Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘In Persia there is a saying: “If a tree produces bitter fruit cut it down to save the rest of the orchard.” Mir Khan has betrayed the duty he owed to you as his emperor and the duty he owes to his family. He is the diseased tree. The rest of his family are the orchard.’

  ‘Very well. Let it be as you advise.’ Leaning down Jahangir picked up a large brass bell beside him and rang it vigorously. Its metallic clang had barely sounded more than two or three times before a qorchi entered through a side door to the right of the dais.

  ‘Majesty?’

  ‘Bring the traitor Mir Khan before me.’

  Neither Mehrunissa nor Jahangir, sitting motionless on his dais, spoke as the minutes passed. She was steeling herself for the next stage in what had been the longest ordeal of her life. It must be about seven o’clock in the evening – fifteen hours after Nadya had woken her with Arjumand Banu’s terrified note. Though mentally exhausted she must not let her resolve weaken. Only by keeping strong could she get through this and save herself and her family.

  The sound of male voices and approaching footsteps jerked her out of her thoughts. The qorchi came into the apartment through the same side door, then stood to one side of it and called, ‘Bring in Mir Khan.’

  Two guards entered dragging a third man between them. As they approached the dais in the flickering candlelight, Mehrunissa had to force herself not to look away. The guards halted level with where she was standing and pushed the man forward on to the ground. Mir Khan fell unresistingly. Indeed, he looked barely conscious. As he had tumbled forward she had seen his battered, bloodied face. His clothes were ripped and through the rents she saw what looked like raw, red burn marks on his back, perhaps made with a hot iron. She told herself Mir Khan must pay for his mistakes – that he must be the sacrifice that would save the rest of them – but it was almost more than she could bear to see her tortured younger brother lying on the floor beside her. Conscious that Jahangir’s gaze was fixed on her and not on Mir Khan, she strained to maintain her composure. After a moment the emperor turned to the prisoner.

  ‘Mir Khan, what do you have to say for yourself?’

  Mir Khan’s whole body was shaking convulsively. One of the guards seized his long black hair and pulled back his head. ‘Answer His Majesty.’

  Mir Khan muttered something incomprehensible and the guard pulled back his booted foot and kicked him hard in the pit of the stomach. This time he managed to force out a few words. ‘Forgive me, Majesty.’

  ‘There can be no forgiveness for treachery. You deserve a traitor’s death. Even your sister has advised your execution.’ Mehrunissa flinched as Mir Khan turned his despairing eyes on her. ‘I should have you crushed beneath the foot of the execution elephant or impaled as I did my son’s supporters in his previous revolt whose fate you were too stupid to learn from.’ Jahangir’s tone was chill. It was all Mehrunissa could do not to throw herself down beside Mir Khan and despite her former words plead for mercy for him. However, Jahangir went on, ‘For the sake of your sister who has shown a courage you could never possess I will spare you the slow and agonising departure from this life you deserve. Have you anything to say before you die?’

  Mir Khan struggled to his knees but when he spoke his words were for his sister, not the emperor. To her intense relief they were not of anger nor of reproach. ‘Mehrunissa . . . forgive me . . .’

  ‘I forgive you, brother.’ Her mouth was so dry the words came slowly.

  ‘And ask our father and Asaf Khan to forgive me too. They knew nothing about the plot . . . and tell our mother I love her and not to grieve.’ Mir Khan was sobbing now, tears dissolving the dried blood on his battered face.

  ‘Send for the executioner,’ Jahangir ordered. The man must have been waiting outside for almost at once a tall black-turbaned man in a metal-studded leather tunic holding a double-headed axe and with what looked like a rolled length of animal hide beneath his other muscular arm entered.

  ‘Majesty?’

  ‘Behead this man.’

  Hearing Jahangir’s words, Mir Khan collapsed to the floor again. The executioner unrolled the hide, then pulled back the carpet in front of the dais and spread the skin out carefully on the stone flags. When he was ready he nodded to the guards. Mir Khan was still sobbing as the guards grabbed hold of him and dragged him forward on to the hide. ‘Stretch out your neck,’ the executioner ordered. As one guard pulled his right arm out from his body, which was now shaking convulsively, and the other guard extended his left one, Mehrunissa watched her brother in what must have been a supreme act of courage slowly extend his own neck. The executioner brushed his dark hair from his exposed nape then, satisfied, stepped back and picked up his axe. After carefully balancing the weight of it in his hands he looked enquiringly over his shoulder at Jahangir, who gave a brief nod.

