Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne (24 page)

‘Welcome home, my victorious and much loved son,’ he heard his father say, then felt Jahangir’s hands on his shoulders, raising him up. ‘I wish all those present to know of my esteem for you both as a commander and as my son. As a mark of my pride in you, I hereby confer on you the title Shah Jahan, Lord of the World.’

Khurram’s heart swelled with pride. He had set out on campaign full of hope but also a little nervous as to how well he would succeed. Now he felt the deep satisfaction of a job well done. He had shown his father what he was capable of and his father had appreciated it. Surely nothing now could stand in the way of his fulfilling his ambition to be named his father’s heir.

Mehrunissa watched from beneath the silk canopy set up at one end of the terrace adjoining the emperor’s private apartments. The effort had been worth it. Ever since the news had come of Khurram’s victories in the south she had been planning this intimate celebration. The food had been exquisite, especially the dishes she had ordered to be prepared by her Persian cook – quails simmered in pomegranate juice, whole lamb stuffed with apricots and pistachios, rice cooked with saffron and dried sour cherries – and the sweet-fleshed, fragrant peaches and melons that Jahangir loved. Instead of having the latter served in dishes of crushed ice she had ordered them to be presented on a bed of diamonds and pearls. The dancers, tumblers and musicians had performed well, but now everyone had withdrawn and the four of them were alone.

Arjumand was looking especially beautiful, Mehrunissa thought, scrutinising her niece in the soft light of the oil lamps burning in tiny mirrored alcoves around the terrace walls. The
ruby and emerald diadem Jahangir had given her to mark the birth of her daughter Jahanara became her. So did motherhood. Arjumand was pregnant again and her skin and hair seemed to have a special lustre. Mehrunissa looked down at her own smooth flat belly, left bare by her short tight-fitting
choli
above a pair of wide red silk trousers gathered at the ankles. Every month she still hoped for signs of a child but every month she was disappointed. She longed to have a child by Jahangir – especially a son. It wasn’t that it would make him love her more, but it would bind them yet closer for the long term and give her greater status in others’ eyes. It would have been good to think of her blood intermingling with that of the Moghul dynasty and descending down through the generations. But time was passing. Though her body was still slender and firm, last month Salla had found a white hair among her long dark tresses. It might be the first but it would not be the last.

Instead it was another and younger member of her family who might become the mother and grandmother of emperors – Arjumand. Her niece was showing Khurram the cream silk pearl-trimmed tunic fastened with ivory buttons that Mehrunissa had presented to her at the start of the feast. Glancing at Jahangir, seated by her side, she saw him watching his son and Arjumand with an expression of quiet pride. Earlier that evening he had said to her, ‘You were right to advise me to send Khurram to the Deccan in Parvez’s place. I wasn’t sure he was ready for such responsibility but you saw what I didn’t – that he has the brains for war as well as the courage.’

But now, as Khurram called out something to his father and a smiling Jahangir rose and went over to him, a sudden doubt crept into her mind. For the benefit of her family – as well as for her niece’s happiness – she had done everything in
her power to bring about Arjumand’s marriage to Khurram. She had also never doubted that it would be a good thing for her family if Khurram managed to impress his father – that was why she had suggested to Jahangir that he give him the Deccan command. Yet what if her interests and the interests of her wider family diverged? She hadn’t anticipated how brilliantly Khurram would perform, how impressed Jahangir would be . . . Earlier that day as she had watched through the
jali
screen to one side of the throne in the Hall of Public Audience she had been surprised to see Jahangir descend from his throne to shower his son with gold and gems. He hadn’t told her he planned to make that gesture, nor that he was going to follow it, as he had, by conferring on Khurram the right to use a scarlet tent on campaign as well as the title of ruler of Hissar Firoz – both clear indiations that he intended to name Khurram as his heir.

Now that Khurram was back at court perhaps Jahangir might wish to involve him more in the running of the empire. Khurram, rather than she, might become the confidant to whom he most naturally turned. As emperor, Jahangir had many routine cares and responsibilities. With her energy and clear mind, she was sure she could take some of that weight from him – indeed she was already starting to prove it to him. Only a few months ago he had told her of complaints from merchants travelling northwest to Kabul of night-time attacks by bandits on their camps. He had been pleased by her suggestion that he order the building of further imperial caravanserais along the trunk routes where travellers could be sure of finding a safe bed for themselves and secure stabling for their beasts and goods.

It wasn’t just on such prosaic matters she could help. She
had already perceived that big decisions weighed on Jahangir. If he didn’t act immediately out of impulse or emotion – which he frequently regretted – he often put them off, and when especially anxious or perplexed he would take a little wine and opium to ease his mind. She knew enough about the running of the imperial government from her father and from listening to Jahangir’s council meetings from behind the
jali
screen to be able to share the burden . . . and for her it would be not a duty but a profound satisfaction.

A loud burst of laughter from Jahangir cut into her thoughts. Khurram must have said something to amuse him and he was clapping his son on the shoulder. On the surface it was a happy family scene but to Mehrunissa it suddenly represented something potentially more ominous and she was angry with herself for not foreseeing it. Once again in her life, she would have to watch and wait but above all look to her own interests. She must make sure Jahangir understood how much he needed her and no one else.

‘Majesty, the ambassador from England is waiting outside the Hall of Public Audience,’ said the
quorchi
as late one autumn afternoon Jahangir sat with Mehrunissa in his private apartments.

