Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne (16 page)

As the door closed behind her, Mehrunissa stood still. Jahangir was standing just a few feet away in a brocade robe fastened at the throat with a ruby clasp, his dark hair loose.

‘You sent for me, Majesty.’ The control she’d fought so hard to maintain in their last encounter had deserted her and she could hear the tremor in her voice.

Jahangir came closer. ‘Take off your veil.’ Slowly she raised her arms to pull off the piece of spangled gauze and let it drift to the ground. ‘I have waited a long time for you, Mehrunissa. I want to spend the night with you, but first I must know whether you are willing.’

‘I am, Majesty,’ she heard herself say.

‘Come then.’ He turned and walked over to a large low bed covered with a flowered silk sheet and nothing else, no cushions, no bolsters. Tall candles in silver candelabras burned on either side of the bed, casting shadows over its smooth surface. Jahangir undid his robe and it fell to the floor. His oiled, muscled body shone in the faint light. He watched as she slowly took off her own clothes to reveal her
nakedness. The sensation of his eyes taking in every curve, every crevice of her body was more arousing than if he had taken her roughly in his arms as her husband Sher Afghan had loved to do. Whether what was about to happen was the start of a lasting relationship or merely a transitory episode in their lives suddenly seemed unimportant compared with the physical need welling within her. She had always believed the mind ruled the body but now she realised it wasn’t always so.

Without waiting for Jahangir to say anything she came slowly towards him and raising her arms pressed her perfumed body against him. She could feel her nipples harden against his chest and that his arousal was no less. He cupped her buttocks with both hands and she knew instinctively what he wanted her to do. Gripping the hard ridges of his shoulders, she wrapped her legs around his hips. His grip on her buttocks tightened as he supported her and she shuddered as she felt him enter her and begin to thrust. As he pushed deeper and deeper inside her, she arched her back and began to cry out, her nails digging into his skin urging him on.

‘Wait,’ he whispered. Carrying her towards the bed he laid her down and without breaking the rhythm of his thrust stretched out on top of her. His mouth was on her right nipple, teasing it with his tongue and nipping the soft flesh around it with his teeth. Their gasps were growing louder. She could feel Jahangir’s back tauten. He was on the brink of climax but was managing to hold back, waiting until she could join him. With one final great thrust he brought her there. She heard their mingled cries as his sweat-soaked body collapsed against hers and they lay in each other’s arms, hearts racing. As the passion that had ripped through her
began slowly to diminish she pushed her hot face against his chest and felt his fingers lightly caress her long hair.

Six hours later Mehrunissa sleepily opened her eyes and saw the pale dawn light lancing through the half-open casement. She also saw what had woken her. Asa was standing by the bedside. Hastily Mehrunissa pulled part of the silk sheet over her naked body.

‘Majesty,’ Asa said, looking at Jahangir still fast asleep on his back, one arm over his chest, the other stretched out above his head. ‘Please wake.’ Jahangir opened his eyes. ‘Majesty, it’s time for your appearance on the
jharoka
balcony.’

Jahangir got out of bed at once and spread his arms for the silk robe Asa was already holding out to him. Bending his head he allowed her to place on it a green silk turban ornamented with an egret feather secured by a diamond starburst. Then, after quickly checking his appearance in a bronze mirror held out to him by Asa, he went outside through the fluttering green silk curtains on to the
jharoka-i-darshan,
the balcony of appearance, which overlooked the Jumna river.

Getting out of bed, Mehrunissa slipped naked across the room to look through the curtains. Jahangir was standing there as he did every morning to prove to his people that the Moghul emperor still lived. To the beat of the great
dundhubi
drum in the gatehouse he raised his arms. As Mehrunissa listened to the responsive roar of the crowds lining the riverbanks below the fort, excitement surged through her. That was real power when whether you lived or died mattered to a hundred million people. Trumpets were sounding now from the battlements – all part of the emperor’s daily ritual.

