Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne (46 page)

The smell of roasting meats – deer and mutton, ducks, hens and peafowl – was already rising from hundreds of cooking spits set up over open fires. The portable tandoori ovens were being filled with meats more subtly prepared with yogurts and spices. Cooking pots with dishes flavoured with dried Kashmiri fruit – apricots, cherries and sultanas – as
well as spices were already simmering. Dough was being prepared so that bread could be made and brought to the tables hot when required. Puddings of rice and rosewater and of ground almonds and cream, some topped with gold leaf, had been prepared and covered with cloths. Yes, everything was as it should be. Jahangir grunted with approval and returned to his tent where his
qorchis
waited to dress him for the feast.

An hour later his officers were in their places as to the blare of trumpets the awning of the imperial tent was raised again and four palanquins, each carried by four bearers, emerged. The first two stopped in front of the dais. The second two, which were closed, were carried to its rear so that Mehrunissa and Ladli could enter the screened area unobserved by onlookers. To a final flourish of trumpets Jahangir slowly descended from his palanquin, to be joined by the slim figure of Shahriyar from the second. The prince helped his father mount the dais and cross to the throne.

Before he seated himself, Jahangir glanced for a moment into the twinkling stars in the velvet darkness above. Was he being fanciful or were they shining particularly brightly tonight, honouring his celebration by their silver radiance? Then he motioned for silence and spoke, his voice firm. ‘We feast here today to celebrate both the arrival of my beloved son Shahriyar and our escape from the domination of the treacherous Mahabat Khan. His crime is neither forgiven nor forgotten. His punishment is merely deferred.’ Pausing while he looked around him, he noted a rather nervous-looking Rajesh dressed in Moghul green, with a patch of the same colour over his empty eye socket. His monocular
gaze was fixed on the silver plate in front of him and he was abstractedly twisting at one of his buttons.

‘But this isn’t the time to dwell on past events and their consequences. What matters is the future of the empire.’ As he spoke, Jahangir noticed Shahriyar shifting a little on his stool, but despite Mehrunissa’s urgings before they left the imperial tent he had decided not to reiterate that Shahriyar was his heir. There was no need to speak about such things tonight – not when his cough seemed to have improved and he was feeling so much more vigorous. Despite Mehrunissa’s constant and lavish praise of him, Shahriyar’s performance of those duties Jahangir had assigned to him had sometimes failed to convince his father that he had sufficient intellect or ability to command to flourish if he succeeded to the imperial throne. His concerns had been strengthened by reports of Shahriyar’s indecision and inactivity during his captivity in Kashmir, mentioned to him discreetly by some of his newly arrived officials.

Also, though he’d said nothing to Mehrunissa, he had begun to wonder whether one day he and Khurram might not be reconciled as he had been with his own father after his years of rebellion. Dara Shukoh’s words had caused him to reflect . . . to perceive that there might have been faults on both sides. The love he had once borne Khurram had begun to rekindle, reminding him how auspicious his birth had been . . . what a brave warrior and leader he was . . . how much more worthy a head of the great line founded by Babur he might prove than the submissive but less charismatic Shahriyar. He might be fooling himself, but time would tell . . .

A meaningful cough from one of his officers recalled
Jahangir to the present and to what he had been about to say when carried into his reverie. ‘I believe that we are entering a golden time. Our internal enemies have been vanquished and our external foes fear to probe our borders. Peace and prosperity await the citizens of our great empire. That is what I wanted to tell you tonight. But something else as well . . . Before you all I wish to pay tribute to my empress Mehrunissa who has done so much to help me bring our fortunes to this position. It is not often women fill such important roles outside domestic life but she has helped me in every sphere and I thank her.’

Then, raising his arms, Jahangir cried, ‘
Zinderbad
the Moghuls!
Zinderbad
the Moghul empire!’ Long live the Moghul empire! The crowd immediately responded, ‘
Zinderbad Padishah Jahangir!
’ Long live the Emperor Jahangir! A wild cheering broke out as Jahangir took his place on his throne. It reminded him of his first appearance as emperor on the
jharoka
balcony of the Agra fort all those years ago. How far he had travelled. How much of both the best and the worst he had experienced. How much more he wanted to achieve to fulfil fully the vow he had then made to prove worthy of his father Akbar’s legacy. Just then the aroma of roasted meat caught his attention. An attendant had placed a dish of venison garnished with ruby-red pomegranate seeds before him. His appetite for food felt stronger than for many months. He began to eat with unaccustomed relish.

Three hours later Mehrunissa rose from the bed where slowly and patiently, to allow for the frailty of Jahangir’s body, and for the first time in some weeks she and Jahangir had made
love while the noise of revelry continued outside at the feast. Afterwards she had, as she usually did at night, mixed his opium and rosewater and he had drunk it slowly before drifting into sleep, a contented smile on his face as she had lain down beside him again. Now, pulling her silk robe around her, Mehrunissa looked down on her husband. His tribute – unrehearsed with her, unlike most of his speeches – had deeply touched her. More years would remain for them and with her help they would be his greatest. After that . . . well, with Shahriyar on the throne – as she would make sure he would be – she would still be the most powerful person in the empire. Shahriyar’s wits were not of the sharpest and with Ladli’s help she would mould him to her will. As for Khurram and sweet Arjumand, she would decide their fate and that of their sons, two of whom were sleeping over there in another part of the tent. Mind full of pleasant reflections, she turned and made her way to her own curtained-off sleeping area.

