Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne (27 page)

‘I’ll fetch a
hakim.
’

When Nicholas returned about twenty minutes later with one of the court doctors, a short stout man in a brown turban carrying his instruments in a leather satchel, Roe was vomiting copiously into a copper basin an attendant was
holding for him. When eventually he had finished and had collapsed back on to the bed the
hakim
felt his forehead then rolled back first his right eyelid and then his left. ‘Let me see your tongue,’ he ordered. Roe opened his mouth and stuck out the tip, which Nicholas could see was coated with a yellowy film. ‘More,’ the
hakim
commanded. Roe feebly pushed his tongue out a little further.

‘You have eaten something rotten. You must be more careful in the hot season.’

‘All the ambassador’s food is prepared in the imperial kitchens by order of the emperor,’ said Nicholas. ‘The greatest care is taken . . .’

‘These symptoms could only be caused by tainted food. His body is purging itself from above and below of whatever has caused the problem.’ Seeing that Nicholas still looked unconvinced the doctor added, ‘Young man, if it were poison, your master would already be dead. As it is, I can tell you there is little risk to his life if he stays quiet, drinks plenty of water and for the next few days eats only a mixture of yoghourt and salt into which you must grind pellets of opium. I will prepare a portion now. Watch me carefully so that you know exactly what to do. Feed him two spoonfuls – no more – every hour until the diarrhoea and sickness stop completely. After that he must have nothing but water for a further three days. If there is any change in his condition send for me at once.’

Nicholas nodded. After the
hakim
had left, he summoned attendants to wash Roe, change the bedding and, seeing how he was starting to shiver, bring him a nightshirt.

‘Perhaps I’ve been here too long,’ Roe said. With his long moustaches drooping and dripping moisture from being
sponged he looked thoroughly dejected. ‘They say this climate is no good for Europeans and that few of us survive more than two monsoons.’

‘Courage. You’ve been healthy till now. This could have happened anywhere . . . in England even . . . and you haven’t accomplished your mission yet.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. You’re a good boy, Nicholas, thank you. I won’t forget how well you’ve served me.’ Roe managed a weak smile but suddenly a spasm crossed his face as fresh gripes seized him. ‘Leave me now . . .’ he gasped, and levering himself out of bed he reached once more for the chamber pot.

‘I thought you planned to spend the evening with Sir Thomas?’ Mehrunissa looked up as Jahangir entered her apartments and bent to kiss her.

‘He sent a message that he’s not well.’

‘I’m sorry. I hope he recovers quickly.’ Mehrunissa composed her features into a look of gentle concern but inside she felt a deep satisfaction. It hadn’t been difficult to bribe an attendant to slip a little rotted meat into the highly spiced lamb pullao that she knew Roe particularly enjoyed. She felt no guilt – he deserved his sufferings for writing poison about her. She hoped she’d made him feel sufficiently ill to consider leaving the Moghul court. Probably not, but having found a way of attacking the ambassador through his bowels she could use it again and again until she’d weakened him sufficiently to achieve her objective of his departure. She’d never lacked patience.

‘I would have come to see you anyway. I have something
I want to discuss with you. My agents in the south report that Malik Ambar is assembling a fresh army. I thought we had taught him a lesson, but his insolence and ambition – like those of the Deccan kings on whose behalf he fights – seem to know no limits.’

‘Will you send Khurram again?’

‘That was what I wanted to discuss with you. He did well last time. He will expect me to send him but I’m reluctant to put him in danger again. The more I see of him the more convinced I am becoming that I should name him now as my heir and keep him here in safety. I can teach him much about how to govern an empire. That will help him when the time comes for him to succeed me. I wish my father had done the same for me and I do not want to repeat his mistakes.’

Mehrunissa thought quickly. Her every instinct told her she must not allow Jahangir and Khurram to become too close. Even though Khurram was married to Arjumand to whom he was devoted and her family’s position might be advanced by such proximity, her own could only suffer. This she could not permit, but what could she say? Then an idea came to her. ‘I understand your reluctance to part from Khurram. But he is proud and will be offended if you don’t send him against Malik Ambar once again. He will take it as a criticism that last time he failed to capture or kill Malik Ambar.’

‘So you truly believe I should send him?’

‘Yes. To him, dealing with the Abyssinian is unfinished business – I have heard him say as much – and to do anything else would belittle him. And when he returns – as I am sure he will, if you order him not to hazard his own life – there
will be time enough to think about naming your heir. You are still young – you have plenty of time to consider such an important step. You mustn’t forget you have other sons and how they will feel if you show too much favour to Khurram.’

‘Parvez is a fool and a drunk. He can surely have no more expectation of the throne than Khusrau.’

‘But there’s also Shahriyar. He is growing up fast and I hear encouraging things about his progress. They say that he rides superbly and is a sure shot with either bow or musket.’

Jahangir smiled. ‘You make me ashamed. You shouldn’t have to tell me about my own son’s promise. I admit I hardly see Shahriyar.’

‘You should. Then you can judge him for yourself.’

She was right, Jahangir thought. There was no need to rush to name an heir. And she was also right that he should allow Khurram to deal with Malik Ambar.

‘As always, your instincts are correct. You see things so clearly.’

‘I only want to help you. And after Khurram has departed on campaign I’ll hold a small party and invite Shahriyar so that you can see how well he is turning out. And perhaps I will also ask Ladli to join us. She too is growing up and is not without looks and accomplishment. I think you will be pleased with her.’

