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.
Shah Jahan kicked his own horse towards the attacker, who was trying to extract his lance from the squire’s chest as the young man lay squirming and screaming on the ground. The rebel could not turn to face Shah Jahan in time and the emperor’s sword struck him hard above the knee before knocking his lance from his hand to land beside the dying qorchi. Leaving others to finish the rebel off, Shah Jahan attacked another man who was so intent on scything the head from an imperial musketeer that he did not notice the emperor’s approach until he felt the blow which split his own skull. Twisting in his saddle, Shah Jahan saw that the rebel attack had been blunted and his own men and horses were advancing up the hill again. Despite the pain in his rapidly swelling ankle, he urged his mount forward once more.
As his horse leapt one of the makeshift brushwood barricades, Shah Jahan felt another sharp impact, this time on the point of his left shoulder blade. A spent ball had caught the edge of his breastplate before thudding into his shoulder. A second ball hissed through the air close to his head. Then he was upon the musketeers, who were desperately trying to reload in the shelter of some rocks. One, reversing his musket, whirled it by its long barrel over his head in an attempt to knock Shah Jahan from his horse, only to be felled by Shah Jahan’s sword cut which laid open his cheek, leaving his teeth exposed.
Within minutes Shah Jahan and his men were inside the mud-brick walls of the fort, hacking and slashing at their increasingly desperate enemy as the Bijapurans tried to retreat from one position to the next. Soon some rebels were throwing down their swords and falling to the ground to beg for mercy. Others, mainly horsemen, were trying to flee but in most cases were ridden down by the emperor’s cavalry or shot from their saddles by his musketeers. One rider – a large man in billowing white robes – fell from his horse only for his foot to be caught in his stirrup so that he was dragged behind his mount as it careered downhill, his head smashing to bloody pulp as it ricocheted from rock to rock. Another man who from the look of his garments was an officer was brought to the ground, arms flailing, by a shot fired by a musketeer at Shah Jahan’s side which must have travelled nearly two hundred yards. Shah Jahan was turning to congratulate the man and promise him a reward for his skill when from his hilltop vantage point his eye was caught by a small group of riders approaching fast from the direction of Burhanpur.
Shah Jahan hesitated a moment. The battle was won and he was curious to know who the riders were. Calling to his bodyguard to follow, he kicked his horse forward and galloped down the hill towards a clump of trees where the riders had reined in. As he got closer he saw there were six of them – five soldiers and a white-haired man in dark green robes. As the man turned his head, Shah Jahan recognised Aslan Beg. What could have brought his elderly steward from Burhanpur to the field of battle?
Kicking his tired horse so hard it snorted in protest and flattened its ears, he outstripped his escort and thundered towards the little knot of men. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ he called out as soon as he was in earshot.
‘Majesty, the empress has gone into labour before her time. The lady Jahanara asked me to send word … I felt it was my duty to come myself …’ The old man was swaying with fatigue; the exertion of the hard ride had clearly drained his strength.
Shah Jahan felt a sudden coldness in the pit of his stomach. What had prompted Jahanara’s message? If all was well, wouldn’t they have left the good news of the birth to await his return? ‘How is the empress?’
‘I don’t know. The hakims were with her when I left … I did not wait to ask them. Your daughter was insistent no time be lost.’
Shah Jahan hesitated. His every instinct was to ride at once for Burhanpur but he mustn’t throw away a longed-for victory gained at such cost. He thought quickly, then turned to his captain of bodyguard. ‘Tell Ashok Singh he is to assume command here. My orders to him are to pursue the Bijapurans as far as seems prudent but to take no risks, to garrison this fort and then to bring the rest of the troops back to Burhanpur. And quickly bring me a fresh horse.’
As he rode, urging his new mount on, Shah Jahan’s eyes were fixed on the hazy horizon, willing the battlements of Burhanpur to come into view though he knew many miles separated him from his goal. His injured left ankle was throbbing painfully and glancing down he saw that his garments were spattered with blood – whether his own or his enemies’ he couldn’t be sure – but memories of the conflict were already fading. All he could think of was Mumtaz and how soon he could be with her. At least it would ease her mind to know he had come safely through the fighting.
At last, through the fast fading light, he saw the Tapti river before him and overlooking its northern bank the square tower in which were Mumtaz’s apartments. Urging his blowing horse down the bank, he splashed through the shallow, sluggish waters and rode on up to the gateway through which each evening his elephants were led down from their stables, the hati mahal, to the river to bathe and drink. This wasn’t the way he usually entered his fortress but it was the quickest. He saw the guards’ surprise as he cantered into the small courtyard outside the hati mahal, jumped from his saddle, pain shooting through his ankle, and half running, half limping, made for the stairs leading into the heart of the fortress and the haram. He mounted the steps as fast as he could, unbuckling his breastplate which he thrust into the hands of an attendant as he reached the entrance to the haram. Normally he would have washed away the blood and sweat of battle but he rushed towards Mumtaz’s apartments just as he was.
