The Twentieth Wife

  “Inshah Allah, your Majesty.”

  “Inshah Allah, Mirza Beg. I was very pleased with the arrangements for the betrothal ceremony yesterday. The union between our two families will be advantageous to us both.”

  “Your Majesty is too kind,” Ghias protested. “The honor is all ours, sire.”

  “Yes, yes. But I have commanded your presence for another reason.” Jahangir looked at Ghias keenly.

  But the diwan was completely in the dark. Asmat Begam had not mentioned anything to him the night before, believing the matter to be best left alone. He waited for his Emperor to speak.

  “You have a married daughter?”

  “Four married daughters, your Majesty, by the grace of Allah.”

  “I am talking of Mehrunnisa.” Jahangir waved an impatient hand at his diwan. “She is married to Ali Quli.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” A little doubt crept into Ghias’s mind. He looked at Jahangir.

  “Ali Quli is a dissident. He teamed up with my rebellious son Khusrau during my father’s reign in an effort to put Khusrau on the throne. I have magnanimously overlooked his faults and his disloyalty to me.”

  “Your Majesty is very kind. My son-in-law was mistaken and fell in with mutinous people. He was misled into actions against your person, and I know he is greatly repentant.”

  “Yes, yes, but nonetheless he has committed a great crime and must pay for his sins. Do you understand?”

  “Your Majesty . . . I . . . Ali Quli is loyal to you now . . . ,” Ghias stammered. Where was this leading? What had Ali Quli done in Bengal?

  “Your daughter Mehrunnisa is very beautiful and charming. I had an amusing encounter with her yesterday. She will grace any man’s household. In fact, she is fit to be a king’s wife,” Jahangir said distinctly.

  Realization dawned upon the diwan. At last he understood the purpose for which he had been commanded to his Emperor’s presence. The Emperor wished to invoke the Tura-i-Chingezi, the law of the Timurs. In effect, Jahangir wanted Ali Quli to divorce Mehrunnisa so that he could marry her.

  A troubled look came over the statesman’s face. The Tura-i-Chingezi was common enough, and it was a great honor for any man to be commanded to give up his wife to the Emperor. But Ali Quli was fractious and disobedient. Ghias had secretly heaved a sigh of relief when his son-in-law was sent to Bardwan, far from the imperial court, for he was sure to get into trouble if he stayed near the Emperor. Now Jahangir wanted Ali Quli to give up his wife. Ghias shook his head. Things were happening too fast, without warning. Mehrunnisa to be the Emperor’s wife! That meant riches for the whole family, and prestige and reputation. And who knew—he might one day be grandfather to the next emperor. But Ali Quli . . . always Ali Quli . . . too late now to correct any mistakes. The diwan looked up and saw the Emperor waiting for an answer.

  “Your wish has always been my command, your Majesty. I shall do everything in my power to ensure your—and my daughter’s—happiness.” There was little else he could say.

  Jahangir nodded happily. “You may go now.”

  Ghias left, and Jahangir fell into a satisfied reverie. Soon he would sleep next to the beautiful Mehrunnisa, and upon waking he would see that lissome form next to him . . . those gorgeous eyes would awaken him. . . .

  “Your Majesty.” Mahabat Khan’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I beg your pardon, but—” Jahangir turned to him. “Is Ali Quli’s wife really a good choice? She has lived for thirteen years with the man and doubtless harbors resentment against your Majesty for the punishment inflected upon her husband.”

  “Your solicitousness for my well-being is gratifying, Mahabat. But if you could have seen her yesterday as I did: beauty, charm, and grace, all in one person . . . why, she is the essence of femininity and womanhood—” Jahangir stopped abruptly.

  “Your Majesty,” Mahabat urged. “Please reconsider your wishes.”

  But try as he would, Mahabat Kahn could not make Jahangir budge from his position. The Sun of Women, Mehrunnisa, had bewitched the Emperor, and he would not rest until she was his.

  He too had lain awake last night thinking about her. When Jahangir had offered Khurram’s hand to Ghias’s granddaughter, he had thought to honor the diwan. But he remembered that Ghias was Mehrunnisa’s father and that she too would be honored by the proposal. Somehow, the thought of seeing her at the betrothal had never crossed his mind. She was in Bengal, at the easternmost reach of the empire; yet she had traveled to Lahore for the ceremony. At the sight of her, a fire lit inside him, raging, consuming him with its intensity. All these years she had been a dream, a distant memory. Seeing her standing in front of him, he knew why he had fallen in love with her. Now there was no turning back. Ali Quli was disposable.

