As he ordered his men to push on towards the riverbank, Khurram was delighted to see that Malik Ambar’s men were pulling back towards the river. As he waved his men forward against his retreating enemy Khurram began to realise that, after little more than an hour, victory would soon again be his, although it had taken a stroke of great good fortune when the cannon had exploded to assure it. However, as he breasted another sand dune and for the first time got a clear view of the river, he saw that there was a large group of horsemen on the opposite bank and rafts carrying others were in midstream, being frantically poled towards the far side. As he reached the edge of the river a minute or two later a small figure wearing a breastplate which glinted mirror bright in the late morning sun waved his sword in a gesture of defiance before turning and leading his few remaining troops away. Malik Ambar had eluded him again, thought Khurram, but again he had lost most of his army and – if the abandoned wagons contained what he thought they did – most of his booty.
His father would be pleased when the news reached him. So too would his mother have been, but Jodh Bai had died three months ago. According to the reports that had reached him, her death though unexpected had been peaceful, in her sleep. He still thought of her often and found it hard to believe she was gone.
The acrobat’s lithe body, naked except for a short orange loincloth, gleamed with oil as, bracing his legs on the paving stones of the terrace of Jahangir’s apartments, he leaned back and raised his right hand to insert the two-foot-long slim steel sword that Jahangir had just inspected into his open mouth. Jahangir gasped as the blade disappeared up to the hilt, expecting at any moment to see the tip burst through the man’s muscular torso in a shower of blood. But as smoothly as he had swallowed it the man drew the blade slowly out again, bowed before Jahangir and Mehrunissa and placed the sword on the ground. He clapped his hands and two more acrobats came forward, each holding a long metal skewer around which cloth dipped in oil had been tightly bound and then set alight. Leaning back again, this time so far that his long dark hair brushed the paving stones, the man swallowed first one of the skewers, then the other, then both simultaneously. Just as there had been no pierced skin there was no smell of burning flesh. As the man stood upright again and taking deep breaths extinguished the still-burning skewers, Jahangir tossed him a handful of gold mohurs.
‘I thought they would amuse you,’ said Mehrunissa as the acrobats ran lightly from the terrace. ‘They come from the hills of the far northeast where the tribespeople are skilled at such tricks.’
‘They did amuse me. In the morning I’ll summon them again and ask them to explain the secrets of their tricks.’
Mehrunissa smiled. She was always trying to find curiosities to divert Jahangir. She liked it when he sought his relaxation with her and the quiet of evening was one of the best times to talk.
Jahangir sipped the rose-scented wine she had prepared for him. ‘I have had a letter from Shahriyar. He is still at Bhadaur but reports that he has found a good site for building a new fort. From what he says he seems to have examined the area diligently and to have some useful suggestions on how the fort should be constructed.’
‘Good.’ Mehrunissa nodded. She herself had suggested some ideas to Shahriyar after discussing Jahangir’s desire to construct a new fort to protect the southern approaches to Agra with her brother. Asaf Khan’s nose had, she sensed, been put a little out of joint by Jahangir’s decision – at her behest, not that Asaf Khan knew that – to give the task to Shahriyar. As the commander of the Agra garrison her brother felt he should have at least accompanied the prince. In his chagrin he had told Mehrunissa everything he would have proposed for the new fortifications. She had smiled sympathetically, listened carefully and remembered everything. Then she had written to Shahriyar, subtly implanting some of the ideas into a mind that possessed few of its own.
‘I wasn’t sure Shahriyar was capable of taking on such a responsibility – after all he’s only seventeen – but it seems you were right to suggest giving him the task.’
‘And you did right to send him on his own. If you’d sent my brother with him as you originally proposed, Shahriyar might have felt you didn’t trust him.’
‘You understand people very well.’
‘I’ve told you before, you underestimate Shahriyar.’
‘I only wish you could advise me about Parvez. His marriage hasn’t steadied him – indeed, quite the reverse. He reminds me of my own half-brothers Murad and Daniyal. Despite all my father’s attempts to stop them they drank themselves to death. I worry that it is a curse afflicting our family.’
‘Parvez is a grown man. He should master his weaknesses. It is not your fault that he seldom has a sober day. You don’t allow such things to dominate you.’
Don’t I, Jahangir wondered to himself. In his twenties he had been a slave to wine and opium, using them to console himself for his father’s refusal to give him any position of responsibility. He too might have died except for the love shown him by his milk-brother, Suleiman Beg, who had helped him break his addiction. For a moment Suleiman Beg’s face swam into his mind – not ravaged by fever as he’d last seen it but confident and cheerful. He had been a true friend and even after all these years he realised how much he missed him. What would Suleiman Beg say of him now? Of his growing indolence, his disinclination for the cares of state, his drinking sessions with the English ambassador – though regrettably these had become less frequent now that Sir Thomas so often seemed to be ill – and his liking for opium, which he had never completely thrown off and was growing stronger again.
