A few minutes later he came back to consciousness to find himself lying on a blanket on the ground while two serious-faced hakims bent over him as they worked to staunch and bind his wounds beneath the desert sun. With returning consciousness came a sudden thought. Now the raja was dead and the campaign over he would be easily back in Agra in time for the New Year’s celebrations. Surely they would provide an opportunity for him at least to meet Mehrunissa once more without breaking the Sufi’s strictures to take no specific initiative to do so. Despite the sharp prick of pain as one of the hakims’ needles went through the skin of his forearm, as the man began to stitch the two sides of his wound together Jahangir could not suppress a smile.
‘Well, what do you think of the Agra fort?’ Mehrunissa asked her niece as they sat in Ghiyas Beg’s apartments. How beautiful Arjumand Banu was, she was thinking. She hadn’t seen her since she was a young child in Kabul. She was fourteen now but had none of the clumsy awkwardness of many girls of her age. Her face was a delicate oval, the brows finely arched, and her thick dark hair fell almost to her waist. Her looks came from her Persian mother who had died when she was only four but her eyes, like her father’s, Asaf Khan’s, were black.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it – so many attendants, so many courtyards and fountains, so many jewels. As we entered the fort they beat drums in the gatehouse in my father’s honour.’ Arjumand was still sparkling with the novelty of it all.
Mehrunissa smiled. How she wished she were that age again . . . ‘Ever since Akbar’s reign, the drums have been sounded to honour the arrival of a victorious commander. I was very proud to hear them as well.’
Some weeks previously Mehrunissa’s father had written joyfully that her elder brother Asaf Khan had so distinguished himself while fighting away to the south in the Deccan that the emperor had summoned him to Agra to command the garrison here. Asaf Khan had reached the city two weeks ago. It had taken Mehrunissa this long to obtain leave first from Fatima Begam and then from the officious khawajasara to visit Ghiyas Beg’s apartments and she was eager to see her brother.
‘Where is your father? I’ve only permission to remain here until sunset.’
‘He is with the emperor discussing plans for some new fortifications but he promised he would come as soon as he could.’
Mehrunissa could hear her mother singing to Ladli in a room just off the courtyard. The child had adjusted quickly to her absence and though she knew she should be glad it still hurt a little to realise that her daughter didn’t really miss her. Her family was thriving. Ghiyas Beg’s duties as Imperial Treasurer were keeping him very busy, so her mother told her, while Asaf Khan was clearly high in Jahangir’s favour. It was only she, Mehrunissa, who was the failure. She had still heard nothing from the emperor and the monotony of serving Fatima Begam was growing daily more irksome.
‘What is it, Aunt? You look sad.’
‘It’s nothing. I was just thinking what a very long time it’s been since we were all together.’
‘And the emperor’s women? His wives and concubines, what are they like?’ Arjumand persisted.
Mehrunissa shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen them. They live in a separate area of the haram where the emperor eats and sleeps. I live where the women, like my mistress, are nearly all old.’
Arjumand looked disappointed. ‘That’s not how I imagined the imperial haram.’
‘Neither did I—’ At that moment Mehrunissa heard footsteps in the corridor, then Asaf Khan strode in.
‘Sister! The attendants told me I would find you here.’ Before she had quite risen from her seat he had enfolded her in his arms, almost lifting her from the floor. He was as tall as their father but broader and square jawed. He was smiling at her. ‘You’ve changed. You were just a girl when I last saw you – not much older than Arjumand, and a lot more gawky. But look at you now . . .’
‘It’s good to see you too, Asaf Khan. When I last saw you, you were only a young officer with spots and spindly legs,’ she countered. ‘Now you command the Agra garrison.’
Asaf Khan shrugged. ‘The emperor has been good to me. I hope our brother is as fortunate. If I can I will get Mir Khan transferred here from Gwalior so that the family can really be together. It would please our parents, especially our mother . . . But more news. The emperor has invited our family to attend the Royal Meena Bazaar in the Agra fort next month.’
‘What is it?’ Arjumand turned puzzled eyes on her father but Mehrunissa answered.
