Locked in gloom, Khurram pushed aside one of the tangles of dank, ragged green moss that dangled from every tree. His greatest worry was Arjumand, again pregnant, and their children. The children all looked sickly and thin and Arjumand herself was haggard, with shadows beneath her eyes. The injury to her upper arm she had suffered crossing the Mahanadi had never healed fully. It still looked hot and puffy and occasionally oozed yellow pus. What should he do? He wished he knew the whereabouts of Mahabat Khan’s army . . . whether, now that the dry season had come, it was on his heels or whether it had turned back during the monsoon. With no information it was impossible to plan. The scouts he had despatched ten days ago to search for any signs of pursuit hadn’t yet returned and perhaps they wouldn’t – the opportunity to desert might have proved too tempting.
His head ached and glancing down he saw how worn and mud-streaked his clothes were, like the dull coat of his once fine horse whose ribs now visibly protruded. Looking ahead again, he tried to convince himself that the vegetation was thinning. Surely they couldn’t be far from the coast, or at least the network of waterways that made up the mouth of the Ganges. If they could only find one of those they could follow it downstream to the sea . . .
As if his thoughts had conjured them, Nicholas Ballantyne and another of his guards emerged from the green shadows ahead. He had sent them out early, as he always did after his experience with dacoits on the riverbank, to scout the way ahead. ‘Well?’ he called as soon as they were in range. Then to his surprise he saw that they were not alone. Twenty yards behind them, mounted on a handsome white mule was a man in a long robe of coarse brown cloth whose strange, flat, wide-brimmed hat obscured his face.
‘Highness,’ said Nicholas, trotting up, his young face pink with sweat. ‘That man is a Portuguese priest. We found him supervising a group of men cutting firewood about five miles ahead. He says we’re not far from the Portuguese settlement at Hooghly.’
‘Hooghly?’ Khurram frowned. He had heard his father talk about the trading settlement. There had been stories at court that the Portuguese priests there were trying forcibly to convert the local people to their religion and even that Portuguese merchants were selling those who refused to the slave traders whose ships put in there . . . ‘Does this priest know who I am?’
‘No, Highness. All I told him was that you were a Moghul nobleman.’
‘Tell him to approach.’
As the priest rode forward, he bowed his head in greeting. Beneath the brim of his hat, Khurram saw amber eyes in a long thin-nosed face with a close-clipped fringe of beard. ‘I understand that you are a Portuguese priest from Hooghly.’
‘Yes, Highness,’ the man answered in Persian.
‘You know me?’
‘My name is Father Ronaldo. I visited your father’s court some years ago. At that time your father was showing great interest in our religion – the true faith. He even spoke of appointing a Jesuit priest like myself as tutor to your youngest brother.’
Khurram nodded. He remembered now how interested his father had been in the Jesuits – just as his grandfather Akbar had been. For a time the court had swarmed with priests and the mullahs had objected to their processions through the streets of Agra behind a great, rough-hewn wooden cross and their incessant clamour to be allowed to build their churches.
Father Ronaldo pursed his thin lips. ‘The emperor allowed himself to be swayed by the dogma of his own priests, who were jealous of our influence and feared us as the revealers of the true path to God.’
Khurram said nothing. This was no time for a religious debate. He and his family needed help and this man might provide it. ‘Do you know what has brought me to Bengal?’ he asked, eyes fixed closely on the priest’s face. The amber eyes flickered.
‘We heard something of a disagreement between you and your father,’ said Father Ronaldo after a moment.
‘It is more than a disagreement. We are on the brink of war. I have brought my family here in the hope of finding a refuge for them while I regroup my forces. I still have many allies.’
‘You really think it will come to war?’ The priest looked shocked.
‘I hope not but it may. My father is no longer his own man. He has given in to wine and opium and leaves the governance of his empire to his wife.’
‘The Empress Mehrunissa? A recent decree granting our merchants the right to trade in indigo bore her seal. We were surprised, but assumed it must be because the emperor was ill.’
‘No. She rules, not he. I will tell you more later, but first I must know whether you and your fellow Portuguese will give my family sanctuary at Hooghly. We have travelled hundreds of miles, often in great danger. My children are young and my wife is ill and pregnant. She must rest.’
For the first time the priest smiled. ‘It is our Christian duty to help you, Highness. If you will send your English squire ahead with me, I will speak to my brother priests and we will prepare quarters for you.’
A light breeze stirred the muslin hangings of the whitewashed room in the simple one-storey, palm-thatched house sitting on stilts on the banks of the Hooghly river where Arjumand was lying on a low divan. For a moment her gaze rested on the dark painting of a man nailed to a wooden cross on the wall opposite her. He was so thin that every rib protruded and blood so dark it was almost black ran from beneath a wreath of thorns down his waxen face, which was twisted in agony. His eyes looked despairingly up to the sky, the pupils barely visible, just the veined whites. It was a horrible picture and at night she placed a cloth over it, but in the daytime she didn’t wish to offend the Portuguese maids who attended her with such kindness. It was they who cooked and cleaned for the priests and had also taken over the care of her, Khurram and their small household here in the priests’ walled compound, often serving them the salted fish of which the Portuguese seemed so inordinately fond. Khurram’s soldiers were comfortably encamped on the banks of the Hooghly about a quarter of a mile beyond where the Portuguese trading vessels were moored.
