The Twentieth Wife (9 page)

A few days later, the royal palace was rife with gossip. The
Emperor was unwell from a bout of colic, and it seemed he would not recover. The royal physicians could do nothing to ease the Emperor’s suffering.

News of Akbar’s agony was brought to Prince Salim in an inner courtyard of the
mardana
late one afternoon as he fed the pigeons. The eunuch who brought the message coughed to attract his attention. Salim did not look at him, heard what he had to say, and then dismissed him with a nod. A pigeon gently nudged his clenched fist. Salim opened it and let the wheat fall to the ground. He watched the pigeons scramble in the dust. Was it true that the Emperor was gravely ill? Or was it just an exaggeration, as all matters of the royal palace were exaggerated? What if Akbar died?

Salim straightened up and said, “Hoshiyar.”

A eunuch stepped forward from behind one of the pillars. Hoshiyar Khan was the head eunuch of Salim’s
zenana,
the most important man in it other than the prince. It was he who ran the harem with metronomic efficiency, settling squabbles between the various women: wives, concubines, slaves, maids, cooks. He also doled out their allowances and advised them on their investments.

Like everyone, he had his instructions not to disturb his master during the afternoon sessions, but he was never too far from the prince. Hoshiyar listened, bowed, and left the courtyard. Salim watched him go. What was done was done. Humam had assured him Akbar would live. Now he had to attend to other matters.

Through Hoshiyar, Salim sent spies to the palace of his brother Prince Murad to check on his activities. Murad, now twenty-one years old, was also a candidate for the throne, as was Daniyal. The laws of primogeniture did not prevail in Mughal India as they did in Europe—all three of Akbar’s sons had equal rights to the throne.

The spies reported that Murad was in no fit state to contend for the crown. The prince was a drunkard, barely lucid for a few hours every day. He had no ambition; wine and the women of his harem had
propelled him to past caring. Daniyal was as yet too young to pose a threat. Neither of the two princes would inspire confidence in the nobles of the court, so their support would naturally go to Salim.

•   •   •

I
N HIS BEDCHAMBER
, Akbar suffered in silence, not daring to voice his fears. Pain racked his body, and sweat drenched his face. But the physical agony was nothing compared with the dull ache in his heart, as though something large and heavy were sitting on his chest. The previous day, one of his trusted retainers in Salim’s service had asked for and been granted an audience. What he had to say filled Akbar with unbelievable distress.

The Emperor moved restlessly in his bed. How could he believe such an infamous charge against his beloved son? But the facts all pointed to it. His condition had steadily deteriorated day by day. He was a robust forty-nine years of age, temperate in his habits, and he had always enjoyed good health. Yet, the colic was persistent, the pains increasing every day. Now he lay in his bed, a ghost of his former self.

As he moved again, muttering to himself, Ruqayya rose from her seat at the far end of the room and then sank back, signaling the approaching attendants to move away. She sat down heavily, turning her face from her husband, unwilling to see him like this. Salim was not her son, not born of her, but she had known and loved him since he was a child. His actions defied belief, defied all reason. But worse, much much worse was Akbar’s grief. If the colic did not kill him, the sorrow would, and all those years when the whole harem and the Emperor had prayed for a male heir, when they had rejoiced at Salim’s birth, would mean nothing. They had all failed in their duty to make him a good man.

Even as she thought thus, another thought came to her mind—that perhaps Akbar himself was responsible for Salim’s drinking and his laziness. Ruqayya had many times warned the Emperor that the prince needed responsibility, that he spent too much time in the
zenana
and not enough among warriors and men of learning. But Akbar would not listen to her, for sending Salim on campaign or out to study with
mullas
would mean sending his son away. How could Salim repay Akbar’s affection thus?

An attendant padded silently onto the room on bare feet and bent to the Empress’s ear. She listened, then rose and went to the Emperor’s bedside.

“Your Majesty,
hakim
Humam is outside.”

“Send him in.”

Ruqayya motioned to the eunuchs by the door to let the
hakim
enter. As she was pulling a veil over her head the Emperor said with an effort, “Thank you.”

