The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

“No.”

  Ali Quli bowed again. When he raised his head, his expression was contrite. “I beg pardon, your Highness, for suggesting that you might have seen my woman. And if you change your mind about the command of the imperial outposts, please do think of me.”

  What did the one have to do with the other? Still furious, Salim lifted his hand in dismissal, and Ali Quli fell back. He urged his horse into a gallop, racing through the brush and scrub, mud stinging his eyes. No children. What did that matter? For him it would have been enough to have Mehrunnisa in his zenana, to know that he could lie by her side at night, that he could watch her sleep. For four years he had pushed away thoughts of Mehrunnisa. She was another man’s wife; she would never belong to him. And as time passed, he thought she must have forgotten him. Now, seeing Ali Quli, all those aches had come back, startling him with their intensity. He should send the soldier out on campaign, not keep him by his side. What good would that do? Every time he saw Ali Quli, he would be reminded of Mehrunnisa. But every time he saw Ali Quli, disrespectful as he was, Salim would perhaps learn a little more about her. Now he knew she had no children. Maybe later he would find out other things about her—little pieces of information he could hoard and keep with him even if he could not have her.

  Anger flared in him again. Why hadn’t the Emperor granted him permission to marry Mehrunnisa? It would have been so easy for Akbar to agree, yet he had not. Somehow, Salim’s rage at this one decision of his father’s never seemed to subside. Added to it now was a sense of futility about the Mewar campaign. When Salim had started out from Lahore, he had been full of ideas about the attack on the Rana. But during the journey all those plans dissipated into thin air. Mahabat and Koka pointed out that there would be long, weary months at some military outpost without the harem or basic comforts. It was much better to send out the imperial forces under his able lieutenants and direct the operations from Ajmer.

  Salim agreed, but with some reluctance. His father had sent him to oversee the campaign, to prove himself worthy of the crown. And yet, as Mahabat said, when would he get that crown?

  When the entourage reached Ajmer, Salim settled down in the comfort of the royal palaces to await news from the warfront. The days passed pleasantly as he played king, accepting homage from the crowds of local residents who turned out to see their prince.

  • • •

  THE INACTIVITY SOON palled, and Salim decided to go up to Nagaur, north of Ajmer. Farther north was the Thar desert, and in the forests on the southern fringes, near Nagaur, lay the imperial hunting grounds, well known for their large stock of cheetahs. Salim set up camp near the town. The royal party hunted daily, rising early in the morning and spending the entire day in the forests.

  One day, the royal entourage returned to camp, victorious and tired, dragging along with them the carcasses from the hunt. The call for the evening prayer rang out, and they all fell to their knees, facing west toward Mecca. The prayer over, Salim rose from his prayer rug and walked outside his tent.

  A groom came running up to him. “Your Highness, a tigress and her cubs have strayed near the camp. They must have been frightened by the drummers from the hunt.”

  “Lead me to them.” Salim, excited, grabbed his musket and followed the groom. They passed Ali Quli, who was resting nearby, leaning against a tree trunk.

  “Your Highness, it is unwise to leave the camp alone,” he called out.

  “Come with me then, Ali Quli,” Salim shouted as he disappeared into the woods.

  Ali Quli hastily stuck his dagger into his cummerbund and ran after Salim and the groom. In a few minutes he caught up with them. They walked as quietly as possible through the dark forest. The sun was low in the west by now, and the trees formed a thick canopy overhead, shutting out what little light there was. An unseasonable thunderstorm had drenched the hunting ground two days ago, and the undergrowth still smelled dank and damp. The groom struck a match and lit the torch he was carrying.

  “Here, your Highness,” the groom whispered, pushing aside a bush to let Salim pass.

  They had come upon a small clearing. The groom held up his torch, and the darkness receded to the edges of the clearing. In the center, four tiger cubs, each not bigger than a man’s hand, played alone. They turned and looked at the newcomers with inquisitive, unblinking golden eyes. One of the cubs came running up to Salim and pawed at his boots fearlessly. Salim laughed in delight, picked up the cub, and held it to his chest. The cub had a tangy smell, with a smear of blood from some animal streaked over one ear where its mother had not licked it off. Salim rubbed his fingers along its neck, and the cub purred in contentment, its bright eyes softening.