The emperor . . . Feeling suddenly a little chill Mehrunissa got back into bed and covered herself with the silk sheet, still warm from their bodies. Last night she had given herself without a moment’s hesitation to a man of flesh and blood with a passion of which she hadn’t known she was capable. They had made love three times, each encounter more shatteringly intense than the one before. But now daylight had come and her lover was no ordinary subject but a ruler who could have his pick of women. Why had he sent for her? To sate a lust that had bothered him itch-like ever since he had seen her in Kabul? Simple curiosity?

What could she hope for? To share the emperor’s bed from time to time? To be his concubine? Perhaps having had her he would no longer be interested in her. He could choose women ten years younger . . . She was still musing half an hour later when Jahangir returned. He had bathed – wet strands of dark hair hung around his face. His expression was, as she had found before, hard to read.

‘Shall I return to the
haram,
Majesty?’ she asked, preferring to voice the question herself than to be dismissed by the man in whose arms during the hours of darkness she had felt every bit an equal.

‘Yes.’

Mehrunissa swung her slender legs over the side of the bed and stooped to pick up her amber-coloured robe. Jahangir had come up behind her. She felt his hand on her breasts and his lips on the nape of her neck. Then he pulled her up and swung her round to face him.

‘You don’t understand,’ he said, ‘and I’m not sure I understand it myself . . .’

‘Majesty?’

‘My decision to summon you here last night wasn’t a whim. I wanted you the moment I saw you in Kabul and have never ceased thinking about you. When I learned your family was implicated in a plot against me I feared it would put you out of my reach for ever. A monarch cannot, must not, tolerate dissent . . . sedition.’ His strong jaw tightened. ‘When you begged to see me I didn’t know what you were going to ask. In Ghiyas Beg’s case, it wasn’t difficult. As I told you then I already believed him innocent. All the same, you defended him bravely when, for all you knew, I had already condemned him. But it was your behaviour over your brother Mir Khan that impressed me most. I know what it is like to have a traitor in the family . . .’ he smiled a little grimly, ‘I know how hard it is to subdue family love. You had the strength to do it – to see me execute your brother so that the rest of your family could survive.’

Mehrunissa’s eyes filled with tears as he tilted up her chin to look hard into her face.

‘My grandfather Humayun found his soulmate in his wife Hamida. I think I have found mine in you. I want you to be my empress and first of all my wives. When I have finished dealing with my son’s rebellion we will marry – if you will accept me.’

‘I could accept no other.’ She felt him wipe away her tears.

‘But there is something I must tell you. I couldn’t be easy in my mind if I didn’t. I ordered the death of your husband Sher Afghan. I sent an agent from Agra to Gaur to kill him.’

Mehrunissa gasped, seeing those pale blue eyes before her once more. ‘Was the killer an Englishman?’

‘Yes. His name is Bartholomew Hawkins. He is now one of my bodyguard. I have since discovered your husband was
guilty of many crimes – extortion, bribery, cruelty – but I didn’t know that at the time. I had him killed simply because he stood in my way. Mehrunissa . . . can you forgive me?’

Mehrunissa raised her fingertips to his lips. ‘There is no need to say more and nothing for me to forgive. I hated Sher Afghan. He was cruel to me. I was glad to be released from him.’

‘Then nothing stands in our path.’ Jahangir bent his head and kissed her long and hard.

As attendants pulled aside the curtains for him to enter his private audience chamber, Jahangir saw the broad figure of Yar Muhammad, his newly appointed Governor of Gwalior. Seeing Jahangir, Yar Muhammad threw himself forward, prostrating himself arms outspread in the traditional obeisance of his central Asian homelands.

‘Rise, Yar Muhammad. Have you rid the world of those who conspired with my traitorous son against me?’

