Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘You may rise,’ he said, leaning forward for a closer look. As the man got to his feet and raised his head Jahangir saw a pair of blue eyes in a young sunburned face. It was familiar but his mind was still partially clouded and he stared at the man in puzzlement. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Nicholas Ballantyne. I was once squire to Sir Thomas Roe, ambassador to the Moghul court from the King of England.’ As Nicholas finished speaking he made the low bow, right leg extended in front of him, that Jahangir remembered Sir Thomas so often making. What a long time ago all that now seemed . . . Jahangir thought fondly back to his evenings with Roe.

  ‘I am now in the service of your son, Prince Khurram, who has entrusted me with a letter for Your Majesty.’ Reaching into a red camel-leather satchel hanging from his shoulder, Nicholas took out the letter. Jahangir could see his fingers shaking a little with nerves though when he had spoken his voice, with its oddly accented Persian, had been clear and steady.

  ‘I will read what the wretch has had the audacity to say.’ Jahangir nodded to his vizier Majid Khan, who stepped forward from where he was standing to the right of Jahangir’s dais and took the letter from Nicholas to hand to him. Slowly Jahangir broke the seal, opened it and glanced down at the close-written lines. His own father Akbar – unable to read or write himself – had been proud of Khurram’s elegant calligraphy. In his mind’s eye he suddenly saw Akbar leading the elephant carrying the four-year-old Khurram in triumphant procession through the streets of Lahore to his first day at school while he himself had stood to one side, excluded from the moment by both his father and his son.

  His head was aching but he made himself concentrate on what the letter said, reading silently and slowly.

  Father, for reasons that I do not comprehend I have had the misfortune to lose your love and to rouse your anger against me. You have disowned me. You have sent armies to pursue me, even declared me outlaw giving any subject in your empire the right to kill me. I do not question your reasons. You are the emperor and it is your right to rule as you wish. But I make this appeal to you as my father as well as my sovereign. I am sorry for anything I may have done to displease you and I throw myself on your mercy. My wife and children can no longer endure this life of wandering, never knowing where or whether we will find safety. For their sake, if not mine, I beg you to let us be reconciled. I will obey whatever orders you have for me – go to any part of the empire you choose to send me – but let this strife between us end. I swear on my life and the lives of my family that I am your loyal and obedient son. Bring me from the darkness back into the sunlight of your forgiveness.

  Jahangir lowered the letter and stared ahead of him. The eyes of his courtiers were fixed upon him. He could feel the intensity of their curiosity. He looked down at the letter again. You are the emperor and it is your right to rule as you wish. Did Khurram really mean that?

  ‘Prince Khurram seeks my forgiveness,’ Jahangir said at last and saw a ripple run through the ranks of his courtiers, ‘I will consider my answer.’ To Nicholas, standing before him, head bowed, he said, ‘I will send for you when I have decided.’ Then, a little shakily, and still clutching Khurram’s letter, he rose from his throne, descended from the dais and left the hall, mind and emotions in a turmoil.

  Alone in her apartments in the haram, Mehrunissa paced about waiting for Jahangir to come as she knew he would. What exactly had Khurram written? She burned to know but at the same time felt a little apprehensive. If only she could have intercepted the letter as she had those that Khurram had written in the early months of his breach with his father. Whatever Khurram had said, she had seen how his words had moved Jahangir. The hot anger against Khurram that had made it so easy for her to induce him to declare him outlaw was ebbing. Jahangir was ageing mentally and physically. As the first cold winds of old age began to blow upon them, men sometimes yearned to put right things that had gone wrong in their lives while there was still time. Probably deep in his heart Jahangir hankered to be reconciled with Khurram.

  The death two months ago of Parvez, shrieking in alcohol-induced delirium, had grieved him, causing him to be more careful about the amount of drink and drugs he consumed himself and perhaps softening his attitude towards his other erring sons. Several times recently he had spoken of making Khusrau’s imprisonment less harsh . . .

  Mehrunissa heard footsteps and voices calling ‘The emperor approaches’. Then the double doors of ivory-inlaid polished mulberry were flung open. As Jahangir entered her apartments she ran to him and took his hands in hers. ‘You look troubled and unwell. What has the bi-dalaut dared to write that has distressed you so much?’

