Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (15 page)

Manrique gulped, “Yes, Madame. Very well. He was with me in Hugli.”

“Where is he now?” I asked.

Sebastian’s smile turned to a frown. Perhaps knowing he couldn’t criticise the King directly at a royal banquet, he seemed at a loss for words to describe the horror in Hugli. I later learned he had narrowly escaped death himself by playing dead and sneaking out after the Mughal soldiers left. “I believe he was wounded in battle, but I don’t know what became of him. I’m sorry.”

I nodded unemotionally. “I wish to employ your services for our Jesuit mission in Agra, sir.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

“You will be escorted by my eunuch, Bahadur, to the zenana quarters tomorrow,” I said with a bit of royal cockiness I was now becoming accustomed to.

Aba then began making an announcement. The crowd’s chattering halted as the heart of the empire, the King himself, demanded their attention: “My fellow countrymen and esteemed guests, I wish to inform you of something truly historic. Not too long from now, you will see the construction of a mausoleum for the Empress Mumtaz Mahal, across the river from the fort. I am assembling artisans from all over the world, even Europe,” he said nodding to Sebastian. “I intend this to be the finest structure the world has ever seen, and it will require my undivided attention. I am commanding my daughter Jahanara to manage this project.”

The crowd began chanting and cheering.
“Padishah Zindabad!” “Padishah Zindabad!”

But Aba wasn’t finished. “I am also letting you all know that a kingdom without an empress is like a body without a heart. India shall once again have an empress, and she will be someone in whom we see our beloved
former
empress.”

Dead silence fell upon in the Hall as Aba turned towards me and began walking in my direction. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and my heart began beating faster. Finally he stood in front of me and handed me an object that was too large for my hand, as though
it had been made not for a woman’s but a man’s. I clumsily held it with both my trembling hands and began examining it. Made of solid gold, it had Persian writings on the side and a large diamond on top. Even with both hands I had trouble holding it, and I struggled against its weight pushing my palms down.

Then beside me Sati gasped, “The
muhr uzak
!” I was shocked: Could this truly be the legendary muhr uzak, the royal seal so important, no command, not even the emperor’s, could reverse its authority once stamped? It all made sense now. No object this grand could be for a small task. In its grandiosity lay its true purpose.

Aba then cried: “Ladies and gentlemen, Jahanara Begum is no longer Begum Sahiba; she is now the
Padishah Begum
!”

I was overcome with emotion; something inside me stirred as if another soul was trying to possess my body. Padishah Begum? Was I really worthy of such a title? What had I done to deserve this extraordinary honour?

The crowd now roared, “Long Live Padishah Begum!” and continued to roar, and my stomach began to churn and my heart raced. Was this how all the empresses had felt when first given this title? The
muhr uzak
!
This seal has changed so many hands. So many powerful, intelligent women have held it, and now it’s mine to hold?

I noticed my brothers rejoicing. It seemed my betterment was the one thing that had brought Aurangzeb and Dara together. But Raushanara, seated on the far corner, ran out of the room in rage; hardly anyone but me, even noticed.

Sati embraced me tightly and whispered excitedly in my ear: “You are the first ever Empress of India not to be married to a king. In bypassing all of his wives and bestowing this title on you, the King has redefined a daughter’s role in the royal household. You now control the throne. You are its mistress.” Mistress of the throne? What did that even mean? Was this a new title carved out just for me? Would some new, unknown responsibility accompany this title?

Sati continued: “You can now exercise more control over state affairs than any prince or even the Emperor.” I immediately began feeling to feel a sense of this new-found power; such was the effect
of the
muhr uzak
. And I already knew what I would do with it: I would learn from Sebastian Manrique what had happened to Gabriel in Hugli, and then determine why my sister chose Hugli of all places against which to instigate an attack.

The words immediately began resonating in my mind:
More power than even princes!
I didn’t covet this power, but since it was bestowed upon me, I could now redefine a woman’s role in my society. I could finish the work Ami had begun, to stop the male domination of my kingdom. I hadn’t seized power; power had seized me; and I would now seize this opportunity to set right what in the past had gone wrong.

“Padishah Zindabad!

“Padishah Zindabad!

“Padishah Zindabad!

The crowd continued to chant louder each moment. I nodded to my constituents and bowed to my father in reserved appreciation. Did he have any idea what he’d just done?

10

HIDDEN SECRETS

29
^th
September, 1632

I
soon found my life as empress more exhausting than I’d imagined it could be. Sure there were perks: slaves would bathe, dress and perfume me over the course of hours, for this was customary for empresses. I was waited upon by countless eunuchs, slaves and Tatars and at times I felt as though I was drowning in all the attention. However, there were also strict requirements of me, and this made being an empress very arduous. Every word, gesture and movement I made was noted, interpreted and discussed. I was now required to move with the demeanour of an empress around the zenana. My mother had made all this look so easy; perhaps it came more naturally to her.

As I struggled to adjust to my new title, I took the first step in fighting back against my wicked sister. I assembled a team of spies consisting of slave girls, eunuchs, maids and Tatar women to inform me of Raushanara’s whereabouts in a given day, to see whom she interacted with and what mischief she was planning on wreaking on the royal household. Now that I knew she’d spent time with Nur Jahan, I was convinced she’d learned some of Nur Jahan’s manipulative tactics and was not to be trusted. It was still unclear to me where her loyalties were, but I was convinced they weren’t with me or Aba.

The head of this team was a burly Tatar woman named Isa.
At a gargantuan size of seven feet two inches, her biceps were the diameter of the strongest of Mughal men. She was at once both loyal and fierce. With her in charge, the other members of the team would remain in line.

