Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne

by Alex Rutherford

  Studying Arjumand’s face carefully, Jahangir traced a resemblance to Mehrunissa, though to him his wife’s face had a charismatic strength lacking here that in the six months since their marriage had continued to fascinate him. With Mehrunissa he felt complete as never before. Her love enveloped him. Not only did she understand his moods but she could change them. If he felt sad she could make him laugh. If he was anxious she could soothe his worries not just with pretty words but with practical prudent suggestions – never strident and always pertinent. He was spending as much time listening to her advice as to that of his vizier Majid Khan and the rest of his council, from whose words he had to disentangle the wise from the personally motivated. In a month’s time he would be acting as she suggested by allowing the marriage of his son Khurram to Arjumand Banu. Jodh Bai had tried to tell him such a match was unworthy but seeing his determination had fallen silent.

  He had already chosen the day – 10 May 1612, a date his astrologers assured him would guarantee the couple’s perfect happiness. All that remained was for him to arrange the most magnificent wedding the Moghul court had ever witnessed. He would do so not only for his son but also for the pleasure it would give Mehrunissa to see her family so honoured.

  In the bridal chamber Khurram, wearing only a green brocade robe secured round his waist with a narrow gold belt, stood alone close to the gauze curtain behind which Arjumand Banu’s attendants were readying her for the consummation of their marriage. He looked down at his hands, painted earlier that day by his mother with patterns of henna and turmeric to symbolise good luck. He was still wearing the marriage tiara of glistening pearls that his father had tied on his head just before he had set out from the fort on an elephant wearing a diamond-studded headpiece that blazed like white fire in the summer sunshine to follow the immense wedding procession winding its way to Asaf Khan’s mansion. Ahead of his elephant had marched trumpeters and drummers, then rows of attendants bearing golden trays piled with spices, then Khurram’s friends and milk-brothers on matched black stallions.

  The ceremonies and celebrations had seemed endless – the solemn incantations of the mullahs, Arjumand’s whispered agreement to the marriage, the ritual rinsing of his hands in rosewater and the drinking of a goblet of water to confirm the union, all followed by feasting and exchanges of gifts. Glancing at Arjumand seated beside him concealed beneath layers of glittering veils he had wondered what was going through her mind. Soon he would know. She was so nearly his . . .

  His heart was pounding and to his surprise he realised how uncertain he felt, even nervous . . . his expectations were so high he was afraid they couldn’t be matched. What if making love to Arjumand Banu was not, after all, so special? His own mother, usually so good humoured, had warned him not to expect too much, but he knew he must trust to his own instincts. Jodh Bai resented Mehrunissa and didn’t welcome her son’s alliance with another woman of her family. When she was told that Mehrunissa had complimented Jahangir on his strength and on the sweetness of his breath he had heard her snap that only a woman with experience of many men could make such comparisons.

  At last an attendant twitched back the curtain. Arjumand was lying naked against a bolster of ivory silk, her long hair combed out over her shoulders. Her body gleamed with the fragrant oils which had been rubbed into her skin – a ceremony intended not only to render the bride more desirable to her husband but also to stimulate and prepare her for sexual intercourse. The haram servants had done their work well. Khurram saw the rise and fall of her high round breasts, the tautness of her small dark nipples and the lustre in her eyes.

  ‘Leave us,’ he ordered the attendants, aware that their eyes were observing him a little slyly from above their filmy veils. Then he slowly approached the bed and unfastening his belt let his robe slide to the floor. He lay down beside his bride, very close but not touching her. Before he possessed her there was something he must say if he could find the words. Raising himself on one elbow he looked into her shining eyes. ‘Arjumand. Whatever happens, for the rest of my life I will love and protect you. For as long as God gives us together your happiness will matter more to me than my own. I swear it.’

