Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth (30 page)

‘The news is good. Satti al-Nisa tells me he has been keeping up his improvement. Recently he’s been strong enough to get up for three or four hours a day – and he’s eating better, not just the mint and manna soup which was all he would take at first. He is still frail, though, and the
hakims
are insisting that he is not troubled by any affairs of state.’

‘Then he doesn’t know …’

‘Know what?’

‘As soon as it’s light I must go to him. I’ve news that he must hear and soon, however frail he is.’

‘What is it, Dara? What’s happened?’

Dara hesitated and in the flickering candlelight she saw the strain in his face. ‘I know you’ve had your own troubles, but there is no way of breaking this to you gently. Aurangzeb, Shah Shuja and Murad have risen in revolt, claiming our father is too sick to rule. They are preparing to march on Agra with their armies.’

‘But that can’t be true …’ Jahanara stared at Dara, aghast. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I found it hard to credit myself when the initial reports reached me. Many roads meet near Gwalior. The first news I received was that Aurangzeb was returning to Agra. I thought he must wish to be at our father’s side – as he did to be at yours after your accident – and, being further from Agra than I, had not heard the reassuring news about his recent improvement. So I thought little of it. The next day, a
cossid
bringing a birthday message to the ruler of Gwalior from his eldest son, our governor at Allahabad, told one of my
qorchis
of rumours that Shah Shuja was also heading for Agra but with an army. Alarmed, I immediately sent relays of messengers down towards Allahabad to investigate. Thirty-six hours later the true position became clear. My vizier’s son rode into my camp demanding to see me. He had been serving at Aurangzeb’s headquarters in the Deccan and knowing that I was at Gwalior had ridden night and day to alert me. He told me that Aurangzeb was claiming to his senior officers that our father was dying or more probably already dead and that I was concealing the fact to strengthen my grip on the succession. Therefore he was marching on Agra to save the empire from me. He claimed that he was acting in concert not only with Shah Shuja but with Murad too.’

Jahanara felt so numb with shock she could scarcely think, let alone speak. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her reunion with Dara would be. Many times she’d dreamed of telling him of her innocence, knowing he’d believe her, of how he would go to their father and explain, how Shah Jahan would return with him to her apartments to beg her forgiveness. Now, with her father still sick, three of her brothers in arms against him and the empire perhaps about to dissolve into civil war, her own problems suddenly diminished. ‘I’ve heard nothing,’ she finally whispered. ‘Even though I’m confined to these rooms Satti al-Nisa visits me every day. She’d have told me at once if such rumours had reached the court.’

‘I gave orders that all imperial
cossids
were to be diverted to me as I made my way back to Agra. I didn’t want Father alarmed if I could avoid it until I was back at his side. In the week it has taken me to return I’ve received more messages. In particular those I sent east confirm that Shah Shuja indeed has an army on the move. It can’t be long until this news becomes common knowledge.’

‘We must prevent it from doing so for as long as we can, at least until we’ve sent messengers to our brothers telling them our father is recovering … that in any case their behaviour is treason.’

Dara smiled a little sadly. ‘They probably know both those things – certainly the latter. They’ve also known for a long time that he intends me to be his heir. They’ve seized on his illness as an excuse to act before he makes any formal announcement. It gives their claims greater legitimacy.’

‘But what do they intend to do? Fight you and our father’s armies for the throne?’

‘I don’t know, but this is clearly a conspiracy planned some time ago for just such a contingency. They must have agreed that if anything happened to our father they would act together. Perhaps they’ve agreed some sort of plan to divide the empire between them. Whatever the case, I’m certain Aurangzeb is their leader.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He hates me,’ Dara said simply. ‘I’ve seen it in his eyes many times, however conciliatory his words. Behind my back he derides my beliefs and interest in other religions and calls me a heretic to anyone who will listen, and many I suspect do through self-interest if nothing more. I thought that in the Deccan he was too far away to do much harm but I was wrong. I’ve been too confident in Father’s favour and in my position here at court. I should have paid more attention to what was happening elsewhere. I have let down my own sons. If I fail now, Suleiman and Sipihr as well as I will surely pay the price.’

‘All this can still be stopped. Before he was taken ill our father was in command of his empire and he can be so again. The most important thing is to quash the rumours that he’s too ill to rule or dying or dead … As soon as possible – tomorrow at dawn if he is in any way strong enough – he must resume his daily appearance on the
jharoka
balcony to prove to his people that their emperor still lives. And he must be told at once what has happened. God willing he’s not too ill to take command of the situation himself. Surely our brothers won’t dare to defy his authority if they know he is himself again.’

‘Your words are wise as always … I won’t wait until the morning. I’ll go to him now …’ Dara hurried to the door but then stopped to look back at her over his shoulder. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

‘I can’t. He still refuses to see me. Even when I asked to be allowed to visit his sickbed he would not permit it. I fear the sight of me will only disturb him and distract him from more pressing matters.’

‘I’ll tell him how wrong he has been to suspect you. Satti al-Nisa wrote to me informing me exactly what had happened. I’ll make him listen. All will yet be well – I promise you.’

But would all be well, Jahanara wondered, listening to Dara’s fast receding footsteps. She wasn’t so sure. Her father’s accusations and ready belief in her guilt … the knowledge that her own sister had had a hand in her downfall … had rocked her faith in her family, her belief that they were united and not each out for their own interests. And now this dreadful news about her brothers had confirmed her fears exceeding anything she could have imagined in her worst nightmares. Who would ever have believed it could come to this?
Taktya takhta
– throne or coffin – the brutal code her Moghul ancestors had brought with them from the Asian steppes. Strip away the fine clothes and jewels, the formal etiquette that governed their lives as imperial princes, and what were her brothers? Not civilised scions of a great and enlightened empire but wild animals, snarling at each over a carcass that wasn’t yet even dead meat … snarling like the flat-eared tiger on her father’s worn, heavy, gold ring that had once graced Timur’s hand.

