Mehrunnisa turned to the courtyard again. The pieces all stood still, watching the imperial balcony without seeming to do so. Then she inclined her head to Mahabat. “Call out your moves, Hoshiyar will relay them to the board.”
Mahabat leaned over the short rail of the balcony and let his eyes sweep over the board. The white pieces stood to his right, the black to his left. He searched through his memory for tales of Mehrunnisa’s prowess in Shatranj, but he could find none. Rumor had it she was now an excellent shot at hunting expeditions, that she wrote poetry and songs, but there had been no stories of her chess-playing ability. If she wanted to play by Portuguese rules, they would. He cast his mind over the games he had played with the Jesuit Fathers.
“Pawn to Shah four.”
Hoshiyar Khan stepped to the edge of the balcony and called out Mahabat’s move. In response, the foot soldier, a eunuch in front of the Shah, moved forward two spaces. He did not look up at the imperial balcony or acknowledge the command. Very well trained, Mahabat thought. But it was early yet.
The Empress made a similar move, until their two Shah’s pawns were facing each other.
“Knight to Shah’s bishop three,” Mahabat said.
Mehrunnisa leaned over the balcony, placing her arms on the ledge.
“Knight to queen’s bishop three.”
Mahabat moved quickly, placing his Shah’s bishop four paces ahead of his queen’s bishop. The Empress matched his move.
“Tell me, Mirza Khan, what do you think of this ambassador who is to come from England?”
“Sir Thomas Roe?” asked Mahabat, using a castling move. He watched as the rukh’s mahout knocked on the elephant’s head and it neatly sidestepped two squares, the Shah whipping around the elephant. His Shah was now protected by the rukh and three foot soldiers.
The Empress said, not looking at the board but at Mahabat, “Knight to Shah’s bishop three.” Then, she said again, “Yes, this Sir Thomas Roe. He brings with him a letter from King James, proclaiming he is a representative of the throne.”
Mahabat turned to her. “Your Majesty, he is said to be a legitimate delegate of the king of England—”
“I know that,” Mehrunnisa cut into his speech, “but the English want a royal farman from his Majesty to trade with the empire. Why would a king be involved in trade issues? The Emperor never is. Why would this English king? You are taking too long, Mirza Khan. Your move.”
Mahabat turned to the courtyard again, his words tripping out, his mind now on other matters. “I beg pardon, your Majesty. You have moved so fast in retaliation, I have not had the time to think.”
The Empress titled her head with a smile. “As it must be. Now, make your move, Mirza Khan, and tell me more about this ambassador and the land he comes from. Where is it?”
Mahabat called out his move, commanding his rukh to move one away from his Shah. Now it covered his Shah’s pawn from capture. Then he responded to the Empress’s questions. “A small island in Europe, your Majesty. The ambassador does not speak either Persian or Arabic, but he will, to learn the etiquette of the court, the manner in which to address his Majesty. If only you could meet him too. But alas, it is forbidden for the ladies of the imperial zenana to be seen by strange men.”
Mehrunnisa castled, mirroring Mahabat’s earlier move. Her eyes were bright with amusement when she spoke. “Alas indeed, Mirza Khan. Which is why it is so important for his Majesty and me to have excellent ministers as yourself in our employ.”
Mahabat felt a wave of anger wash over him. She talked as though he was some minion, some minor minister, not Mahabat Khan, one of the Emperor’s most trusted and loyal servants. And yet who was she? A woman picked out of the dust and elevated to this exalted status of Empress.
“Your Majesty is too kind,” he murmured, calling out his move. His queen’s bishop pawn moved forward one pace. So far they had played automatically. Mahabat had led with his advantage as the opening player, and she had matched his moves or mirrored them.
Mehrunnisa moved her queen diagonally forward, Mahabat saw it but also saw his Shah secure in its stronghold. He moved his queen’s pawn two squares.
In response the Empress commanded her pawn to execute Mahabat’s pawn. Still unconcerned, he watched the black-velvet-clad foot soldier draw his sword and make a motion of slicing off the white soldier’s head. The white soldier fell to the ground, then slithered away to the side, where, for the first time, he raised his head and looked straight at Mahabat.
