The Twentieth Wife (42 page)

“Go on.” Jahangir settled back on the divan and prepared to listen. His frown deepened as Dinayat spoke. This was too much. How could Ghias thus betray his trust? First Ali Quli had killed his beloved foster brother; now another member of the family had committed a felony. And with all this, he was still sick with wanting Mehrunnisa. Yesterday he had given orders for her to travel to Agra from Bengal under an imperial escort. The time had not yet come to approach her; people would remember and talk of Ali Quli’s death. Why couldn’t he just forget about her? Mahabat Khan was right; she and her family were more trouble than was worth. The Emperor groaned and slid down on the cushions of his divan. He looked up to find Dinayat Khan waiting for his response.

“Clap the
diwan
in irons,” Jahangir ordered his Ahadis irritably.

“Your Majesty, Mirza Ghias Beg has served you well. He has been a loyal and just administrator . . . until now. Please forgive him,” Dinayat Khan said.

“No,” Jahangir said. “I will not abide any more infractions from that family. Ghias Beg has broken the law and must be punished. He will be treated like any other common criminal.”

“Your Majesty, please . . . ,” Dinayat Khan begged. “At least, allow him to be in my custody until you can think of a punishment for him.”

Jahangir glowered at Dinayat Khan. What was the use in procrastinating? Why did Dinayat care what happened to Ghias?
Silence lengthened in the room as Dinayat continued to kneel before him. The Emperor took a deep breath. He would give Ghias a chance to clear himself. After all, he
had
served the empire well. And he was father to the lovely woman in Bengal who consumed his every thought. A sudden ache came over him. There was always some obstacle to gaining Mehrunnisa. Her husband had been in the way, and now her father stood before him on the charge of embezzling from the royal treasury. Jahangir sighed. Could he expect loyalty from no one?

“All right,” Jahangir said finally to Dinayat Khan. “You will be in charge of him until I decide what to do. But remember,” he raised a finger in warning, “if he escapes from your custody, you will pay for it with your head.”

“I understand, your Majesty.” Dinayat Khan bowed his way out of the Emperor’s presence.

That evening, Ghias Beg was put under house arrest, and his duties were suspended temporarily. He paid back the money to the royal treasury, along with a fine of two hundred thousand rupees, and settled down to wait. Only time would erase the Emperor’s doubts, and he could hope to be back soon in Jahangir’s good graces.

At least the worst had passed. What more could happen?

•   •   •

T
HE YOUNG MAN
turned back to look at the guards. They were out of earshot. He put a hand on the prince’s elbow and said softly, “Your Highness, I have a plan.”

Khusrau stopped short and stared at his jailer. “For what?”

“To relieve you of your confinement, your Highness.” Nuruddin glanced behind again and gently urged Khusrau on.

The two men walked on down the garden path at Lahore. It was early in the morning, and Khusrau had stepped out as usual for his daily constitutional. Four heavily armed guards trudged sleepily behind them, struggling to keep pace with their royal prisoner.

When the imperial court had moved to Kabul for the summer, Prince Khusrau was left behind at Lahore in the custody of the Amir-ul-umra Muhammad Sharif, and a courtier named Jafar Beg. Muhammad Sharif had followed the court to Kabul, leaving Beg and his nephew Nuruddin in charge of the prince.

Khusrau glanced sideways at Nuruddin, keeping his expression stoic, but inside he trembled with anticipation. He had carefully cultivated Nuruddin’s friendship, recognizing him almost immediately as an impressionable young man. Was it possible that Nuruddin would help him escape?

He took a deep breath to steady his voice and asked casually, “How can you do that? I am under heavy guard here.”

“There is only one way.” Nuruddin glanced back again to assure himself that the guards were out of earshot.

“The Emperor will never let me go free. If I escaped, he would surely send the imperial army after me.”

“Not if he cannot, your Highness,” Nuruddin said quietly.

Khusrau stared at him, perplexed. What was he talking about?

Nuruddin leaned over and lowered his voice. “The Emperor is vastly fond of hunting, your Highness. He visits the imperial hunting grounds often. What if on one of his hunts, he suddenly meets with, shall we say . . . an accident?”

Khusrau involuntarily quickened his step. An assassination! His face flushed with excitement. “How can we do that? The Emperor’s personal bodyguards are fiercely loyal to him. We cannot hope to infiltrate the ranks.”

