Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne (9 page)

Mehrunissa followed the
khawajasara
out of the courtyard and down a sandstone staircase that gave on to the steep ramp leading into the heart of the Agra fort. A few yards away six female attendants dressed in green waited beside a silk-decked palanquin. They looked tall and broad. She had already heard about the muscular Turkish women who helped guard the
haram,
but as she drew closer she gasped to see that the attendants were not women but eunuchs with large hands and feet and strangely smooth faces, neither masculine nor feminine. All were wearing rich jewellery and the eyes of several were rimmed with kohl. She had seen eunuchs before, employed as servants or dancing and playing for crowds in the bazaar, but never dressed as parodies of women like this.

‘Madam, the palanquin is for you,’ said the
khawajasara.
Mehrunissa stepped inside and sat cross-legged on the low seat. Hands twitched the silk curtains into place around her and the palanquin rose as the eunuchs lifted it on to their shoulders. As it began its slow swaying progress up the ramp, carrying her to a new life, she found she was clasping her hands and her heart was beating so fast that her blood seemed to pound in her ears. So much had happened in such a short
time . . . In the shadowy half-light she tried to recapture Jahangir’s lean, handsome face, the way he had looked at her as she had danced for him in Kabul . . . Was he really to be her future as her father claimed and she so desired? Soon she would know.

‘What do you wish to tell me, Majesty? I came from Fatehpur Sikri as soon as I received your summons.’ The Sufi’s voice was gentle but his gaze was penetrating. Now that the moment had come, Jahangir felt reluctant to speak. The Sufi, whom out of respect to his status as a holy man he had invited to sit on a stool close by his own in his private apartments, seemed to sense his awkwardness and continued, ‘I know that when you were only a boy you opened your heart to my father. I don’t presume to have either my father’s powers of prophesy or his insight, but if you will trust me I will try to help you.’

Jahangir thought back to that warm night in Fatehpur Sikri when he had run from the palace to the house of Shaikh Salim Chishti hoping to find answers. ‘Your father was a great man. He told me not to despair, that I would be emperor. His words sustained me through many difficult times as I grew to manhood.’

‘Perhaps my words can also give you solace.’

Jahangir looked at the Sufi – a much bigger man than his frail-looking father had been. He was as tall as Jahangir and well muscled as a soldier, but physical strength wouldn’t make him any more forgiving of moral weakness, Jahangir thought . . . He took a breath and began, choosing his words with care. ‘When my father exiled me to Kabul I saw a
woman there, the daughter of one of my father’s officials. I knew instinctively that she was the woman I had been seeking. Though I already had several wives I was certain beyond any doubt that she would be my soulmate – that I must marry her. But there was a problem. She was already promised to one of my father’s commanders and though I begged my father he refused to break their betrothal.’

‘The Emperor Akbar was a just man, Majesty.’

‘Yes, but not always where members of his own family were concerned. He refused to accept how important this woman was to me. He wouldn’t understand that I felt as my grandfather Humayun must have done when he saw his wife Hamida for the first time. He broke with his brother Hindal, who also loved Hamida, in order to have her. He even hazarded his empire because of his love for her. Some might say he was foolish . . .’ Jahangir glanced at the Sufi sitting silent by his side, hands resting on his knees and white-turbaned head slightly bowed, ‘but he was right. After they married he and Hamida were rarely apart. She sustained him through all the dangerous years until finally he won back the Moghul throne. After his sudden death Hamida had the strength to make sure my father Akbar inherited the throne.’

‘Your grandmother was a brave woman and a worthy empress. You feel that the woman you wished to marry would have been as good a companion to you?’

‘I know it. My father forced me to relinquish her but when I became emperor I knew the time had come when I could be with her.’

‘But you said she was promised to another. Did she marry that man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what has changed? Has her husband died?’

‘Yes, he is dead.’ Jahangir paused for a moment then stood up and paced about before turning to face the Sufi. He could tell by the man’s expression that he already knew what he was about to say. ‘His name was Sher Afghan. He was my commander in Gaur in Bengal. I had him killed and ordered his widow to be brought here to the imperial
haram.
’

‘To murder a man so you can take his wife is a great sin, Majesty.’ The Sufi was sitting up very straight on his stool and his expression was stern.

‘Was it murder? I am the emperor. I have the power of life and death over every one of my subjects.’

‘But as emperor you are also the fount of justice. You cannot kill on a whim or to suit your convenience.’

‘Sher Afghan was corrupt. The commander I appointed in his place has provided me with ample evidence of how much imperial money he stole. Thousands of
mohurs
sent him from my treasury for the purchase of horses and equipment went into his own pocket. He also had wealthy merchants executed on false charges so that he could seize their property. I have enough evidence to have had Sher Afghan executed ten, twenty times . . .’

‘But you knew nothing about his crimes when you ordered his death?’

Jahangir hesitated, then said, ‘No.’

‘In that case, Majesty – and forgive me for speaking plainly – you should not try to justify your actions. You acted out of a selfish passion, nothing more.’

‘But are my actions so different from my grandfather’s? Is my crime so much worse than his? He stole a woman
from a brother who loved him and was loyal to him. If he hadn’t alienated Hindal, Hindal himself would never have been murdered.’

