Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne

by Alex Rutherford

  Jahangir blinked in surprise. ‘Who?’

  ‘The daughter of the commander of your garrison in Agra.’

  ‘Asaf Khan’s daughter? Where did you see her?’

  ‘At the Royal Meena Bazaar. Her name is Arjumand.’

  ‘How old is she? Asaf Khan is young to have a daughter of marriageable age.’

  ‘Perhaps a little younger than me.’

  Jahangir frowned. His first impulse had been that this was just some youthful infatuation – perhaps it still was – but it was strange. The young woman who had caught Khurram’s eye must be Mehrunissa’s niece and thus the granddaughter of his treasurer Ghiyas Beg. Something his grandmother Hamida had said to him many years ago when Ghiyas Beg had first arrived penniless and despairing at Akbar’s court came into his mind. What was it? Something like, So much that happens appears random, yet I have often discerned patterns running through our existence as if at the hand of a divine weaver at the loom . . . one day this Ghiyas Beg might become important to our dynasty. Hamida had had the gift of second sight. Only a fool would dismiss her words.

  ‘Khurram. You are still very young but I can see that your mind is made up. If your heart is set on this girl, I will not object and I myself will slip the betrothal ring on her finger to signal the alliance between her family and ours. All that I ask is that you wait a while before you marry.’

  Jahangir saw the surprise on his son’s face – clearly he hadn’t anticipated such an easy victory – but then it gave way to a smile of delight and Khurram embraced him. ‘I will wait and do whatever else you ask . . .’

  ‘I will summon Asaf Khan. There are things he and I should discuss. Until that time, be discreet. Say nothing about this even to your mother.’

  When he was alone, Jahangir sat for a while, his head in his hands. His interview with Khurram had sparked many thoughts. Unlike Khusrau, whose treachery he could still not forgive, Khurram had been nothing but a loyal son of whom any man would be proud. He wished he could have been so confident at Khurram’s age and also that he knew his son better, but Akbar’s extreme partiality for his favourite grandson had made that difficult. Khurram had been brought up in Akbar’s household. It was his grandfather – not his father – who had led the procession taking the prince to school for the first time. But that was all past, and in recent months father and son had been spending more time together.

  All the same, he had surprised himself by agreeing so readily to Khurram’s request. A prince of the Moghul empire could take his pick of wives. Though Arjumand came from a noble Persian family it wasn’t a match that would ever have occurred to him. But as he knew only too well, choice didn’t always come into it. It hadn’t with Humayun and Hamida. He hadn’t asked to feel as he did about Mehrunissa so he could hardly blame his son for falling so precipitately in love. The women of Ghiyas Beg’s family seemed to possess power to bewitch the men of his own, but like Khurram he too must wait . . .

  Chapter 6

  The Executioner’s Sword

  ‘Madam, wake up.’ Someone seemed to be shaking her shoulder vigorously and Mehrunissa wondered whether she was dreaming, but opening sleepy eyes she saw Nadya leaning over her.

  ‘What is it? Why have you woken me?’ The maid had placed a lighted oil lamp on the marble table next to her bed and in the warm draughts blowing through the open casement it cast a flickering orange glow.

  ‘A note has come for you. The messenger who left it at the haram gates said it must be delivered immediately.’ Mehrunissa could see the maid was almost quivering with curiosity. Heart thumping, she sat up and took the sealed paper Nadya was holding out to her. News that came in the hours of darkness could only be bad. Her fingers shook a little as she unfolded the letter and recognised her niece’s flowing hand. The note had been written in haste. There were uncharacteristic blots and several words had been crossed out.

  Aunt, something terrible has happened. My father is away in Delhi on military business and my grandmother and I have no one else to turn to. Tonight while I was at my grandparents’ apartments in the fort, guards came to arrest my grandfather. They claim he is part of a plot directed by Prince Khusrau from his prison cell in Gwalior to kill the emperor and that Khusrau had promised to reward him for his help in seizing the imperial treasuries by making him his vizier. You know what my grandfather is like – always so calm, so dignified. He went quietly, telling us not to worry, but I could see how shocked he was and also that he was afraid.