  Mehrunissa saw the curved blade gleam in the candlelight as the executioner swung the axe high above him. She felt the rush of air against her cheek as he brought it down, then heard the thud of steel on flesh and bone as the blade sliced cleanly through her brother’s neck and saw the bright spurt of blood as his head hit the floor with another duller thud. For some moments Mehrunissa was numb. Then came a comforting realisation – the executioner knew his business. Her brother hadn’t suffered. She had saved him from a slow death. She watched the executioner swiftly cocoon Mir Khan’s head and torso in the hide and with the help of one of the guards carry them from the chamber. Only a few drops of blood on the flagstones betrayed that just moments ago a life had been taken.

  ‘It is over,’ Mehrunissa heard Jahangir say. ‘Go back to the haram.’

  All power of thinking and feeling seemed to desert her. She obeyed blindly, stumbling towards the great golden doors at the far end of the chamber that were already opening to receive her.

  Back in her apartment in the haram that she’d thought never to see again it was some minutes before Mehrunissa at last allowed the tears to flow. Watching her brother’s execution had been hard. Her palms were bleeding from where she had dug in her nails in an effort to control herself. But Mir Khan had brought his fate on himself. He was guilty and justice had been done. There was nothing she could have done to save him and had she tried she might have endangered herself and her entire family. Just as her father had been prepared to abandon her as a baby to die in the desert to give the rest of his family a chance to survive, so she had had to sacrifice Mir Khan. Her act of expediency hadn’t meant she didn’t love him, weak and foolish though he was.

  But what now? The meeting with Jahangir she had fantasised about for so long had finally happened but in very different circumstances from those she’d imagined. What did the future hold for herself . . . or for her family?

  Chapter 7

  Absolution

  The sound of his horse’s hooves rhythmically pounding the dry earth as he rode towards Fatehpur Sikri was satisfying, Jahangir thought. It told him that after months of waiting he was finally taking action. Ever since seeing Mehrunissa he had rarely been able to keep her from his thoughts. The courage with which she had stood before him and defended her father to him had confirmed what he had sensed all those years ago – that she was an exceptional as well as a beautiful woman. Others would have wept and wailed but she had retained her dignity. At the end of their encounter he had had no doubt that of all her family Mir Khan had been the only traitor. He had also known that the feelings she had roused in him all those years ago were still there. He wanted her more than ever.

  However, dealing emphatically with Khusrau’s latest treachery, hatched from within his prison cell in Gwalior, had had to be his first priority. With every passing day he had learned more of the group of hotheads, young men like Mir Khan, who had pledged their allegiance to Khusrau, dazzled by promises his ambitious son had no right to make. He had acted quickly, ensuring that Khusrau’s confederates were arrested before they could flee, interrogated to reveal the names of further conspirators and then executed.


  Khusrau’s fate was far more difficult to decide. He had been merciful in the past but what had been the result? Khusrau had repaid his generosity with further deceit. No, he could expect neither repentance nor gratitude from him. Whatever punishment he inflicted on Khusrau must be sufficiently harsh to ensure he could never rebel again. Yet he need not rush . . . For the present he had ordered Khusrau to be imprisoned in a dungeon cell in Gwalior and kept completely isolated.

  He could trust Yar Muhammad, the stern old disciplinarian from Badakhshan whom he had recently appointed Governor of Gwalior, to make sure his orders were carried out. As for the previous governor, he had clearly been lax, allowed Khusrau too many privileges. He was to blame for making it possible for the prince to plot and that was why, fearing Jahangir’s ire, he had tried to make amends for his negligence by providing information about the plotters, even implicating the innocent like Ghiyas Beg to save himself. Jahangir had not hesitated to strip him of his post and estates and banish him.