The announcement came: “Padishah Begum, the firangi,
Sahib
Manrique has arrived.”

Sebastian Manrique was escorted by Bahadur to the special screened window at which he would have an audience with me. By promising him employment for Agra’s Jesuit mission, I’d lured him close enough to me to ask him what had happened at Hugli and what had become of Gabriel.

He began: “Your Highness, I am at your service as you requested.”

“Very well, Mr Manrique. The Jesuits have begun to hold services here again in Agra, and the emperor wishes for you to meet with the head priest and determine the best way to tell those in neighbouring suburbs about his mission. As a traveller, you have the ability to reach thousands of Christians within the Mughal domain.”

“Her Majesty is too kind. It would be my pleasure to offer assistance to the head priest of the church.”

“I have another matter to discuss with you. You mentioned you knew of Gabriel Boughton in Hugli. What else can you tell me about him?”

Sebastian hung his head low, for he was not permitted to stare at the marble window behind which I stood. He abashedly said, “I told you, Your Highness, I knew him. What else can I tell you?”

“I wish to know under what circumstances he arrived and what became of him.”

Sebastian said: “Much of what I’m about to tell you I heard from his own mouth…”

Gabriel arrived in Hugli a few weeks before the arrival of the Mughal regiment and found the port busier than any he’d seen since arriving in India. Ship after ship of cargo was being exchanged at this port, and for a moment, Gabriel began to feel as if he was back in Europe, with all the churches and light-skinned people. It was as if someone had plucked a town out of Portugal and planted it in India.

Not sure of where to go, he made his way to the Church of St Augustine, where the Brethren of St Augustine’s head, Pastor Reverend Frahlo, was Gabriel’s contact.

Gabriel spent the next several days learning from the Portuguese the secrets of the profitable trade, especially the salt trade that had made the Portuguese very powerful and wealthy in this area.

One night, as Gabriel was sleeping in his guest quarters, a servant came running to his room and informed him that an army was gathering at their doorstep.

The two men peeped out of the small window of the guest quarters, and Gabriel saw an entire division of men carrying torches with the Mughal banner off to one side. This military cordon was dressed on war footing, and Gabriel wasn’t sure what to do or where to go.

Gabriel ran to the church of father Frahlo, where he met Sebastian Manrique. The men decided to pursue diplomacy and try to negotiate with the Mughal generals.

Sebastian Manrique slowly walked over to the general, who was mounted on a horse and asked what his grievances were. The general informed him that this colony had been accused of committing heresy and teaching infidel religion contrary to the teachings of the Koran. Sebastian pleaded with the general to understand that it was the King’s own father, Jahangir, who’d given the colony the power to build churches and practice their religion as they pleased. But the General was clearly looking for a pretext for attack, not interested in debating or discussing any issues. He made his demands clear to Sebastian: “Surrender your leaders, tear down all religious buildings, burn all Christian books and accept Allah as your saviour. Anything short of this will mean swift annihilation.”

Sebastian went back to the church, which by now had swollen into a town hall gathering of all the Europeans in the colony. As he told everyone what the Mughal general demanded, the entire crowd cried out in an uproar.

The firangis decided to organise and mount resistance. One by one, men volunteered, until the number of people ready to do battle
swelled to over 100. Aware that they were drastically outnumbered, the men began to devise a strategy whereby they could sneak behind the army and attack them from either side with bullets. The soldiers would be so surprised, they would run in whichever direction they could find cover.

Gabriel volunteered to use the underground tunnel linking the church to the port, to lead a group of men to the far side of the field. There, they would grab weapons from the ships docked at the port and sneak up behind the rebel army.

As the hours passed by and the time allotted for the Europeans’ surrender drew near, the Mughal army began making preparations to storm the church. Pursuant to Aba’s orders, the European missionaries were to be burned within the church, while the women and children would be brought back to Agra as prisoners.

Gabriel and his men made way through the tunnel and snuck into one of the cargo ships carrying munitions. Gabriel reached the storeroom and grabbed rifles, which he began handing out to each of his men as they entered in single file.

As the men loaded their rifles, one of the men accidently fired a shot into his own shoulder. The loud sound, along with his own scream as he was writhing in pain, alerted the Mughal army that something was occurring at their rear.

The men began running towards the church, launching cannonballs at the different wings. Haphazard firing from the church also began, but was too disorganised to mount any serious challenge to the Mughal army. The merchants-turned-soldiers were no match for the Mughal army, and one by one they began to fall. The women and children all gathered in the rear of the building under the guidance of Father Frahlo and began to pray for help. “Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, have mercy on us,” the crowd chanted as the bombs continued, while the women watched their men drop like flies.

“Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, hear us, Christ, graciously hear us.”

“God, the Father of heaven, have mercy on us.”

More men continued to die and cry out in pain; women watched their husbands, children watched their fathers fall.

“God the Son, Redeemer of the world, have mercy on us. God, the Holy Spirit, have mercy on us.”

The Mughal army mercilessly pursued the Christians. For every one Mughal soldier that fell, ten Portuguese merchants died.

“Holy Trinity, One God, have mercy on us.”

The women and children knelt on the ground and closed their eyes, flowing tears as father Frahlo continued to lead them in what would be their final prayer. “Holy Mary, pray for us. Holy Mother of God, pray for us. Holy Virgin of virgins, pray for us.”

Finally the shelling and bullets stopped. There was utter silence. The congregation opened their eyes slowly and awoke to a scene of horror no person would wish upon their kin. All their men were dead. There was smoke and rubble everywhere. The front of the church had been completely blown away. Sebastian Manrique lay at a distance playing dead, so he might survive to tell me this horrific story one day.