Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne (12 page)

Jahangir mounted the dais and began to speak. ‘Tonight is the climax of our Nauruz celebrations when we hail the new lunar year. My astrologers tell me that the year ahead will be one of even greater glory for our empire. Now is the time to honour the women of my court. Until the stars begin to fade from the heavens they, not us, are the masters here. Unless we can persuade them otherwise, what they
demand for their goods we must pay. Let the Royal Meena Bazaar begin.’

Jahangir descended from the dais. It seemed to Khurram that his father stopped for a moment and looked round him as if seeking someone in particular, and then an expression of disappointment crossed his face. But Jahangir composed himself and made his way towards a table spread with maroon velvet presided over by a smiling matron Khurram recognised as one of Parvez’s milk-mothers. Parvez followed close behind but Khurram held back. The woman was garrulous and he wasn’t in the mood for long stories about himself and his brother as children. His tight-fitting coat was heavy and uncomfortable. He flexed his broad shoulders beneath the stiff cloth and felt a trickle of sweat run down between his shoulder blades.

Instead of following his father, Khurram wandered towards a quieter part of the courtyard where he guessed the more junior women had their stalls. Perhaps there would be a pretty face among them, though for the moment a round-hipped, high-bosomed dancer from the Agra bazaar was absorbing most of his energies. Then Khurram noticed, almost in the shadows of a luxuriant sweep of white-flowered jasmine growing on the courtyard wall, a small stall on which were displayed some pieces of pottery. Behind the stall stood a tall, slender girl. He couldn’t make out her face but he caught the gleam of pearls and diamonds in the long, thick hair that swung around her as she rearranged her goods. Khurram came closer. She was humming to herself and wasn’t aware of him until he was standing just a few feet away. In her surprise her black eyes widened.

Khurram had never seen such a perfect face. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. What are you selling?’

The girl didn’t answer but held out a vase painted in vivid blues and greens. It was pretty enough but ordinary. However, there was nothing ordinary about those sparkling, thickly lashed eyes shyly watching him. Khurram felt stupid and tongue-tied and fixed his gaze on the vase, trying to think of something to say about it.

‘I painted it. Do you like it?’ the girl said. Raising his eyes to her again he saw she was looking a little amused. She must be about fourteen or fifteen, he thought. Her skin had the soft sheen of the pearls brought to the court by Arab traders and her wide lips were soft and pink.

‘I like it. How much will you take?’

‘What will you give?’ She put her head on one side.

‘Anything you ask.’

‘You are a rich man, then?’

Khurram’s green eyes flashed in surprise. Hadn’t she seen him enter the courtyard and stand by the dais while his father spoke? Even if not, surely everyone knew the emperor’s sons . . . ‘I’m rich enough.’

‘Good.’

‘How long have you been at court?’

‘Four weeks.’

‘Where were you before then?’

‘My father Asaf Khan is an officer in the emperor’s armies. He was serving in the Deccan until the emperor promoted him to command the Agra garrison.’

‘Arjumand . . . I hadn’t meant to leave you on your own for so long . . .’ A woman elegantly dressed in honey-coloured robes whose fine-boned face bore an unmistakable resemblance to the girl’s came hurrying up. She was a little out of breath but when she saw Khurram she drew herself up
and inclined her head, saying quietly, ‘Thank you for visiting our stall, Highness. Our goods are simple but my granddaughter made them all herself.’

‘They are very fine. I will buy them all. Just name your price.’

‘Arjumand, that is for you to say.’

Arjumand, who had been studying Khurram earnestly, looked uncertain, then said, ‘One gold
mohur.
’

‘I will give you ten.
Qorchi,
I need ten
mohurs,
’ Khurram called to his squire, standing a few feet behind him. The
qorchi
came forward and held out the money to Arjumand. ‘No, give it to me.’ The squire poured the stream of gold coins into his right palm. Slowly Khurram raised his hand and offered the money to the girl. The breeze was rising and Arjumand looked as if she were bathed in every colour of the rainbow from the glass globes swaying all around. She took the coins from him one by one. The feel of her fingertips brushing against his skin was the most sensual thing he had ever experienced. Shocked, he glanced at her face and saw in her black eyes the proof that she felt the same. When the last coin was gone he lowered his hand again. He had wanted the feel of her flesh against his to go on for ever . . . Suddenly he felt confused, uncertain what he was feeling.

‘Thank you.’ Turning, he walked quickly away. It was only when he was back among the noisy laughing crowds around the main stalls that he realised he hadn’t taken his purchases and that she hadn’t called after him.

Jamila ran her fingers teasingly across Khurram’s sweat-soaked chest. ‘You were a tiger tonight, Highness.’ She nibbled his
ear and on her breath he could smell the cardamom she loved to chew.

‘Stop.’ He pushed her hand away and gently disengaging himself stood up. Through the wooden screen that separated the cubicle where she slept from the room next door where she and the rest of the dancers ate, he could see an old woman vigorously sweeping the beaten earth floor with a broom of dry twigs. She made a good living from the fees the girls charged their customers.

Khurram stooped to splash some water from an earthenware dish resting on a metal stand on to his face.

‘What’s the matter? Did I displease you?’ Jamila said, but her confident smile showed that she had few doubts about her performance.

‘No. Of course you didn’t.’

‘Then what is it?’ Jamila turned on her side.

