Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth (9 page)

That night, as darkness fell and a new moon cast its pale reflection across the fortress of Burhanpur, the
haram
was a place transformed. Burning wicks flickered in glass balls of red, green and blue suspended on chains from trees in the main courtyard, their light softening the austerity of the sandstone masonry. Shah Jahan sat cross-legged in the centre of a dais spread with rich Persian carpets – gifts from the shah. His three eldest sons were still eating. Mumtaz was lying back against a yellow brocade bolster, Jahanara and Roshanara beside her, heads close as they laughed together. Little Murad was on his back sleeping the deep sleep that comes only to the very young.

Shah Jahan’s first thought on learning of Dara’s return had been to order a celebratory feast, but Mumtaz had taken him on one side. ‘Should we do such a thing during a famine?’ she had asked. ‘Won’t it seem uncaring if we feast lavishly? The smells from our cooking fires will waft over the walls of Burhanpur to those who may not know when they will eat again.’ He had realised at once that – more sensitive than he to what others might be feeling – she was right. She usually was. Instead of the great celebration he had planned, at Mumtaz’s suggestion he had ordered an extra issue of grain to the surrounding villages in Dara’s honour and instructed his cooks to prepare a plain meal for his family to share alone here in the
haram
.

Shah Shuja was quizzing Dara Shukoh about the Persian court. It was good to see them so easy in each other’s company, Shah Jahan thought. How different from his own boyhood – even in his early years he and his half-brothers had never been close, and later ambition for the throne had severed any bonds there might have been. If he had had a full brother – as his sons were to one another – things might have been different …

Something Dara was saying – Shah Jahan had been too caught in his own reflections to pay attention – was making Shah Shuja shake his head in disbelief.

‘What is it, Shah Shuja?’

‘Dara was telling us what the shah told him – that many years ago the Persians helped our great-great-great grandfather Babur in his struggle against the Uzbek leader Shaibani Khan … that the Persians rescued Babur’s sister from the Uzbeks and sent him a drinking cup made from Shaibani Khan’s skull. It can’t be true … When were the Moghuls ever in such thrall to the Persians, Father?’

But it was Aurangzeb, sitting a little behind the other two, who answered. ‘The story’s true, as you’d know, Shah Shuja, if you ever bothered to read the chronicles – especially Babur’s own account. You’d also know that one of the reasons Humayun finally won back Hindustan was because the Persians loaned him an army.’

‘I am impressed, Aurangzeb. Your tutors told me you were studious but I didn’t realise how much. Perhaps one day you’ll be a great scholar,’ said Shah Jahan.

‘A scholar? No – I’ll be a warrior like you!’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I mean it, Father.’ Aurangzeb’s serious young face was flushed. ‘What I read tells me the Moghuls won Hindustan by the sword – not by the pen. That’s how we’ll keep it.’

Shah Jahan suppressed a smile. Aurangzeb’s sense of humour was not strong and his feelings were easily bruised – something his brothers, who often teased him, understood only too well. ‘I’m sure you will be whatever you wish to be.’

As Shah Jahan looked at his family, reunited once more, his eyes met Mumtaz’s and she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod – her signal to broach the subject that they had talked of deep into the night.

‘Dara Shukoh, Tuhin Roy praised your tact and discretion in Persia. You acquitted yourself as a man, not a boy, and your mother has a suggestion for how we might declare this to all the world.’

‘What do you mean, Father?’ Dara Shukoh’s clear hazel eyes looked from Shah Jahan to Mumtaz.

‘It is time for you to marry. Your mother has suggested your cousin Nadira as your bride. She has noticed how much you like her …’

Dara Shukoh’s somewhat abashed but delighted expression showed that Mumtaz hadn’t been wrong. So did the knowing grins on the faces of Shah Shuja and Aurangzeb. Even though he hadn’t been aware of the attachment till now, Shah Jahan was pleased. If one day Dara had to take other wives for dynastic reasons it was good that his first marriage should be to a woman for whom he cared. He hadn’t been much older himself when he’d been betrothed to Mumtaz. And it was a good alliance for the dynasty. Nadira was the daughter of his half-brother Parvez, whose passion for drink and opium had killed him at the age of only thirty-eight at a time when conflict had divided the dynasty. A union between Nadira and Dara Shukoh would heal at least some of the wounds of the past and bind the wider imperial family closer. She was also beautiful – short but voluptuous – and with a ready wit that she had already showed was a match for Dara’s agile mind at the family gatherings where Mumtaz had observed their mutual attraction.

