intrigues.

But that would not happen, Mehrunnisa thought, grimacing as she dusted mildew from her hands. Ali Quli was still in disgrace, and where he went, as his wife she was duty-bound to follow. The only consolation was that Bapa wrote to her every month, taking time from his duties to fill page after page with his flowing handwriting. He told her of the court, of home, and, when he could, news of the Dowager Empress and the
zenana.
More than being at Lahore, Mehrunnisa wanted to be with her father, to sit outside under a star-studded summer sky and hear him talk, to show him Ladli, the grandchild he had not yet seen. The letters were not enough.

Mehrunnisa turned again to look out at the rain-lashed landscape, the trees pushed to their knees by the wind, leaves and grasses glistening a rapacious green. A shudder passed through her body. She felt she would never leave Bengal.

But even as she stood there, a thousand miles away at Lahore, Emperor Jahangir paced his apartments, deep in thought. Now that the Khusrau affair had been dealt with, it was time to turn his mind to more pleasant matters.

The passion for Mehr-ul-Nissa, which Selim had repressed from a respect and fear for his father, returned with redoubled violence when he himself mounted the throne of India. He was now absolute; no subject could thwart his will and pleasure.

—Alexander Dow,
The History of Hindostan

J
AHANGIR SIGHED AS HE LAY
back against the silk cushions, loosening the ties of his
qaba
so he could breathe more easily. He could not remember when he had eaten so much or had the time in the past few months to enjoy his meal. The lamb kebabs had been skewered to perfection; marinated in lime juice, garlic, and rosemary; and roasted over hot coals. He patted his stomach and reached over for the wine.

Jahangir looked at the ladies of the harem over the rim of his goblet. They sat around him, clad in colorful muslins, smiling when his eye alighted upon them. Which one would grace his bedchamber tonight, he wondered idly. It was wonderful to have them here at Lahore. He had left Agra in a hurry to pursue Khusrau, and the royal harem had not been able to accompany him. Almost four months later, he had ordered Prince Khusrau to escort the royal ladies to Lahore.

After their arrival, the imperial court went back to its usual routine. Jahangir first bestowed great estates and favors on all those who had aided the empire during Khusrau’s rebellion. Both Mahabat Khan and Muhammad Sharif were granted larger
mansabs
and revenues.

A few months later, news had been brought to Jahangir of a rebellious uprising in Rohtas, in Bihar. He decided to send Raja Man Singh at the head of the imperial army to quell the rebellion. The Raja was ordered to resign his post as governor of Bengal, and in his stead, Jahangir appointed Qutubuddin Khan Koka. He had not wanted to let Koka go to Bengal, but his foster brother had come to request the post, and he had relented.

The Emperor put down his goblet and beckoned. A pretty concubine, a girl of sixteen years and his latest addition to the
zenana,
rose hastily from her seat and walked up to him.

“Help me to the royal bedchamber.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” Her seductive voice sent a thrill through the Emperor’s spine.

The rest of the ladies watched in silence as their lord and master walked out of the room, leaning on his chosen consort for the night.

•   •   •

S
TATE DUTIES WERE
so tiring, Jahangir thought, as he listened with half an ear to the singsong voice of the Mir Tozak. The Emperor was holding court in the
Diwan-i-am.
Petitions were being read,
jagirs
and
mansabs
granted, and the yearly budget accounted for. Bright sunshine in the courtyard beyond the
Diwan-i-am
beckoned invitingly. He could have been in the royal gardens with the ladies of his harem, perhaps watching them frolic in the new bath he had installed. . . .

“Your Majesty?”

Jahangir was jerked out of his thoughts by the sudden silence. He gave the Mir Tozak an irritable glance. “What is it?”

“The
diwan
of the empire, Mirza Ghias Beg, begs an audience, your Majesty,” the Master of Ceremonies said.

Jahangir nodded. “Bring him in.”

Mehrunnisa’s father came into the court and performed the
konish.
“Your Majesty, news has been brought to me of danger in
Qandahar. The governors of Herat, Sistan, and Farah have attacked the city under the orders of Shah Abbas of Persia. Beg Khan, the governor of Qandahar, has sent a courier requesting assistance from the imperial army.”

Jahangir frowned. “How is that possible? Shah Abbas is like a brother to me. Will a brother invade another brother’s dominions?”

“Your Majesty, it is imperative that we send an army. Qandahar is a commercial center of great importance to the empire, the center of trading activity between India and the western countries. Besides, it is one of the biggest outposts of the empire. To lose it to Persia would mean putting Kabul and the rest of the northwest in danger.”

Jahangir saw the force of Ghias Beg’s arguments, but he could not believe Shah Abbas to be the instigator of the attack on Qandahar. Why, just a year earlier they had exchanged letters, and the Shah had congratulated him on his ascension.

“All right,” he said finally. “Send the imperial army with the royal standards to Qandahar. Be sure not to act aggressively until the matter is cleared up. Convey a message to the Shah of Persia informing him of the attack. He will take appropriate action against his governors.”

Ghias bowed and backed away. The Emperor’s voice stopped him. “Mirza Beg,” he said. “You will be rewarded for your service to the empire.”

“I need no reward, your Majesty,” Ghias said. “But I thank you.”

Jahangir turned to Muhammad Sharif. “How do these governors dare invade our province without the permission of their own Shah?”

“Your Majesty, this is a new regime. Doubtless the governors thought that in the confusion arising from the change of reign from your exalted father to you, they could overpower Qandahar. It is through Allah’s grace that your Majesty is present at Lahore and can personally oversee the campaign.”

Jahangir nodded. “True. Inform the
zenana
that we will be putting off our trip back to Agra until the Qandahar problem is solved.”

When the
darbar
was over, Jahangir returned to his apartments and went to his private courtyard with a bag of wheat. The pigeons came fluttering down from their roosts in the verandah, greedy, pecking at the golden grain in his hand. A hesitant cough sounded at his elbow, and some of the pigeons squawked and flew away, frightened by the intruder. Hoshiyar Khan stood at the Emperor’s side. He silently proffered a sealed letter. Jahangir took it and waited until the eunuch had left. Then he broke the seal and unrolled the letter. It was from Bengal. Jahangir read it rapidly and then put it down next to him, leaning against the
neem
tree and squinting into the bright sunshine that reflected off the marble slabs of the courtyard. The spies in Bengal had done their job well.

•   •   •

“B
EGAM
S
AHIBA
,
RUNNERS
have brought mail from Lahore.” The slave girl proffered a letter on a silver tray.

Mehrunnisa reached out even before she had finished speaking. “Bring it here.”

News from Lahore at last. Almost three months had gone by since the last letter from her father. Ghias was usually prompt in his correspondence, but the added responsibility of overseeing the Qandahar affair had kept him busy. Mehrunnisa unrolled the letter, savoring the crackle of paper under her hands, and settled down to read it. As always, he headed the letter with the word “Safe.” That was to tell her at a glance that all was right with them. In her hurry to reply to him, Mehrunnisa often omitted to put that one word on top of her letters, and Ghias invariably started his letters with a scolding to her for that. And thus this one, too, began.