Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne

by Alex Rutherford

  Dusk was falling as Jahangir approached Mehrunissa’s apartments. He had just come from a council meeting at which Ali Khan, in clean green robes, had repeated his story. His counsellors’ anxious questioning of the governor had shown they were as troubled as he was himself – or at least pretending to be. None of their names were on Ali Khan’s list but had any of them been aware of Khurram’s plotting? Jahangir’s expression hardened at the thought. Mehrunissa had seen and heard everything through the grille in the rear wall of the council chamber. He wanted to hear what she had to say – but also to consult Ghiyas Beg and Asaf Khan, whom he had summoned to join them.

  The evening candles had just been lit in Mehrunissa’s apartments when he entered. His head was aching badly. She came to him at once, put her hands on his shoulders and pressed her lips briefly against his before turning wordlessly away to pour him a goblet of wine. He took a long swallow. He needed the wine’s comfort and its soothing warmth, he thought, as the doors opened again to admit the tall, now elderly figure of Ghiyas Beg and behind him the bulkier figure of his son Asaf Khan.

  ‘Well, you all heard Ali Khan. What do you think?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘Majesty, I hardly know what to say.’ Ghiyas Beg shook his silver-haired head. ‘I had not thought such a thing possible.’

  ‘It is only too possible. It’s just as I suspected. Khurram wishes to seize the throne. I was right to advise you to arrest him all those months ago. If only the guards had been quicker . . .’ Mehrunissa said.

  ‘But, Majesty, reflect a moment – all Ali Khan said was that Prince Khurram is trying to gather supporters. That does not mean he intends leading an army against you,’ Ghiyas Beg protested.

  ‘But why else take such a step?’ Mehrunissa demanded.

  ‘Because, daughter, he feels vulnerable. Forgive my plain speaking, Majesty, but you never told the prince how he had displeased you. That is why he risked your anger by coming to Agra to try to speak to you . . . Majid Khan told me of the prince’s conversation with him that night. And if I am honest I and many others at court don’t understand why you have turned against him. Prince Khurram did everything you asked . . . led your armies loyally and bravely to victory. Until recently he was your greatest pride . . . everyone expected you to name him your heir—’

  ‘Exactly. Because the emperor was so open, so generous with his affections, he raised such expectations, but in the prince himself those expectations turned to something else – a greedy, impatient ambition . . .’ Mehrunissa broke in.

  ‘Young men are ambitious. But what proof have you that he ever intended treachery?’

  ‘He abandoned his command in the Deccan and came to Agra.’

  ‘But only because things had happened that he didn’t understand. Like the awarding to Prince Shahriyar of lands Khurram believed he had been promised . . . and rightly, too.’

  ‘The grant of those lands was the emperor’s prerogative. It is not your place to question His Majesty’s decision.’

  ‘And it is not yours to interrupt me. You may be empress but I am still your father.’ The old man took a moment to compose himself before continuing, ‘Majesty, ever since your late father rescued me and my family from destitution I’ve tried to serve your house well. I speak from all my long experience when I urge you to be cautious. Take no hasty decisions you may later regret.’

  Silence fell in the chamber. Mehrunissa had turned away. Jahangir could tell by her posture, the angle of her head, how angry she was. He had never heard her argue with her father before nor heard Ghiyas Beg, usually so gently circumspect, speak with such passion. Asaf Khan was looking from one to the other, a deep frown on his face.

  ‘Asaf Khan, you stand there so silent and grave. Don’t you have anything to say?’ Jahangir asked. ‘If Khurram ruins himself, he ruins your daughter also.’

  ‘I believe my father is right, Majesty. You should not act until you know more. You need to find out what is really in Khurram’s heart and mind. Send an envoy to him – I will gladly go if you wish.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ghiyas Beg put in. ‘At least offer him the chance to be reconciled with you before he drifts so far that reconciliation becomes impossible.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to be reconciled.’

  ‘You won’t know unless you attempt it, Majesty. In any event, your subjects will praise you for seeking to avert war with your son,’ Ghiyas Beg pressed.

  Jahangir studied the dark dregs in his goblet. Ghiyas Beg’s words had struck a chord. Had he been unfair to Khurram, just as Akbar had been to him? What would have happened had he listened longer to Khurram that night on the battlements? Could they have reached a better understanding?