  Ali Quli peered worriedly into the gloom. “Your Highness, the tigress must be close by. Please be careful.”

  Salim paid no attention to him, stroking the gold and black lines that arrowed down the cub’s back.

  Suddenly, a pair of incandescent eyes gleamed out of the darkness, and a low growl sounded from the bushes directly ahead of Salim. He looked up, startled, his heart thumping against his ribs. Crouched in front of him, ready to spring, was a large, angry tigress. She had come from nowhere, making no sound until now, giving no indication of her presence. Salim looked around wildly for his musket. It lay on the ground, a few feet away; by the time he reached it, the tigress would be upon him. He looked toward the tigress, holding the cub in numb fingers.

  Ali Quli watched his prince, the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat. The cub, sensing the tension and excited by the smell of its mother, twisted and mewed in Salim’s tight grasp. The tigress growled louder from deep inside her body. Ali Quli cleared his throat and said softly, “Let the cub go, your Highness.”

  Salim did not hear him. He was mesmerized by the fluorescent gaze of the angry mother.

  The groom stood nearby, rooted to the ground, his torch spilling an eerie glow over the clearing. It lit up the three men standing immobile and the equally still crouched animal in the far corner.

  Ali Quli slowly felt for his dagger. As he clasped the handle the tigress sprang with a loud roar.

  Salim went cold with terror. He tried to look away but could not. His feet would not move; in any case, he knew instinctively that he could not outrun the tigress. He watched stupefied as the tigress launched her huge body from the ground, teeth bared, mouth open, coming toward him. Time dragged to an inching halt as the animal pawed through the air, closer and closer . . .

  Suddenly, a man hurled himself on the tigress, just a few feet from the prince. The tigress fell to the ground heavily, Ali Quli on top of her. Salim watched motionless as Ali Quli and the tigress grappled together. Then, galvanized into motion, he dropped the cub, ran for his musket, picked it up, and held it to his shoulder. But he could not fire for fear of hitting the soldier.

  The furious tigress lashed out with a powerful arm and sank her claws into Ali Quli’s shoulder. He shouted in pain and with his free hand tried to stab at the muscular body on top of him. She wrenched him into the air, and the soldier crashed back like a cloth doll. As the huge mouth filled with sharp white teeth came toward him, blocking his line of vision, Ali Quli raised the dagger and with supreme effort plunged it to the hilt into the tigress’s heart. Blood spurted out, pouring on his hand and down his clothes, as the tigress collapsed with a loud roar.

  By this time, the entire camp had gathered around, alerted by the commotion. Still holding the musket, Salim scrambled over to Ali Quli. He lay motionless on the ground, half under the animal’s body. Salim made a sign to his attendants, who rushed over to pull the tigress off Ali Quli and help him to his feet.

  The prince embraced the soldier. Ali Quli winced as the prince’s arm went around his shoulder, where flesh hung in bloody strips.

  “I owe you my life,” Salim said, the words coming hoarsely from his mouth.

  “Mine is always in your service, your Highness,” Ali Quli replied, almost fainting from the pain.

  “Take him away, and
see to his wounds.”

  As his servants put Ali Quli onto a makeshift stretcher and carried him back to camp, Salim let the musket fall to the ground and stood still, breaking out into a wild sweat. His brocaded qaba stuck to his chest, drenched with Ali Quli’s blood and the tigress’s blood. He peeled the cloth away from his skin, shivering violently. The tiger cub he had held came back and sank its teeth into the leather of his right boot. It had not yet realized its mother lay dead just a few feet away. Salim looked at the cub and then at the body of the tigress. It had been stupid of him to pick up the cub; he should have known the mother would be nearby.

  The problem, Salim thought wearily, bending to pick the cub up by the nape of its neck, was that Raja Man Singh had efficiently taken over command of the Udaipur campaign, leaving, as usual, little for Salim to do with his time. From far away in the Deccan, the Emperor kept himself informed of the campaign. Letters and missives passed between the Raja and Akbar; they rarely consulted Salim.