‘Well, Dara, what do you say?’

‘It would make me very happy to marry Nadira,’ Dara replied, his voice betraying a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment – the latter doubtless fuelled by his brothers’ smirking scrutiny.

‘I’m glad you approve. I’ll start planning your wedding. It will be a welcome distraction during these final weeks of waiting for your new brother or sister to join us,’ said Mumtaz, looking down on her swollen belly.

Shah Jahan lay back against the cushions, already visualising the splendour of the marriage procession. The ceremony would take place as soon as possible after their victorious return to Agra. It would mark not only the nuptials of a beloved son and an imperial prince but also the true start of his own reign when, with the rebels of the south subdued, he could begin to take the Moghul empire forward to new splendours and new conquests.

‘Majesty, Rai Singh has located a large Bijapuran force some thirty miles to the west.’ The messenger’s sweat-stained clothing showed the speed with which he had ridden to Burhanpur.

Shah Jahan felt a shiver of excitement. At last this might be the opportunity to deal his elusive enemy a decisive blow. For a moment his mind raced, but then it was made up. ‘Take a fresh horse and return to Rai Singh. Tell him I’m bringing a force of horsemen and cannon-equipped elephants to join him. You said the Bijapurans were thirty miles away? If I ride hard with the vanguard of the cavalry, I can be with Rai Singh in under three hours.’

As he hurried towards the
haram
after giving the necessary orders, Shah Jahan was smiling. He was tired of being played with by a disciplined enemy who appeared now here, now there, in hit and run raids only to melt away again before he could engage them fully.

Mumtaz was sitting on a stool while Satti al-Nisa combed out her long hair. Jahanara was sitting close by reading aloud from a volume of poems by the Persian Firduz that Mumtaz loved. Jahanara was as much of a scholar as Dara or Aurangzeb, thought Shah Jahan.

‘What is it? You look excited?’ Mumtaz asked, stretching out her hand to him.

‘Good news at last – at least I hope so. My men have encountered a large group of Bijapurans. If I am quick we may finally have the battle I’ve been hoping for.’

Mumtaz’s smile faded. ‘You again mean to go yourself, don’t you?’

‘I must. This is too great a chance to turn the campaign decisively in our favour to neglect.’

‘I hope it is indeed the turning point … and I’m sure it will be. Take care.’

‘I will.’ He bent to kiss her warm lips, then, at her urging, placed his hand for a moment on her belly to feel the kicking of the new life within her. The child wasn’t due for another month. He would be back long before then and perhaps with his campaign over. As he half ran from Mumtaz’s room, his mind was already focused on the fighting ahead.

Three hours later Shah Jahan, who had just ridden up with the main body of his troops, followed the pointing arm of Rai Singh. ‘The rebels have occupied the old fort on that rock-strewn hill over there, Majesty.’ On the crown of the low hill about half a mile away he could see the crenellations of a dilapidated mud-brick fort. Some stretches of the wall appeared to have collapsed completely. The small fort would provide only limited protection for the enemy horsemen and foot soldiers he could make out moving about on the slope, but the hilltop position was a clear advantage. Some of the rebels were stationing themselves behind the stronger, more intact-looking portions of the walls. Others were dragging brushwood into the gaps in the defences or trying desperately to pile up fallen bricks and other rubble into makeshift barricades.

‘How long have they been up there?’ Shah Jahan asked.

‘We clashed with some of their scouts at first light. Once alerted to our presence the enemy quickly began to move up to the hilltop.’

‘I’m surprised they did not simply retreat, disappearing into the countryside as they have before.’