  ‘And I swear I will be a good wife to you. When my father first told me you wanted to marry me I was afraid . . . you were so far above me, from a world I didn’t know . . . but when my uncle’s treachery brought disgrace on our family you didn’t give me up. That was when I knew you must really love me. Tonight I give myself to you as completely and as trustingly as any woman can.’ Her lovely face looked almost sombre as she made her declaration.

  ‘No more words,’ Khurram whispered, and pulled her to him.

  ‘Highnesses. The bedding of Prince Khurram and his bride has been inspected. The marriage has been consummated and Arjumand Banu was indeed a virgin.’ The keeper of Khurram’s haram bowed low before Mehrunissa and Jahangir before offering the traditional prayer for the fertility of the young couple. ‘May God bless them with many children so that the bride becomes as a mine teeming with the gems of royalty.’

  Mehrunissa smiled fondly at Jahangir. She was an empress and her niece the wife of his favourite son. The future had never looked so promising . . .

  Chapter 9

  Life and Death

  ‘Marriage agrees with you, Khurram.’ It was true, Jahangir thought as he contemplated the marble chess board, plotting his next move. Khurram did look content. To have a woman for whom you cared above all else was a gift from heaven. He was glad his son had such happiness just as he did himself.

  Khurram smiled but said nothing. After a few more moments’ reflection he pushed one of his rooks two squares forward. Jahangir could tell from his satisfied look that he believed he had made a clever move. In fact, he had made a mistake. Two more moves and he himself would be the victor.

  ‘Happiness is making you careless. You haven’t lost to me in many months but tonight you will.’ Ten minutes later the game was over and a defeated and slightly crestfallen Khurram was standing, ready to call for his horse. But Jahangir had something he needed to say. He wasn’t sure how his son would react so soon after his marriage to Arjumand and he knew he had been postponing this moment. But Khurram was a Moghul prince and must understand where his duty lay . . .

  ‘Khurram . . . before you leave I have something to tell you.’

  ‘What, Father?’

  ‘Sit down again and hear me through. What I am about to say is for the good of both our dynasty and our empire.’

  How quickly the mood could change, Jahangir thought a little sadly, noting Khurram’s suddenly watchful expression. A few moments ago they had been just a father and son enjoying a game of chess on a hot Agra night. To be a ruler was to carry a heavy burden . . . to be marked out from ordinary men and subject to pressures unknown to them . . . but he could not wish his position to be otherwise. From his earliest years, as soon as he had understood who he was, he had wanted the throne. So too, he was sure, would Khurram. With such ambitions came responsibilities to the dynasty, however unwelcome or disruptive they might be personally. Drawing a deep breath, Jahangir began.

  Arjumand lay beneath a silk canopy on a divan piled with cushions in the walled garden of the haram in Khurram’s mansion, which was built along the half-moon curve of the Jumna near the Agra fort. The hot searing summer winds were beginning to blow. She was protected from them here and did not envy those who lived in the city, in the simple airless houses built of clay or mud. Sometimes the winds whirled sparks from cooking fires high into the air, igniting the tinder-dry thatch of the roofs. Her maids had told her that three days ago two houses had burned to the ground killing the women inside, who had been too afraid of breaking purdah to flee the flames by running out.

  But this was no time for sombre thoughts – not when she was so happy. Her hand lay protectively on her smooth flat stomach where new life was stirring. She was eight weeks pregnant. Her love for Khurram was as complete as she knew was his love for her. She could n
ot now imagine life without him – without the excitement she felt when the evening drew on and she knew that soon, released from his duties, he would come to her. Shy though she had been on their wedding night, her physical passion now matched his own. The abandonment she found in his arms ought to have made her blush but instead she felt pride, knowing the equal pleasure she brought him.

  Suddenly she heard horses canter up the ramp into the palace courtyard beyond the tall wooden gates that separated it from the haram garden. Perhaps Khurram had returned early. A short blast of trumpets told her she was right. As the doors at the far end of the garden were flung open to reveal him, she ran towards them down the path of black and white tiles that felt warm beneath her bare feet. He caught her to him but instead of kissing her held her to him with an urgency that, as much as his earnest expression, told her something was wrong.