‘Your crime is far worse because you had a man killed for your own ends. You have sinned not only against God but against the family of the woman you desire and the woman herself. In your heart you know it, otherwise why send for me?’ The Sufi’s clear brown eyes were fixed on his face. When Jahangir said nothing he continued, ‘I can’t absolve you from your sin . . . only God can forgive you.’

Every word the Sufi had spoken was true, Jahangir thought. The need to confide in someone had been growing intolerable and he was glad that at last he had done it, but he had been deluding himself in hoping the holy man would condone his actions. ‘I will try to win God’s forgiveness. I will treble what I give to the poor. I’ll order new mosques to be built in Agra, Delhi and Lahore. I’ll—’

The Sufi raised his hand. ‘Majesty, that isn’t enough. You said you’ve had the woman brought to your
haram.
Have you lain with her yet?’

‘No. She is not a common concubine. As I told you, I want to marry her. At present she is lady-in-waiting to one of my stepmothers and knows nothing of any of this. But soon I intend to send for her . . . to tell her what I feel . . .’

‘No. Part of your penance must be personal. You must exercise self-control. Wed this woman now and God may exact a terrible price. You must subdue your desires and wait. You must not bed her for least six months and in the meantime you must pray daily to God to forgive you.’ So saying,
the Sufi rose and without waiting for Jahangir to dismiss him walked from the apartments.

Fatima Begam’s broad face was lined and dry as parchment and a large mole on the left side of her chin sprouted a trio of luxuriant white hairs. Could she ever have been beautiful – beautiful enough to have made Akbar eager to make her his wife? Mehrunissa wondered, watching the elderly woman lying dozing on a low bed piled with plump orange cushions. She thought she could guess the answer. Though he had chosen his concubines for his physical pleasure, Akbar had used marriage as a means of contracting political alliances. Fatima Begam’s family were rulers of a small state on the borders of Sind.

Mehrunissa stirred restlessly. She wished she could read but Fatima Begam liked the lighting in her apartments to be kept subdued. Muslin hangings over the arched windows filtered the sunlight. She rose and went over to one of the windows. Through the curtain she glimpsed the amber waters of the Jumna river sweeping by. A group of men were cantering along its broad muddy bank, their hunting dogs running behind. Once again she envied men their freedom. Here in the imperial
haram,
this self-contained city of women, her life felt even more constricted than it had in Kabul. Despite the beauty of its flower-filled gardens and terraces, its avenues of trees and shimmering scented fountains, the rich furnishings – no floor was ever left bare, and colourful swathes of glowing silks and sensuous velvets draped windows and doors – the
haram
seemed like a prison. Rajput soldiers guarded the great gates leading into it and within it was
patrolled by female guards and by the bland-faced but knowing-looking eunuchs whose presence, even after eight weeks, she still found unsettling.

Yet most unsettling of all was that as yet she had heard nothing from the emperor . . . she hadn’t even caught a glimpse of him though she knew he was at court. Why hadn’t he sent for her or even come to visit Fatima Begam where he would know he would be sure of seeing her? Could it be that her hopes – and those of her father – had no foundation after all? She must be patient, Mehrunissa told herself as she turned away from the window. What else could she do? If she was to prosper here instinct told her she needed to understand this strange new world. She must explore the
haram
whenever Fatima Begam had errands for her. She had already discovered that the honeycomb of rooms built around three sides of a square paved courtyard where Fatima Begam had her quarters housed dozens of women related one way or another to the imperial family – aunts, great-aunts, the most distant of distant cousins.

She had also seen enough to know that her estimation of Mala’s importance and character had been correct. The
khawajasara
rigidly controlled every aspect of the
haram
from the preparation of perfumes and cosmetics to checking the accounts, purchasing the stores and monitoring the kitchens. The officious but efficient Mala knew the names of every one of her small army of assistants and servants down to the female scavengers employed to clean the underground tunnels into which the latrines emptied. It was she who gave permission for female visitors to enter the
haram.
It was also the
khawajasara
’s job – so Mehrunissa had heard – to keep a detailed account of every woman the emperor made love
to, including his wives, and the date in case a child was conceived. Watching through a tiny screen set high in the walls of each chamber for just such a purpose, she even noted the number of couplings.

Jahangir’s wives, so Mehrunissa had learned, lived in grand quarters in a separate part of the
haram
she had not yet seen. If only her father had agreed to Jahangir’s request all those years ago, she might have been one of them. What kind of women were they and did he still visit their beds? It was difficult for her, a newcomer, to ask directly but gossip was one of the
haram
’s main pastimes and conversation was easy to steer in the direction she wished. She had already heard that Jodh Bai, mother of Prince Khurram, was a humorous good-natured woman and that the Persian-born mother of Prince Parvez had grown very fat through eating the sweetmeats for which she had a passion but was still so vain that she spent hours studying her face in one of the tiny pearl-rimmed mirrors mounted on thumb rings that were so fashionable.

She had also learned that since Prince Khusrau’s rebellion, his mother Man Bai had kept to her apartments, spending her time alternately condemning Khusrau and accusing others of leading her son astray. According to the gossip Man Bai had always been highly strung. It was sad to think of a woman whose love must be torn between husband and son, but Man Bai should show more strength . . . Mehrunissa was still so deep in her thoughts that she started as the doors opened and Fatima Begam’s niece Sultana, a widow in her early forties, bustled in.