Nuruddin smiled. “It has already been done, your Highness. Two of the Ahadis are willing to lay down their lives for you. They will accompany the Emperor on his hunting trip and accidentally shoot him. No suspicion will fall on you. Once the Emperor is dead, the nobles will turn to you. After all, you are the natural heir.” Nuruddin paused and looked at Khusrau.

Khusrau stared back at him. To be Emperor! It was his fondest desire, and now it seemed it could come true. A thought struck him. “We will need an army to fight off my brothers.”

“I have already gathered forces, your Highness,” Nuruddin replied. “Begdah Turkman, Muhammad Sharif, and Itibar Khan will arrive here tonight with their armies to swear fealty to you.”

Khusrau’s eyebrows went up in disbelief. “The Amil-ul-umra is willing to support my cause?”

Nuruddin grinned. “Not the Grand Vizier. This Muhammad Sharif is the
diwan
Ghias Beg’s oldest son. You might know, your Highness, that he and I are distant cousins. My uncle Jafar Beg is Mirza Beg’s first cousin, thus the relationship.”

They turned hastily as one of the guards came up. “It is time to go in, your Highness.”

Khusrau nodded absently. He gave Nuruddin a quick glance.

“I shall leave you now, your Highness.” Nuruddin bowed formally to the prince and walked away.

•   •   •

J
AHANGIR WOKE TO
the sound of his attendants moving around the royal tent, lighting fires in the coal braziers. He stretched his arms above his head lazily, strolled to the front flap of the tent, and peeped out. The camp was shrouded in a thick, heavy mist. He frowned and hoped that the mist would clear soon.

“Your bath awaits, your Majesty,” a slave girl said behind him.

Jahangir nodded and went toward the shining copper bathtub filled with steaming water. An hour later, bathed and dressed, he looked out again.

The mist had dissipated, and the sun shone bright, promising a clear day. It was perfect for the hunt, the Emperor thought as he sat down to his breakfast—golden-brown
chappatis
roasted in
ghee,
and curried eggs cooked with cummin, onions, green chilis, and tomatoes.

“I have to see the Emperor.”

Jahangir glanced up irritably from his plate. Why was he always disturbed at his meals? He turned to Hoshiyar Khan. “Go see what the noise is about. I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” The eunuch bowed and went out. He came back almost immediately. “You Majesty, Khwaja Wais,
diwan
to Prince Khurram, requests an audience. He says that the matter is urgent and he must see you at once.”

Jahangir grimaced. “It can wait. Tell him to come to me this evening, after I have returned from the hunt.”

“Your Majesty, I beg permission to see you.”

“Isn’t that Prince Khurram?”

Hoshiyar peered out of the tent and nodded. Jahangir beckoned with his left hand.

Khurram lifted the flap and entered. He put his hand to his forehead in the
konish
and bowed from the waist. Straightening, he scuffed his foot against the thick pile of the gold and green Persian carpet and cleared his throat.

“What is it,
beta?
I am still at breakfast.”

“I apologize, Bapa. But it cannot wait. Khwaja Wais wishes to speak to you. He has something important to convey.” Khurram hesitated and looked at the tall eunuch, who stood hunched under the low canvas ceiling of the tent. “In private.”

“Hoshiyar Khan is a trusted member of my
zenana.
You can speak in front of him.”

Khurram rubbed his smooth cheek and rushed into his words. “Your Majesty, a plot to assassinate you today has been unearthed.”

“What?” Jahangir roared, his food forgotten. “Who would dare to do so?”

Khurram hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He had not wished to be the bearer of bad news, but Jahangir had refused to see Khwaja Wais. And what he was about to say would not make the Emperor any happier.

He took a deep breath. “Khusrau. Two of the Ahadis are in his pay, and they were to accidentally shoot you during the hunt. Khwaja Wais found out about the plot and rushed to tell me. I thought you would wish to interrogate him yourself, so I sent him to you.”

Jahangir glowered at Khurram. His anger mounted, and a red flush rose up from his neck. Khusrau—again and always Khusrau. Had he not learned a lesson on the way into Lahore? Did he still think he would wear the crown? Even death would not be enough punishment for him if this news were true. Was every father blessed with stupid sons?