“I am suspicious of this ambassador, Mirza Khan,” Mehrunnisa said, her voice soft and lilting. Mahabat listened, entranced. She spoke of state matters, yet her tone was one belonging to a bedchamber. “The English have made many promises, mostly to protect our ships in the Arabian Sea from marauders and the Portuguese. All to naught. Is this ambassador to be trusted?”
“I think so, your Majesty,” Mahabat said, moving his pawn to threaten the Empress’s knight. She moved it out of danger to Shah’s knight five. Mahabat bade his queen’s bishop pawn to capture the Empress’s pawn, and he watched the same drama unfold. Yet it seemed halfhearted, the Empress’s black pawn almost seeming to fight with his pawn before striding off the board. When the soldier reached the edge of the courtyard, he bowed to the Empress and she nodded to him. “The English ambassador may not be trustworthy, but they have proved their might over the Portuguese at sea. It may be worthwhile to keep them pacified for some time. Until his Majesty decides what to do. Your Majesty is very kind in wanting to be informed of these matters, but there are many ministers at court willing and able to serve the Emperor, with their lives if necessary.”
Mehrunnisa laughed. “True. But ministers have only their lives to give. The queen, why, she can provide this Sir Thomas Roe with a treaty for trade in Gujrat. More beneficial to the empire, don’t you think?” She commanded her queen’s knight to trample over Mahabat’s just-victorious pawn.
Mahabat stared at her, anger flaring again from deep inside him. In the last four years, since her marriage to the Emperor, Mehrunnisa had cheated him time and again of honors and privileges. She had petitioned Jahangir to act contrary to Mahabat’s wishes, making a fool of him in court. How did she now dare talk to him this way? Any awe he might have felt at being in the imperial zenana had vanished. He had been invited here to be humiliated, belittled by this woman who thought she led the Emperor and the empire by the nose. He looked at the far end of the courtyard where the captured pieces stood. Two of his pawns, one of the Empress’s. On the board, her queen’s knight, which had so recently swooped upon his pawn, now stood defended only by her queen’s bishop. Which she would surely not dare to sacrifice also. A stupid move, Mahabat thought grimly. A move worthy of a woman whose only charms were her face and her body.
“Knight to queen four,” he called out, his voice harsh in the silent courtyard. His knight moved to swallow the Empress’s knight.
When the pieces had settled down and the board stood still, except for the occasional twitching of a foal’s or an elephant’s tail, Mehrunnisa turned to Mahabat. “Very good, Mirza Khan. Very good indeed. You know,” she said, changing the topic rapidly, “I do not trust Shah Abbas of Persia.”
“Why, your Majesty?” he asked, a little smile on his face. If she wanted some time to think, he would grant it to her.
“Qandahar is being constantly threatened by him. He wishes to annex it to his lands. It is an important stronghold in the defense of the empire. If we were to lose Qandahar, it would be easy to menace the rest of the empire.”
Now she had Mahabat’s complete attention. Was there a problem with Shah Abbas? He remembered danger from the Shah to Qandahar early in the Emperor’s rule. But that threat had been successfully repulsed, and Shah Abbas had conveniently blamed the fighting on the governors of his border provinces.
“I have not heard of any disturbances in the northwestern frontier of the empire, your Majesty.”
“Doubtless you have not, Mirza Khan,” Mehrunnisa
said. “I was merely wondering about the possibility. We cannot afford to lose any of the cities, especially not Qandahar.”
“Your move, your Majesty,” Mahabat said. “If I may be allowed to say so, you are taking too long.”
Mehrunnisa nodded. “But . . .” She leaned over the board again, looking hard at the pieces. Then she said, “Queen to king’s rukh five.”
Mahabat looked down at the board, tiny beads of sweat dotting his forehead. The air in the courtyard suddenly seemed close. The sun had set, but the heat of the day lingered. Someone snickered; it was Mahabat’s Shah. All his pieces seemed to be smiling. The Empress’s queen was too close to his Shah, with nothing to protect the Shah but the three pawns. He moved his king’s knight back in a panic.
“As I was saying,” the Empress said softly, “I have a special fondness for Qandahar; it is where I was born.”
Mahabat forgot to be polite. “But your Majesty has never visited Qandahar since birth, it seems like an odd fondness,” he sniped, irritation coloring his voice. He was scrambling on the board and he knew it. Somehow, with all her sweet talk, this woman had him running. First the English ambassador, now the Shah of Persia. What was this, a lesson in diplomacy? Taught to one who played the game better than she ever could?