  ‘Khurram, what is it? What’s the matter?’ she asked when finally he released her.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’ His voice had an edge but she saw nothing but love for her in his face. Whatever it was couldn’t be too bad . . .

  ‘My father says I must marry again.’

  ‘No . . .’ Instinctively Arjumand’s hand went to her stomach.

  At her gesture, Khurram took her in his arms again and pulled her close. ‘Don’t look so stricken, Arjumand . . . please . . .’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A Persian princess offered by the shah as a royal bride as a gesture of goodwill to the Moghul empire. My father thinks it would be foolish to refuse.’

  ‘But why you, Khurram? Why not Parvez? He’s older than you.’

  ‘Exactly what I asked my father. He told me that of all his sons, I am the best fitted to succeed him. Khusrau is a traitor, Parvez loves wine and opium too much and young Shahriyar is timorous and shy. He said that if I indeed become the next Moghul emperor he wants my throne to be as secure as possible. An alliance with the shah’s family will help.’

  ‘What answer did you give?’

  ‘What could I say? I am an imperial prince, and I wish to be my father’s heir . . . I cannot simply please myself. I replied that I had no desire for further wives – that you are the wife of my heart – but I would obey.’

  Arjumand pulled away from him. ‘When will you marry her?’

  ‘The court astrologers will determine the precise date but it won’t be for some months to allow time for the dowry to be agreed and for the princess to travel to Agra in due state. My father plans to send an escort to meet her and her entourage at the Persian border.’

  ‘And will I have to watch from behind the jali screen as they paint her body with henna and perfume and oil her body for the marriage bed?’ Arjumand’s whole body was trembling now and she didn’t care whether he saw her tears.

  ‘You and I are lucky. It’s not often that people in our position in life can marry for love, and my father could have prevented us. I can’t forget the duty I owe to him and to the empire. But I promise you this – you are my whole life. You are mumtaz – the most special to me of any woman in the universe – the woman I wish to be the mother of my children. This princess will never mean anything to me, I swear it. She won’t live here but in a separate palace.’ His voice shook a little and she saw him rub the back of his hand across his eyes.

  That one small gesture told her more than any words that he meant it. But to Arjumand the world seemed suddenly a less perfect place.

  She had never known pain like it – not only the physical agony that her body was suffering as under the direction of the two midwives she tried dutifully to push as they told her to but also the mental torture of knowing that less than half a mile away within the Agra fort Khurram was marrying another woman. Sweat was pouring from her body and the contractions were coming more and more frequently but all she could think of was Jahangir tying the marriage tiara on his son’s head and the Persian princess sitting beneath her veils. What if she were beautiful? How could Khurram promise not to love a woman he had never seen?

  ‘Highness, lie back.’ Firm hands forced her back on to the wet cotton sheet on which she was lying. Without realising she had tried to get up, anxious to get over to the open casement and watch for the celebratory fireworks to shoot up into the night sky. When they did it would mean that the hour of the new marriage’s consummation was at hand . . .

  ‘Try to relax your body. Wait for the contractions.’ One of the midwives had mistaken her attempt to sit up as a desire to force the birth. Arjumand told herself to lie still, to do as the midwives were telling her.

  ‘Push, Highness, now!’

  Summoning up her last reserves of energy, and with the midwives on either side supporting her shoulders, Arjumand thrust as hard as she could. Everything went shadowy around her. She was falling back against the mattress. What was that high-pitched wail she could hear? Was it her making that awful noise? She closed her eyes and had the sensation of drifting weightlessly off . . .

  ‘Highness . . .’ A hand gently touched her shoulder. It must be one of the midwives, she thought, and tried to pull away. It was no good – she could do no more. Any moment the pain would begin again and she had no strength left to fight it.

  ‘Leave us, please,’ said another voice, louder and male. A door opened and closed. She opened her eyes. The dawn light filtering in through the casement opposite made it difficult to see at first.