“Bring Wais in here.”

Khwaja Wais, who was waiting outside, came in immediately and performed the
konish.

“How did you hear of this?”

“The prince gathered four hundred men to help him, your Majesty. Although they all swore allegiance to him, a few were our spies. One of them came to me with the news. The attendants were to attempt an assassination today. Your life is in danger, your Majesty. Please do not go on the hunt.” Khwaja Wais bowed his head.

“Have you any proof?”

Wais reached inside his
qaba
and brought forward a packet of letters. “This is the correspondence between Prince Khusrau and his eunuch, Itibar Khan. The prince has outlined the plan of action clearly. There can be no doubt of his complicity in the plot, your Majesty.”

Jahangir wiped his hand on a silk towel and took the packet from Khwaja Wais. “How did you get hold of these letters?”

“I bribed the eunuch’s servants.”

Silence fell as the Emperor skimmed through the letters. He recognized his son’s handwriting. There could be no doubt that Khusrau was actually plotting to kill him. Rage came boiling up in
Jahangir. All the hatred and dislike he had so far suppressed from a sense of duty, a sense of responsibility, were set loose when he saw Khusrau’s scrawl on the pages. The wretched boy wanted him dead; he was no longer content with simply wanting the crown. The letters fell from his grasp, and Jahangir involuntarily rubbed his hands on his
qaba
as though he had been contaminated. He looked up at the three men standing in front of him.

“Arrest the leaders and bring them to me,” he said curtly, then, turning to Hoshiyar, “Cancel the hunt.”

•   •   •

G
HIAS
B
EG STOOD
with his head bowed as the four men walked up to the throne. They paused before the Emperor and awkwardly performed the
konish,
their iron chains clanging loudly in the silent and crowded
Diwan-i-am.

“Nuruddin, Itibar Khan, Muhammad Sharif, and Begdah Turkman, you are here on the charge of conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor!” the Mir Tozak’s voice rang out.

Ghias drew in a sharp breath as he heard those words. He looked sternly at one of the men. Muhammad Sharif doggedly kept his head bowed, unwilling to meet his father’s eyes.

How could his son betray him thus, Ghias thought, sorrow grabbing the pit of his stomach. All those years Muhammad had spent under his roof, all the guidance he had given him, had led him here to conspire against his own Emperor. All through his life Muhammad had been disobedient—always restless, always seeming to stretch to that one thing beyond his reach. He should have known something like this might happen. When Muhammad had talked of supporting Prince Khusrau during his escape to Lahore, Ghias had hushed him and paid little heed to it. But, thought Ghias, how does one anticipate conspiracy in an assassination attempt on the Emperor? Had Muhammad no shame? No sense of what was right?

Earlier that week, Ghias had visited Muhammad in prison. He had barely been able to get permission to see his son, because of his house arrest. But he was still
diwan
of the empire, and the title carried some influence. The meeting had been brief and hurried. Ghias had stood outside Muhammad’s cell, peering into the gloom in search of him until he saw him hunched in one corner. He had talked to him, told Muhammad of his mother’s grief, of her sorrow, even of how his deeds had blackened their family’s name. Muhammad had listened in silence, almost ignoring his father until the last sentence. Then he had raised his head and asked softly, the words melting into the darkness of the cell, “And did I do any worse than you, Bapa?”

That had been the end of their encounter. Now Ghias stood watching his son, knowing he was right in some ways. He had done wrong himself; how could he expect any better of Muhammad?

“Put them to death!”

A shock went through Ghias’s heart as the Emperor spoke. He had known that the punishment would be harsh. But that his son should be taken away from him forever—this he could hardly believe.

“Your Majesty—,” Ghias started, forgetting court etiquette in his agitation. No one spoke in the Emperor’s presence unless spoken to.

“What do you want?” Jahangir turned to glare at his minister.

Ghias shook his head. What could he say? What right did he have to plead leniency? First Ali Quli had murdered Koka, then he himself had been guilty of embezzlement from the royal treasury. . . . Ghias’s cheeks flamed. Now his son was under arrest for an attempt on the Emperor’s life. How could he ask for anything?

“Well?”

“Nothing, your Majesty,” Ghias mumbled and backed away.

Jahangir turned away from him and nodded.