“True,” Mehrunnisa replied, seeming not to note the disrespect in Mahabat’s tone. She killed Mahabat’s king’s bishop pawn, and now her queen stood near his Shah. “But I have a great fondness for Kabul also. My father was treasurer there for four years.” She sat back on her divan, every muscle relaxed. “Check, Mirza Khan.”
Mahabat wiped his face with the sleeve of his qaba. Where had he gone wrong? Now he saw clearly that she had offered her queen’s knight as a sacrifice, and like a fool he had taken it. He moved his Shah to the rukh’s place, his voice trembling as he called out the move.
“The Emperor and I are much concerned with the rumors about the governor of Kabul, Mirza Mahabat Khan. The Emperor has sent him a missive commanding his presence at court to answer to those rumors. But Kabul cannot be left without a strong leader, one who will protect the Emperor’s interests and possibly fend off any threat on the border.”
“I will search for such a man, your Majesty,” Mahabat said, desperately, as the Empress’s queen moved toward his Shah. He was trapped. He took the queen with his knight. But there was no way out for his Shah.
Mahabat turned to Mehrunnisa, his eyes haunted. By tomorrow news of his defeat would be all over Agra, in a few weeks the empire would know. Mirza Mahabat Khan had been beaten by the Empress, a mere woman. She was smiling under her veil as her king’s knight moved forward to Shah’s bishop seven. Mahabat’s Shah was now smothered by his own three pawns and his bishop.
“But there is no need for you to trouble yourself,” she said. “I have already done so. I suggested to his Majesty that you would be the perfect choice.” She paused. “Checkmate, Mirza Mahabat Khan.”
Her voice was soft, but he did not mistake the menace in it. He was to be sent away from court as governor of Kabul. She had outmaneuvered him, not just in Shatranj but also at court. Mahabat’s head bowed in a brief, grudging admiration. Sharif had been right all along when he had warned him of Jahangir’s affection for this woman. He remembered the Emperor asking him if he wanted to go to the Deccan to oversee the campaign there—Jahangir had been warning him to keep his thoughts to himself, but Mahabat had not heeded that hint. Now he was headed to Kabul, so far away from Agra, across the entire breadth of the empire. It was death without dying.
He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “I thank you for your confidence in me, your Majesty. The appointment to Kabul is a great honor indeed.”
A wary look came to her eyes. “Is it? I wonder. You must leave soon, Mirza Khan, within the week.”
Mahabat rose and bowed to the Empress. “It shall be as you command. Perhaps his Majesty will require my services at court again sometime in the future.”
She waved her hand at him as though he were a servant. “Perhaps, but it will be unlikely.”
As he left, Mehrunnisa dipped her hand into the embroidered bag by her side and threw a handful of mohurs into the courtyard. They spun golden through the air before scattering on the ground. The Shatranj pieces scrambled for the mohurs. “Well done,” she called out. “You will be better rewarded tomorrow.”
The eunuchs bowed and filed out of the courtyard. She watched as the servants doused the torches on the pillars, leaving only two oil lamps burning by her divan. One obstacle had been surmounted. Kabul was far enough away from the court that Mahabat would be powerless to influence the Emperor against her, but not so far that her spies could not keep her informed of his movements.
So Mahabat left on his long journey, carrying with him a deep and abiding loathing for Mehrunnisa. In the coming months and years, he would have much time to ponder what he had done wrong, whether he could have done better. One conviction would never change.
If Mahabat ever got a chance to destroy Mehrunnisa, he would not hesitate. And they did not know then that this opportunity would come one day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I never saw so settled a Countenance . . . but mingled with extreme Pride and Contempt of all. If I can judge any thing, hee [Khurram] hath left his hart among his fathers women, with whom hee hath liberty of conversation. Normahall . . . visited him. . . . She gave him a Cloake all embrodered with Pearle, diamondes and rubyes; and carried away, if I err not, his attention to all other business.”
—WILLIAM FOSTER, ed.,
The Embassy of Sir Thomas Roe to India
“Zahara Bagh is beautiful, your Majesty.”