  He had no regret at invoking the Tura-i-Chingezi. For unknown to even Mahabat and Sharif—and they did not know everything, although they thought they did—a letter had come to Jahangir a month ago. His spies recounted a tale told by a slave boy named Nizam. When Khusrau fled to Lahore, Ali Quli was prepared to join him. The Sahiba had stopped her husband.

  Had she done it for him? And now, would she come willingly to his zenana? Doubt came flooding over him. But she must come. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. Please Allah, even if she did not love him, let her come. He would show her what she meant to him. Then he remembered the smile in her eyes, the reluctance with which she had left the room. Surely there was hope in those signs.

  • • •

  “WELL?” THE VEILED figure demanded. “What happened?”

  Mahabat Khan gave a swift glance around and then pulled the woman into a bower of sweet-scented jasmine vines. A few feet away from them, the head eunuch of the harem, Hoshiyar Khan, paced the stone pathway bordered with terracotta diyas, their flames flickering in the close night air. Hoshiyar lifted his head every now and then to make sure no one was approaching.

  Mahabat turned to the woman. “Your Majesty, I was not successful. The Emperor wishes to invoke the Tura-i-Chingezi. He has ordered Ghias Beg to write to Ali Quli.”

  Jagat Gosini drew in a sharp breath. “Did you remind the Emperor of that man’s duplicity? That he had teamed up with Prince Khusrau?”

  Mahabat spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I did, your Majesty. But the Emperor used the information to his advantage. It is on the basis of Ali Quli’s rebellion he is invoking the law. The Emperor is infatuated with that woman.”

  Jagat Gosini frowned. Mahabat watched her with care, wishing he could see the Empress’s face more clearly.

  Mahabat was well aware that the harem and the court had to work in tandem to run the empire. While one operated behind the scenes to influence the Emperor, the other worked at court in full view of the nobles. Together they would be powerful—so powerful that Jahangir would not have the slightest inkling that he was being gently led by the nose. It mattered little if the other courtiers knew or protested.

  Mahabat grimaced. Ever since Jahangir had become Emperor, it had been more and more difficult to control him. It seemed that upon wearing the imperial turban, the once impressionable prince had developed very decided opinions of his own. Jahangir had sent out his edicts of conduct, had strung up his Chain of Justice, and was generally making a nuisance of himself by prying into the affairs of the empire. He was no longer as susceptible to their influence as he had once been. So when Jagat Gosini asked him to try to dissuade Jahangir from marrying Mehrunnisa, Mahabat had agreed. If the Empress was on his side, it would be so much easier to rid Jahangir of his fanciful ideas and bring the empire under their control once more.

  “What now, Mahabat?” Jagat Gosini asked finally.

  “All is not lost, your Majesty.” Mahabat smiled slowly, his lean, sunbrowned face creasing into wrinkles. “Ali Quli has to agree to the Emperor’s command. And chances are that he will not.”

  “Do you think so?” There was a new hope in the Empress’s voice.

  Mahabat nodded. “Yes, I do. He is bound to get angry
and rush off into some indiscretion or another. If he doesn’t, we can give him a slight push. You see, your Majesty,” Mahabat grinned, “Ali Quli is a soldier. He has no idea of diplomacy. The tactful thing to do would be to give up his wife to the Emperor. But Ali Quli is sure to rebel against the idea. We can only wait and see.”

  Jagat Gosini bit her lip, drawing blood but not tasting it. “If you say so. I am relying on you, Mahabat, to see that my wishes are carried out.” Her eyes blazed at him.

  “It shall be done, your Majesty.” Mahabat bowed. “Now, I should leave. No one must see us together. But,” he turned again to her, “if I may ask, why this interest in Mehrunnisa? Surely she can be no threat to you. This is simply like the Anarkali incident. We know that the Emperor’s fancy often strays. . . .” He let the words trail away and looked at her.