  ‘Read his letter for yourself.’

  Mehrunissa took it from him and ran her eyes quickly down it. ‘Khurram knows he has no chance against Mahabat Khan, that is why he has written to you so pleadingly. But even though he asks your forgiveness he still doesn’t confess his guilt. See what he writes.’ She pointed with her hennaed fingertip to the line for reasons that I do not comprehend I have had the misfortune to lose your love. ‘He is still puffed up with conceit and pride. It is rather that he is forgiving you than the other way around.’

  ‘But if he is sincere in wanting to be reconciled,’ Jahangir countered, ‘perhaps I should consider it. Mahabat Khan is one of my best commanders – that is why I chose him to pursue Khurram – and I would rather have his army ready to send against the Persians in case they attack Kandahar once more as our spies tell us they plan to do. As a Persian himself and a former officer of the shah he understands their thinking and tactics. Also, if my son is seen to bow to my authority again, accepting it voluntarily, it adds to my dignity.’

  Mehrunissa looked sharply at her husband. She hadn’t seen him so forthright for a long time. Although she believed that in the end she would be able to sway him in whichever direction she chose, perhaps he was right. Maybe the time had come for a change. Despite what she had just said to Jahangir there was no certainty that Mahabat Khan, able though he was, would catch Khurram, who as long as he remained a renegade would be a threat to Jahangir and to her and her plans for Shahriyar and her daughter Ladli. Khurram too was an able and experienced general and leader. There was always the possibility that he might be able to raise a large enough force to challenge Mahabat Khan. She had heard rumours that Malik Ambar had offered him an alliance against Jahangir. He might even flee the empire altogether to seek such an army. The Shah of Persia would doubtless be delighted to offer him troops in return for territorial concessions. What if Khurram offered the shah the city of Kandahar that he so coveted? Twice before her Persian countrymen had offered help to a Moghul ruler – first Babur, then Humayun – in return for something they wanted.

  ‘What do you think? Should I agree?’ Jahangir persisted, twisting the tiger-headed ring that had once belonged to his great ancestor Timur.

  Mehrunissa’s mind was suddenly racing but her expression was composed as she said slowly, ‘Perhaps you’re right. This breach has gone on for too long and should be resolved. It has caused divisions within my own family too that have long been a source of pain to me. I know how happy my brother Asaf Khan would be if the rift were healed. But we must think very carefully. Come and sit by me.’

  As Jahangir lay back against a bolster of turquoise silk beside her, Mehrunissa picked up Khurram’s letter again as if wishing to reconsider it but really as a device to purchase time to reflect. An idea was beginning to form in her mind but she must take care how she considered every aspect. She couldn’t trust Khurram if he returned to court knowing full well – as he did – that she had been the instigator and sustainer of his father’s displeasure. Choosing her words carefully, she began slowly and softly.

  ‘I have often thought what a pity it was that Khurram allowed himself to be seduced by ambition. He has since proved by his actions that he does not deserve to rule any more than Khusrau – or indeed poor Parvez who could never master his love of wine. Yet he has talents, and i
f he will indeed be obedient to you, why should they not be employed to the empire’s benefit? And as you say, if you behave with generosity towards him it will only enhance your subjects’ respect for you.’

  Jahangir was nodding, clearly pleased. Encouraged, Mehrunissa continued. ‘But it would be better – at least for the present – to keep him from the court. Find him some obscure place to administer. Make him prove himself again by hard work and diligence far from the seat of power. Then you will know whether his protestations to you are sincere.’

  ‘I could send him to be governor of Balaghat . . .’

  At the mention of this remote province in central Hindustan which yielded very little revenue – certainly not enough to equip a large army – Mehrunissa smiled. She couldn’t have thought of a better place herself. ‘An excellent idea,’ she said. ‘All the same, Balaghat isn’t so far from the kingdoms of the Deccan which are always looking to create trouble for you. The rulers there might seek to entice him into rebellion against you. They say Malik Ambar has suggested to Khurram that they join forces.’

