‘Yes. But I had to tell him you were already betrothed to Sher Afghan – that I could not in all honour break that contract . . .’
Mehrunissa began to pace the courtyard, hands clasped. Her father had refused Jahangir . . . Instead of being the wife of the cold, brutish Sher Afghan in the fetid heat of Bengal she could have been a prince’s wife at the Moghul court, close to the heart of everything that mattered. Why? How could he? What could have motivated him to cut her off from so much? He would have benefited, as too would all the family . . .
‘You are angry with me and perhaps you are right to be. I know your marriage to Sher Afghan was unhappy, but I couldn’t have predicted that. I felt I had no choice except to act as I did. After all, the prince had been exiled by his father. He would have needed his father’s permission to marry you and was unlikely to obtain it. At that time he was as likely to have been executed as to become emperor. To be associated with him by the emperor would not have been good for our family.’ Ghiyas Beg paused.
To Mehrunissa there seemed something self-contradictory in her father’s torrent of exculpation. Had her father refused Jahangir for honour or for expediency? But he was continuing.
‘Listen to what else I have to tell you and then perhaps you won’t judge me so harshly. The emperor has appointed me his Comptroller of Revenues and ordered me to Agra.’ Her father’s eyes were suddenly full of tears – something Mehrunissa had never seen before. ‘For the past twenty years and more – ever since we first came here – I’ve thought about the moment when my qualities would be recognised and I would be given some great appointment. I had given up hope and schooled myself to be content . . . But there is still more. The emperor writes that you are to be lady-in-waiting to one of the Emperor Akbar’s widows in the imperial haram. Daughter, I believe he has not forgotten you. Now that you are a widow and he is an emperor, he is free to do what he could not when he was only a prince and you were pledged to another man.’
Six days later, Mehrunissa lay back in her palanquin as the eight Gilzai tribesmen on whose broad shoulders the palanquin’s bamboo poles were resting carried her and her sleeping daughter Ladli swiftly down through the narrow rock-strewn Khoord pass on the first stage of the descent to the plains of Hindustan. The pink brocade curtains enclosing her fluttered in the breeze allowing her glimpses of the steep, scree-covered slopes dotted with holly oak bushes. The bearers were keeping up an even rhythm, singing as they half ran. She hoped her father was right about Jahangir’s intentions. She wanted him to be but as she knew from experience men could be changeable. Sher Afghan had been an attentive husband, a tender lover in the first months of their marriage until he grew tired of her . . . Also she might no longer please Jahangir. Men liked young flesh. Then she had been a girl of sixteen; now she was a woman of twenty-four.
The crackle of musket fire and urgent cries of alarm from the back of the column broke into her thoughts. The palanquin began swaying violently as her bearers stopped singing and picked up speed. Putting a protective arm around Ladli she lifted a corner of one of the curtains and peered out but could see nothing but grey rocks and scree. All the time the yells and sounds of musketry grew louder and nearer. Then a rider galloped by from the rear of the column, so close that she could smell the sweat of his horse and the dust raised by its hooves stung her eyes and made her cough. He was shouting, ‘Dacoits are attacking the baggage train! Three men and two baggage camels are down. Get more troops back there quickly!’
Rubbing the dust from her eyes Mehrunissa looked back but a sharp bend in the track hid the baggage train from her view. These passes were notorious for the wild Afridi tribes who preyed on small groups of travellers, but to attack a party protected by an escort of imperial troops was surely reckless. They couldn’t know who they were taking on . . . or maybe they did. Perhaps the news that the wealthy Treasurer of Kabul was on the road had tempted them. The shadows were lengthening. In an hour or two the sun would disappear below the peaks of the surrounding hills. Perhaps the attack on the baggage wagons in the rear was intended to hurry them deeper into the narrow Khoord Pass where a bigger ambush awaited in the dusk? The thought of the danger to herself and Ladli – and to her parents, travelling ahead of her in the column – chilled her for a moment, then she began to think. How would she defend herself and her daughter? She had no weapons. Ladli had awoken and she pulled the child closer to her. Sensing her mother’s tension Ladli started to whimper. ‘Hush,’ Mehrunissa said, keeping her voice bright. ‘Everything will be all right. Besides, crying never helped anyone.’