  But then Mehrunissa spoke again. ‘Father, in an ideal world your suggestion might be right. But our world is not perfect. It is peopled with enemies within and beyond our borders, all longing to aggrandise themselves at the emperor’s expense. Even now Khurram may be gathering his forces, soliciting allies among our foes.’

  ‘Have you any evidence of that?’

  ‘There are rumours. Every day that passes without our taking decisive action weakens the emperor and strengthens Khurram and he will know that.’ Kneeling in front of Jahangir, she took his face between her hands. ‘Listen to me. Haven’t I always advised you well? You must act quickly. Hesitation is a sign of weakness. It’s hard, I know, but you must move to crush Khurram. When he’s brought before you as a captive, that will be time enough to talk. You may be a father, but you are an emperor first. Isn’t your greatest duty to protect your empire?’ For a moment her eyes held his, then she released him and stood up.

  Ghiyas Beg was again shaking his head. ‘Majesty, my daughter’s words are ill judged. You should do nothing rash. At least take a few days to consider . . .’

  ‘You know you’re only saying that because you favour my brother and his daughter over me and my daughter,’ Mehrunissa burst out, voice trembling. ‘And you, brother.’ She swung round to Asaf Khan. ‘Ask yourself where your true loyalties lie . . . to your emperor or to your daughter?’

  Asaf Khan took a step back and glanced nervously at Jahangir, but Ghiyas Beg was not intimidated. ‘Mehrunissa, how dare you make such accusations! We might equally accuse you of having personal reasons to promote the interests of your daughter and Shahriyar over those of Khurram and Arjumand.’

  ‘You are growing old. Your mind is failing or you could not say such a thing . . . This is about the safety of the empire, not mere family interests.’

  ‘You are insolent. You forget the duty of respect you owe me.’

  ‘Duty? You speak of duty? Where was duty when you abandoned me as a newborn baby under a tree to die? How much respect did you show me then?’

  ‘We were all close to death. I had no choice, as you very well know. And when fortune smiled, I came back to find you . . .’

  ‘And now you’re abandoning me all over again.’

  ‘Enough of this!’ Jahangir’s head still ached. For once he even felt impatient with Mehrunissa, whose usually beautiful eyes were glittering with anger and whose lower lip was thrust out in an ugly pout. ‘I wished to hear your views on this matter because it affects both our families, but the decision I take will be mine alone.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mehrunissa spoke more calmly. ‘I’m sorry I was angry, but my anger was for you, because I wish to defend you from harm . . . as we should always do for those we love.’

  Jahangir looked at the three of them – father, brother and sister. His was not the only family divided by recent events. ‘I will think on what you’ve all said, but now I will return to my own apartments.’ He saw Mehrunissa make a slight movement towards him, but he ignored her. Tonight he needed to be alone to reflect.

  Jahangir sat in the darkness by the open casement, a cup of Mehrunissa’s opium-laced wine by his side. As he sipped, the pain in his head was easing, but he still found it hard to marshal his thoughts. Disturbing images flickered across his mind, distorting as
they passed – of himself as a boy watching his father Akbar and wondering whether he could ever win his approval, of running through the warm night to the house of the Sufi, Shaikh Salim Chishti, to reveal his fears and uncertainties to the old man, of his rebellion against Akbar. All Akbar’s affection had been for Jahangir’s sons, not for Jahangir, and what had that led to in the case of Khusrau? The screams of his eldest son’s followers, spitted on stakes, echoed in his head, and Khusrau peered at him with sightless eyes.

  Horrified by these phantom images, Jahangir pulled himself fully awake and tossed the metal cup into a corner, splashing the rugs with the dregs of the wine. He needed to think with a clear mind. Slowly, the soft breezes through the casement seemed to blow away the drug and alcohol fumes. If Akbar had been a better father to him and he a better father to his own sons, Khusrau’s revolt and Khurram’s disaffection might not have happened. Yet he had tried so hard not to repeat Akbar’s failings towards him. Perhaps what had happened was inevitable – perhaps the inheritance the Moghuls had brought from the steppes of Asia made it so. It was in their blood to challenge for the throne, just as a young stag tests his strength against the leader of the herd. It was part of nature for fathers to teach sons harsh lessons.