‘The bazaar is part of the Nauruz – the eighteen-day New Year celebration the Emperor Akbar introduced to mark the sun entering into Aries. Fatima Begam is always complaining that two weeks before it starts all you can hear in the haram is the sound of workmen hammering and banging as they erect the pavilion in the fort’s gardens.’
‘And the Royal Meena Bazaar?’
‘One of the festival’s most important events. It’s like a real bazaar except the only customers are royalty and nobility. It takes place at night in the fort gardens. The courtiers’ wives and daughters – women like us – spread out trinkets and swathes of silk on tables and play the part of traders, bantering and bargaining with their would-be purchasers – royal matrons and princesses and, of course, the emperor and his sons. The festival is so intimate that all the women go unveiled.’
‘Father, I can go, can’t I?’ Arjumand was suddenly looking anxious.
‘Of course. Now, I must leave you again. I’ve more military business to attend to but I’ll be back soon.’
After Asaf Khan had left, Mehrunissa sat with Arjumand Banu trying to answer the girl’s eager questions. But her mind was elsewhere. Fatima Begam had told her all about the bazaar but she had not been approving and had said things Mehrunissa certainly couldn’t tell her niece. ‘The Meena Bazaar is a meat market – no more, no less. Akbar started it because he wanted a chance to select new bedfellows. If any unmarried woman caught his eye he would order the khawajasara to prepare her for his pleasure.’ Looking at the frown on the old woman’s usually genial face, Mehrunissa guessed that long ago something had happened at the bazaar to offend her. Perhaps she had resented Akbar’s promiscuous sexual appetites. Deep down Mehrunissa felt as excited as Arjumand – the bazaar was one place she could be sure of seeing the emperor. But would Fatima Begam allow her to attend?
As the evening candles were being lit in Fatima Begam’s claustrophobic apartments a week later Mehrunissa had her answer. Ever since she’d told her of the invitation the old lady had equivocated. Now, even though Mehrunissa had dressed herself in her finest clothes and put on her best jewels, Fatima Begam had assumed a stubborn expression Mehrunissa knew well.
‘I have decided. You are a widow. It would not be seemly for you to attend the bazaar. And I am too old for such things. Read some Persian poetry to me instead. That will be pleasanter for us both than all that noise and vulgarity.’
Biting her lip, Mehrunissa picked up a volume of poems and with fingers trembling with frustration slowly undid the silver clasps on the rosewood covers.
The great courtyard of the Agra fort had been transformed, thought Khurram as, to three trumpet bursts, he and his elder brother Parvez entered it behind their father Jahangir, all three dressed in cloth of gold. Candles burning in globes of coloured glass suspended from the branches of trees and bushes and from artificial trees of silver and gold cast moving jewel-bright shadows – red, blue, yellow, green – in the soft breeze. Around the walls he could see the velvet-draped stalls heaped with trinkets and the women waiting behind them. It looked as splendid as in his grandfather’s time. He could vividly recall Akbar’s pleasure in the whole Nauruz festival. ‘Being wealthy is good – indeed it is a necessity. But showing that you are wealthy is even more important for a monarch.’
Akbar had understood the meaning of magnificence. Some of Khurram’s earliest memories were of sitting by his grandfather’s side in a glittering howdah as they rode through the streets of Agra. Akbar had al
ways believed in showing himself to his people and they had loved him for it. Akbar had been like the sun and some of his radiance had fallen on himself, Khurram thought. Yet his father Jahangir who, sparkling with diamonds, was now moving among his nobles had been kept in the shadows. Even as a child Khurram had sensed tensions all around him – between his father and his grandfather and between his father and his eldest half-brother Khusrau who, instead of being here to share in the first Nauruz of their father’s reign, was incarcerated in a dungeon in Gwalior. Khusrau had been a fool as well as disloyal, Khurram thought, following his father towards a dais draped in silver cloth that had been erected in the centre of the courtyard beneath a canopy of the same material, which shimmered in the light of the torches burning on either side of it.