Shah Jahan rose from the low chair where he had seated himself to hear Dara’s story and began slowly to pace his bedchamber, arms wrapped around himself, head bowed. At first Dara’s words had so disconcerted him that for a while he’d just sat silent and still. He had even wondered whether they were a product of his imagination conjured by the
hakims
’ potions. Often, particularly during the early days of his illness, he’d felt caught midway between wakefulness and sleep, uncertain what was real and what emanated from his tired and troubled brain. Strange images had floated through his mind, often of the departed – his grandfather Akbar, his father Jahangir and above all Mumtaz smiling as she whispered ‘
Mubarak manzil
’, the traditional greeting from an empress to a returning emperor.

Now, though, he realised he was back in the real world, confronting harsh realities – rebellion, and rebellion led not by traitorous subjects but by members of his immediate family. What madness could have possessed his younger sons? None of them was what he would have wished, but he had never suspected them of such naked treachery. It was as if the old days were returning – the days when the Moghuls’ greatest enemies had been each other. He himself had been pushed into rebellion against his own father and to fighting with his half-brothers for the throne. But that was different … Urged on by Mehrunissa, Jahangir had driven him to it. He had only acted to protect his family. His own sons had no such excuse and he would not allow the old wheel of family ambition, feuding and bloodshed to begin turning again. He would – he must – end this rebellion before it destroyed his family and everything the Moghuls had achieved.

He ceased his pacing and turned to Dara. ‘Send out scouts to their provinces. Find out how big their armies are, how far they have advanced and who has declared for them. I need as much hard information as possible. And in the morning I will summon my council. They must hear everything that you’ve told me. One thing is already clear – we must act quickly and decisively before the rebels gain further momentum.’

‘Jahanara suggested you should appear to your people on the
jharoka
balcony as soon as you can to quell any rumours that you are dead.’

‘Jahanara? You’ve seen her?’

‘Yes. I went to her immediately I reached the fort.’ Shah Jahan gave Dara a penetrating look but said nothing as he continued, ‘You have done her a great injustice. These stories about her and Nicholas Ballantyne are as malicious and baseless as the stories of your demise. She only asked Nicholas to come to her because she was worried about Aurangzeb. She wanted Nicholas to tell her what had happened during the northern campaign. She swears on the memory of our mother that she’s innocent of any liaison with him … Father, forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but from what I hear you condemned Jahanara unjustly. At least see her now … let my sister herself show you how wrong you have been.’ Dara waited. His father needed those members of his family like Jahanara still loyal to him. He tried again. ‘Father … you must believe me. I …’

This time Shah Jahan did respond. ‘Enough, Dara. I have heard what you’ve said.’

‘You will see Jahanara?’

‘Perhaps.’

Three hours later, with an apricot glow lightening the eastern horizon, Shah Jahan sipped the water his
qorchi
had just handed him. It was still cold from the well and he drank thirstily, holding the jade cup with hands that were still not quite steady. Was it the result of his illness – the strange weakness that had suddenly inflicted him and for which the
hakims
could find no explanation? Or agitation at Dara’s news of rebellion? Or was it because soon Jahanara would be before him and he must ask her forgiveness once more?

He was still pondering when he heard a series of shrill trumpet blasts – the signal he had ordered to be given to rouse the people of Agra from their sleep and summon them to the banks of the Jumna to witness the reappearance of their emperor on his
jharoka
balcony. ‘
Qorchi
, bring me my robes, please.’ Normally the emperor made his brief appearance on the balcony in a simple cotton tunic, but his people hadn’t seen him for nearly three months. He would wear green brocade and sparkle with jewels when he stepped from his bedchamber on to the carved sandstone balcony as the rising sun warmed the earth. He would raise his arms to bless them and the day to come, remaining there longer than usual so that none could doubt that it was indeed their emperor, returned to health, before them.

Half an hour later, the task was done. Shah Jahan turned away from the cheering crowds gathered below and went back into his apartments. Jahanara would be waiting for him on his private terrace as he had asked. For a moment he hesitated, then made his way there, shading his eyes against the now brilliant light as he came outside again. Jahanara was standing there but did not come forward. For a moment they stood looking at one another, then Shah Jahan strode towards her.

He could find no words. Dara had been so eloquent on her behalf, so convincing in his explanations, so insistent that she was innocent, and in his heart Shah Jahan had known his son was right. How could he have reacted with such unthinking anger? Once again he had failed her. ‘Forgive me,’ he managed at last. ‘I judged you in haste and in anger. I make no excuses …’

‘It is past, Father. Perhaps we shouldn’t speak of it again.’ Jahanara’s tone was measured, devoid of the conflicting emotions swirling within her.

‘But tell me you forgive me or I will not be able to rest.’

‘I forgive you.’ As she spoke those words, as she knew she must for the sake of the dynasty, Jahanara saw her father visibly relax. But were they really true, she wondered. Could she forgive him again? Eventually, perhaps, though it would take time to forget his immediate, unthinking belief in her guilt and his unreasoning anger. But looking at her father with fresh eyes after so many weeks of separation, she realised with a shock how old he looked. His broad shoulders were bowed and his once muscular body – a warrior’s body – looked thin and fragile. His still handsome face was riven with deep lines. Had his illness really taken such a toll or was it that she was only now seeing him as he really was?