  They were both silent for a moment thinking of Anarkali, “Pomegranate Blossom,” the name Akbar had given to one of his favorite concubines. In 1598, when the court was still at Lahore, Akbar had caught Prince Salim and Anarkali flirting with each other in the Hall of Mirrors. Anarkali was massaging Akbar’s shoulders, and he had glanced up to catch her smiling at Salim in the reflection of one of the mirrors. The Emperor had been furious and immediately sentenced her to death, to be entombed alive brick by brick.

  “This is more serious,” Jagat Gosini said. “I can compete with a dead woman. The Emperor’s so-called love for Anarkali was fanned by her death.” She smiled wryly. “It is easier to fall in love with an image; when the woman is around every day, little irritations are bound to crop up, and love will wane.”

  “Then, by your own argument, it would be better not to stand in the way of the Emperor’s wishes regarding Mehrunnisa. Let him marry her, and in a few months he will tire of her.”

  The Empress looked at Mahabat, wondering how much she could tell him. That she had to tell him something there was no doubt; he would not offer his help for nothing, and Jagat Gosini knew it was pointless to try and dissuade Jahangir herself. Finally, she said, “Mehrunnisa is somehow . . . different. Her presence in the zenana will be a threat to me—and maybe even to you.”

  Mahabat gave an incredulous laugh. “Me? How could she do that? You must be aware, your Majesty, that the Emperor has absolute confidence in me. We have been children together. It will take a lot to shake that confidence.”

  “Tell me,” Jagat Gosini looked at him. “Does the Emperor realize that he was once before enamored by this woman?”

  Mahabat shook his head somberly. Jagat Gosini’s serious tone had finally penetrated. The Empress was afraid of this woman, and she thought that Mehrunnisa could create trouble for all of them. Although Mahabat could not see how that was possible, he had enough faith in Jagat Gosini to believe her.

  “Well, then, he must not be reminded,” Jagat Gosini said. “Go now, Mahabat. I see Hoshiyar coming toward us. Someone must be approaching the gardens.”

  “Patience, your Majesty. Time is on our side. We shall wait and see what happens.” With that, Mahabat let himself out of the zenana gardens.

  The Empress watched him until he disappeared through the brick arches at the far end of the gardens. She leaned on the stone backrest of the bench, shrinking into the shadows beyond the lamps. Mahabat had taken a great risk in coming to her, in coming into the zenana quarters. But somehow Hoshiyar had managed it, doubtless greasing a few palms so that eyes would be blind.

  A rath-ki-rani bush bloomed behind her, releasing its sun-filled fragrance into the night, the perfume almost cloying at such close proximity. Jagat Gosini looked down at her hands. She had taken a risk too. If she had been found here with a man from the outside, it would not matter that she was the Padshah Begam or that Mahabat was a powerful minister, for they could not tell the truth of why they had met. Jahangir would have been furious. Her hands started trembling violently, and she wrapped her arms around herself. For the first time, Jagat Gosini had had to go for help outside the harem walls—and all because of Mehrunnisa.

  Hatred, palpable as the heat of the day, fired through her. It was an illogical hatred—one sane part of Jagat Gosini’s mind told her this much. But all the emotion she could not express in the zenana, because she was supposed to be calm and collected and wise, had found its home in Mehrunnisa. Jealousy: yes, that too—a rabid, all-consuming jealousy that her husband was so infatuated by this woman, that all these years apart had not dimmed his passion for her. There were many other women in the zenana who shared Jahangir’s affections, yet he always seemed to have had a special fondness for Jagat Gosini. The only woman who threatened that fondness was Mehrunnisa, because Jahangir wanted her not for the title she bore—she was no princess—and not for her family connections—her father was, after all, and would always be, just a Persian refugee—but for herself.

  There was also the fact that Mehrunnisa was Ruqayya’s protegee. And no matter what logic dictated, Jagat Gosini swore to herself that neither of those women would gain ascendance over her. Hence the small lie to Mahabat about Mehrunnisa being a threat to him also. For had she not lied, Mahabat would not have helped her.

  • • •

  GHIAS BEG RODE home, his hand resting lightly on the reins, the horse picking its way back at an even trot. The Emperor’s hints had put his mind in a turmoil. His daughter to be the Emperor’s wife! The betrothal of his granddaughter and Prince Khurram was nothing compared to this.