  The cub wriggled in his grip, and he cradled it to his chest, watching with disgust as it licked at the blood on his qaba. He walked back to the camp and there gave orders for the four cubs to be put in his private menagerie.

  The next morning, Salim rose and prayed for the well-being of the man who had saved his life. Then he issued a royal farman, proclaiming that from this day, Ali Quli Khan Istajlu was to be given the title of Sher Afghan, or Tiger Slayer. It was the least he could do. In the light of day, he realized he did not want to be in debt to this man of all men: the man who had married the woman he loved, the man who cared so little about her.

  Salim laid his seal on the farman and blew on it to dry the glossy ink. Ali Quli had saved his life, but his new title and all the honor that came with it would benefit Mehrunnisa. He touched the rough paper. One day, after many hands had held this, Mehrunnisa would hold and read the farman. He felt a sudden urge to write one line to her, one line she would understand came from him. So he picked up his quill again and, under the scribe’s writing, wrote “May you be forever peaceful.” When the ink had dried, Salim called a servant to take the farman to Ali Quli. With it went his message to the woman he had seen only thrice, the woman he could not forget.

  • • •

  “WITH THE ROYAL treasury in your hands, you will rule the empire, your Highness.”

  “Shhh . . .” Prince Salim put his goblet down on the silver tray at his elbow with a clatter. He gave a swift glance around. The royal attendants were arrayed around the room at some distance, standing against the pillars. The men had their hands behind their backs, feet planted apart. Their faces were impassive.

  Salim sighed with relief and picked up his goblet again. He frowned over the rim at the three eager faces. Mahabat Khan, Qutubuddin Khan Koka, and Sayyid Abdullah smiled encouragingly back at him. The four men were seated on low divans in the reception hall of Salim’s apartments at the royal palace in Ajmer. The room was large, with vaulted ceilings and stone arches opening to the gardens outside. Salim and his three most trusted and loyal cohorts huddled around the center. All three men were about Salim’s age, having literally grown up with the prince.

  Mahabat Khan was lean, wiry, and compact. His well-weathered skin was darkened by the sun, drawn tight over the skull, with black eyes shining intelligently from a clean-shaven face. His hair was well oiled and slicked back, curling slightly at the ends. His energy was seemingly boundless; and true to character, Mahabat sat at the very edge of his divan, upright and alert. Mahabat had been brought into the royal palaces at ten years of age to provide male companionship for Salim. A few years later he had been appointed to the Ahadis, the royal personal bodyguards of the imperial family.

  Qutubuddin Khan Koka had also been brought up in the royal zenana. Koka’s mother, Shaikh Salim Chisti’s daughter, had been Salim’s first wet nurse, and the two boys had grown up as foster brothers, drinking the milk of the same mother. Always tending to plumpness, in the passing years Koka had let himself go. He lounged comfortably on his divan, stroking the luxuriant moustache that grew unchecked over his face. Most people tended to take his calm and unruffled demeanor and his good humor for granted, unaware of the sharp mind behind the facade he took great pains to present to the outside world.

  Sayyid Abdullah had joined the prince’s household after Salim’s first marriage and had quickly risen through the ranks to his private circle. The prince had been initially drawn to Sayyid by his wit and charming manner. He was very handsome: tall, and broad-shouldered, with a hooked nose, well-defined eyebrows, and a strong mouth. Sayyid was very careful of his personal appearance, determined to improve on what nature had given him so abundantly. But what Salim found most engaging was his absolute and blind devotion to him.

  Indeed, Salim thought, these three men were his closest cohorts along with Muhammad Sharif, who was not here today, having been laid up with a fever. Physically, the four men could not have been more dissimilar. In contrast to the other three, Sharif was short, with stubby hands and legs, a receding hairline, a neatly clipped moustache, and cold, calculating eyes. But what had brought them together was their loyalty to Salim—loyalty that had been tried and tested over the years. Sometimes, though, they were overzealous, as when they had encouraged him to rebel against his father in 1591. Now they were suggesting that he storm the treasury at Agra and confiscate the empire’s wealth.