  He smiled a little grimly. It should be a long time before anyone else was rash enough to consider rebelling against the emperor. And now with the crisis drawing to its close he was free at last to turn his mind to more personal matters. Last night, as thoughts of Mehrunissa had again kept him awake, he had begun to wonder whether Khusrau’s revolt had subtly altered the situation between himself and Mehrunissa’s family. Only the Sufi seer could answer that question. That was why he had decided to ride out to visit him as soon as his daily council meeting was over.

  Ahead of him in the fast descending twilight, Jahangir could make out the lights of cooking fires. Fatehpur Sikri wasn’t far now. He urged his horse into a faster gallop, taking his qorchis and his bodyguards by surprise. Behind him he could hear them encouraging their own horses onwards as they tried to keep up.

  Fifteen minutes later, he jumped down from his horse in front of a low mud-brick house outside the main walls of the now mostly abandoned sandstone city of Fatehpur Sikri. The house looked smaller and meaner than he remembered from when as a boy he had visited the Sufi’s father, but time played tricks with the memory. ‘Wait here, all of you.’ Peering through a small window to the right of the door he could see the apricot glow of an oil lamp. He removed his riding gauntlets and tapped on the rough wooden door, then pushed it gently open. Hearing no sound from within he tapped again and ducking beneath the low lintel stepped inside.

  The room with its floor of hard beaten earth spread with a few thin rugs and a string charpoy in one corner was much as he remembered it, but of the Sufi himself there was no sign. For a moment Jahangir’s heart sank, then he heard voices outside and moments later the Sufi entered, stooping like Jahangir to avoid scraping his white-turbaned head on the lintel.

  ‘Majesty, I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. I was gathering firewood.’

  ‘I’m the one at fault for coming here without warning.’

  ‘Please, Majesty . . .’ The Sufi gestured to one of the rugs, and when Jahangir had settled himself cross-legged sat down opposite him. ‘What has brought you here in such haste?’

  ‘I need your guidance once again.’

  ‘On the same matter?’

  Jahangir thought he detected a faint hardening of the Sufi’s jaw. ‘Yes. The situation has changed.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You told me that not only had I sinned against God but I had wronged the family of the woman I love and wish to make my wife – Mehrunissa daughter of my treasurer Ghiyas Beg – by murdering the husband they had chosen for her. Because of that wrong you warned me not to risk God’s anger by rushing to take what I wanted but to do penance and to wait.’ The Sufi nodded but said nothing and Jahangir continued, ‘My son Khusrau has once again plotted to seize my throne and take my life. Among the principal conspirators was the younger son of Ghiyas Beg – Mehrunissa’s full brother. He confessed and I have had him executed. The question I have for you is whether his crime against me wipes out my transgression against his family?’

  The Sufi’s eyes were half closed and he was resting his chin on his folded hands but still he said nothing. Jahangir waited. Perhaps he should have simply sent for Mehrunissa, but his respect for the Sufi and even more for the Sufi’s long-dead father had prevented him.

  At last the Sufi spoke. ‘There is some truth in what you say. Almighty God will be your ultimate judge, but you are no longer the only sinner in the relationship between your families. I believe that the account has been balanced. But remember that whatever happiness awaits you, the step you took to gratify your desires was unworthy of you as a man and as an emperor.’

  ‘I know.’ Jahangir bowed his head. The Sufi was right. He should not have had Sher Afghan killed. That had been the act of a jealous lover not an all-powerful emperor. But overriding all such thoughts was the joy the Sufi’s words had brought him. Mehrunissa could be his at last. ‘Tell me, Sufi, what does the future hold? Will this woman be the partner of my heart I seek?’

  ‘That I cannot answer, Majesty. As I told you before, I am not a mighty soul as my father was. I don’t have his gift of prophecy. But if you love her as you say you do – and can make her love you – then all things are possible.’

  ‘Thank you. You have brought me great happiness. How can I reward you?’

  ‘I spoke from my understanding of God and his purposes, not for reward, but say a prayer at my father’s tomb before you leave Fatehpur Sikri. Repent again before God of all your sins and excesses, not just the murder of Sher Afghan. Perhaps from his place in Paradise my father can bless you and smooth the path that lies ahead of you.’