  He suddenly sobered. It was all very well to think of what might be, but again he was forgetting Ali Quli. Would he give up Mehrunnisa without a fight? They were an ill-matched couple—this had been sadly evident to him for years—but Mehrunnisa had never complained to him.

  When the diwan entered his house, he was informed that a courtier was awaiting him in the reception hall. Ghias’s eyes gleamed when he heard the man’s name. He hurried in to welcome him, heard his request, and promised to do something about it. The man was suitably grateful, and a heavy bag of gold mohurs exchanged hands. After the man had left, Ghias sent for his daughter. He then emptied the bag on a satin cloth and lovingly ran his hands through the gold. He was counting the mohurs when his daughter entered, a smile on her face.

  Mehrunnisa stopped short and frowned. “Where did you get those?”

  “Ah, you are here, come sit down, Nisa.” Ghias put the mohurs back into the bag and locked the bag safely in his strongbox. He was tucking his key chain into his cummerbund when he noticed the look on his daughter’s face.

  “What is the matter, my dear?”

  “Where did you get the mohurs, Bapa?”

  “One of the courtiers wants his son to get a position in the imperial army. I promised to put a word in the Khan-i-khanan’s ear.”

  “I see. You took a bribe.” Her voice was scornful, full of contempt and fear.

  Ghias flinched. “Not a bribe, beta. That is such an ugly word. Let us just say . . . ah . . . payment for services rendered.”

  “A bribe,” she insisted. “Bapa, how could you? Don’t you realize that if the Emperor finds out you will get into deep trouble? Have you forgotten what led you to flee Persia?”

  Ghias turned away from the accusing look in her eyes. What could he say to her? He felt a little ashamed that she had caught him. But surely she knew that all courtiers of some influence indulged in this? She was right: he had always taught his children to live with honesty, yet now he was doing something dishonest. There were excuses for it, of course—a thousand excuses he could call to mind if he wanted to. It was the way things were done. Life at court was this unending circle of give and take. You took from one person and gave something back—to that person, or another.

  “The incident in Persia was different,” he said finally.

  “Not really. You had to leave because you ran up debts you could not pay. And you would not have run up those debts if you had not taken advantage of your father’s position as wazir of Isfahan.”

  Ghias groaned. No one else in his family would have dared to talk to
him in this manner, not even Asmat. But Mehrunnisa was different. Right from the beginning he had doted on her, given her liberties he had not allowed any of the other children. Now she was rebuking him for something that was usual in the business of court life.

  “You do not understand, beta.” He took her hand and gestured around the room. “How do you think we are able to afford all this magnificence? As diwan I draw a comfortable salary, but it would not pay for all the entertainments and the dinner parties I am forced to give to maintain my position. Don’t worry yourself about this. I have called you here for something else.”

  Mehrunnisa nodded reluctantly. “What is it?”

  “I have just returned from an audience with the Emperor.”

  A wary look came over her face. She waited for her father to continue.

  “Why didn’t you tell me what had happened yesterday?” Ghias asked.

  “There was nothing to say.” Mehrunnisa’s voice was low. “Besides, it was too late last night, and this morning you had left already. I thought Maji . . . what could I have said to you, Bapa?” she ended finally. “I met the Emperor. I saw him in the zenana quarters. That was all.”

  “That was enough. He has put a very difficult proposition to me,” Ghias said. “He wishes to invoke the Tura-i-Chingezi.”

  The blood rushed from Mehrunnisa’s face. “My husband would never agree, Bapa.”

  “And you?” Ghias looked at her. “What do you want?”

  Mehrunnisa shook her head. They had talked of all things since she was a child, since she could talk almost, leaning on his knee, looking up at him, listening to her father’s melodious voice. But one thing they had never talked about: Ali Quli and her marriage to him. Here was another wish she could not voice aloud, even to her Bapa. What she wanted was to be Jahangir’s wife. Suddenly, with a force of feeling, Mehrunnisa knew this to be true. Not for his crown or his jewels or his power—well, for those a little—but for his smile, for the tenderness in his voice, for his passion for the empire. She wanted to be an object of desire for this man who gave body and soul to his obsessions. She wanted to feel that kind of love. But she only said, “I will comply with your wishes.”