  ‘Perhaps I should find somewhere else for him to go? Kabul maybe?’ Jahangir smiled for a moment at the thought of his own exile there after his seduction of his father’s concubine Anarkali. It had given him his first glimpse of Mehrunissa.

  ‘No. It is too wealthy and important a place,’ said Mehrunissa, unaware where Jahangir’s thoughts had taken him. ‘That would seem almost a reward for his insolence. Balaghat is far better. He will have to swallow his pride if he goes there. But we must find a way to be certain he isn’t once again tempted into rebellion.’

  ‘But how? Send spies to report on him?’

  ‘No. Spies can be bribed. I think that Khurram himself may have provided the answer. In his letter he swore loyalty to you on his own life – but also on those of his family. Put that to the test.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘As a condition of your forgiveness, order him to send his eldest son Dara Shukoh to court – and perhaps one of Dara Shukoh’s brothers to be company for him.’

  ‘As hostages, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, in a sense you could say so. Even Khurram would never dare move against you if his sons were in your power.’

  ‘I believe that . . . but would it be right to separate his sons from him? I know from my own childhood how important parents’ love can be.’ Jahangir sighed as if an old dark shadow was again crossing his mind.

  ‘They would be well treated, and think of all the advantages they would have here at court near their grandfather. And if Khurram means what he says in his letter, there would never be any question of having to take measures against them.’

  Jahangir was silent for a while. She knew her suggestion had surprised him, perhaps even shocked him, but as he began to reflect surely he would see the sense of it. The more she thought about it, the better she liked it, though she would have to ensure that in practice Jahangir did not see too much of his grandsons . . .

  ‘I am only thinking of you,’ she said after a while, moving a little closer to Jahangir and leaning her head against his shoulder. She felt him begin to stroke her long hair as he often did. ‘Khurram’s behaviour has caused you so much anxiety. By agreeing to a reconciliation you are being merciful as a great emperor should be, but you must be careful for yourself. Do as I suggest and all will, I am sure, be as you wish it to be. Khurram will have to accept your terms and you can withdraw Mahabat Khan and his army from their pursuit of him. You have already had enough to bear from ungrateful and rebellious sons. Let this be an end of it.’

  Jahangir ran his hand across his eyes but then at last he smiled, though it was a sad wan smile. ‘You’re right, I’m sure. You always are. Tomorrow I’ll summon my council and tell them my decision. It will be good to be reconciled with Khurram. I will enjoy seeing my grandsons too. Dara Shukoh must have changed so much.’

  The next morning, Nicholas received a summons to go to Jahangir in his private apartments. Ever since arriving in Agra he had felt nervous, remembering Khurram’s warning. But nothing untoward had happened and his letter was safe in Jahangir’s hands.

  As a qorchi ushered Nicholas into the room he saw Jahangir standing at its centre in his night attire with his grey hair loose. His drawn face still had some of its old authority as he acknowledged Nicholas’s bow, but now that the Englishman saw him at close quarters he could see how he had aged since the days when he and Sir Thomas had been drinking partners, exchanging stories until dawn.

  ‘Take this back to my son.’ Jahangir held out an embroidered leather wallet. ‘Inside is my reply to his letter. Guard it well. I have ordered fresh horses for you and your escort so that you travel quickly.’

  ‘Thank you, Majesty.’ Nicholas took the wallet, wishing he knew what Jahangir had written. He hesitated a moment, hoping Jahangir would give him some clue, but the emperor had already turned away and was rinsing his face in a silver bowl of water that an attendant was holding out to him.

  Half an hour later, Jahangir watched from a casement as Nicholas and his soldiers trotted down the ramp from the Agra fort into the seething streets of Agra. How would Khurram react to his letter? he wondered. And for the first time another thought struck him. How would Arjumand – a woman of the same stock as his beloved Mehrunissa – respond? Would she agree to yield her children or would she urge Khurram to resist?

  Chapter 20

  The Price

  ‘Mahabat Khan will do everything in his power to defeat and capture you.’ Azam Bahksh poked the brazier of charcoals and invited Khurram to draw his stool a little closer to the warmth. Autumn was approaching and chill winds were already beginning to blow off the mountains on the northwestern horizon so that the two of them, sitting in the courtyard of the mud-brick fortress on the banks of the Gandak river where Azam Bahksh had offered sanctuary to Khurram and his family, were shivering a little.