‘Excellent. Summon my attendants.’ As his servants began to dress him, Jahangir was smiling. He was anticipating this meeting with some curiosity. News that an embassy from England had arrived at the port of Surat had reached the Moghul court eight weeks before. As the ambassador had been making his slow progress towards Agra he had sent gifts ahead. One of these, a fantastical gilded carriage shaped a little like
a giant melon on high wheels – Jahangir had never seen anything like it – had pleased him greatly even though the red velvet lining was spotted with mildew – doubtless a result of the long voyage on the damp salty ship from the remote island from which the ambassador had set out. Mehrunissa too had been delighted with the carriage and he had given it to her while ordering his own craftsmen to make him an exact copy. But he needed to know how the carriages should be drawn – by oxen or by horses, and how they should be harnessed.

‘What do you think this ambassador wants?’ Mehrunissa asked as Jahangir studied his reflection in a tall mirror.

‘Trading concessions, I expect, just like the Portuguese and the Dutch. Since I allowed his countrymen to establish a small base at Surat and to export a few basic products, they’ve been petitioning me for the right to trade in goods like indigo and cotton calicoes as well as gems and pearls. I have delayed an answer, so now the ruler of their country has sent someone to plead on their behalf.’

‘You are wise not to respond too hastily. From what I’ve heard some of these foreign merchants are growing impertinent, quarrelling and fighting amongst themselves on our streets and offending the local people.’

‘Trade brings wealth. But I agree. They must be kept under control.’

Fifteen minutes later trumpets sounded as Jahangir entered the audience hall and seated himself on his throne, his chief counsellors and courtiers grouped on either side beneath the dais and Khurram in the place of honour nearest to the emperor.

A further flourish of trumpets accompanied by the booming of drums announced the arrival of the ambassador. Jahangir
could scarcely restrain himself from laughing out loud. A tall figure with very thin legs encased in pale material beneath what looked like short, baggy trousers of dark purple, slashed to reveal bright red fabric beneath and fastened with scarlet ribbons just above the knee, was making his way slowly towards the dais. A tight-fitting bright yellow brocade jacket ending in a stiffened point just above his groin emphasised his extreme thinness. As he came closer Jahangir saw beneath his high-brimmed hat with its curling feather a bright red face – the effect of the sun on a pale skin? – made all the more startling by a wide circle of some hard-looking white material around his neck. The brown hair falling on his shoulders was sparse but extravagant curling moustaches compensated for it. It was hard to estimate the age of this eccentric figure but Jahangir guessed he must be in his late thirties.

Behind him followed a much younger man – barely more than a youth – dressed in the same fashion except that his clothes were all of some dark brown material and he was bare headed. He was of middle height with hair the colour of barley and bright blue eyes like those of Bartholomew Hawkins – who to Jahangir’s regret had recently returned to England, chests bulging with new-found wealth – that were looking with some wonder at him on his golden throne. In his right hand was a leash attached to the collar of a long-legged, pale-coated dog so lean that Jahangir could count its every rib. It didn’t look unlike the ambassador.

At a gesture from Jahangir’s vizier, Majid Khan, the ambassador halted some ten feet from the dais and removing his hat, which he tucked beneath his right arm, extended one skinny leg straight out in front of him, bent the other and inclined his upper body forward from the hips while making a circling
movement with his right hand. It was a strange obeisance, and the young man who Jahangir guessed must be his
qorchi
did the same. He was about to wave forward one of his scholars who could speak some English to interpret when the ambassador himself began to speak in halting but still recognisable Persian.

‘Great emperor, my name is Sir Thomas Roe. I bring greetings from my own king, James the first of England and sixth of Scotland. Hearing of your greatness as a ruler he wishes to present you with gifts from his country. I have already sent some of these ahead of me and I bring more – paintings, silver mirrors, fine leathers, maps of the known world, a drink from the north of our island that we call whisky, four fine horses that I will present to Your Majesty when they have recovered from the long sea voyage and are worthy to be seen by you, and this hunting dog from our country – in English we call it a greyhound. There is no swifter dog in the world.’ Roe turned to the young man, who was standing just behind his right shoulder. The youth stepped forward and undid the dog’s leash. Jahangir expected it to race off but it must have been carefully trained for this moment. It took a few steps forward, then extending its front right paw as Roe had extended his leg lowered its head, mimicking the ambassador’s own obeisance.

‘You are welcome at my court. I thank your master for his presents.’ Jahangir gestured to one of his
qorchis
to take the dog away. ‘I trust that your apartments in the fort are comfortable and I look forward to talking with you in the days ahead.’

Roe looked a little confused and the young man began to whisper into his ear. At a nod from the ambassador he said, ‘My master apologises, Majesty. He has learned a little
Persian, enough to address you just now – and hopes to learn more – but his understanding of the language is still limited. I am his interpreter and his squire. My name is Nicholas Ballantyne.’ After a further exchange of whispers Ballantyne continued, ‘The ambassador thanks you for your kindness. His apartments are indeed comfortable. During the discussions he looks forward to having with you, he hopes you will look favourably on our desire to trade with your great empire. He wishes me to tell you that we not only have our own goods to offer you but also our ships to carry your pilgrims to Arabia. We are island people and our vessels are the best in the world. They can cross great oceans and their cannon can destroy the ships of any nation. Last year, as you may know, Majesty, the Portuguese dared to attack two English ships off your coast. We sank them.’

Jahangir’s eyes widened – not just at surprise at the young man’s near perfect Persian but at the bluntness of the proposal. A Moghul – or indeed a Persian – would have taken far longer to come to the point. But it was good to know what the English king had to offer beyond his gifts. Till now Arab and Portuguese ships had between them enjoyed a virtual monopoly in conveying Muslim pilgrims from the ports of Gujarat across the seas on the first stage of their journey to Mecca. The Arab ships were not always seaworthy – only three weeks ago one had foundered in a storm with the loss of all three hundred aboard. And the Arab sailors were no match for the pirates who preyed on the pilgrim ships.