Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne

by Alex Rutherford

  Despite the pressure from his commanders, Khurram had decided that he himself would lead the charge of his horsemen to exploit holes blown in the barricades. If any were to be made it should not be long now. Calling for his groom, he mounted his black horse and trotted over to his waiting bodyguard and the mass of other horsemen led by Kamran Iqbal. After only about ten minutes a messenger rode up. ‘Highness, it’s difficult to be certain in the smoke but we think we’ve made a breach about twenty yards from the river where the barricade is mostly brushwood and overturned carts.’

  ‘Well then, Kamran Iqbal, let’s move forward,’ said Khurram. He felt more nervous than he had before any other battle. His heart was beating fast, his pulse racing and his mouth dry. However, as he rode forward he forced himself to clear his mind and to concentrate on the task ahead. Soon he and his men were passing the first of the dead elephants and a whiff of the decay that was already setting in caught his nostrils. The smell together with the mass of opalescent black flies clustering around the body must be dreadful for the Moghul crew of the large bronze cannon firing from behind it. The stench from the next elephant corpse they passed was worse, vomit-inducing even for the hardiest stomach. Malik Ambar’s men had been returning cannon fire almost blind into the smoke but a lucky shot had hit the dead beast in the abdomen, rupturing its already swelling intestines – hence the smell.

  Swallowing deeply to subdue his rising gorge and wrapping his cotton scarf more closely around his face, Khurram ordered his men to quicken their pace. Through a gap in the swirling smoke he saw that Malik Ambar’s barricade was only three hundred yards or so away but to his consternation he could see no breach in it. Then the smoke pall moved again and for a moment he glimpsed one some way to his left, nearer the river than he had been led to believe. ‘There it is!’ he yelled. ‘Charge to the left!’

  Following his own order he kicked his black horse into a gallop. Less than a minute later the barricade loomed out of the smoke which was enveloping everything once more. It had only been partially destroyed. Therefore relaxing his reins and leaning forward in his saddle Khurram urged his mount to jump the remnants, which looked about three feet high. Launching itself with all the power of its muscled hindquarters, the horse cleared the obstacle easily.

  He was in the enemy camp, followed swiftly by many of his bodyguard. ‘Try to cut down the gunners,’ he shouted. Turning along the barricade amid the drifting smoke, he came upon a cannon which was about to fire. With one full swing of his heavy but well-balanced sword he beheaded the gunner at the firing hole. Feeling a spray of warm blood on his face, with two more strokes he despatched two other men, one holding the cannon’s ramrod and the other a bag of powder ready to reload. Still with his bodyguard around him, he galloped further along the barricade, disabling or killing another cannon crew with their help. Next he turned along the pebbly margin of the swift-flowing river to penetrate further into the camp, intending to lure more of his enemy into battle and hence to their destruction.

  Together with his men he cut down several musketeers who were already fleeing from the fighting around the barricades. But suddenly a phalanx of Malik Ambar’s cavalry appeared through the smoke from the right, charging at the gallop into the flank of his own horsemen, two of whom fell under the initial impact of their assault. Khurram himself wheeled his black horse round to face his attackers, thrusting with his sword at two assailants as they passed. One of his opponents parried his stroke. The second collapsed from his saddle with a deep wound in his stomach.

  Then, as Khurram tried to turn tightly to attack his first opponent again, another enemy thrust hard at him with his long lance. The point caught his breastplate and bounced off without penetrating but its force was so great that, hit while making his turn, Khurram was thrown sideways from his horse to land with a crash in the very edge of the river. He looked up to see the horseman with the lance bearing down on him again. Time seemed to stand still and it suddenly came to him how much he wanted to see Arjumand again and that if he did not get out of the way of the rider he would not. He waited until the very last moment to act, in fact until the rider was already drawing back his lance to make his fatal thrust. Then he rolled away through the water and across the pebbles. As he did so he pulled a throwing dagger from his belt and hurled it at his opponent. It missed the man but hit his horse in the rump and it reared up, throwing its rider backwards into the water to land with a great splash.