‘Do so. But enough of business. You have eased my mind. Let’s now enjoy the pleasures of the body.’ Gently he began to unfasten the coral buttons of her low-cut bodice and smiled to see the answering light in her eyes. Jahangir was hers and she was his and nothing and no one should come between them.

‘My father has sent us to confront Malik Ambar once more. Undaunted by our previous victories over him the Abyssinian has once again invaded Moghul territories,’ Khurram began. He was standing immaculately dressed in cream robes with a quadruple string of pearls as a belt and another lustrous pearl almost as big as a grape adorning his cream turban on the
jharoka
balcony of the Agra fort to address the serried ranks of his troops gathered on the parade ground below. Jahangir, watching from the chamber behind the balcony, wondered whether he could have spoken with the same confidence and authority at his age. At Khurram’s words a ripple, like wind stirring wheat in a field, seemed to run through the rows of men and they began to cheer.

‘This time we will not be content with defeating Malik Ambar’s forces and expelling him from our lands as we did three years ago,’ Khurram continued, holding up his right hand to command silence. ‘We will demand that his masters,
the sultans of Golconda, Bijapur and Ahmednagar, cede some of their lands and goods to us. The booty will be magnificent and I will make sure you all share in it.’ Khurram lowered his hand and smiled as a great chorus of
Khurram zinderbad, Padishah Jahangir zinderbad
burst from his men. His ancestor Babur had been right when recording that the prospect of profit was the best way of ensuring the loyalty and bravery of an army, Jahangir thought.

When finally the shouting had died down, Khurram went on, ‘Tonight, once our final preparations are completed, I have ordered our cooks to provide a special feast so that when we ride out from Agra tomorrow we do so not only confident in our ultimate victory but also with well-filled stomachs.’ Another wave of cheering enveloped Khurram as he turned, followed by two tall bodyguards dressed in cream with steel breastplates and helmets polished to mirror brightness, and went inside to where his father was waiting.

‘You spoke well,’ Jahangir said, embracing him.

‘Because I wish my men to fight well. My announcement of the feast will speed their final preparations.’

‘Today I received more news of Malik Ambar’s movements. It appears he is marauding through the area around Mandu, raiding some of the richer estates. He’s also seized two district treasuries and a local armoury.’

‘So he’ll have amassed quite a bit of loot?’

‘Yes, but that might work in our favour by slowing him down a little and making it easier for you to catch up with him.’

‘That will be my biggest problem. Our forces outnumber his and are the more heavily armed. Though I’ve ordered our men to bring no unnecessary baggage or equipment,
his troops will be more mobile and nimble. Also, they know the southern lands better than we do, as we found to our cost three years ago. They’ll again be an elusive prey . . .’

‘But I don’t doubt your ability to succeed.’

Khurram’s expression told Jahangir that his son didn’t doubt it either. ‘I’ll set up my headquarters at Burhanpur on the Tapti river again. From there I’ll march for Mandu to try to come up with Malik Ambar. I’ll also send flanking detachments to the south to block his retreat. I intend to drive him further into our territory rather than out of it so that we can reduce his advantage in local knowledge. Once I have defeated him there – as God willing I will – I’ll have a better chance of destroying the remnants of his army as they retreat towards his own lands and of capturing Malik Ambar himself, ending his threat once and for all.’

‘Be careful. He is a wily enemy.’

‘He won’t escape me this time.’

‘I know, but remember not to let youthful eagerness and confidence in your abilities, however justified, make you abandon prudence. Think your plan of battle through carefully with your commanders. Take no unnecessary risks yourself.’

‘I will try to remember, Father.’

‘Arjumand goes with you, despite her pregnancy?’

‘She insists on it, as she did last time. She also refuses to be parted from our children, though once we reach Burhanpur they will remain in the safety of the fortress there. Forgive me, Father. If I may I must leave you. I’ve some last minute commissariat matters to attend to before the farewell feast.’

Jahangir opened his arms to his son and the two men
embraced again. ‘God bless and speed you back to me victorious, my son.’

After Khurram had gone, Jahangir walked out on to the
jharoka
balcony. The soldiers on the parade ground had dispersed. Looking towards the Jumna he saw a string of war elephants being led from the
hati mahal
to make their slow way down to the brown waters to drink, but otherwise there was little movement on the riverbank. The sun was sinking, streaking the western sky crimson and purple. How often had a Moghul emperor stood here, contemplating such a scene? For a moment Jahangir imagined his forebears – Babur the warrior from the Asian steppes, Humayun the stargazer, his own father the great Akbar, so revered by his people – standing beside him. Their line was ancient, reaching back even beyond Timur to the warrior Genghis Khan . . . It made him proud to think of it, and even prouder that he had fathered such an able and loyal son as Khurram, about to lead the Moghul armies in defence of the empire their ancestors had bled for.

‘Highness,’ reported Kamran Iqbal as the Deccan sun beat down on the fabric of the red command tent in which Khurram was sitting on a small low divan surrounded by his senior officers. ‘Ever since we freed the area around Mandu, Malik Ambar’s men have continued to retreat before our advance. They are still following the course of the Bari river, sticking close to its west bank as they make their way south. They’re now less than twenty miles from their own territories.’