Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘If you’re right, what should I do?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Mehrunissa seemed to hesitate for a moment. ‘You’ll certainly need to restrain Khurram . . .’

  ‘I suppose so, but how?’

  ‘Well . . . perhaps with hindsight you were too generous in allowing him the right to pitch a scarlet tent. You did it, I know, because you wanted to reward him but it may have raised his pride and expectations too much . . . Why not write to him that you are withdrawing the privilege for the present. Perhaps say that although you rejoice in his victories you may have been a little premature . . .’

  ‘He’d be bound to see it as an affront – I would.’

  ‘Yes, but it would test him. Favoured by his grandfather above all his other grandsons and with his wishes indulged by you, he has come to regard unimpeded advancement as his right and not an honour and a gift which is yours to bestow. His reaction would show you whether he is still your loyal and obedient son or whether his ambition now exceeds his sense of duty. Remember you’re his emperor as well as his father. And it would be for Khurram’s own benefit. By acting now you’d be acting like a good father to prevent him from straying further.’

  Jahangir nodded. There was truth in what Mehrunissa said. Khurram had never known the adversity he himself had faced as a youth. If Khurram responded well the scarlet tent could soon be restored.

  The doves – dyed in rainbow colours and with tiny jewelled collars – were fluttering back to the imperial dovecote as Jahangir stood with Mehrunissa at his side on the sandstone terrace of his private apartments. On the banks of the Jumna below herdsmen were driving their goats and camels down to the river to drink, and in the shallows slate-grey water buffalo were enjoying a final wallow for the day in warm brown waters.

  Then, from the direction of the setting sun, Jahangir saw a small group of riders approaching the fort. As they came closer he recognised his youngest son Shahriyar at their head and behind him two huntsmen, hooded falcons on their wrists. By the number of dead birds dangling from the saddle of a third huntsman they had had a successful expedition.

  ‘Did you know that Shahriyar sent Ladli a message in the haram boasting that his falcons would kill at least a dozen birds today?’ Mehrunissa asked. ‘My daughter replied she wouldn’t be impressed unless he killed double that number. It looks as if he’s succeeded. He is getting to be almost as good a sportsman as you.’

  ‘Not to mention you . . .’

  ‘You flatter me.’ Mehrunissa smiled before adding, ‘Soon I will teach Ladli to shoot a musket. She’s fifteen now – quite old enough to accompany me in the purdah howdah on a hunt.’

  Jahangir scanned the darkening sky for his one remaining dove. Shahriyar’s hawks hadn’t brought it down, had they? He had told Shahriyar never to go hawking close to the fort but he was unsure how much attention his youngest son ever paid. Besides, sometimes the doves strayed further away than they should. Then he saw the bird, feathers dyed the palest lilac, flying down to land on the stone balustrade near him. As he lifted the latecomer gently into the cote, Mehrunissa continued, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you – has Shahriyar ever said anything to you about Ladli?’

  Jahangir thought for a moment. Shahriyar’s handsome head seemed more filled with hunting and hawking than with anything else. ‘No, I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘It may be nothing, but several times recently he’s spoken admiringly to me of her – he’s seen her a number of times and during the Nauruz celebrations they talked together.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘It wasn’t so much what he said but rather the way he said it.’

  ‘You think he has feelings for her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps . . .’

  ‘I could talk to him.’

  ‘Yes. You and he have grown closer recently. He’ll reveal his feelings to you, I’m sure . . . And if he does care for Ladli, tell him to put an end to such thoughts.’

  Jahangir blinked in surprise. ‘Why shouldn’t Shahriyar admire her . . . and come to that even marry her?’

  ‘But I thought you intended to choose him a bride from one of the princely families of Sind?’

  ‘I do. I’ve already discussed it with my council, as you know, but as something for the future. Shahriyar can still take a wife from Sind but nothing need prevent him from marrying your daughter first. After all, I permitted Khurram to wed your niece before he married his royal Persian bride . . .’