Often her mind filled with memories of Agra and especially of her grandfather Ghiyas Beg, whom she would never see again. A Portuguese merchant who had called at Hooghly not long before she and Khurram had arrived had told the priests that the Imperial Treasurer was dead and the Moghul court in mourning. She could scarcely believe it. He had been such a presence in her life – in the lives of all her family. Inevitably, the news had also turned her thoughts to her aunt. Mehrunissa would surely be grieving . . . or would she? Because of Mehrunissa, the Moghul imperial family was split as so often in the past, father against son, half-brother against half-brother. Sometimes it seemed to her that their family troubles were like a canker in the heart of a flower, eating away unseen until it was too late.
Such disunity should never happen among her own children, she thought, listening to the shouts of her sons from outside. Khurram loved his three sons and they loved him. What was more, her boys were full brothers with a single loving mother to watch over them, not the sons of different mothers, brought up in different establishments so that the early bonds of fraternal love were never fully formed. And surely the dangers and hardships they’d faced – perhaps still faced – would bind them yet closer.
Feeling a kick inside her, she shifted. What would this child be? Another son? It was a big child – her belly had never been quite so swollen before. She usually felt well in pregnancy and with each child giving birth had come more easily. But this time she felt ill and a little afraid. All that she had endured, and the infection in her arm that had still not yet healed, had left her feeling so weak . . . She gasped as a sudden sharp pain ran through her.
As Khurram rode towards the Jesuits’ compound after a pleasant few hours hunting along the banks of the Hooghly he saw a youth running towards him whom he recognised as one of the priests’ servants. He was a Christian convert and instead of a cotton dhoti was wearing a European-style jerkin and trousers.
‘Your wife has gone into labour,’ the lad sho
uted as soon as Khurram was in earshot.
Khurram stared at him, one thought only forming in his mind – it’s too soon . . . much too soon . . . Riding quickly into the compound, he dismounted and ran up the wooden steps to Arjumand’s room. He paused outside the closed door, listening for the usual cries of pain, but instead there was silence and it chilled him. Then the door opened and one of the Portuguese maids came out. ‘What’s happened?’ he demanded, but she looked at him uncomprehendingly. He pushed past her into the room. Arjumand was lying in a pool of blood and the midwife was wrapping something small and still in a piece of cloth.
Slowly he approached the bed, afraid of what he would see. Then he heard her voice.
‘Khurram – I’m sorry. We’ve lost our son . . .’
It was a moment before he could speak and even then his voice trembled. ‘All that matters to me is that you are alive . . . This is my fault. You should never have had to endure so much. I should have let my father arrest me in Agra rather than drag you and our children across Hindustan till we became nothing more than hunted beasts with the dogs snapping at our heels.’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t say such things. At least we are together, and as long as we are together we can hope.’
Khurram embraced her and said no more, but bitterness welled within him. His father was to blame for the loss of his son as surely as if he had killed him with his own hands. Had it not been for Jahangir’s persecution of him and his family, Arjumand would never have had to flee, would never have suffered the accident in the river that had left her too weak to carry their child to full term.
‘You cannot mean it.’ Khurram’s voice as he looked at Father Ronaldo was incredulous.
‘I’m sorry. We have done our best. We have given you our hospitality for over three months and now you must depart.’
‘My wife has just miscarried. She can still barely stand . . . she is in no condition to travel.’
‘Charity and compassion made us hold our hand until your wife’s pregnancy reached its term . . . we have already done more for you than we should.’
‘I don’t believe you. What has happened to turn you against us?’ Khurram asked bluntly.
For a moment Father Ronaldo looked a little embarrassed, but then he drew up his thin frame. ‘The emperor your father knows that you are here at Hooghly. Two weeks ago one of our ships brought a letter from the court. It told us that unless we expel you the emperor will send his troops against us and burn down our settlement. We cannot allow that to happen. We have God’s work to do – souls to save from the darkness . . .’
‘And profits to make,’ cut in Khurram angrily. ‘For all his faults my father had the sense not to be taken in by your hypocritical and self-seeking speeches. Where’s the Christian charity you’re always talking about, the loving mercy? You’re asking me to set out into the wilderness with a sick woman who nearly died three days ago.’
‘I’m sorry. The matter is out of my hands. The head of my order and the president of our merchants decided it at one of our council meetings.’
Without realising what he’d done Khurram found himself fingering the hilt of his dagger. How he’d like to silence that oily, self-justificatory voice. ‘This letter you mention – was it signed by my father?’
‘No.’ The priest looked down at his dusty sandals. ‘It was signed by the empress and bore her seal with the imprint of her title Nur Jahan, Light of the World.’
‘I tell you this and you should remember it. The empress is no friend to you. She despises all Europeans as no more than pariah dogs vying with each other for scraps from the Moghul table. You may escape her ire by obeying her command but you’ll have no reward. And when one day I sit on the Moghul throne – as I will – I won’t forget your callous indifference.’