Just then someone shouted an order to halt. Her bearers stopped so abruptly that Mehrunissa tumbled forward. She lost her grip on Ladli and banged her forehead on one of the curved bamboo hoops that formed the frame of the palanquin so hard that for a moment she was dazed. Collecting herself, she pushed Ladli to the floor of the palanquin. ‘Stay there!’ Next she craned her head right out of the curtains to see that ahead of her the entire column had stopped. Musketmen were dismounting and, weapons slung across their backs, were scrambling up the scree-covered slopes, dislodging grit and pebbles as they did so, towards some tumbled rocks that would provide them with cover. Then a detachment of imperial horsemen swept past her palanquin heading towards the rear of the column where the sounds of fighting were intensifying. The track was so narrow that they had to drop into single file as they passed her. The last of them was a young officer mounted on a black horse, face anxious and sword already drawn.
Should she break purdah and run with Ladli to her parents’ cart, Mehrunissa wondered, but then dismissed the idea. It would only expose them both to any marksmen in the rocks above. There was no point in making any move until the progress of the fighting was clearer. Instead she closed the curtains around the palanquin again. Time passed slowly in the semi-darkness. Conscious all the time of the sounds of muskets – sometimes seeming nearer, sometimes further away – and of curt shouted orders for soldiers to advance or fall back, as well as of the pain in her forehead, on which a large bump was now rising, she forced herself to sing Persian folk songs to Ladli.
At last the cries and shooting from the back of the column subsided, but what did that mean? Then she heard approaching hoofbeats, victorious whoops and answering cheers from bearers and soldiers near her palanquin. The raiders must have been beaten off . . . Looking out once more she watched the victorious imperial soldiers returning. Several, including the young officer she had seen, had the heads of those they had slain dangling by their hair from the pommels of their saddles, blood dripping from their roughly severed necks. But it was the last rider who caught her attention as he approached. He was oddly dressed in a short tight-fitting leather jacket and on his head, instead of a pointed Moghul helmet with a fringe of chain mail to protect the neck, was a plain round one. As he drew abreast of her, he turned his head. A pair of pale, cat-like blue eyes looked directly at her.
Chapter 4
The Imperial Haram
‘Madam, it is time. My name is Mala. I am His Imperial Majesty’s khawajasara, his superintendent of the imperial haram, and have come to escort you to the apartments of Fatima Begam whom you will serve.’ Mala was a tall, stately looking woman in late middle age. Her long ivory staff of office carved at the top in the shape of a lotus flower added to her dignity. Mehrunissa sensed a formidable personality behind the smile.
She returned her gaze to her parents, standing side by side in the courtyard of the spacious apartments within the walls of the Agra fort allocated to Ghiyas Beg’s household. Her mother was holding Ladli by the hand. Mehrunissa knelt and kissed her daughter. She had looked forward to this moment with enormous anticipation but now that it had come, three weeks after reaching Agra, she felt apprehensive, even reluctant. Parting from the child who had been such a consolation to her was hard, even though Ladli would be in the care of her grandparents and nursemaid Farisha and would be allowed to visit her in the haram.
Conscious that the khawajasar
a was watching, Mehrunissa forced herself to suppress her feelings, something her life with Sher Afghan had taught her to do well, and to keep a calm face. Giving Ladli one final hug she rose, turned to her parents and embraced them also. As she stepped back from them, Ghiyas Beg’s face was full of pride. ‘Our thoughts will be with you. Serve your mistress well,’ he said.
Mehrunissa followed the khawajasara out of the courtyard and down a sandstone staircase that gave on to the steep ramp leading into the heart of the Agra fort. A few yards away six female attendants dressed in green waited beside a silk-decked palanquin. They looked tall and broad. She had already heard about the muscular Turkish women who helped guard the haram, but as she drew closer she gasped to see that the attendants were not women but eunuchs with large hands and feet and strangely smooth faces, neither masculine nor feminine. All were wearing rich jewellery and the eyes of several were rimmed with kohl. She had seen eunuchs before, employed as servants or dancing and playing for crowds in the bazaar, but never dressed as parodies of women like this.