Jahangir mounted the dais and began to speak. ‘Tonight is the climax of our Nauruz celebrations when we hail the new lunar year. My astrologers tell me that the year ahead will be one of even greater glory for our empire. Now is the time to honour the women of my court. Until the stars begin to fade from the heavens they, not us, are the masters here. Unless we can persuade them otherwise, what they demand for their goods we must pay. Let the Royal Meena Bazaar begin.’
Jahangir descended from the dais. It seemed to Khurram that his father stopped for a moment and looked round him as if seeking someone in particular, and then an expression of disappointment crossed his face. But Jahangir composed himself and made his way towards a table spread with maroon velvet presided over by a smiling matron Khurram recognised as one of Parvez’s milk-mothers. Parvez followed close behind but Khurram held back. The woman was garrulous and he wasn’t in the mood for long stories about himself and his brother as children. His tight-fitting coat was heavy and uncomfortable. He flexed his broad shoulders beneath the stiff cloth and felt a trickle of sweat run down between his shoulder blades.
Instead of following his father, Khurram wandered towards a quieter part of the courtyard where he guessed the more junior women had their stalls. Perhaps there would be a pretty face among them, though for the moment a round-hipped, high-bosomed dancer from the Agra bazaar was absorbing most of his energies. Then Khurram noticed, almost in the shadows of a luxuriant sweep of white-flowered jasmine growing on the courtyard wall, a small stall on which were displayed some pieces of pottery. Behind the stall stood a tall, slender girl. He couldn’t make out her face but he caught the gleam of pearls and diamonds in the long, thick hair that swung around her as she rearranged her goods. Khurram came closer. She was humming to herself and wasn’t aware of him until he was standing just a few feet away. In her surprise her black eyes widened.
Khurram had never seen such a perfect face. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. What are you selling?’
The girl didn’t answer but held out a vase painted in vivid blues and greens. It was pretty enough but ordinary. However, there was nothing ordinary about those sparkling, thickly lashed eyes shyly watching him. Khurram felt stupid and tongue-tied and fixed his gaze on the vase, trying to think of something to say about it.
‘I painted it. Do you like it?’ the girl said. Raising his eyes to her again he saw she was looking a little amused. She must be about fourteen or fifteen, he thought. Her skin had the soft sheen of the pearls brought to the court by Arab traders and her wide lips were soft and pink.
‘I like it. How much will you take?’
‘What will you give?’ She put her head on one side.
‘Anything you ask.’
‘You are a rich man, then?’
Khurram’s green eyes flashed in surprise. Hadn’t she seen him enter the courtyard and stand by the dais while his father spoke? Even if not, surely everyone knew the emperor’s sons . . . ‘I’m rich enough.’
‘Good.’
‘How long have you been at court?’
‘Four weeks.’
‘Where were you before then?’
‘My father Asaf Khan is an officer in the emperor’s armies. He was serving in the Deccan until the emperor promoted him to command the Agra garrison.’
‘Arjumand . . . I hadn’t meant to leave you on your own for so long . . .’ A woman elegantly dressed in honey-coloured robes whose fine-boned face bore an unmistakable resemblance to the girl’s came hurrying up. She was a little out of breath but when she saw Khurram she drew herself up and inclined her head, saying quietly, ‘Thank you for visiting our stall, Highness. Our goods are simple but my granddaughter made them all herself.’
‘They are very fine. I will buy them all. Just name your price.’
‘Arjumand, that is for you to say.’
Arjumand, who had been studying Khurram earnestly, looked uncertain, then said, ‘One gold mohur.’
‘I will give you ten. Qorchi, I need ten mohurs,’ Khurram called to his squire, standing a few feet behind him. The qorchi came forward and held out the money to Arjumand. ‘No, give it to me.’ The squire poured the stream of gold coins into his right palm. Slowly Khurram raised his hand and offered the money to the girl. The breeze was rising and Arjumand looked as if she were bathed in every colour of the rainbow from the glass globes swaying all around. She took the coins from him one by one. The feel of her fingertips brushing against his skin was the most sensual thing he had ever experienced. Shocked, he glanced at her face and saw in her black eyes the proof that she felt the same. When the last coin was gone he lowered his hand again. He had wanted the feel of her flesh against his to go on for ever . . . Suddenly he felt confused, uncertain what he was feeling.