  Khurram scrambled on all fours through the shallows to the winded man and threw himself on top of him. He seized him by the throat, pushed his thumbs into his Adam’s apple and squeezed hard until he had extinguished all the life from the man and his body grew limp. Heaving it aside, Khurram struggled to his feet and staggered out of the river, water dripping from his clothes and filling his boots, relieved to be alive. As he emerged he saw that one of his men had caught his black horse. The bodies of at least five of his guards were scattered motionless along the riverbank while two of his comrades were helping to bind the deep bleeding cut in the arm of another, a young Rajput, who was biting his lip to avoid crying out in pain as they did so. However, as he remounted Khurram was pleased to see that there were more bodies of his enemy than of his own men and that they had retreated, leaving that part of the battlefield to the Moghuls. ‘Where have Malik Ambar’s men gone to?’

  ‘Back along the river towards the valley’s end, together with many more of their companions.’

  ‘Have we secured the barricades?’

  ‘Yes, Highness,’ said Kamran Iqbal, who had just ridden up, breathing heavily. ‘There are a few pockets of resistance but we’re mopping them up easily enough.’

  ‘Well, let’s pursue those retreating but take care. The fires are subsiding and the smoke is dispersing. We’re more visible and easier targets for musketeers and archers hiding behind trees. Let’s move fast and stick to the riverbank where there are fewer obstacles.’

  As he spoke Khurram dug his heels into his horse’s flanks once more and pushed on along the riverbank. Soon he and his men came upon a band of fleeing archers and infantry. Most had thrown down their weapons but one archer, perhaps knowing death was inevitable, crouched down and aimed his bow at Khurram. One of Khurram’s bodyguards cut him down with a sword slash across his back but not before he had sent his black-feathered arrow hissing towards the prince. It thudded into his gilded saddle, grazing his thigh as it did so. Khurram felt no pain but was aware of blood running down his leg. Ignoring it, he rode on for another few hundred yards until he came to some lines of tents in a clearing. All looked abandoned and several were burning, seemingly set afire by Malik Ambar’s retreating men.

  Leaving the camp behind, Khurram continued with his bodyguards along the river which was narrowing all the time as the valley itself grew steeper and more enclosed. Suddenly some shots rang out from among the trees and one of the bodyguards fell, hit in the forehead by a musket ball. Rounding a bend in the river, Khurram saw another barricade of tree trunks ahead from behind which some musketeers were firing. The track was too narrow to allow him to swerve so he kicked his horse on towards the barricade as several bullets whistled through the air around him. However, his luck held, and both he and his horse were unscathed as they jumped the tree trunks. Almost immediately the defenders scattered and ran into the surrounding brush and trees. But one officer, whose dark skin and features suggested Abyssinian blood like that of Malik Ambar himself, tripped over some gnarled tree roots and sprawled full length on the ground. ‘Take him alive,’ yelled Khurram. Two of his bodyguards leapt from their saddles to obey, pinioning the wiry dark man by his arms.

  ‘Bring him here,’ Khurram ordered. They did so, forcing him down on his knees before him. ‘Where is Malik Ambar?’ Khurram spoke in Hindi rather than the Persian he used at court and in discussion with his senior officers.

  ‘You would not say where your general was if you were captured and nor will I.’ But an instinctive glance upwards to the lip of the v
alley betrayed him. Following it, Khurram saw some figures at the top of the scree-strewn slope. ‘There’s a way out of the valley, isn’t there?’

  The man had relaxed having seen the figures, and responded, ‘If you call the system of ladders we built from tree trunks a way out, yes. But it will be useless to you. Horses cannot use ladders and our commander and those troops who have made their escape have mounts waiting on top and will be long gone before you can attempt any pursuit.’

  ‘Check the truth of what he’s saying,’ Khurram ordered some of his bodyguards, ‘but take care. There may be yet more ambushes along the track.’

  Later that evening Khurram lay in Arjumand’s arms. The wound to his thigh had proved minor and was now bound with clean white cloth and he himself was bathed and refreshed. Outside, his men were celebrating victory ever more raucously. He had stayed with them for a while but then had made a round of the hakims’ tents to visit the wounded before returning to Arjumand. His joy at victory in his first campaign as sole commander was tempered both by the suffering of the wounded and by the knowledge that the Abyssinian officer had been telling the truth – Malik Ambar had escaped. But a count of prisoners and of the enemy dead suggested he could have taken no more than a few hundred of his men with him. The Sultan of Ahmednager’s army was defeated. He would have to negotiate a peace. Victory was Moghul.