  Mehrunissa’s face lit up. ‘If Shahriyar indeed wishes to marry Ladli, it would give me the greatest happiness – you know my regard for him.’

  ‘Not always deserved, I fear . . . last week I had to rebuke him for forgetting to review with my master of horse how many new animals we need to purchase for the cavalry. But he is very young and will learn. Who knows, marriage might mature him. I will go and find him now.’

  Standing alone by the dovecote, Mehrunissa relaxed. She hadn’t thought it would be so easy. She knew what Shahriyar would say to Jahangir. She had groomed the prince for this moment, hinting to the naïve and suggestible youth of Ladli’s admiration for him and his looks and making sure he in turn had plenty of opportunity to observe Ladli’s undeniable beauty. It hadn’t taken much effort to help Shahriyar convince himself that he loved her. As for her daughter, she’d brought her up to think an imperial prince was a good match.

  The young couple would be happy – and so would she, especially when she convinced Jahangir to declare Shahriyar his heir and that might not take long. Mettlesome and unused to contradiction or setback, Khurram had responded angrily to his father’s rescinding of the right to pitch the scarlet tent just as, knowing his character, she had anticipated. He had scrawled a hurt and indignant letter bereft of the usual exquisite courtesies that formed such an essential part of Moghul etiquette. It had greatly angered Jahangir, who had regarded their absence as an affront to his dignity. The suspicion with which he was beginning to view his once favourite son was growing. If she could achieve an open breach between them her own position would be unassailable. And that would also be in Jahangir’s interests. After all, who had his best interests more at heart than she?

  A month later in his private apartments, hung with coloured lanterns for the occasion, Jahangir slid an emerald betrothal ring on to Ladli’s slim finger then taking her hand placed it in Shahriyar’s. ‘By this act I give my blessing to your coming union. May it bring you happiness and prosperity and many children.’ Jahangir couldn’t see Ladli’s expression beneath her betrothal veils but glancing at Mehrunissa he saw her happiness. He knew it grieved her that she had not borne him a child – and after all these years of marriage probably never would – but as she had told him, to see her only child allied to one of his sons was balm to the wound. As for himself, the more he thought about it, the better pleased he was by the union. Though Shahriyar still had much to learn, he was a good and biddable son, with none of Parvez’s vices or Khurram’s emerging arrogance and pride.

  At the thought of Khurram, Jahangir frowned. How would he react when he learned the news of Shahriyar’s betrothal? Would he be affronted that his father hadn’t written informing him of it? Well, let him be. It was no more than he deserved for his own lack of respect. Anyway, the announcement he was about to make would seem a far more serious snub. ‘Shahriyar, as a betrothal gift I confer on you the jagir – the estates – of Badakpur which on the death of the previous holder have recently reverted to the crown.’

  ‘Father, thank you.’ Shahriyar knelt and Jahangir touched his head with his beringed hand, pleased to see him so overcome by his generosity. That was how a son should behave – with respect and humility. Shortly before Khurram had departed for the Deccan, Jahangir had promised him the rich and fertile estates of Badakpur. The news that he had instead conferred them on his younger half-brother should, as Mehrunissa had said, be a further salutary lesson and perhaps compel him to heel.

  Chapter 15

  The Homecoming

  Two scarlet-headed
Sarus cranes stood motionless on the sandy banks of the Chambal river. As Khurram’s column drew nearer they took flight, slender legs trailing like ribbons from a kite. A pair of sleek-headed cormorants dived into the river for fish but the tranquil beauty of the scene was lost on Khurram. All the Chambal was to him was the final barrier on his long, hurried journey northward from the Deccan. Shading his eyes against the early morning light, he looked towards the ford where their drivers were already leading lines of camels laden with brushwood across. Though the monsoon was close the rains hadn’t yet begun in earnest and the river level looked low. He and his party should have no problem crossing. With luck they would reach Agra before nightfall.