Why did he indulge in wine and opium? When he was young he had used them out of a bitterness of heart to bring on oblivion from the frustrations of his life. Now that he was a mature man with a stable and wealthy empire and two sons of whom he could be proud, why shouldn’t he use them for enjoyment? They helped him to relax, even to expand his mind. It was while he was in the pleasurable semi-trance that wine and opium together induced that he had some of his most insightful thoughts about the nature of the world around him . . . and some of his most stimulating discussions with Roe about everything from the eccentricities of the Christian religion to art. Mehrunissa had just said he didn’t let them rule him, but if he were honest he himself was much less sure. If he went without them for more than half a day the cravings began and he rarely withstood them for long. Yet even if they did seduce him away from the day to day running of his empire, did it really matter? He had enough loyal people only too willing to shoulder the burden for him, Mehrunissa included. It amused him how she constantly sought fresh responsibilities, always taking care to assure him that she wished only to be his helpmate. That was true, he was sure, but he knew too how much she enjoyed it. Perhaps he didn’t need to fight the wine and opium too hard with her at his side to guard him.
‘You got a despatch from Khurram today, didn’t you?’ she asked, prompting him from his reverie.
‘Yes. His campaign against Malik Ambar is going well. He is a good general. I’m glad to have given him the chances to prove himself in battle that my father would never give me. Just as the astrologers predicted at his birth, fortune seems to favour him. His family grows, too. He reports that his new daughter has recovered from the fever and is in good health. They have named her Roshanara.’
Mehrunissa was silent. It was nearly nine months since Khurram had departed for the Deccan. At first Jahangir had missed him and lamented his absence but under her prompting his interest in his youngest son had been growing. She had realised that it hurt Jahangir to know that of his two eldest sons one was a traitor and the other a drunk . . . it made him feel a failure as a father just as he felt his own father Akbar had failed him. That was why, just as he was eager to take pride in the capable and charismatic Khurram, he was equally disposed to find good in the handsome Shahriyar.
It was far better that there should be contenders for Jahangir’s favour among his sons, she thought. Their rivalries and jealou
sies would allow her more scope to extend her influence than if Khurram were the undisputed favoured son.
Chapter 14
The Enemy Within
‘Majesty, forgive me for interrupting you.’ Majid Khan touched his hand to his breast as he entered Jahangir’s apartments. ‘An imperial post rider has brought another despatch from the Deccan. I have it here.’
Jahangir had had no firm news from Khurram for several weeks after the despatch reporting the recovery of Roshanara and he was eager to know whether the campaign was proceeding as successfully as Khurram had then anticipated. He reached for the letter and broke the seal. Though I have not yet captured Malik Ambar I have defeated his army and seized his treasure, Khurram had written in his bold hand. After detailing his confrontation with the Abyssinian’s forces in the river bend, his final buoyant words were, Our enemy has fled back into his own territories like a kicked dog. As soon as I have regrouped and resupplied my forces I will pursue him. I do not doubt my victory.
Jahangir smiled in delight. ‘Good news, Majid Khan. My son has beaten Malik Ambar on the battlefield and he has fled. I must tell the empress.’
A few minutes later, he entered Mehrunissa’s apartments. ‘I have had a despatch at last from Khurram. Here, look . . .’
Mehrunissa read the letter carefully, but even before she had finished Jahangir began extolling his son’s virtues. ‘He has shown such maturity, such judgement . . . when he finally returns to Agra I will appoint him a full member of my military council. He’s earned his place there.’ As Jahangir continued to exult, Mehrunissa’s thoughts were more sombre than the smile on her lips suggested. She hadn’t anticipated that Khurram would achieve quite so much and certainly not so quickly. When he returned at the head of his victorious armies why should Jahangir any longer delay naming his heir? It would be the obvious thing for him to do . . .
‘We must celebrate. Later this afternoon, when it is a little cooler, I will order a camel race along the banks of the Jumna. I’ve been meaning to try out those animals the Raja of Amber sent me. He swears the Rajput racing camels have no equal but I’m not so sure . . .’
‘An excellent idea. I’ll watch from my balcony.’
But later, as she watched Jahangir and his bodyguard trot along the baked mud of the riverbank to where soldiers had laid out a half-mile course for the race, her head was beginning to ache and the spectacle held no attraction for her. Usually she enjoyed camel racing – the sight of the snorting beasts, their necks outstretched, urged along by their riders, the roar of the crowds . . . Immediately after her marriage to Jahangir he had sometimes ridden races himself and often won. She remembered him coming to her afterwards, the sweat of victory still on his body . . .
She turned away from the riverbank just as trumpeters put their instruments to their lips to signal the first race and went inside. ‘Salla,’ she called, ‘I have a pain behind my eyes. Please massage me – that always soothes me.’
As Mehrunissa settled herself against a red satin bolster, the Armenian went gently to work, expertly kneading the muscles of her neck. Slowly the throbbing pain eased and Mehrunissa’s mind turned again to Khurram’s despatch. Perhaps in persuading Jahangir to send Khurram south again she had misjudged . . . wanting to get him away from Jahangir all she had done was give Khurram the chance for yet greater glory. If Khurram succeeded in capturing or killing Malik Ambar – as he seemed certain he would – he would be back at court within months and would inevitably be looking for new honours, new responsibilities. He must have expectations . . .