‘Majesty, I believe I have identified and dealt with them all. As you ordered, I gave those who confessed a quick and easy death by the executioner’s sword. Only one, Saad Aziz, refused to admit his guilt even under torture with the hot irons. I think he hoped to outwit us and evade justice but one of the other conspirators, as he himself was being led to execution, showed me a letter from Saad Aziz – I think to clear his conscience before he died. In the letter Saad Aziz pledged support to Prince Khusrau. When I confronted him with it, he had the effrontery to claim that it was a forgery.

‘So all should know the reward of treachery I condemned him to one of the old Moghul punishments from the steppes.
I had the garrison and townspeople assembled on the great parade ground beneath the Gwalior fort. As the drums beat from the gatehouse I had each of Saad Aziz’s limbs tied to wild stallions. Guards released the horses and whipped them into a gallop so that each of Saad Aziz’s limbs was ripped from his body. I had a limb placed above each of the four gates of the fortress and his head and torso displayed in the market place.’

Yar Muhammad’s thin face with its livid scar on the left cheek was expressionless as he delivered his report. For a moment Jahangir inwardly questioned the governor’s severity, but he had been right to act as he did. Saad Aziz had had the opportunity to confess. If the pain and shame of his death banished others’ thoughts of rebellion it would be worthwhile. Indeed it was good to know that within just three months he had utterly crushed his son’s rebellion. Nevertheless he found it difficult to ask his next question.

‘And Prince Khusrau?’

‘The punishment was carried out exactly as you ordered. The
hakim
you sent, who indeed proved skilled in such matters, first gave him opium to dull the pain. Then four of my strongest men held him down while a fifth gripped his head and kept it still as the
hakim
stitched his eyelids tightly together with a strong silk thread. The prince can see nothing of the world around him and is no longer a threat to Your Majesty and the peace of the empire.’

It was hard to think of his handsome, dashing son reduced to such a condition but Jahangir told himself he had brought it on himself. Blinding was another traditional punishment carried by the Moghuls from Central Asia into Hindustan. It enabled a ruler to neutralise unruly members of his family
without killing them. His vizier Majid Khan had reminded him that that was how his grandfather Humayun had dealt with the most rebellious of his half-brothers, Kamran. The more Jahangir had thought about it, the more it had seemed the most appropriate punishment. In Kamran’s case his eyes had been pierced with needles and salt and lemon juice rubbed in to destroy his sight for ever. By only having Khusrau’s eyelids stitched, if his son one day showed true repentance he could order the
hakims
to open his eyes once more.

A sudden noise caused Jahangir to turn to see a nervous-looking
qorchi
standing in the entrance to the room.

‘Majesty—’ he began, but got no further.

‘I gave orders that I didn’t wish to be disturbed, that I wanted to be alone with Yar Muhammad.’ Jahangir glared at the youth.

‘I have an urgent message from the
haram.
’

‘What is it?’ Had something happened to Mehrunissa, Jahangir wondered, suddenly anxious.

‘It is Her Majesty, Man Bai. Her attendants have found her lying on her bed dressed in her wedding finery. A bottle of opium water was on the table beside her. They think she took an overdose – only dregs remained in the bottle.’

Jahangir felt irritation as well as pity. Man Bai had always been unstable, sometimes hysterical, and as his first wife once insanely jealous of those he had married later. On more than one occasion she had inflicted harm on herself to gain his attention. She must have just heard of her son Khusrau’s blinding. One of the attendants who had accompanied Yar Muhammad from Gwalior must have spoken of the punishment and the news would have spread quickly. Her devotion to her son had made Man Bai refuse to acknowledge the
seriousness of his faults. All she saw was a disobedient, high-spirited youth. She had never understood the murderous depths of Khusrau’s ambitions and the lengths to which he was prepared to go to achieve them. In recent weeks she had been pleading with Jahangir to pardon Khusrau, alternately vehement and tearful. Swallowing the opium would have been her immediate reaction to the news – an expression both of grief and of protest. It was his duty to go to her even if he could foresee her scalding reproaches as she recovered. But just as he could take no satisfaction from Khusrau’s blinding, he could not regret it either. If punishment did not follow treason, chaos would.