  There was more, but Mehrunissa could scarcely absorb what she had already read. Her father Ghiyas Beg, who had served Akbar and then Jahangir so loyally for over two decades, arrested for plotting to kill the emperor . . . it was incredible. For a moment she wondered whether she wasn’t still asleep and this wasn’t some outlandish nightmare, but the high-pitched droning of a mosquito hovering somewhere close, and the strong musky scent of the perfume Nadya always wore, were undeniably real.

  ‘What is it? Not bad news, I hope?’ asked Nadya, eyes bright.

  ‘It is a family matter. You may go, but leave the lamp so I have light to read by.’

  When she was certain the maid had gone Mehrunissa pushed her long hair back from her face and looked again at Arjumand’s note, her blood chilling in her veins as she took in its full import. Her father’s life was at risk and their whole family faced ruin or worse. The idea of Arjumand marrying Prince Khurram now was laughable, and as for her own hopes . . . For a moment she couldn’t help glancing fearfully towards the still-swaying brocade hangings, expecting any moment to see the fragile fabric swept aside as eunuchs and haram guards rushed to arrest her also.

  She must stay calm. Holding Arjumand’s note tightly she read on. As they were taking my grandfather away one of the guards told him, ‘Your son Mir Khan was arrested on the same charge in Gwalior two days ago and brought to Agra in chains.’ My grandmother is ill with worry. Please help us, Aunt. Tell us what we should do. The note ended with a scrawled Arjumand.

  Mehrunissa rose from her bed and folding the note placed it carefully on the table beside the oil lamp. Then she walked over to the casement and leaned her hands on the still-warm sandstone ledge. Below she could see two female guards patrolling the haram courtyard, their torches of pitch-dipped rags sending shadows leaping around them. From nearby she heard the court timekeeper, the ghariyali, striking the hour – once, twice, thrice . . . Glancing up at the sky she saw the patterns of bright stars splashed across its inky depths. Somehow the stars’ cold remote beauty, so far removed from the troubles of the world, gave her strength, calming her and helping her to think more clearly.

  Her father Ghiyas Beg, honourable and loyal to a fault, was guiltless, she was certain. Any accusations against him must be the result of misunderstanding or jealousy. But what about her younger brother, Mir Khan? She could not be so sure. They had grown up together in Kabul. She had always known he lacked her intelligence or that of Asaf Khan – or their inner strength. Mir Khan was vain and didn’t recognise his limitations. He was also easily led, as she well knew. Time and again when they were children she had coaxed him to some rash act to her benefit not his. She still blushed to recall how once she had persuaded him to climb along the rotting limb of an apricot tree to gather fruit for her. The branch had broken and he had fallen to the ground.

  That was a long time ago. Mir Khan should have learned sense and discretion, but the advancement that had come early to Asaf Khan would never be his. Had frustration, jealousy of his elder brother and sugared promises of great rewards prompted him to join some wild scheme? She had no way of knowing. Her younger brother could be as innocent as Ghiyas Beg. She shouldn’t rush to judge him. What mattered now was deciding coolly and rationally what to do. Her own and her family’s fate – even their lives – were hanging in the balance. She mustn’t be rash, but failure to act could be as fatal . . .

  She could write to Asaf Khan in Delhi. Indeed, he might already have learned what had happened and be galloping back towar
ds Agra. Together they could decide how best to try to save their family. Yet maybe he too had been implicated in the plot and was even now under guard. No, she couldn’t wait to discover Asaf Khan’s fate. She and she alone must act.

  After an hour restlessly pacing her small apartment, with the thin, pale light of dawn creeping over the horizon Mehrunissa sat down cross-legged at her writing table. Dipping her pen into her green onyx inkpot – a present from her father – she penned a few swift words to Arjumand. Wait quietly with my grandmother for your father to return and do nothing until you hear from me again. Trust in me. As soon as she had finished she sprinkled fine sand over the wet ink to blot it, folded the paper and after warming the end of a stick of wax let it drip on to the join and stamped it with her seal, which was engraved with the eagle emblem used by her family in Persia for centuries. She seldom used the seal but did so now because the sight of the haughty eagle, recalling her family’s long, illustrious past, gave her courage to take the step she had decided upon but had not revealed to Arjumand.