  Khurram’s armies were drawn up on the bank of the Jumna beside the Agra fort. The rows of war elephants were clad for the occasion in their steel plate armour but – since this was a moment of celebration, not war – had no sabres tied to their tusks, which their mahouts had painted gold. Wagons pulled by white oxen, whose horns were also gilded, and surrounded by red- and orange-turbaned Rajput guards held the sacks of booty Khurram’s men had seized.

  Khurram himself was sitting some twenty paces in front of the leading ranks on the black stallion which had served him so bravely in battle. Unused to its golden ceremonial headplate and the heavy green velvet saddlecloth that reached almost to the ground, it was fidgeting and tossing its head. ‘Calm,’ Khurram murmured, stroking its glossy, sweating neck. ‘You must allow the people to rejoice at our safe return and pay tribute to our victory.’ Suddenly the blast of many trumpets rose from all along the battlements as Jahangir emerged on to them and raised his arms to acknowledge the return of the triumphant Moghul armies.

  On the opposite bank of the Jumna, at Jahangir’s gesture a great roar rose from the crowds jostling and straining to get a better look. Suddenly Khurram was possessed by a crazy desire to swim his horse across the dark brown waters and ride amongst the admiring, cheering onlookers. Did victory and public acclaim always feel this good? But, looking up again, he saw that his father had withdrawn. It was time to go to him. Followed by his bodyguard Khurram trotted towards the steep ramp leading up into the fort. Here Arjumand was waiting in a sapphire-studded howdah on one of the imperial elephants, shrouded from view by silk curtains. Twelve mounted bodyguards – sent as a mark of esteem by Jahangir – were drawn up in pairs behind her elephant. In front were the soldiers Khurram had chosen for their courage in the fighting to escort his wife on her triumphal return into Agra. Ordering his own bodyguard to bring up the rear, Khurram took his place at the head and signalled with his gauntleted hand for his small entourage to advance up the ramp.

  As they passed beneath the main gatehouse into the fort, drums boomed and attendants flung fistfuls of gilded rose petals and tiny gold and silver ornaments shaped like stars and moons that fluttered around them. As they continued up the steep, twisting ramp Khurram saw that every wall had been hung with swathes of green brocade. Soon they were passing through a further gateway and into the main courtyard, at the far end of which was his father’s many-pillared Hall of Public Audience, open to the air on three sides. The courtyard itself was packed with courtiers but a wide channel down the centre, strewn with more rose petals, had been left clear. At the far end he could see the glittering figure of his father on his throne on the dais.

  When Khurram was still thirty feet from where Jahangir was sitting, he raised his hand to halt the procession and dismounted so that he could approach his father on foot. He had taken no more than two or three steps towards the dais when he heard Jahangir call, ‘Stop. I will come to you.’

  From all around came gasps of surprise. For the emperor to descend the throne to greet a returning commander – even his own flesh and blood – was unprecedented. Slowly Jahangir rose, walked from his throne to the edge of the dais and descended the six shallow marble stairs. Khurram saw the egret plumes in his father’s jewelled turban sway as he came towards him and how the diamonds in his ears, at his throat and on his fingers gleamed like white fire, but he was watching it all as if in a dream.

  When his father was just a couple feet away, Khurram dropped to his knees and bowed his head. Jahangir touched his hair, then said, ‘Bring it.’ Glancing up Khurram saw an attendant approach with a small golden tray piled with something – he couldn’t see what – and his father take it from him. Khurram looked down again and the next thing he knew his father was gently tipping the tray’s contents over his head. Gold coins and jewels were showering down around him.

  ‘Welcome home, my victorious and much loved son,’ he heard his father say, then felt Jahangir’s hands on his shoulders, raising him up. ‘I wish all those present to know of my esteem for you both as a commander and as my son. As a mark of my pride in you, I hereby confer on you the title Shah Jahan, Lord of the World.’