His appearance was so sudden that there was no time for the usual cry of ‘the emperor approaches’ to precede him. Jahanara was standing by the half-open door to her mother’s room. Hearing his steps on the stone floor she raised her head and he saw tears running down her face.
‘Jahanara, what is it? What’s happened?’
‘The baby will not come. She has been in such torment these past hours. Nothing seems to help. I tried to calm her but all she will say is that she must see you …’ Before Jahanara could finish, there came a long agonised scream more animal than human. Fear such as he had never felt on the battlefield took hold of Shah Jahan. Stepping forward, he pushed the door fully open and looked inside.
Mumtaz was lying on a low divan, knees drawn up, back arched, her hands clenching the sides of the bed. Her white shift was soaked in sweat and her long hair was plastered to her contorted face as raising her chin she screamed again. Satti al-Nisa, who was kneeling by the divan, attempted to take her in her arms and hold her still but Mumtaz was threshing so wildly that she couldn’t. Two hakims, one elderly, the other a youth, were standing in a corner of the room by a small
brazier of burning charcoals over which some bitter-smelling potion was bubbling in a copper pot. ‘Leave her be, madam. The opium is almost ready and will ease her pain,’ one of them said.
Looking up, Satti al-Nisa saw Shah Jahan in the doorway. Her face wore the same helpless expression as his daughter’s as she rose and stepped aside. Slowly Shah Jahan approached the bed. Somehow Mumtaz sensed he was there and turned her head towards him as another spasm racked her body. She gasped but this time did not cry out, and as he knelt beside her she managed a smile. ‘You came,’ she whispered.
‘Of course. All will be well.’
‘No. The baby won’t come … I’ve tried and tried … I don’t want it to die inside me.’
‘It will come when it is ready … try to relax.’
‘That is what the hakims say but I can’t. My body feels about to split with pressure and pain but nothing happens.’
‘Majesty.’ The older of the hakims was by his side, a cup in his hand. ‘This medicine will relieve her suffering.’
‘Give it to me.’ Kneeling by the side of the divan, Shah Jahan held the cup to Mumtaz’s lips. ‘Drink …’ At first the amber liquid trickled down her chin but at last she swallowed some.
‘That will soothe her, Majesty, relax some of the tensions building within her. This is the sixteenth hour of her labour and she is exhausted. In a few minutes she will grow drowsy,’ said the hakim. But as if to contradict his words, Mumtaz began to cry out again. As she struggled she knocked the cup from Shah Jahan’s hand and it rolled across the floor. ‘It’s coming,’ she gasped. ‘Thank the heavens, it’s coming at last …’ Her nails dug into the flesh of his right forearm as she clung to him.
‘Transfer her pain to me. Let me be the one who suffers,’ Shah Jahan found himself praying.
Suddenly Mumtaz let go of him and dragged herself into a sitting position, knees doubled up beneath her shift. Then she flung back her head but this time her cry was one of triumph rather than despair. The next moment Shah Jahan heard the sound of a baby crying.
‘Majesties, look. A beautiful girl.’ Satti-al Nisa was holding out a tiny bundle already wrapped in a piece of green linen – fit clothing for this newest addition to the Moghul line.
Feeling dazed, he got to his feet and looked briefly at the child, but all his thoughts were for Mumtaz. ‘I knew all would be well …’ he began. But as he looked at her again he saw not joy but terror on her face and realised that her shift, in fact the entire divan, was crimsoning with her blood. He didn’t need the hakims’ cries of consternation to tell him that this was not the ordinary blood-letting of childbirth.
He moved aside to allow them room to work while Satti al-Nisa, who had handed the child to an attendant, rushed to fetch the cotton pads for which the doctors were calling to staunch the blood. Mumtaz was lying back, eyes closed and her body very still. As the minutes passed, it seemed to Shah Jahan that the hakims were doing nothing except mopping up the bright red flow which continued to stream from Mumtaz. Water from the copper basins in which they were rinsing out their cloths slopped crimson on the floor.
‘Surely you can do something,’ he heard himself say but there was no reply, only a shaking of heads and a muffled conversation between the two doctors.
‘Leave us!’ Mumtaz’s voice suddenly rang out sharp and clear. ‘I wish to be alone with my husband. Go … go now!’ Never in twenty years of marriage had he heard her sound more commanding.
The hakims and Satti al-Nisa looked at Shah Jahan. ‘Do as the empress says but remain within earshot,’ he ordered.