  ‘You know Mahabat Khan?’ Khurram asked in some surprise. Azam Bahksh was an old man – well over seventy – and as a youth had fought in Akbar’s armies.

  ‘Only by repute. They say he is a born commander, dashing and ingenious, intelligent as well as ambitious. Such are his qualities that his Rajput horsemen have sworn loyalty to the death to him though he’s not of their race.’

  Khurram stared into the heart of the glowing orange coals. The rumours brought by some of Azam Bahksh’s men earlier that day that Mahabat Khan’s advancing army was less than four weeks away had been a shock. He had hoped to be safe here for a while at least. The invitation from the old warrior Khurram remembered only vaguely from his boyhood to take refuge in his ancestral stronghold in the hills north of Patna had been a welcome surprise. Azam Bakhsh’s steward had found Khurram’s column a week after he had left Hooghly. The old man had written that he had learned of Khurram’s plight and was offering his help in memory of Akbar, whom he had revered, knowing that Khurram had been Akbar’s favourite grandson. Khurram had set out at once on the journey, which had brought him some two hundred miles north of Hooghly. But once again it seemed the refuge would only be temporary. This little fortress would be no defence against Mahabat Khan’s armies. He would not put his friends at risk. But the real question was why Mahabat Khan’s army was still pursuing him.

  ‘I had hoped my father would call Mahabat Khan off. It’s nearly two months since I sent my messenger to Agra.’

  ‘Is your courier trustworthy?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he is. But he would have faced many dangers on the road to Agra and perhaps he never reached it. The empress may have been warned of his mission and sent assassins to intercept him. Or he may have been killed by bandits or fallen ill. Perhaps I should not have sent a European. They are much more prone to sickness than we are. Certainly if all had gone smoothly he should have found me by now. My whereabouts are no secret if Mahabat Khan is on my track, and anyway many will have seen my column pass this way from Hooghly.’ Khurram raised his head to look at the bright veil of stars across the n
ight sky. How insignificant and transitory men’s lives were compared to that mysterious and timeless expanse above them . . .

  ‘Don’t look so sombre.’ Azam Bahksh’s gruff voice cut into his thoughts. ‘There is still time. My many years have taught me one lesson at least – patience. All may yet be well.’

  Khurram nodded, but only out of politeness. He could not afford to be patient when the lives of himself and his family hung so precariously in the balance.

  But two days later, Azam Bahksh was proved right. Khurram was sitting with Arjumand when he heard drums boom from the small gatehouse to announce new arrivals. Leaping to his feet he hurried down a narrow flight of steps into the courtyard.

  Nicholas Ballantyne was just dismounting. As he unwound his face cloth, Khurram saw he looked exhausted. He was hollow cheeked and his chin thickly stubbled. ‘Majesty.’

  As Nicholas made to kneel, Khurram said quickly, ‘No need for that. Tell me what happened. Did you give my father my letter? What did he say?’

  ‘I reached Agra without incident, although my journey was slower than I had hoped. The emperor received me in the Hall of Public Audience where he indeed read your letter. Next day he gave me this to bring to you.’ Nicholas reached into his jerkin and extracted the leather wallet Jahangir had entrusted to him. Even while snatching a few hours’ brief sleep on the road he had always been conscious of it, tucked into his shirt just inches from his heart. As he handed it to Khurram, he felt a weight drop from him.

  Khurram opened the wallet with impatient fingers, pulled out the letter and began to read it. Watching him, Nicholas saw first joy, then bewilderment, then anger cross his features. He also heard Khurram’s quick intake of breath and saw how his fingers were starting to crush the piece of paper. Then, suddenly aware again of Nicholas and his escort and of the other attendants in the courtyard, all watching him intently, Khurram seemed to gather himself together. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly to Nicholas. ‘You discharged a difficult task loyally and well. When you have rested we will talk more. I want to know everything that happened while you were at court, but first I must go to my wife.’