  Jahangir gazed deep into the starry darkness. His grandfather the Emperor Humayun had believed that the stars held the answers to all life’s mysteries. Jahangir’s lip curled. They certainly hadn’t solved Humayun’s problems – problems born of being merciful when he should have been ruthless, hesitant when he should have been decisive. That was why he had lost his empire.

  That would never happen to him. He had waited too long for his throne . . . Mehrunissa was right, as always. Any delay, any hesitation on his part could be fatal. He must put sentiment aside and deal with Khurram.

  At dusk the following evening, with his entire court standing beneath the marble dais in the Hall of Public Audience, Jahangir rose to address the rows of noblemen before him. Now that he had made his decision he felt his confidence grow, just as it had at his coronation when he first appeared to his people on the jharoka balcony. Among those nearest the dais were Ghiyas Beg, Asaf Khan and his vizier Majid Khan. He had told nobody, not even Mehrunissa, what he was about to say, but no one could doubt that he was about to announce something momentous.

  He had ordered the hall’s hundred sandstone pillars to be wrapped in black silk. All the fountains in the courtyard beyond had been turned off and more black silk had been thrown over the beds of bright flowers, banishing all colour. He himself was also dressed in black, a simple turban of the same hue on his head and not a single jewel. His courtiers were looking round uneasily. Jahangir waited, allowing the tension to build yet further, and then began.

  ‘As you know, yesterday the Governor of Mandu reported to me that my son Prince Khurram is stirring up insurrection. He has written to many of my governors urging them to ally themselves with him against me. That is not his only crime. He abandoned his command in the Deccan and came to Agra without my permission. When I ordered his arrest he fled in the night. Even then I hoped he would see his error and return to the path of duty. In my fatherly affection I was patient, allowing him time to repent of his youthful arrogance; I sent no army against him. But ambition has corrupted him completely. He responded not with love but with further defiance. Now I can hold my hand no longer.’

  Jahangir paused. The silence was absolute. His eye fell on Ghiyas Beg, whose head was bowed. Mehrunissa’s father would not like what he was about to say but his own security, the empire’s security, must come first. Speaking loudly and firmly to emphasise the importance of the moment Jahangir commanded, ‘Bring me the imperial ledger in which I inscribed the name of the bi-dalaut, the wretch called Khurram, on the ill-starred day of his birth.’

  An attendant holding a large green leather-bound volume stepped forward and laid it on a mulberry wood bookstand that another servant had already placed on the dais. Jahangir opened the book and slowly turned the pages until he found the one he sought. Then, taking a pen from the attendant, he dipped it into a black onyx ink pot that the man held and drew a line through the page with a single decisive stroke. ‘Before you all I declare that I disown the bi-dalaut, Khurram. Just as you have seen me strike his name from the list of my sons so I strike him for ever from my heart. From this day forward Khurram is no son of mine.’

  Even while he was speaking, Jahangir heard shocked murmuring from his courtiers. Ghiyas Beg and Asaf Khan, standing just a few feet away, had horror on their faces while his vizier Majid Khan, eyes closed, was running his prayer beads through his fingers and rocking backwards and forwards. But he was not finished yet.

  ‘I will not tolerate rebellion within my empire – whoever the perpetrator. Earlier today I signed and sealed a firman, an imperial decree, declaring Khurram an outlaw and placing a price upon his head – fifty thousand gold mohurs for any man who captures him. Furthermore, I am sending an army against him under the command of my general Mahabat Khan. It will march in a week’s time.’

  Jahangir turned and walked swiftly from the hall, a craving for Mehrunissa’s opium wine to numb the harsh realities of an emperor’s life, a father’s life, gnawing at him once more.

  Chapter 17

  The Outlaw

  The smell of rain falling on the hot earth – the unmistakable smell of the monsoon – seemed to grow ever more pungent the further east they travelled through the fetid lands of Bengal, Khurram thought as, riding at the head of the column, he looked back over his shoulder at the force straggling behind him. During the last months it had dwindled to a mere five or six hundred men. The news that Mahabat Khan had swept out of Agra at the head of a large and well-equipped army – twenty thousand soldiers and three hundred war elephants according to some reports – to hunt him down had persuaded many of his own soldiers to desert.