  Reaching again for her inkpot she began to write a letter to Jahangir. Majesty, I would not dare address you were it not for my love for my family and the duty I owe them to preserve their honour. Please, Majesty, grant me an audience. Mehrunissa, daughter of Ghiyas Beg. Again she folded her letter and reached for the wax, and after a few moments the soft blood-red drops began to fall.

  The day had passed with painful slowness. Dusk would soon be falling. Everyone must know what had happened, Mehrunissa thought. Fatima Begam hadn’t summoned her. In fact, no one had come near her, not even the ever-curious Nadya. They must fear the contagion of coming too close to Ghiyas Beg’s family, not that she cared. Yet over twelve hours had passed since she had sent her letter to Jahangir, bribing the servant who had taken it with gold and telling her to make sure she gave it straight into the hands of a servant of Jahangir’s vizier Majid Khan with the message that it was from Ghiyas Beg’s daughter. From what she had learned of him Majid Khan was a just man who had in recent months become a regular visitor to her father’s house, but maybe even he would now distance himself from Ghiyas Beg. She imagined the vizier holding her letter in the flame of a candle, turning her last hopes to ashes.

  ‘Come with me at once.’ Mehrunissa spun round. She hadn’t heard the khawajasara enter and it was a shock to find Mala barely four feet away. The woman’s expression was cold as she gestured towards the door with her staff of office. Mehrunissa had dressed in her finest blue silk robe embroidered with irises in silver thread in case the emperor should call for her, but looking at Mala’s disdainful face she doubted whether that was why the khawajasara had come. More likely she was being ejected from the imperial haram, in which case she certainly wasn’t going to leave without her favourite possessions like her inkpot and especially her jewels. She picked up a fine Kashmir shawl, a gift from Asaf Khan, and was reaching for her jewel casket when the khawajasara snapped, ‘Leave everything. Come exactly as you are now. Just veil yourself.’

  Mehrunissa put down the shawl, fastened her veil and lowered her eyes submissively. And so my life goes full circle, she thought, following Mala’s tall, green-clad figure out of her apartment, along the passage and across the haram courtyard where the evening candelabras had already been lit. As she saw the sidelong glances, heard the ill-concealed remarks, tears pricked her eyelids but she drew herself up proudly and took her time. Though the khawajasara was walking quickly she would not be hurried from the haram like some whipped dog.

  But then she realised that Mala wasn’t leading her towards the haram gates directly in front of them. Instead she had turned sharply to the left and was ascending a flight of shallow stone steps leading up to a part of the fort Mehrunissa had never seen. Her heart juddered against her ribs. Where was Mala taking her? The khawajasara paused at the top of the steps and looked back over her shoulder. ‘Hurry up.’ Mehrunissa gathered up the skirt of her blue robe and began to climb. Reaching the top she found herself on a broad terrace. Directly opposite were tall double doors covered in shining silver leaf inlaid with semi-precious stones. Mala was conversing rapidly with four red-turbaned Rajput guards posted outside them and gesticulating towards Mehrunissa.

  The guards flung the doors open. Mala waited until Mehrunissa had caught up, then grasping her by the wrist marched her through into a wide corridor lined with brocade hangings. The air was heavily perfumed from the incense and spices smouldering in gold burners fashioned like male peacocks, the outspread tails set with emeralds and sapphires. Ahead were two further doors even higher and wider and made of gold inlaid with ivory and tortoiseshell. Outside these were stationed ten Rajput guards standing to attention with steel-tipped spears. ‘Where are we?’ she whispered to Mala.

  ‘This is His Majesty’s own entrance into the imperial haram. Through those doors are his private apartments.’

  ‘You are taking me to the emperor?’

  ‘Yes. No doubt he will decide what is to be done with you.’

  Mehrunissa wasn’t listening. In the few precious moments that remained she was running through the speech she had practised over and over in her mind since despatching her letter to Jahangir. Those great golden doors were opening now. Mala was standing to one side and she must go forward alone. Raising her head, she stepped through the doors.

