Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne (41 page)

Even though she had reduced the emperor – supposedly the most powerful man in the world – to a mere henpecked lapdog he was himself her better or at least her equal in every way. Although both their blood was Persian, his was
of a more noble family. She had no more right to wield power than he. She might be clever but she was no cleverer than he was. Unlike himself she commanded no armies and being a woman never would. The more Mahabat Khan debated with himself, tossing and turning in the heat beneath his simple cotton coverlet, the more it seemed to him that he should no longer tolerate Mehrunissa’s domination. He was as good an arbiter of imperial power as she was with all her plotting against Khurram and her promotion of her dimwitted son-in-law Shahriyar as the heir, now that alcohol had finally killed Parvez. Perhaps he had been wrong not to have thought more earlier about joining forces with the young charismatic Khurram against his ailing father and his calculating, manipulative, steel-tongued chief wife? Their respective absences from court on campaign had meant that he had met Khurram only once, but he was by all accounts a good and generous leader and his skills as a general had been amply demonstrated by his ability to evade Mahabat Khan’s own forces. Such was the loyalty that Khurram inspired that he still had many adherents at court and elsewhere, even if they were lying low at present. Perhaps he should switch sides now? His skirmishes and confrontations with Khurram’s supporters in his long pursuit of the prince had been conducted within the conventions of warfare. There had been no massacres, no executions, no loss of close family members on either side to give rise to embittered hatred or blood feud.

As the night wore on and Mahabat Khan continued to toss around, his mind too active now to sleep, another thought came to him. Couldn’t he create an independent role in the power struggle for himself? He knew from the messenger
and others who had preceded him that now, in the early spring, the emperor and empress were making their way with a mass of courtiers and accompanying baggage – but no great army – towards Kashmir, in the happy assumption that with Khurram sidelined they had no threats to fear. What if they were wrong and he himself turned from being their loyal, even obsequious general, subject to their every command however tersely conveyed, into the arbiter of their destiny and that of the empire?

Wasn’t he in a position to control them and not the other way round? What if he and his ten thousand men, all personally loyal to him, followed the emperor and empress and seized Khurram’s children from them? Wouldn’t that put him higher in Khurram’s favour than making an alliance now? Even better, if more daring, wouldn’t holding the opium-fuddled emperor and his wife hostage, as well as Khurram’s children, allow him to dictate terms to either party? Let the emperor and Khurram outbid each other for his favour. How much more booty would he amass, how much more influence would he wield, than if he had either continued his campaign against Khurram or if he threw in his lot with him now. Such a strategy was no mere fantasy. His long military experience had taught him that the most novel and audacious plans often proved the most successful, probably because of the consternation and surprise created by their very novelty. It would be risky, he thought as he slapped at a whining mosquito, very risky, but sometimes he felt he was only alive when facing danger or planning how to overturn long odds. That was what had made him a soldier in the first place. In the morning he must sound out his men, but he had no doubt of their loyalty or their appetite
for rewards. His mind was made up. He would capture the entire imperial party and play the emperor-maker and breaker. Within minutes of deciding, Mahabat Khan had fallen into a deep, untroubled sleep, oblivious of the heat and buzzing mosquitoes.

Jahangir settled himself more comfortably against a brocade-covered bolster on the thickly carpeted floor of his tent. He was growing old, he thought. His muscles ached after eight hours in a howdah as the imperial column – nearly half a mile long – completed another day’s slow march northwest. The sight of the foaming jade-green Jhelum river, the last great barrier before they reached Kashmir, had been welcome. So too had been that of the emperor’s scarlet tents, which had been sent ahead and were already erected near the riverbank.

‘How soon should we cross?’ asked Mehrunissa, who was seated on a low stool close by him.

‘My officers say it will take two days, maybe longer, for our whole column to do so. It won’t be easy. As you saw, the Jhelum is in full spate with meltwater from the mountains. The bridge will take a little time to construct. They suggest we ourselves cross on the morning of the second day.’

‘No matter. This is a good place to break our journey and we’ve no need for haste.’ She pushed back a lock of her hair. ‘You’re tired. Soon I’ll order the attendants to light the fires in the bathhouse so you may bathe.’

Jahangir nodded and closed his eyes. He was glad Mehrunissa had suggested they go to Kashmir. At least the
crisis with Khurram was over and it was safe for him to travel so far from his capital at Agra. According to the latest despatch from Majid Khan, Khurram had reached Balaghat and quietly assumed his duties as governor. Time would tell whether, despite Mehrunissa’s reservations, he would keep his side of the bargain as Jahangir hoped he would. Surrendering two of his sons must be some guarantee for his good behaviour.