‘Fetch the
hakims
!’

Mehrunissa sat up as the shout rang out. As she did so, one of her attendants pulled apart the curtains round her bed and cried, ‘Majesty, come quickly. It is the emperor. He is ill.’

Mehrunissa rose and pulled on her green silk robe over her sleeping shift, then rushed to Jahangir’s quarters. He was lying on the bed, a trickle of vomit leaking from his lips. The
hakim
was already there and Jahangir’s servant, who slept nearby, was saying, ‘I heard him coughing a little while ago but then there was silence. When I looked in at him as I do every hour I saw him like this.’

The
hakim
glanced up and seeing Mehrunissa said without ceremony, ‘The emperor is dead, Majesty. He must have coughed and vomited and then choked. There is nothing I can do.’

A violent chill ran through Mehrunissa. Jahangir was dead . . . The man who had never failed her, always wanted her, would never have deserted her and had always been attentive to her thoughts and wishes was gone. As she dropped to her knees and touched his cooling face with the back of her fingers tears began to run down her cheeks – tears of shock, of loss and of love. For some moments she abandoned herself to weeping and to grief, then slowly another thought formed in her splintered consciousness. What of the future? Jahangir had abandoned her, albeit not of his own volition. She must once more look to herself and her position. She brushed aside her tears with the back of her hand, stood, composed herself a little and then said quietly, ‘Fetch Shahriyar and Ladli.’

A minute or two later the young couple were led in, sleep, confusion and alarm mingling in their dazed eyes. Mehrunissa spoke. ‘As you see, the emperor is dead. Shahriyar, if you wish to rule in his stead you must both now do exactly as I say.’

‘Shah Shuja, keep your sword up or you’ll never make a great swordsman. Stop me attacking you.’ In one of the large rooms of the fortress-palace of Burhanpur Khurram smiled as his eleven-year-old son tried valiantly to knock away his own blunted practice weapon. Suddenly Khurram was aware that someone else had entered the room behind him. Turning, he saw one of his
qorchis.

‘Highness, forgive me,’ the flustered young man stammered, ‘but a group of five riders has just galloped unannounced into the courtyard. They claim they have ridden night and day for the past twenty days from the emperor’s camp, pausing only briefly to eat, sleep and change horses in their haste to get here. They say they bring a letter of the utmost importance from Asaf Khan that may only be handed to you personally.’

Khurram immediately put down his sword and, mind racing with the possibilities of what the letter might contain,
left the room and descended the flight of steps leading down to the courtyard two at a time. Had something happened to Dara Shukoh or Aurangzeb? Had Mehrunissa persuaded Jahangir to despatch them to some dungeon? Surely not . . . but if so how would he tell Arjumand? But perhaps the letter had more to reveal about the strange story of Mahabat Khan’s appointing himself as Jahangir’s chief adviser. Only Mahabat Khan’s odd but conciliatory letters and Asaf Khan’s repeated advice to stay away and stay calm had prevented Khurram from attempting to raise a force to intervene, although he had moved with his family from Balaghat westward to Burhanpur to be closer to the main routes to the north. The latest reports had said that Mehrunissa had seized back control and that Mahabat Khan had fled into the hills. At the time Khurram had thought it strange that such a stalwart fighter as Mahabat Khan should have put up no fight. Perhaps he had returned as part of some great plan.

Emerging into the courtyard and squinting into the harsh sun, Khurram immediately saw the five dusty riders, each still holding the reins of not one but two horses. They must have each taken a lead horse as a spare to speed their journey by changing mounts whenever necessary. As his eyes adjusted Khurram recognised the tall youth standing a little in front of the other four as Hanif, the eldest son of one of Asaf Khan’s best commanders and strongest supporters. For Hanif to have come the news must be serious.

Wasting no time on preliminaries Khurram strode across to the youth. ‘You have a message for me, Hanif?’ Immediately Hanif extracted a letter with Asaf Khan’s seal from the leather pouch slung across his chest and handed it to Khurram, who opened it, without a word.

The emperor, your father, is dead.
The words burned into Khurram more hotly than the midday sun as he stood bare headed in the courtyard. Beyond the stark news of his father’s death Asaf Khan confirmed that Dara Shukoh and Aurangzeb were well, but urged,
Now is the time to act. Come soon before others seize their opportunity and take what should be yours.

Stunned by the letter’s contents, Khurram briefly thanked the five men for the speed with which they had brought the message and dismissed them. Waving away his own attendants he stood alone in the sunny courtyard with the letter dangling from his hand, trying to make sense of what it said and what it left unsaid. His father whom he had not seen for some years was dead. That much was clear. But how and why? Had Mehrunissa poisoned him? After all, she’d openly boasted to her brother Asaf Khan of getting rid of Thomas Roe by constantly lacing his food with rotten meat. But what would she have to gain from his father’s death? Perhaps if she had had a hand in it it was accidental, through steadily increasing the strength of the opium and alcohol concoction she fed Jahangir to bind him to her.

As he pondered the nature of his father’s death images of Jahangir’s life came into Khurram’s mind – not of the years of their estrangement but of his youth, of his father standing to one side, stiff and awkward, as Akbar instructed him in the intricacies of camel riding and of chess; of Jahangir’s stumbling attempts to rebuild his bonds with him after his rebellion against Akbar; of Akbar’s death and Khusrau’s revolts and then the good years when he had first married Arjumand and been his father’s leading general and confidant.