‘They have more infantry with them than I have known previously, and those men would not have got far on foot.’

‘About how many of them are there?’

‘No more than two thousand or so.’

‘We outnumber them then, but that’s no bad thing … As we attack up the slope we will be much more exposed than they will be behind the walls.’ Shah Jahan turned to Ashok Singh. ‘Have our horsemen surround the hill. Then once the war elephants with the small cannon arrive we will advance. There is no point in delaying.’

The elephants took longer than he had anticipated to appear, during which time he could see the rebels continuing to work feverishly with their hands as well as picks and shovels to strengthen their makeshift fortifications. Shah Jahan could not relax. He ordered small parties of his musketmen to scramble up the hillside, water bottles and spare ammunition slung across their backs together with their muskets, to take up positions behind rocky outcrops just outside the range of enemy fire so that they could join the action quickly when it began.

Once the elephants had arrived and the gunners had loaded the cannon in their howdahs with powder and ball, sweating in the afternoon heat as they rammed the shot down the barrels, Shah Jahan gave the command for them to advance. They began to do so steadily and slowly, with groups of musketeers, archers and foot soldiers running along behind them, taking advantage of the protection afforded by their bulk. His scouts had told Shah Jahan that they did not believe the rebels had even small cannon. Nevertheless, he waited apprehensively for a crash and burst of white smoke from the hillside to show that they had been mistaken and he had once more underestimated his enemies’ strength and cunning. None came.

By now, his leading elephants were more than halfway up the slope and the gunners in their howdahs were bringing their small cannon into action. Shah Jahan saw a long portion of the fortress’s brick wall collapse after being hit by some of the cannon balls. Some enemy horsemen who had been sheltering behind it rode out through the dust but Shah Jahan was sure others had been trapped by the falling debris. Still there was no answering cannon fire from the Bijapurans. His scouts must have been right – they had no cannon, he thought with relief. The assault was going well and now was the time for him to join it with his main body of horsemen. Waving his sword as the signal to attack, he began to gallop forward. As they saw him and his bodyguard advance, other horsemen surrounding the hill took up the charge until, green banners billowing, they were riding at the fortress from all sides.

Kicking his horse onward while taking care to avoid the scattered rocks, Shah Jahan soon came up with the war elephants. Suddenly one – a massive beast with three gunners as well as a small cannon in its open howdah – raised its red-painted trunk and began to trumpet in pain. A lucky musket shot had hit it not where the overlapping steel plates of its armoured surcoat gave some protection but in the right eye socket. With blood pouring down its cheek and running on to its curved tusk, it turned from the advance and slowly crashed to the ground, dislodging both the gunners and the bronze cannon. The weapon fell into the path of the mounted bodyguard immediately on Shah Jahan’s right, bringing his horse to the ground and trapping its rider by his leg between its flank and a large jagged rock.

The bodyguard’s scream of agony reached Shah Jahan’s ears above the other sounds of battle. As it did so, he himself felt a sharp pain in his left ankle and his mount skittered sideways, half rearing. The fallen horse, thrashing its legs, had kicked both of them. Hot pain searing his ankle, Shah Jahan reined in his horse and tried to bring it under control, but for some moments it crossed the line of his advancing cavalry, slowing their charge up the hill, which was particularly steep at this point. Just as he regained mastery of his mount, Shah Jahan became aware of a party of at least thirty enemy horsemen galloping from the fortifications now no more than three hundred yards away, intent on exploiting the temporary chaos in this section of his advance.

Musketeers firing from the elephant howdahs knocked two enemy riders from their saddles before the rest, benefitting from the impetus provided by the slope, crashed into Shah Jahan’s troops. One bearded rider, yelling wildly, thrust his lance deep into the cheek of a war elephant, which veered sharply away from the attack and crashed back down the hill, trampling some of the foot soldiers who had been following in its wake. Another rebel horseman caught the grey mount of one of Shah Jahan’s bodyguards full in the chest with his long lance, killing the animal almost instantly. A third spitted from his saddle one of Shah Jahan’s young
qorchis
, whose first battle and now almost certainly his last it was.