And now that civil war had been averted he had less to fear from enemies beyond his borders who had been watching the discord within the Moghul empire hopefully, just as jackals sniff the blood of wounded animals from afar. Shortly before he had left Agra, a gift of six perfectly matched black stallions had arrived from the Shah of Persia, together with a letter professing eternal friendship. Yet Jahangir knew that had the shah scented the slightest opportunity he would have seized Kandahar, Herat or some other Moghul stronghold close to the Helmand river and his borders.

After recent events, he felt the need of tranquillity and Kashmir’s lakes and gardens would provide it. He had loved the place since the first time he had seen its misty purple fields of saffron crocuses after his father had conquered it for the Moghuls. There he had felt closest to Akbar. He would spend his days gliding about the shimmering surface of the Dal lake in the imperial barge or riding into the mountains in search of game while gradually regaining the ease of mind that Khurram had shattered. Perhaps too he would recover his physical strength and lose the persistent cough that in recent months had scarcely left him.

Suddenly he heard children’s voices from somewhere outside. ‘Is that Dara Shukoh and Aurangzeb?’

Mehrunissa nodded. ‘I said that they could practise their archery down on the riverbank. They have so much energy . . . the journey doesn’t tire them at all.’

‘Sometimes I wonder whether taking them from their parents was right. It must be hard for them.’

‘We had no choice. There must be peace within the empire and having them in our custody will help ensure it. We treat them well. They lack for nothing.’

‘But they must miss their parents. They haven’t seen them for at least three months. Aurangzeb seems cheerful enough but sometimes I see Dara Shukoh watching us and frowning and I ask myself what he is thinking . . .’

‘He is only a boy. He’s probably thinking of nothing more than when he can go hunting or hawking again.’ Mehrunissa’s tone was brisk and dismissive. ‘Now, I think I will go to the bath tent myself to supervise the warming of the water. Last night’s wasn’t hot enough – the attendants are growing lazy and hadn’t collected enough firewood. After that I’ll prepare your evening wine.’

When she had gone, Jahangir stretched out again. He was fond of Dara Shukoh and Aurangzeb and sensed that their initial reticence towards him might be relaxing. The relationship between a grandfather and his grandsons should be less constrained than between a father and his sons . . . There could be no element of rivalry. Perhaps that was why his own father Akbar had taken such pleasure in his grandsons.

‘General, we’ve caught up with the imperial column. The emperor has been encamped for the last two nights on
the bank of the Jhelum river about five miles ahead of us while his men have built a bridge of boats across it. Many of his troops – I guess two out of the three thousand he has with him – crossed this evening before darkness began to fall and then I heard shouted orders to halt crossings for the night and begin to prepare the evening meal. I am sure that the imperial party will cross tomorrow,’ a scout clothed entirely in dull brown to allow him to blend into the terrain reported to a relieved Mahabat Khan after dusk the following evening.

Just as he had known they would, Mahabat Khan’s officers had given his bold and impulsive plan their immediate and unanimous support despite the obvious risks and dangers. So too had his entire loyal battle-hardened army of Rajputs. Moving at more than eight times the speed of the imperial caravan they had quickly gained ground on it. The few officials on the way who had queried their haste or their mission had easily been satisfied by Mahabat Khan’s assertion that he wanted to report in person to the emperor on another successful campaign. Nevertheless he was glad that the pursuit was over and the time to put his plan into action was at hand.

‘Does the camp have outlying pickets posted to its rear?’ Mahabat Khan asked.

‘No,’ replied the scout. ‘There are sentries, of course, but only a few of them and they’re close around the perimeter of the camp itself and seem very relaxed. The only patrols I saw set off were those fanning out on the opposite side of the river presumably scouting the way ahead.’

Mahabat Khan smiled. Circumstances were conspiring in his favour. All he would have to do in the morning was wait until even more of the imperial troops had crossed, burn or
block the bridge and then swoop on the camp and capture the emperor, the empress and Khurram’s two sons. For safety’s sake, though, he and his men would pull back a mile or two for the night and light no cooking fires which might betray their presence.

The night was a cold one in the shadow of the hills and mountains surrounding the Jhelum river valley. When Mahabat Khan led out his mounted horsemen just after dawn a thick chill mist still enveloped the landscape. Luck was certainly on his side. The mist would allow him to approach the crossing unseen, he thought. But he must not rely on luck alone. He must stay calm and take nothing for granted. He had seen too many generals defeated because they thought everything was so much in their favour that they did not plan well or take sufficient care in their attack. Therefore he reminded his officers once more of the orders he had issued the previous night.

‘Ashok,’ he said to the young Rajput mounted on his chestnut horse at the head of his troops. ‘Your task is to secure the boat bridge so that no imperial troops can return. Burn it if you have to. You, Rajesh’ – he turned to an older, bushy bearded man who had a scar running diagonally across his face from hairline to beard and a flap of skin falling over the empty socket where his left eye should have been – ‘you and your men surround the camp and make sure no one can escape south with news of our action. I will lead the rest of the men to capture the imperial family.