  He had not wanted to break off his campaign against Malik Ambar just as he had been preparing to pursue him deep into his own territory to secure a conclusive victory, but he had felt he had no alternative. He had to know what was in his father’s mind. To be told by message that he could no longer have the honour of pitching the scarlet tent was humiliation enough, but to learn after the event that Jahangir had given lands he had originally promised to him to Shahriyar was an even more disturbing blow to his peace of mind. But soon – maybe in just a few hours – he would see his father face to face and ask how he had offended him. Surely his father would not fail to respond to his pleas if he made them in person.

  In fact the final stage of the journey took a little longer than Khurram had hoped. Soon after crossing the Chambal, purple-black monsoon clouds that had begun sweeping in from the west burst above them, turning the ground to a sticky mire in which the tired horses and pack animals slithered and slipped. But just before sunset Khurram made out torches guttering in the rain on either side of the gates of his mansion, which had been thrown open ready to receive them. A week ago he had sent messengers ahead with orders to prepare the house for his return. He had also after much deliberation despatched a short letter to his father designed to convey his injured innocence. I could not stay in the Deccan without knowing what I have done to offend you. I have only tried to do my duty but you are acting as though I have defied you. When I reach Agra I will answer any question, any charge.

  Khurram trotted into the courtyard and jumping down from his horse threw his reins to his qorchi. The large curtained bullock cart in which Arjumand and the children were travelling was just trundling up. As it halted Khurram lifted the sodden curtain and peered in. Arjumand’s face, though she managed a smile, was pinched and tired and her hand was on her belly. This latest pregnancy was proving hard. Four-year-old Jahanara and her little sister Roshanara whom she was holding in her arms were, like their mother, awake, but their two brothers Dara Shukoh and Shah Shuja were fast asleep, bodies coiled around one another like puppies. As he looked at his young family anger welled inside Khurram that they should have had to endure the discomforts and hazards of this hurried journey. How different it was from his last return to Agra, when his father had rained down gold and jewels upon him and hailed him as ‘Shah Jahan’.

  ‘Highness, you have a visitor.’

  Khurram stood up. Glancing at the marble sundial in the courtyard he saw it was nearly midday. He had been waiting all morning for a response to the message he had sent to the fort at first light, requesting an audience with his father. To be kept waiting so long was yet a further snub, though it shouldn’t be long now till he saw Jahangir. But at the sight of the visitor Khurram’s face fell. Instead of his father’s vizier Majid Khan or some other high official of the court, he saw the tall, spindly figure of the English ambassador. Even in his dismay he noticed how changed Sir Thomas Roe looked as he came forward. He was thinner than ever, the thighs protruding from his short striped breeches barely thicker than Khurram’s upper arms, and his once ruddy face was pale. The whites of his eyes were almost yellow and Khurram could see that the long ebony stick in his slightly shaking hand, a gaudy ribbon round its handle, was not for dignity or decoration but support. The ambassador was leaning heavily upon it.

  ‘Thank you for receiving me, Highness.’

  Khurram gestured to Roe to seat himself on a low bench beneath a silk canopy and called for attendants to bring cushions. He had never liked the ambassador – he distrusted all the foreigners who clustered around the court and had been puzzled by his father’s interest in this one – but the man’s physical state demanded his courtesy. Roe lowered himself cautiously on to the seat and as he did so grimaced with pain and couldn’t prevent himself from emitting a low moan. ‘I’m sorry, Highness. My stomach has been troubling me.’ Not only his stomach, the ambassador thought wryly. His bowels were still torture. Hardly a week passed without their turning to water, and now he was troubled by haemorrhoids – his ‘emeralds’ as he called them in his increasingly querulous letters to his wife at home in England. But of course he would say nothing about that to this haughty young prince. There were far more important matters to discuss. Ever since he had learned that Khurram was on the road back from the Deccan he had been debating whether to try to see him. This would be a difficult conversation but it was his duty to his own king, his own country, to have it.

  ‘Highness, what I have to say is only for your ears.’

  ‘Leave us,’ Khurram ordered his attendants, and drew closer. ‘What is it?’