He looked down at the round pretty face, the plump voluptuousness of the woman who had been his plaything for the past six months. He enjoyed the raucous atmosphere of the bazaar and the girls – so free and easy – seemed less intimidating than the concubines the
khawajasara
could have procured for him in the Agra fort where so many eyes were constantly upon him. Jamila had taught him all about love-making. He had been fumbling, over-eager, but she had shown him how to please a woman and how giving pleasure could enhance his own. Her warm pliant body, her inventiveness, had enthralled him. But no longer.

He had thought making love with Jamila would cure him of his obsession with Arjumand but it hadn’t. Even while he was possessing Jamila’s body it was Arjumand’s face he saw. Though it was two months since the Royal
Meena Bazaar, he couldn’t get Asaf Khan’s daughter out of his head.

‘Come back to bed. You must have some energy left and I have something new to show you . . .’ Jamila’s coaxing voice cut into his thoughts. She was sitting up, the nipples on her henna-tipped breasts erect, and he felt the familiar stirring in his groin. But it would be just one more coupling. He and Jamila were like mating beasts, hot and hungry for the moment with no real feeling for each other. If he didn’t come to her she would find others, and if she and her dancing troupe left Agra he would easily find a replacement. Their frenetic love-making, driving one another beyond control, was no more than the satisfying of an itch. Now, with thoughts of Arjumand constantly in his mind, it was no longer enough for him.

‘Father, I want to ask you something.’

‘What is it?’ Jahangir put down the miniature painting of a nilgai that he had been examining in his private apartments. The court artist had captured every detail, including the bluish tinge of the antelope’s coat, the delicate shape of its eyes . . .

Khurram hesitated. ‘Could we be alone . . .’

‘Leave us,’ Jahangir ordered his attendants.

Almost before the doors had closed behind the last of the servants, Khurram blurted out, ‘I’d like to take a wife.’

Jahangir looked at his son – nearly sixteen and already tall and muscular as a grown man. Few of his officers could beat Khurram at wrestling or in a sword fight.

‘You are right,’ Jahangir looked thoughtful. ‘I was around
your age when I took my first wife, but we need not rush. I shall consider who would make you a suitable bride. The Rajput ruler of Jaisalmer has daughters and an alliance with his family would please our Hindu subjects. Or I could look beyond our empire. A marriage with one of the Shah of Persia’s family might make him more willing to give up his ambitions to take Kandahar from the Moghuls . . .’ Jahangir’s mind was racing away. He would summon his vizier Majid Khan and perhaps some of his other councillors to discuss the matter. ‘I am pleased you have raised this with me, Khurram. It shows your maturity and that you are indeed ready to take your first wife. We’ll talk again when I have thought further about it – but it will be soon, I promise.’

‘I already know the woman I would like as my wife.’ Khurram’s tone was emphatic and the expression in his green eyes serious.

Jahangir blinked in surprise. ‘Who?’

‘The daughter of the commander of your garrison in Agra.’

‘Asaf Khan’s daughter? Where did you see her?’

‘At the Royal Meena Bazaar. Her name is Arjumand.’

‘How old is she? Asaf Khan is young to have a daughter of marriageable age.’

‘Perhaps a little younger than me.’

Jahangir frowned. His first impulse had been that this was just some youthful infatuation – perhaps it still was – but it was strange. The young woman who had caught Khurram’s eye must be Mehrunissa’s niece and thus the granddaughter of his treasurer Ghiyas Beg. Something his grandmother Hamida had said to him many years ago when Ghiyas Beg had first arrived penniless and despairing at Akbar’s court
came into his mind. What was it? Something like,
So much that happens appears random, yet I have often discerned patterns running through our existence as if at the hand of a divine weaver at the loom . . . one day this Ghiyas Beg might become important to our dynasty.
Hamida had had the gift of second sight. Only a fool would dismiss her words.

‘Khurram. You are still very young but I can see that your mind is made up. If your heart is set on this girl, I will not object and I myself will slip the betrothal ring on her finger to signal the alliance between her family and ours. All that I ask is that you wait a while before you marry.’

Jahangir saw the surprise on his son’s face – clearly he hadn’t anticipated such an easy victory – but then it gave way to a smile of delight and Khurram embraced him. ‘I will wait and do whatever else you ask . . .’

‘I will summon Asaf Khan. There are things he and I should discuss. Until that time, be discreet. Say nothing about this even to your mother.’

When he was alone, Jahangir sat for a while, his head in his hands. His interview with Khurram had sparked many thoughts. Unlike Khusrau, whose treachery he could still not forgive, Khurram had been nothing but a loyal son of whom any man would be proud. He wished he could have been so confident at Khurram’s age and also that he knew his son better, but Akbar’s extreme partiality for his favourite grandson had made that difficult. Khurram had been brought up in Akbar’s household. It was his grandfather – not his father – who had led the procession taking the prince to school for the first time. But that was all past, and in recent months father and son had been spending more time together.

All the same, he had surprised himself by agreeing so
readily to Khurram’s request. A prince of the Moghul empire could take his pick of wives. Though Arjumand came from a noble Persian family it wasn’t a match that would ever have occurred to him. But as he knew only too well, choice didn’t always come into it. It hadn’t with Humayun and Hamida. He hadn’t asked to feel as he did about Mehrunissa so he could hardly blame his son for falling so precipitately in love. The women of Ghiyas Beg’s family seemed to possess power to bewitch the men of his own, but like Khurram he too must wait . . .