‘Madam, the palanquin is for you,’ said the khawajasara. Mehrunissa stepped inside and sat cross-legged on the low seat. Hands twitched the silk curtains into place around her and the palanquin rose as the eunuchs lifted it on to their shoulders. As it began its slow swaying progress up the ramp, carrying her to a new life, she found she was clasping her hands and her heart was beating so fast that her blood seemed to pound in her ears. So much had happened in such a short time . . . In the shadowy half-light she tried to recapture Jahangir’s lean, handsome face, the way he had looked at her as she had danced for him in Kabul . . . Was he really to be her future as her father claimed and she so desired? Soon she would know.
‘What do you wish to tell me, Majesty? I came from Fatehpur Sikri as soon as I received your summons.’ The Sufi’s voice was gentle but his gaze was penetrating. Now that the moment had come, Jahangir felt reluctant to speak. The Sufi, whom out of respect to his status as a holy man he had invited to sit on a stool close by his own in his private apartments, seemed to sense his awkwardness and continued, ‘I know that when you were only a boy you opened your heart to my father. I don’t presume to have either my father’s powers of prophesy or his insight, but if you will trust me I will try to help you.’
Jahangir thought back to that warm night in Fatehpur Sikri when he had run from the palace to the house of Shaikh Salim Chishti hoping to find answers. ‘Your father was a great man. He told me not to despair, that I would be emperor. His words sustained me through many difficult times as I grew to manhood.’
‘Perhaps my words can also give you solace.’
Jahangir looked at the Sufi – a much bigger man than his frail-looking father had been. He was as tall as Jahangir and well muscled as a soldier, but physical strength wouldn’t make him any more forgiving of moral weakness, Jahangir thought . . . He took a breath and began, choosing his words with care. ‘When my father exiled me to Kabul I saw a woman there, the daughter of one of my father’s officials. I knew instinctively that she was the woman I had been seeking. Though I already had several wives I was certain beyond any doubt that she would be my soulmate – that I must marry her. But there was a problem. She was already promised to one of my father’s commanders and though I begged my father he refused to break their betrothal.’
‘The Emperor Akbar was a just man, Majesty.’
‘Yes, but not always where members of his own family were concerned. He refused to accept how important this woman was to me. He wouldn’t understand that I felt as my grandfather Humayun must have done when he saw his wife Hamida for the first time. He broke with his brother Hindal, who also loved Hamida, in order to have her. He even hazarded his empire because of his love for her. Some might say he was foolish . . .’ Jahangir glanced at the Sufi sitting silent by his side, hands resting on his knees and white-turbaned head slightly bowed, ‘but he was right. After they married he and Hamida were rarely apart. She sustained him through all the dangerous years until finally he won back the Moghul throne. After his sudden death Hamida had the strength to make sure my father Akbar inherited the throne.’
‘Your grandmother was a brave woman and a worthy empress. You feel that the woman you wished to marry would have been as good a companion to you?’
‘I know it. My father forced me to relinquish her but when I became emperor I knew the time had come when I could be with her.’
‘But you said she was promised to another. Did she marry that man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what has changed? Has her husband died?’
‘Yes, he is dead.’ Jahangir paused for a moment then stood up and paced about before turning to face the Sufi. He could tell by the man’s expression that he already knew what he was about to say. ‘His name was Sher Afghan. He was my commander in Gaur in Bengal. I had him killed and ordered his widow to be brought here to the imperial haram.’
‘To murder a man so you can take his wife is a great sin, Majesty.’ The Sufi was sitting up very straight on his stool and his expression was stern.
‘Was it murder? I am the emperor. I have the power of life and death over every one of my subjects.’
‘But as emperor you are also the fount of justice. You cannot kill on a whim or to suit your convenience.’
‘Sher Afghan was corrupt. The commander I appointed in his place has provided me with ample evidence of how much imperial money he stole. Thousands of mohurs sent him from my treasury for the purchase of horses and equipment went into his own pocket. He also had wealthy merchants executed on false charges so that he could seize their property. I have enough evidence to have had Sher Afghan executed ten, twenty times . . .’