Tears welled in her eyes and flowed down her plump cheeks. She clasped the pale hand between her two warm ones. “I would do it a hundred times, my lord,” she said simply.

Humam entered the room and bowed. Akbar lifted a feeble hand and bade him come closer. The
hakim
went up to the bed and knelt by the Emperor.

“Your services are no longer necessary to us.”

Humam lifted his head in surprise. Akbar glared at him.

“But, your Majesty, I have served you and will always serve you, with my life if necessary,” Humam said, trembling. He had never seen the Emperor in such a mood before. Akbar was known for his calmness and his ease of temper, and now Humam was frightened.

“Enough!” Akbar roared, with strength born from anger. “Leave our sight, and no longer show your shameful face to us.”

Two attendants swiftly came and pulled the
hakim
away from Akbar’s bedside. Humam hung his head, paid obeisance to the Emperor, and backed out of the room.

Empress Ruqayya watched Humam go, wondering if he knew how lucky he was to have his head still. If it had been her decision, Humam would not have seen another sunset, but the Emperor had
been adamant about not punishing the
hakim
—as though, Ruqayya thought, putting Humam to death would be an admission of Salim’s culpability.

For the next week, Akbar’s life hung on a thread. Then, slowly, with the help of his physicians and his devoted wives, he recovered. But the Emperor was not the same: he became quieter, more reserved, and soon the court noticed that the relationship between Akbar and the heir apparent had greatly deteriorated.

•   •   •

A
S THE DYING
sun heralded the end of yet another day, Ghias Beg carefully laid down his quill on the inkpot and rested his elbows on the desk, letting the golden rays play over his work. He watched as the approaching gloom chased the light over the barren mountains, until one by one they disappeared from his view. Only then did Ghias turn from the window.

In front of him lay a royal
farman,
an edict from the Emperor himself. In it Akbar congratulated him on his services to the empire as
diwan
of Kabul for four years, and finally summoned him back to the imperial court at Lahore.

Four years, Ghias thought with a flush of happiness. Four long years of hard work. His father would have been proud of him. Ghias had initially resisted being sent here, although only inwardly, for no one would have dared disobey or even question the Emperor’s command. Ghias had not wanted to leave the Emperor to go to Kabul, important as the post was. He had grown fond of Akbar, reverent almost, and thought that being away from court would mean sure death to his career.

But that was not so. Ghias spread out the
farman
again under his hands, his eyes skimming over the black-ink Turki and the heavily embossed royal seal in one corner. Instead of forgetting him, the Emperor seemed to have carefully watched him these four years through spies and regular reports from Kabul. It was a comforting thought for Ghias, because he had worked hard and put effort into
the job with a dedication that was paid back not only by the Emperor’s accolades but by the gratitude of the people of Kabul.

Anklets tinkled by his door, and Ghias smiled. So much had happened in the past four years. Abul and Muhammad were both married now. It had been a little early for Muhammad, but Ghias had hoped to settle his wild ways with the marriage. Unfortunately, that had not happened. If anything, Muhammad had grown more distant, more unreachable. Ghias sighed. Perhaps if there were a child . . . fatherhood would surely bring some calmness. Once Muhammad was settled, a very good
rishta
had come for Abul, and he too had been married. But before that, Saliha had been married to a nobleman named Sadiq Khan. It would not have been right to marry the sons with an unwed of-age daughter still at home. Saliha’s new family was a good one, and Ghias was not upset at leaving his older daughter in their hands when they returned to Lahore.

As for the other girls—Mehrunnisa, Manija, and Khadija—they continued their education as usual, along with Shahpur.

Mehrunnisa—ah, she was now sixteen and seemed to live up to her name, Ghias thought. Sun of Women—she was a beautiful child, physically as well as in spirit. In all their years of marriage, Asmat and he had never shown undue partiality to any one child, but with Mehrunnisa it was difficult not to do so. Her smile, her laughter, the mischievous glint in her blue eyes filled Ghias with a paternal contentment. If it were socially acceptable to have a daughter live at home all her life, Ghias would choose Mehrunnisa to be by him without hesitation.

Ghias suddenly sobered at the thought. Mehrunnisa was sixteen. Where had time flown? She was now old enough to be married.