  The emperor was seated on a low dais at the far end of the room. Mehrunissa had expected to see qorchis, attendants, guards even, to protect the emperor’s life against the daughter and sister of supposed traitors, but she was alone with him. Lengthening shadows falling through the casement and the effect of the flickering candlelight made it hard for her to distinguish Jahangir’s expression. When she was still about fifteen feet away, just as she had planned she flung herself face down before him, her loose hair flowing out around her. Also as she had planned she didn’t wait for Jahangir to speak.

  ‘Majesty, thank you for your great goodness in granting me an audience. I am here to plead before you on behalf of my father, Ghiyas Beg. I swear on my life that he would never do anything to harm you, his benefactor, who has given him everything. My father would never plead for himself so I must do it. I only seek justice.’ Mehrunissa did not move, face pushed into the thick carpet, arms outstretched on either side of her.

  But from the man on the shadowy dais before her came not a sound. She resisted the temptation to raise her head, but just when she felt she could no longer bear not to look at him, his strong hands were under her arms, raising her to her feet. She closed her eyes. Now that he was so close to her she could not look into his face for fear of what she might see – condemnation not compassion. His hands dropped from her shoulders but then she felt him unfastening one corner of her veil. She opened her eyes and for the second time in her life looked into his. There was the face she remembered from all those years ago in Kabul. No longer unlined but even handsomer except for the hard, cold expression which, as she took it in, made her suddenly feel sick and faint. Jahangir was looking at her intently but not a muscle betrayed his thoughts. After a few moments he turned away, remounted his dais and sat down again. ‘Your father and your brother have both been questioned.’

  ‘My father is innocent of any crime,’ Mehrunissa said, struggling to keep her voice calm and controlled. ‘Who accuses him?’

  ‘The governor of the Gwalior fortress. His spies overheard my son discussing with your brother Mir Khan whether the Shah of Persia might be persuaded to send troops to help overthrow me if he was promised Kandahar. Your brother replied that Ghiyas Beg still had influence at the Persian court . . . he implied he might be induced to join in the plot.’

  Mehrunissa flushed with anger. She could just picture Mir Khan so puffed up with conceit at being the confidant of a prince that he would say or do anything . . . She raised her chin. ‘Such an idea is beneath contempt. Mir Khan was just trying to impress. My father left Persia before I was born. He cut all his links with his homeland when he became an official of the Mogh
ul empire which he has served so well. Even if he could be bought – which he could not – what sense would it make when his granddaughter is about to marry Prince Khurram for him to support another of your sons against you?’

  Jahangir was regarding her steadily. If he still retained any feelings for her, he was hiding them well, she thought.

  ‘You speak soundly, but even before you argued with such passion I had already decided that Ghiyas Beg had no knowledge of the plot,’ he said at last. ‘I have known him a long time and believe he is a man of integrity.’

  My father is safe, thought Mehrunissa. For a moment everything seemed to go dark around her and she put her hand to her eyes, willing herself to be strong.

  ‘But the same isn’t true of your brother . . .’

  ‘My brother . . .’

  ‘The evidence against Mir Khan is overwhelming. Even though at first he denied everything, after some . . . let’s say persuasion . . . he has confessed that my traitorous son Prince Khusrau offered him great rewards to join a plot against me and that he agreed.’

  Mehrunissa said nothing.

  ‘You came here seeking justice. You have just shown me what a logical mind you have. What would you do if you were me?’

  She stared down at the richly patterned carpet woven with a design of blood-red flowers against a dark blue background as memories of Mir Khan as a cheerful, thoughtless child edging his way along the rotten bough of the apricot tree, laughing and reaching out his hand to pluck her some fruits, pierced her with an almost physical pain. ‘Majesty.’ Her voice was cool and controlled, with not the slightest tremor. ‘You have no choice. Mir Khan is a traitor. Execute him. That is what I would do if I were you.’

  ‘In your letter you spoke of your love for your family. Is it the act of a loving sister to counsel the death of a brother?’