  Khurram had only met Mahabat Khan once at court but had heard of his bravery in battle. He was a Persian who had been in the service of the shah until, like Ghiyas Beg, he had fallen from favour and come to the Moghul court. By all accounts he was a risk taker, impulsive sometimes to the point of recklessness, but always successful – at least until now. His elite personal force of two thousand Rajputs were said to be devoted to him. He must indeed be a charismatic leader if as a foreigner and a Muslim he could so impress those fearless saffron-clad Hindu warriors, who believed themselves the children of the sun and the moon. Small wonder, Khurram thought, that some of his own men had slunk away. But better a small force of true supporters than a larger one with no stomach for a fight.

  Feeling an insect bite the side of his neck, he slapped at it with his hand and glancing at his fingers saw that they were smeared with blood. He had seldom felt wearier or more dispirited. By declaring him an outlaw, his father had set every man in the empire against him. A feeling of helplessness mingled with anger rose within him. How could his father have repudiated and humiliated him so brutally, so publicly, allowing him no chance to defend himself? How could the pride he had once had in him, his deeds and auspicious birth, have turned to such vindictive rancour? Whatever his father might choose to believe, he had become nothing more than Mehrunissa’s puppet. She controlled Jahangir and she controlled his empire, feeding his weakness for wine and opium. And everything she wanted was coming to pass. According to a letter from Asaf Khan, whose messenger had followed Khurram’s retreating force from Asirgarh, two months ago Jahangir had summoned Shahriyar and placing the imperial turban on his head had declared him his heir. And that wasn’t all. The date for Shahriyar’s marriage to Mehrunissa’s daughter Ladli had been set by the court astrologers and would take place during the New Year festivities.

  Meanwhile, he and his family were being forced to flee for their lives, perhaps even beyond the borders of the empire. Mehrunissa had reduced him to a landless wanderer just like his great-grandfather Humayun and Babur before him. But she would not win. One day he would reign, like Babur and Humayun. Jahangir co
uld do or say what he would but he, Khurram, was the only one of his four sons fit to be an emperor and his father had forfeited the right to his loyalty.

  Hearing a sudden noise behind him, Khurram looked round. A wheel on one of the heavily laden baggage wagons had become bogged down in the mire. If his men couldn’t free the wagon quickly they would have to abandon it. Food and equipment mattered less than putting distance between himself and his father’s pursuing army. At least his small force could cover the ground faster than a large one with artillery to drag across a terrain made even more inhospitable by the monsoon rains that had been falling for the past two months, making the swamps and marshes almost impossible for a large army to negotiate. That was why he had chosen to come east. And, even if Mahabat Khan’s army succeeded in following him into Bengal, he could take ship and seek sanctuary further south down the coast. Only two weeks ago he had received a surprising letter – an offer of alliance from Malik Ambar. ‘You and I have been worthy adversaries on the battlefield,’ the Abyssinian had written. ‘Why shouldn’t we now be brothers in arms?’ Khurram hadn’t replied but he hadn’t dismissed the idea either. Malik Ambar and his backers, the Deccan rulers, would be bound to require substantial concessions in return for their support, but with it he would have the strength to confront his father. But could he really make common cause with the Moghul empire’s external enemies, even if it seemed his only way to regain the position that was rightly his?

  As his men pulled and heaved at the wagon Khurram felt himself boil over with frustration. Without even calling to his bodyguard to follow, he kicked his horse and cantered ahead over the squelching ground. After riding barely half a mile through the thinly slanting rain he glimpsed a ribbon of water. Brushing raindrops from his face he peered more closely. It must be the Mahanadi river at last . . . He was about to turn his horse to ride back with the good news when an arrow slashed through the air, just missing his head but shattering his peace of mind. Then another – black shafted and black feathered – thudded into his saddlebag, embedding itself in the by now mildewing gilded leather and missing his thigh by inches, while a third landed in the mud just by his mount’s right foreleg. Dropping low over his horse’s neck and dragging hard on his reins to turn it, he kicked the animal into a gallop back towards the column, every nerve tingling, all the time fearing that another arrow was about to strike him in the back and put an end to all his ambitions. As he rode he cursed himself for his recklessness. He should have sent scouts ahead.