As soon as the priest had scurried away, no doubt to report the conversation to his colleagues, Khurram went straight to his camp, thinking quickly. His three hundred men should be enough to repel any assault by the Portuguese soldiers guarding the settlement if they were foolish enough to try anything – like attempting to take him prisoner so they could hand him over to his father. He would post a double line of pickets round the camp’s perimeter, he decided, and tonight he, Arjumand and their children would sleep in the camp, not in the priests’ compound. Later he must go to her and tell her gently what had happened, but first there was something else he had decided he must do.
After giving the necessary orders, Khurram made his way to his own quarters and sat down cross-legged in front of his low desk. After thinking for a while, he took a piece of paper, dipped his ivory-tipped quill pen into his jade ink bottle and began slowly to write, weighing every word with extreme care. When he had finished he reread what he had written several times. Then he stood up, and ordered one of his guards to send Nicholas Ballantyne to him. Five minutes later, the qorchi appeared, his bright hair concealed beneath the tightly bound black turban he had taken to wearing.
Khurram grasped him by the shoulder. ‘Before he left Hindustan, your master Sir Thomas Roe told me that if I took you into my service you would be loyal and true. Was he right?’
Nicholas’s wide blue eyes showed his surprise. ‘Yes, Highness.’
‘Listen to me – I am going to speak very frankly. We cannot remain at Hooghly. The Portuguese fear my father’s retribution if they harbour us any longer and have told us to go. I also know we can’t just go on wandering. It wouldn’t be long until my father’s armies caught and crushed us. We could take ship from the coast to Persia or some other country, but I don’t want to be driven from my homeland. Also, my wife is frail. I must think of her. So I have decided to write to my father asking for a reconciliation. I don’t know whether he will listen, but I must try. My question to you is, will you be my messenger? As a foreigner and also as one who served Sir Thomas Roe, who was my father’s friend, you will be safer from my father’s vengeance than any Moghul emissary. You also know the court and how it works. You will stand a good chance of getting the letter into my father’s own hands.’
‘Of course, Highness.’
Chapter 19
The Messenger
In the paradise world of Kashmir everything was purple – the fields of saffron crocuses stretching down to the Dal lake, the waters of the lake themselves glinting amethyst in the sunlight, the peaks of the encircling mountains . . . Jahangir was lying on his back among the crocuses, breathing in their sweet pungency and now and then plucking petals and throwing them into the air so that they drifted around him like snowflakes. How contented he felt . . . he could lie here until the real snows began to fall, shrouding his body with their soothing icy flakes . . .
‘Majesty.’ A voice and reality intruded into his dream. Jahangir turned over with a groan on the cream brocade-covered divan on which he was lying in his private apartments in the Agra fort. Then he felt a hand gently shake his shoulder. ‘Majesty, a messenger has come from Prince Khurram.’
At the mention of his son’s name, Jahangir opened his eyes and slowly sat up. The exquisite, softly muted world of his wine- and opium-fuelled dreams faded and he rubbed his eyes. In the shafts of light filtering through the carved jali opposite his bed everything looked too stark, too bright. His eyes fell on the jewelled cup on a low table by the divan in which some dark red wine still remained. Reaching for it with a shaking hand he took a sip, feeling the bitter liquid coat the back of his throat. He started to cough, and drank the water that the young servant who had woken him hastily poured out for him.
‘What did you just say?’
‘Your son, Prince Khurram, has sent a messenger. He is asking to see you.’
Khurram? Jahangir pondered for a moment. Sometimes in his richly textured dreams he saw his third son but always at a distance – on the opposite banks of a river, or high on the battlements of a castle or galloping on horseback amid a cloud of dust – always too far off for Jahangir to call to and seemingly oblivious of him anyway. Over the ye
ars since he had last seen Khurram he had often thought of him in his waking hours as well, hurt and anger at his behaviour mingling with regret for times past when the prince had been the loyal son of whom he had felt so proud that he had showered him with gold and jewels . . . Even with his mind fuddled with wine and opium he realised that a message from Khurram now, with Mahabat Khan and his army closing in on him, could mean only one thing – capitulation.
‘I will come to the Hall of Public Audience,’ he told the servant, his voice low. ‘Summon the court and send word to the empress. She will wish to listen from the women’s gallery to what the messenger has to say . . . And take this away,’ he added, handing him the jewelled wine cup.
Nearly an hour later Jahangir took his place on his throne and at his signal a trumpeter put his brass instrument to his lips to signal in a series of short blasts that the emperor was ready to give audience. Glancing up at the grille high in the wall to one side of the throne Jahangir thought he detected the gleam of dark eyes beneath a diadem of pearls. Good – Mehrunissa was there.
He watched as Khurram’s messenger, preceded by four guards in Moghul green, slowly approached. Jahangir couldn’t make out his face, half hidden as he was by the soldiers who, when they were twenty feet from the throne, moved smartly to either side. A little clumsily, as if he wasn’t used to it, the man flung himself on the ground, arms outstretched in the formal salutation of the korunush. Beneath the black turban, Jahangir saw red-raw skin. The messenger was a European.
Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne Page 26