Mehrunnisa and Jahangir were walking close to each other, ahead of the rest of their entourage. Her arm was around the Emperor’s waist, his rested on her shoulder. “It is named for Emperor Babur’s daughter.” Jahangir looked around. “It was laid out by my great-grandfather. When he first came to India, he was unhappy. The heat was terrific, it sapped his strength, and there was nothing to provide respite from the sun. Since he could not return to Kabul, he brought his favorite garden here.”
The royal party moved slowly through the garden, shaded by mango trees. The fruits were near ripening, weighing down the branches with patches of brilliant, succulent yellow. When they passed under the trees, a swarm of green parrots rose squawking from their perches and flew away.
In the center, at the meeting point of the four water channels, was a baradari, a pavilion built of red sandstone. It was a large, open building, with pillared, cusped arches supporting a domed roof. Despite the heat of the summer, roses, marigolds, and carnations bloomed around the edges of the grass, lovingly watered by hand.
The central theme of all Mughal gardens was water; at placid repose, flowing, tumbling in a waterfall, seen, heard, or felt in a misty spray. Zahara Bagh was divided into four quadrants by the water channels that crossed from east to west and north to south, meeting in the middle. Hence, the gardens were called charbagh or, literally, four gardens. The channels were used not only to irrigate the plants and trees alongside but also to provide cool relief from the summer heat in the plains. Where Emperor Babur had just been a nomadic chieftain before the conquest of India, now there was an empire to rule, with a wealth of natural resources from the earth, jewels of unimaginable luster, and bountiful soil that gave birth to golden wheat and rice. But water had been hard to find, and before the monsoon rains, the tufan winds—terrible, parching gales that scorched moisture from the very skin—thundered through the country. So when he had built gardens that brought to his mind images of paradise, water had abounded.
Jahangir and Mehrunnisa had just returned from a hunting trip. For Mehrunnisa the mortification of that early hunt with Jagat Gosini had long faded away. Today, with her face dusty, gunpowder peppering her skin, the smell of it and sweat still lingering on her, she was happy. She had shot four tigers from the howdah, and these with only six bullets. Mehrunnisa touched the twelve gold ba
ngles on her wrist. Tiny, perfectly cut emeralds, the color of the ocean at rest, caught the light of the sun. This was her reward from Jahangir for her prowess in the hunting field. And so her jewelry boxes were filled with tokens of his affection.
“It is peaceful here,” she said. This was Mehrunnisa’s first visit to Zahara Bagh, and the quiet of the garden was soothing after the cacophony of the hunt.
“I thought we should stay here tonight. The moon will be full.” Jahangir looked up at the bright sky.
“How do you like it here, Khurram?” Mehrunnisa turned to the prince, who was walking beside them in full hunting gear. He had shed only his musket.
“Very much, your Majesty.”
Khurram’s gaze, though, was on the bangles Mehrunnisa wore. He watched the green of the emeralds turn dark and light as her hand moved. Mehrunnisa smiled and held her hand out to him so that he could touch the stones. He did this reverently, fascinated. Prince Khurram had excelled at the hunt too, but it was for him as easy as breathing. His eye was sharp, his aim unwavering, he could even catch a gazelle in full flight.
They reached the baradari. A gentle breeze drifted through the open pavilion, with an underlying edge of coolness picked up from the shade of the mango. The floor was covered with reed mats and strewn with velvet bolsters. Mehrunnisa, Jahangir, and Khurram settled down and waited for lunch.
The Mir Bakawal headed a line of attendants. The imperial kitchens had been moved to the grounds behind the gardens, downwind from the baradari, so that no smoke from the fires or smells from the cooking would sully the air in the pavilion. The Master of the Kitchen now brought in a large red satin tablecloth, which he ceremoniously spread on the ground in front of the Emperor. Twenty slaves filed in, each carrying gold and silver dishes. They set them down, and an attendant placed a large stack of porcelain plates next to the food. The head server then knelt. As he lifted ornate lids off the dishes, the aroma of delicately spiced curries and rices filled the baradari. There were dishes of lamb marinated in yogurt, garlic, and coriander, and baked in an oven, fish from the Yamuna grilled with pepper and salt, partridge and pigeon meat from the hunt, still simmering in rich brown gravies of onion and ginger, and five types of rice, tinted with saffron and liberally tossed with cashews, walnuts, and raisins.
The Feast of Roses Page 21