  Khurram’s heart swelled with pride. He had set out on campaign full of hope but also a little nervous as to how well he would succeed. Now he felt the deep satisfaction of a job well done. He had shown his father what he was capable of and his father had appreciated it. Surely nothing now could stand in the way of his fulfilling his ambition to be named his father’s heir.

  Chapter 11

  The Red Velvet Coach

  Mehrunissa watched from beneath the silk canopy set up at one end of the terrace adjoining the emperor’s private apartments. The effort had been worth it. Ever since the news had come of Khurram’s victories in the south she had been planning this intimate celebration. The food had been exquisite, especially the dishes she had ordered to be prepared by her Persian cook – quails simmered in pomegranate juice, whole lamb stuffed with apricots and pistachios, rice cooked with saffron and dried sour cherries – and the sweet-fleshed, fragrant peaches and melons that Jahangir loved. Instead of having the latter served in dishes of crushed ice she had ordered them to be presented on a bed of diamonds and pearls. The dancers, tumblers and musicians had performed well, but now everyone had withdrawn and the four of them were alone.

  Arjumand was looking especially beautiful, Mehrunissa thought, scrutinising her niece in the soft light of the oil lamps burning in tiny mirrored alcoves around the terrace walls. The ruby and emerald diadem Jahangir had given her to mark the birth of her daughter Jahanara became her. So did motherhood. Arjumand was pregnant again and her skin and hair seemed to have a special lustre. Mehrunissa looked down at her own smooth flat belly, left bare by her short tight-fitting choli above a pair of wide red silk trousers gathered at the ankles. Every month she still hoped for signs of a child but every month she was disappointed. She longed to have a child by Jahangir – especially a son. It wasn’t that it would make him love her more, but it would bind them yet closer for the long term and give her greater status in others’ eyes. It would have been good to think of her blood intermingling with that of the Moghul dynasty and descending down through the generations. But time was passing. Though her body was still slender and firm, last month Salla had found a white hair among her long dark tresses. It might be the first but it would not be the last.

  Instead it was another and younger member of her family who might become the mother and grandmother of emperors – Arjumand. Her niece was showing Khurram the cream silk pearl-trimmed tunic fastened with ivory buttons that Mehrunissa had presented to her at the s
tart of the feast. Glancing at Jahangir, seated by her side, she saw him watching his son and Arjumand with an expression of quiet pride. Earlier that evening he had said to her, ‘You were right to advise me to send Khurram to the Deccan in Parvez’s place. I wasn’t sure he was ready for such responsibility but you saw what I didn’t – that he has the brains for war as well as the courage.’

  But now, as Khurram called out something to his father and a smiling Jahangir rose and went over to him, a sudden doubt crept into her mind. For the benefit of her family – as well as for her niece’s happiness – she had done everything in her power to bring about Arjumand’s marriage to Khurram. She had also never doubted that it would be a good thing for her family if Khurram managed to impress his father – that was why she had suggested to Jahangir that he give him the Deccan command. Yet what if her interests and the interests of her wider family diverged? She hadn’t anticipated how brilliantly Khurram would perform, how impressed Jahangir would be . . . Earlier that day as she had watched through the jali screen to one side of the throne in the Hall of Public Audience she had been surprised to see Jahangir descend from his throne to shower his son with gold and gems. He hadn’t told her he planned to make that gesture, nor that he was going to follow it, as he had, by conferring on Khurram the right to use a scarlet tent on campaign as well as the title of ruler of Hissar Firoz – both clear indiations that he intended to name Khurram as his heir.

  Now that Khurram was back at court perhaps Jahangir might wish to involve him more in the running of the empire. Khurram, rather than she, might become the confidant to whom he most naturally turned. As emperor, Jahangir had many routine cares and responsibilities. With her energy and clear mind, she was sure she could take some of that weight from him – indeed she was already starting to prove it to him. Only a few months ago he had told her of complaints from merchants travelling northwest to Kabul of night-time attacks by bandits on their camps. He had been pleased by her suggestion that he order the building of further imperial caravanserais along the trunk routes where travellers could be sure of finding a safe bed for themselves and secure stabling for their beasts and goods.