•   •   •

T
HAT NIGHT, WHEN
the servants had bowed their way out of the room after extinguishing the lamps, Asmat and Ghias lay side by side in a comfortable silence.

Asmat spoke first. “It is time we think of Mehrunnisa’s marriage.”

Ghias turned to look at the shadowed face of his wife. “Yes. She is already sixteen.”

“We shall miss her,” Asmat said softly.

Ghias felt for her hand and held it fast, choosing his words with care. He did not want to communicate the sudden emptiness that had descended on him at Asmat’s words. “She will be an asset to us and to her future husband. We have brought her up well.”

“It must be a brilliant marriage, Ghias. Someone who will understand her needs, encourage her spirit. I know she will make a good wife.”

“And so it shall be, my dear. I will contact my friends for a suitable husband, and when I find him I shall request permission from the Emperor.” As with any marriage that took place in the vicinity of the court, Ghias had to request—at least formally—permission from Akbar.

With that, Ghias fell into a restless sleep.

Across the courtyard, Mehrunnisa lay awake on a cotton mattress in her room. Somewhere in the night, a dog barked at a passing stranger, then yelped with pain as a stone found its mark. Mehrunnisa lay still, hands clasped on her stomach, her mind revolving with thoughts. Back to Lahore at last. Back to the court, to the imperial
zenana,
to the Empress with her quick mannerisms and her biting sarcasm. But most of all, most of all, back to Salim.

Mehrunnisa turned on her side, pillowed her head on her arm, and closed her eyes, a smile on her face as sleep claimed her.

•   •   •

T
HEY EMBARKED ON
their long journey back to Lahore, where the Emperor held court. As Ghias rode his sturdy mountain horse, its measured hoofbeats brought memories of another day, so long in the past, when they had made their first trip through the Khyber Pass into Hindustan. Life had been uncertain then, each succeeding day void of security. The winter’s cold had bitten into their tired
bodies. Now he went at the Emperor’s invitation. At the end of each day, they settled into thick canvas tents, slept on feather-stuffed mattresses, rested their heads on silk-covered pillows. His sons rode beside him—men now, no longer children—and the women of his family traveled in a
howdah
set atop camels.

Upon reaching Lahore, Ghias hurried immediately to pay his respects to Akbar. When he straightened up from the
konish
to look at the Emperor, a mild shock coursed through him. Akbar’s hair was almost completely white, and though his face was the same, calm and kind, a hint of sadness touched his eyes. Ghias glanced quickly at Prince Salim, who stood next to the throne. The same sadness appeared to echo through him. So it was true, Ghias thought. He had heard rumors about the Emperor’s illness and
hakim
Humam. Such things never stayed secret.

“You have done the empire a great service at Kabul,” Akbar said.

Ghias turned to him. “Your Majesty is too kind. I only did my job.”

“Still,” Akbar continued, “we are pleased with your work.”

At a sign from Akbar, an attendant came forward, bearing a large gold tray on which reposed a jeweled sword and a garment of honor. Ghias knelt. Akbar lifted the jeweled sword and the coat and presented them to him.

The imperial harem watched the proceedings from an overhead balcony screened from view. As soon as the short ceremony was over, Ruqayya Sultan Begam spoke from behind the screen. “Your Majesty, please ask Mirza Beg to send his wife and his daughter Mehrunnisa to wait upon us.”

Akbar looked at Ghias.

“It shall be done, your Majesty.” Ghias turned toward the balcony. “They will be honored to hear that you have commanded their presence.”

He moved back to his place in the
darbar,
glad to be at Lahore
again. At the end of the morning audience, the Emperor’s face crumpled suddenly with fatigue. Ghias saw Prince Salim reach out a hand to his father, then withdraw it when Akbar turned away. It was done so quickly that only a few courtiers saw it happen. The court bowed as the Emperor left, followed by Prince Salim. Ghias returned home, thinking about the
darbar.
During the next few weeks he would talk with the other nobles to find out as much as he could about the Humam incident. Was it true? Or just a fabrication by courtiers who did not like Prince Salim? What a burden the crown was, he thought. Kings had always fought brothers and fathers and sons for it.