  Roe waited until he was certain they were alone. ‘Forgive me for coming so soon after your return to Agra, Highness, but it was imperative that I see you. Though I am a foreigner at your father’s court, while I have been here I have learned your language and been privileged to make many friends among the courtiers. For a time I also enjoyed your father’s favour. Indeed, I felt he had come to look on me as a friend . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t he who sent you?’ The thought had suddenly struck Khurram.

  ‘No. I am here on my own account, not his. Indeed, I have not had a private audience with him for some time. You may find what I am about to tell you incredible but I beg you to believe me.’ Roe leaned forward, resting both hands on the top of his stick. ‘Beware the Empress Mehrunissa. She is no longer your friend. Indeed, she is your enemy.’

  ‘Mehrunissa?’ Had the Englishman become sick in mind as well as body? Nothing else could excuse his bizarre accusation or his impertinence in making it. ‘You are wrong,’ Khurram went on coldly. ‘The empress is my wife’s aunt – the great-aunt of our children. Family ties as well as the love I know she bears my wife make such a thing impossible.’

  ‘Listen to me, Highness. Very soon I will return home to England. My health can no longer bear the rigours of the climate here. If I stay I may die. But before I depart let me have the satisfaction of knowing that I tried to warn you even if you wouldn’t listen. Remember that as a foreigner I dare tell you things a Moghul courtier might not. Ask yourself why your father has turned his face against you . . . Ask yourself why he is favouring Prince Shahriyar . . .’

  The ambassador’s bluntness took Khurram aback. ‘There has been some misunderstanding between us,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘No. It is all the empress’s doing. She thinks herself subtle but many around the court have noticed her scheming. While you have been away in the Deccan she has done all in her power to bring Prince Shahriyar to the emperor’s attention. I saw this happening and asked myself why. The prince has no special abilities or talents and – forgive me, Highness, for speaking so of your half-brother – I have even heard him called slow witted. When I heard he was betrothed to the empress’s daughter, matters became clearer. The empress craves power. Perhaps you do not know how many decrees she issues, how many decisions she takes. Some even call her the Purdah Emperor. She means to encourage the emperor to declare Shahriyar – not you – as his heir. When your father dies she will rule Hindustan. Prince Shahriyar and her daughter will be no more than her puppets.’

  Khurram stared at the ambassador’s earnest face, beaded with sweat despite the shade provided by the canopy. What Roe was saying seemed impossible, and yet . . . ‘My father would never permit his wife to manipulate
him in such a way,’ he said slowly, as much to himself as to the ambassador.

  ‘Your father has changed. The business of government bores him. Ask any of his counsellors. The empress encourages him to take his ease, to follow the enquiries into the natural world that so absorb him, to drink wine and take opium . . . She has made him utterly dependent on her and abuses his trust for her own ends.’

  ‘You said you were no longer in my father’s favour. What happened?’

  ‘I’m not certain. Once I was frequently in the emperor’s company. When I first fell ill, he was most solicitous, suggesting remedies and even on one occasion sending his own hakim. But his interest in me waned. His invitations to me during times I was well became fewer and then ceased. The only times I have seen your father recently have been on public occasions.’

  ‘Perhaps my father has tired of your demands for trading concessions.’ Roe’s expression told Khurram his remark had hit home and he pressed on.

  ‘You spoke of wanting the satisfaction of warning me. Why, Sir Thomas? Why should you care which son my father favours?’

  ‘It matters to me because the emperor has refused my request to allow English ships to join the Portuguese and the Arabs in shipping pilgrims to Arabia. My king will be very disappointed. Had your father agreed, many more English ships would have come to Surat and our trading settlement there would have expanded. Our ships would have brought more goods from England and as well as carrying pilgrims could have taken on board more goods from Hindustan to trade in Arabia or bring home to England. Trade must be the ambition of every civilised nation and England’s trade with the Moghul empire could have been greatly enhanced.’

  He would never understand these foreigners’ enthusiasm for trade, thought Khurram. Roe was a nobleman yet his face when he talked of profits was as animated as that of any merchant in the bazaar. In his agitation the ambassador had dropped his stick, and he had to stoop to retrieve it before he went on.