  ‘Arjumand, have you nothing to say to your husband and your daughter?’ Khurram emerged from the dazzle. In his arms was a bundle wrapped in a piece of green brocade. Kneeling beside her, he placed the baby in her arms.

  As the sun sank on a cool winter’s evening and he walked quickly towards his council chamber, the waters of the Jumna looked to Jahangir as if they were flecked with gold, just as he imagined did the Zarafshan – the so-called Goldbearing River that flowed past the walls of Samarkand and that he had read about in the diaries of his great-grandfather Babur. Babur had fought hard to win the empire for the Moghuls and there would always be those who hoped to dislodge them from it. War had come many times since they had planted their green banner in Hindustan’s red earth and now it had done so again. He had called his war council together to discuss disturbing news from the empire’s southern borders.

  The rich Muslim sultanates of the southern Deccan plateau – Golconda and especially Ahmednagar and Bijapur – had always been fiercely protective of their independence and even more so of the immense wealth of their gem mines and had long been a problem to the Moghuls. Though sometimes these kingdoms waged war on each other, on occasions they joined forces against their common overlords. He could remember Akbar telling him how he had forced them to submit to Moghul suzerainty and how, when the rulers of Ahmednagar and Bijapur suddenly refused to send tribute, he had cowed them by sending troops to annex some of their territories.

  Now, though, these southern kingdoms were again a crucible of resistance to the Moghuls. The enemy’s general was an unlikely one – an Abyssinian, Malik Ambar. Brought to India as a slave he had, incredibly, achieved high office under the sultans of Ahmednagar and was now being employed by the rulers of both Ahmednagar and Bijapur to wage a guerrilla war on their behalf against the Moghuls. To rise as he had from his humble beginnings, Malik Ambar must possess immense strength of character, determination and ambition as well as being a clever and effective fighter. Certainly cleverer than Parvez, Jahangir thought, whom on first learning of Malik Ambar’s activities six months ago he had despatched to the Deccan with orders to crush the rising.

  As he entered the council chamber Jahangir saw the intent faces of his generals and advisers as they rose to greet him. Among them the tall figure of Iqbal Beg, one of the most senior officers he had despatched with Parvez, caught his attention. His face was lined with exhaustion. His arm was bandaged and in a sling. A trace of blood on the bandages betrayed that his wound had not healed properly.

  ‘Iqbal Beg, give us your report,’ said Jahangir, taking h
is place at the centre of the circle of counsellors.

  ‘Majesty, I regret Malik Ambar has inflicted a disastrous defeat on our forces. We were ambushed and over a thousand of our men killed and many more wounded. We lost a lot of territory.’

  ‘Tell me what happened in detail,’ Jahangir ordered, taking care his expression conveyed none of the mixture of anger and anxiety he felt.

  Iqbal Beg, however, looked visibly distressed, twisting the hem of his tunic with his unwounded hand as he recounted his story. ‘Early one morning as our men clustered around their cooking fires in our camp in a narrow valley among the Deccan hills, warming themselves and eating their breakfasts of chapattis and dal, Malik Ambar’s horsemen swept down on us. Scattering the few pickets your son had ordered us to post like chaff before the threshing flail they rampaged through the camp, killing and wounding many as we rushed for our weapons and equipment or tried to fight back against swords and lances with burning brands pulled from the campfires.’

  Jahangir saw tears wet Iqbal Beg’s face as he went on. ‘A group of horsemen cornered my son Asif and a few of his companions against some baggage wagons as they tried to protect the money and valuables contained in chests within them. Although he and his comrades resisted bravely they were on foot and had only their swords. They could not get close enough to the horsemen to wound them. Instead, one of Malik Ambar’s men spitted Asif on the sharp steel point of his lance. It transfixed him, penetrating so deep into the wood of the baggage wagon that its owner could not retrieve it. Asif died before I could reach him . . .’ Iqbal Beg’s voice tailed off into a series of quiet sobs. Jahangir knew Asif had been his only surviving son.