  He looked at them thoughtfully. Perhaps there was no harm in listening to what they had to say. For once his mind was as keen as a butcher’s knife; Mahabat Khan had insisted against his regular morning dose of opium and then asked for a secret conference. Salim had listened to the three men in silence, an idea beginning to germinate in his mind.

  A year had passed since he had arrived at Ajmer—a very dull year. He had been feted and pampered in the beginning, but as time passed, the commoners hardly stopped their chores to wave back at him before carrying on.

  And the siege on the Rana of Udaipur was not progressing well at all. Somehow the wily Amar Singh had successfully managed surprise attacks on all the outposts and sent the imperial army scattering. No real harm done, but it took time and money to gather the forces again and replan the offensive.

  A month ago, Raja Man Singh, his brother-in-law, had been recalled to his governorship of Bengal by the Emperor. It seemed that Usman, the last of the Afghan dissidents in India, had rebelled again, and Man Singh was sent from Mewar to quell the rebellion. The Afghan threat had plagued the empire for years now; they had driven Akbar’s father from Hindustan. So the slightest sign of trouble from Bengal was taken very seriously.

  But, Salim thought irritably, it left him without a strong commander in his forces. The Emperor had not chosen him to command in the first place; sending him here had just been a token gesture. Now he was not willing to go out into the battlefield and rally the forces. That meant his presence was no longer necessary at Mewar. But where else would he go? Certainly not to the Deccan; the Emperor would promptly put him in command of another long and tiring campaign under his nose this time.

  As Salim was mulling over his problems, Mahabat Khan came to him with his request for a private audience. Until now, Salim had felt the throne secure for himself, especially since Murad was dead and only Daniyal was left in contention. And then Koka languidly pointed out that Prince Daniyal was in the Deccan with Akbar. Who knew how close they had become?

  Salim grew cold at the thought. Would his father pass him by and leave the empire to Daniyal? Could he afford to take that chance? All these years he had wanted—no, yearned desperately—to be on the throne; and it seemed as though after all that, Daniyal, who had equal rights under the law, would take away his life’s ambition. At that point he started listening to what his friends had to say. Capture the treasury and the empire would indisputably be his, for the life of the empire lay in its rich treasury.

  Salim finally looked up from the amber wine in his goblet. “How can I capture the treasury at Agra? It is well guarded.”<
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  Mahabat, Koka, and Abdullah smiled at one another.

  “There is only a skeleton army left at Agra,” Koka said slowly. “The rest of the imperial army is here, or in the Deccan with the Emperor.”

  Salim shook his head. He was being asked to rebel a second time against his father. And this time, there would be no turning back. At least with the poisoning incident, Akbar had merely been suspicious; he had had no real proof. But capturing the treasury—that would be an open act of mutiny.

  “The time is ripe, your Highness,” Abdullah urged. “We must act now. Who knows how long the Emperor will live? It may be years before he dies and you ascend the throne of Hindustan.”

  “Why wait, your Highness?” Mahabat Khan chimed in. “His Majesty has clearly stated that he wishes you to be heir. If you capture the royal treasury, the Emperor will acknowledge you as the next king and retire from court life.”

  Salim shook his head again. “I don’t know whether it will work. This is a big step to take.”

  “The right step, your Highness.” Koka smiled under his moustache, sensing victory. “You reached manhood ten years ago. But does the Emperor admit it? No. Instead, he treats you like a child. He gives you no responsibility.”

  “He did send me to subdue the Rana of Udaipur,” Salim said haltingly.

  “A lost cause, your Highness. His Majesty should have sent you to the Deccan. But he went there himself, not trusting your command,” Mahabat replied.

  Salim bit his lip. “I cannot,” he moaned. “What if the Emperor finds out before we reach Agra?”

  “We will travel in the greatest secrecy, your Highness,” Koka said. “We can send out word that you are confined to your bed with an illness. No one will know you are not here. Think of the riches of the royal treasury.”

  Salim’s head jerked up from his cup. He could see the huge vaults at the fort. Thick strands of swan-white pearls, glittering rubies, diamonds and emeralds. Teak chests spilling with gold and silver coins, all sitting at the treasury, gathering dust. At the last counting, the treasury accountants had put the figure at two hundred million rupees.