‘But you knew nothing about his crimes when you ordered his death?’
Jahangir hesitated, then said, ‘No.’
‘In that case, Majesty – and forgive me for speaking plainly – you should not try to justify your actions. You acted out of a selfish passion, nothing more.’
‘But are my actions so different from my grandfather’s? Is my crime so much worse than his? He stole a woman from a brother who loved him and was loyal to him. If he hadn’t alienated Hindal, Hindal himself would never have been murdered.’
‘Your crime is far worse because you had a man killed for your own ends. You have sinned not only against God but against the family of the woman you desire and the woman herself. In your heart you know it, otherwise why send for me?’ The Sufi’s clear brown eyes were fixed on his face. When Jahangir said nothing he continued, ‘I can’t absolve you from your sin . . . only God can forgive you.’
Every word the Sufi had spoken was true, Jahangir thought. The need to confide in someone had been growing intolerable and he was glad that at last he had done it, but he had been deluding himself in hoping the holy man would condone his actions. ‘I will try to win God’s forgiveness. I will treble what I give to the poor. I’ll order new mosques to be built in Agra, Delhi and Lahore. I’ll—’
The Sufi raised his hand. ‘Majesty, that isn’t enough. You said you’ve had the woman brought to your haram. Have you lain with her yet?’
‘No. She is not a common concubine. As I told you, I want to marry her. At present she is lady-in-waiting to one of my stepmothers and knows nothing of any of this. But soon I intend to send for her . . . to tell her what I feel . . .’
‘No. Part of your penance must be personal. You must exercise self-control. Wed this woman now and God may exact a terrible price. You must subdue your desires and wait. You must not bed her for least six months and in the meantime you must pray daily to God to forgive you.’ So saying, the Sufi rose and without waiting for Jahangir to dismiss him walked from the apartments.
Fatima Begam’s broad face was lined and dry as parchment and a large mole on the left side of her chin sprouted a trio of luxuriant white hairs. Could she ever have been beautiful – beautiful enough to have made Akbar eager to make her his wife? Mehrunissa wondered, watching the elderl
y woman lying dozing on a low bed piled with plump orange cushions. She thought she could guess the answer. Though he had chosen his concubines for his physical pleasure, Akbar had used marriage as a means of contracting political alliances. Fatima Begam’s family were rulers of a small state on the borders of Sind.
Mehrunissa stirred restlessly. She wished she could read but Fatima Begam liked the lighting in her apartments to be kept subdued. Muslin hangings over the arched windows filtered the sunlight. She rose and went over to one of the windows. Through the curtain she glimpsed the amber waters of the Jumna river sweeping by. A group of men were cantering along its broad muddy bank, their hunting dogs running behind. Once again she envied men their freedom. Here in the imperial haram, this self-contained city of women, her life felt even more constricted than it had in Kabul. Despite the beauty of its flower-filled gardens and terraces, its avenues of trees and shimmering scented fountains, the rich furnishings – no floor was ever left bare, and colourful swathes of glowing silks and sensuous velvets draped windows and doors – the haram seemed like a prison. Rajput soldiers guarded the great gates leading into it and within it was patrolled by female guards and by the bland-faced but knowing-looking eunuchs whose presence, even after eight weeks, she still found unsettling.
Yet most unsettling of all was that as yet she had heard nothing from the emperor . . . she hadn’t even caught a glimpse of him though she knew he was at court. Why hadn’t he sent for her or even come to visit Fatima Begam where he would know he would be sure of seeing her? Could it be that her hopes – and those of her father – had no foundation after all? She must be patient, Mehrunissa told herself as she turned away from the window. What else could she do? If she was to prosper here instinct told her she needed to understand this strange new world. She must explore the haram whenever Fatima Begam had errands for her. She had already discovered that the honeycomb of rooms built around three sides of a square paved courtyard where Fatima Begam had her quarters housed dozens of women related one way or another to the imperial family – aunts, great-aunts, the most distant of distant cousins.
Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne Page 6