Though her husband was only in his late forties, the growing indolence that made him so willing to succumb to her wine and opium mix and to allow her to help him with his responsibilities might also encourage him to hand over much of the running of the empire to the able son he was so proud of so that he could devote more of his remaining days to contentedly studying nature’s oddities. The power and the passion that had so attracted and excited her would ebb from him. It wouldn’t be good for Jahangir, she told herself. It would propel him too early into old age. And what would she become? The bored and ageing ruler of the haram. For a moment Fatima Begam’s broad, lined face and inactive flabby body came into her mind. She would not allow that to happen to her. The haram was too small an empire for her. Jahangir was hers and no one else’s – just as he had said to her so often. Khurram’s rise must be halted, not slowed, and perhaps even reversed . . .
‘Majesty, I’m sorry, did I hurt you? I saw in the mirror that suddenly you frowned.’
‘No, Salla, I was just thinking.’
As Mehrunissa continued to reflect, she felt something akin to panic. What could she do? Even in her bleakest moments she had always found a way. Hadn’t she survived when as a baby her father had abandoned her to the wind and the wolves? Hadn’t she saved herself and her family when her brother’s treason had threatened to condemn them all? This wasn’t the moment to waver . . .
She sat up. ‘Thank you, Salla, my head is better. You may go. Please make sure I’m not disturbed.’ Alone with the sounds of cheering and trumpets drifting in through the open casement, telling her that the camel races had not yet ended, Mehrunissa began to pace as she always did when she wanted to think. Her eye fell on a low marble table on which rested the ivory seal inscribed with the new title Jahangir had recently conferred on her. She was no longer Nur Mahal, the Light of the Palace, but Nur Jahan, the Light of the World. She was not only Jahangir’s beloved empress but the adviser he trusted most . . . that was her most powerful weapon. Soon a plan began to form in her mind. It was bold and not without risk, but if it succeeded she – not her niece Arjumand – would become the grandmother and great-grandmother of emperors.
Dusk had fallen by the time Jahangir came to Mehrunissa’s apartments. He looked happy and relaxed. ‘Well, I was right – those Rajasthani camels aren’t as fast as they look, and they’ve got a temper. Did you see that one unseat his rider and then kick out at him?’
‘To tell you the truth I didn’t watch the races. I’ve had something on my mind all afternoon – ever since I saw Khurram’s despatch.’
‘What is it?’
Her heart was beating fast but she forced herself to look composed, even a little sad, as she replied. ‘I’m not sure whether I should tell you, yet I can have no secrets from you.’
Jahangir’s face was now as grave as her own. ‘Go on.’
‘You know I study the routine reports from your officials in Khurram’s camp. Mostly they’re about the need for more supplies of food or new wagons or fresh tents – tedious things that needn’t concern you. But recently amid all the detail I’ve begun to detect something else – hints that Khurram is growing arrogant . . . that in his war council he is impatient of the views of others, including officers older and more experienced than himself, such as Walid Beg, his gunnery officer. That is perhaps not so serious – after all Khurram’s campaign has succeeded so far. But several recent reports also suggest that Khurram has spoken slightingly of you, boasting that he has achieved military success far younger than you did . . .’
Jahangir stared at her and she saw that his breathing had quickened. ‘Are you sure? He would never be so presumptuous . . .’
‘There seems little doubt of it. He is a fine commander but he knows it and is growing conceited. Of course, you can forgive a young man a lot who has enjoyed such success. It’s only natural it should go to his head a little. Even the tone of his latest despatch shows how pleased with himself he is. I’m sure he won’t contemplate any foolishness, like Khusrau, yet such behaviour if left uncurbed may become dangerous . . .’
‘Who is making these accusations? Could it be men who have been justly passed over for promotion or rebuked for their failings by Khurram, and are disgruntled as a result?’
‘I think not. I made a few enquiries. They’re just junior officers – too insignificant for you to know their names or to have come to Khurram’s direct attention. Though they proba
bly thought they were doing their duty, they were mistaken in committing such thoughts to paper. If they were seen by the wrong eyes they could cause trouble so I have burned them . . . for your sake and for that of those unwise officers.’ Mehrunissa gestured towards an incense burner in which were some charred fragments of paper.
Suddenly it wasn’t Mehrunissa Jahangir was hearing but old Shaikh Salim Chishti uttering his warning all those years ago: ‘Take nothing on trust, even from those bound to you by blood – even the sons you will have . . .’ After the blinding of Khusrau, he had thought he had nothing left to fear from his sons – not from Parvez who most mornings didn’t even have the will to get out of bed or from Khurram, so seemingly dutiful and to whom he had given everything he asked – including Arjumand – and certainly not from Shahriyar. But perhaps he had been wrong. Khurram was easily the most gifted of his sons – the whole world could see that – and so could Khurram. Mehrunissa had been trying to reassure him – she didn’t want him to be worried – but how could he be sure that Khurram wasn’t already contemplating rebellion just as Khusrau had done?
‘Don’t look so anxious. I warned you so that you can nip this early.’
Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne Page 20