  ‘No, that’s not quite right. Listen . . .’ Salla read the verse aloud, translating from her native Armenian into Persian as she went. Mehrunissa shook her head. She would take a long time to master the language but she was glad of the distraction. Each day was like the one before and doubtless the one to follow. Even though she was again living in Fatima Begam’s household, she was being ostracised. All the time came news of fresh arrests of those suspected of conspiring with Khusrau. The execution of her brother was enough to make the occupants of the haram wary of her. However, Salla, whose scholar father was employed in the imperial library, seemed to have no such inhibitions. She had recently been appointed attendant to Fatima Begam and Mehrunissa was glad of her company. As well as Armenian, Salla had also offered to teach Mehrunissa some English, a language which her father, who in his youth had spent three years as munshi or secretary to an English merchant, had taught her.

  Salla’s long dark hair, so thick she struggled to drag a brush through it, was hanging round her earnest face as she repeated the translation Mehrunissa had had such problems with: ‘Do not fear when the night grows black as pitch. It is only a passing cloud blotting the radiance of moon and stars. Their light will return, all the more beautiful because once lost.’

  The words touched Mehrunissa. ‘Who wrote it?’

  ‘One of our greatest poets – Hagopian from Yerevan.’

  ‘How long ago . . .’ But Mehrunissa got no further as Nadya burst into her apartment.

  ‘Madam, you are to come at once. The khawajasara is waiting for you.’

  What now? Mehrunissa wondered, rising to her feet. Ever since her audience with Jahangir she had been expecting to be told to return to her parents’ house. The letters she had sent them and her brother Asaf Khan had been guarded. She was certain that any communications passing out of the haram – particularly addressed to a family implicated in treason – would be carefully scrutinised.

  Following Nadya out into the bright courtyard – according to the shadow falling on the curved marble sundial it was just approaching midday – Mehrunissa saw Mala awaiting her. Behind the khawajasara’s tall figure half a dozen attendants in plain dark green robes were standing hands folded, eyes all fixed on her. Three were eunuchs and three were women.

  ‘You sent for me.’ Mehrunissa addressed the khawajasara.

  ‘Yes, madam.’

/>   ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I am not permitted to say in this public place. Please follow me.’

  The khawajasara strutted ahead staff in hand like some great officer of state, which in a way she was. Next went the attendants and finally Mehrunissa. The little procession headed across the main courtyard past the turning leading, as Mehrunissa now knew, to the entrance to Jahangir’s private apartments towards the gates of the haram itself. So she was being ejected after all . . .

  But then Mehrunissa noticed another small arched entrance to the left of the gatehouse. Reaching it, Mala vanished inside. Following the attendants through the arch Mehrunissa found herself in a narrow passage winding down and sharply to the left. For one wild moment she wondered whether she was being taken to some dungeon but then she noticed that the air was getting warmer. Moisture was trickling down the sandstone walls and she could smell not the dankness of a prison but perfume – rosewater, sandalwood, ambergris. There was another sharp bend and Mehrunissa saw light ahead. A few more steps and she was in a tiny rectangular courtyard with high walls on all sides. Looking up all she could see of the sky was a small rectangle of metallic blue. A fountain bubbled in the centre of the courtyard and through an opening in the wall directly opposite was the source of the moist, fragrant steam – a hammam.

  ‘Please undress,’ the khawajasara said.

  Mehrunissa stared.

  ‘The protocol of the haram forbade me from telling you before we reached this private place, but the emperor has sent for you. Tonight if you please him you will share his bed. There is no argument. You will do as I say.’

  Mehrunissa was so shocked that she stood unresisting as the attendants began undressing her – untying the pearled tassel of her enamelled belt set with polished chunks of rose quartz, sliding her pink silk robe and underskirt from her, taking her silk slippers from her feet. Before she realised it she was standing naked in the bright shaft of sunlight falling in the little courtyard and the khawajasara was appraising her body with the dispassionate eye of the slave merchants she had seen in the Kabul bazaar. She shook her long dark hair around her to cover her breasts and turned away, still trying to take in what Mala had said. So Jahangir had sent for her at last but not, it seemed, to be his wife. She was being prepared for his bed as a common concubine.