‘Thank you.’ Turning, he walked quickly away. It was only when he was back among the noisy laughing crowds around the main stalls that he realised he hadn’t taken his purchases and that she hadn’t called after him.
Jamila ran her fingers teasingly across Khurram’s sweat-soaked chest. ‘You were a tiger tonight, Highness.’ She nibbled his ear and on her breath he could smell the cardamom she loved to chew.
‘Stop.’ He pushed her hand away and gently disengaging himself stood up. Through the wooden screen that separated the cubicle where she slept from the room next door where she and the rest of the dancers ate, he could see an old woman vigorously sweeping the beaten earth floor with a broom of dry twigs. She made a good living from the fees the girls charged their customers.
Khurram stooped to splash some water from an earthenware dish resting on a metal stand on to his face.
‘What’s the matter? Did I displease you?’ Jamila said, but her confident smile showed that she had few doubts about her performance.
‘No. Of course you didn’t.’
‘Then what is it?’ Jamila turned on her side.
He looked down at the round pretty face, the plump voluptuousness of the woman who had been his plaything for the past six months. He enjoyed the raucous atmosphere of the bazaar and the girls – so free and easy – seemed less intimidating than the concubines the khawajasara could have procured for him in the Agra fort where so many eyes were constantly upon him. Jamila had taught him all about love-making. He had been fumbling, over-eager, but she had shown him how to please a woman and how giving pleasure could enhance his own. Her warm pliant body, her inventiveness, had enthralled him. But no longer.
He had thought making love with Jamila would cure him of his obsession with Arjumand but it hadn’t. Even while he was possessing Jamila’s body it was Arjumand’s face he saw. Though it was two months since the Royal Meena Bazaar, he couldn’t get Asaf Khan’s daughter out of his head.
‘Come back to bed. You must have some energy left and I have something new to show you . . .’ Jamila’s coaxing voice cut into his thoughts. She was sitting up, the nipples on her henna-tipped breasts erect, and he felt the familiar stirring in his groin. But it would be just one more coupling. He and Jamila were like mating beasts, hot and hungry for the moment with no real feeling for each other. If he didn’t come to her she would find others, and if she and her dancing troupe left Agra he would easily find a replacement. Their frenetic love-ma
king, driving one another beyond control, was no more than the satisfying of an itch. Now, with thoughts of Arjumand constantly in his mind, it was no longer enough for him.
‘Father, I want to ask you something.’
‘What is it?’ Jahangir put down the miniature painting of a nilgai that he had been examining in his private apartments. The court artist had captured every detail, including the bluish tinge of the antelope’s coat, the delicate shape of its eyes . . .
Khurram hesitated. ‘Could we be alone . . .’
‘Leave us,’ Jahangir ordered his attendants.
Almost before the doors had closed behind the last of the servants, Khurram blurted out, ‘I’d like to take a wife.’
Jahangir looked at his son – nearly sixteen and already tall and muscular as a grown man. Few of his officers could beat Khurram at wrestling or in a sword fight.
‘You are right,’ Jahangir looked thoughtful. ‘I was around your age when I took my first wife, but we need not rush. I shall consider who would make you a suitable bride. The Rajput ruler of Jaisalmer has daughters and an alliance with his family would please our Hindu subjects. Or I could look beyond our empire. A marriage with one of the Shah of Persia’s family might make him more willing to give up his ambitions to take Kandahar from the Moghuls . . .’ Jahangir’s mind was racing away. He would summon his vizier Majid Khan and perhaps some of his other councillors to discuss the matter. ‘I am pleased you have raised this with me, Khurram. It shows your maturity and that you are indeed ready to take your first wife. We’ll talk again when I have thought further about it – but it will be soon, I promise.’
‘I already know the woman I would like as my wife.’ Khurram’s tone was emphatic and the expression in his green eyes serious.
Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne Page 8