‘Mumtaz …’ he began as soon as they were alone.
‘No, let me speak. My life is flowing from me with my blood. I’m dying … I know it. There is nothing anyone can do. I must have these final precious moments with you. Put your strong arms around me … let me feel the beat of your heart.’
Kneeling down again he cradled her in his arms. ‘You have given birth to a fine child and you will recover … the hakims will stop the bleeding …’
‘No, my heart tells me that it isn’t so. Listen to me … our remaining time together is short. I have things to ask of you while my mind is still clear …’
‘Anything.’
‘Please don’t marry again … if you have more children by another woman they will be a threat to our own sons. That mustn’t happen … rivalries between half-brothers bring nothing but sorrow. We both know that.’
‘I could never marry another. You are everything to me … everything.’
‘That gives me such comfort – knowing that I can endure anything, even the pain of parting from you. But I have something else to beg of you. In my dreams I’ve seen a white marble tomb, luminous as a great pearl … build me such a resting place where you and our children can come to remember me.’
‘Don’t speak of tombs. We will have many more years together.’ He held her even tighter, as if by doing so he could make the life force pulsing within him flow into her and give her strength.
‘Please … you must promise me … you must. Then I can go in peace to whatever awaits me.’
‘When the time comes I will create you a paradise on earth. I will spare nothing, no cost, no effort. It will be the marvel of the world not only for its flawless beauty but because people will know it represents a flawless love.’
He heard Mumtaz give a deep sigh as if what he said had satisfied her. For a few minutes they clung to one other in silence, then Mumtaz whispered, ‘You mustn’t spend your life in regret, not you or Dara, Jahanara or any of our children … Love them as I did … They have so much before them, as I once did, the night I first saw you at the Meena Bazaar. Do you remember that night? All the lanterns hanging on the trees and how you came to my stall. You didn’t bargain very well … Shah Jahan, in the years to come remember how much I loved you – more than I ever thought it possible to love another …’
‘And I love you … that is why you mustn’t leave me …’
‘My fate is written. I don’t have a choice. Stand up and let me look at you one last time …’
As if in a dream Shah Jahan released her and rose. Her pale face held such an expression of yearning that tears came pouring down his face as all sensation drained from his body and he struggled to find words. ‘Mumtaz …’ was all he could manage. He knelt and cradled her once more.
A veil was already falling over her beautiful eyes. So many times on the battlefield he’d seen that look on the face of friend or foe at the very moment the soul was about to flee the body. ‘Don’t forget me …’ she whispered as her head fell back. As he looked down on her small, blood-soaked form it seemed to him that her last words to him on this earth still lingered, though the woman he loved was gone for ever.
Chapter 5
The face reflected in the mirror of burnished silver was a stranger’s. Shah Jahan studied the gaunt features, the bags beneath the swollen eyes and the locks of hair straggling from beneath his cap that looked silvery white when they should have been dark. The mirror must be faulty. He flung it against a stone pillar and watched the tiny seed pearls dislodged from the frame roll over the carpet. What did it matter what he looked like anyway – whether he ate or drank … whether he saw another sunrise or not? Without Mumtaz his life was over.
From beyond the double doors of his room he caught the murmur of voices and frowned. He had ordered that no one was to disturb him … not even his sons and daughters. For the past five days nobody had dared intrude on his grief though now and then he had heard footfalls and subdued voices, doubtless debating how long the emperor intended to seclude himself. He hardly knew himself. Perhaps for ever … resuming court life was unthinkable. How could he listen to petitions from fawning courtiers concealing selfish ambitions beneath honeyed words or decide between plaintiffs arguing about trivial matters when his whole being was empty and drained of emotion?
For the first hours after Mumtaz’s death he had moved in a kind of numb trance, distant from the hor
ror and the shock. He had watched Satti al-Nisa gently cleanse Mumtaz’s body with camphor water, untangle her long hair with an ivory comb and dress her in a plain shift as tears ran down her own cheeks. When she had completed her work and the imams had recited verses for the dead from the Koran, everyone had left the death chamber so that he could take his final leave. As he had kissed those already chill lips goodbye, for a moment his hand had strayed to the dagger in his sash, so strong had been the temptation to end his own existence and join her in Paradise.
And now Mumtaz, wrapped in the traditional woman’s shroud of five pieces of white cotton, was lying in her temporary resting place across the Tapti river within the walls of an old Moghul pleasure ground – the Zainabad Gardens – her head to the north and her face turned towards Mecca. He had followed her bier dressed in the plainest of clothes, wearing not a single jewel and barely conscious of the procession of elephants bearing his children and his courtiers following behind, their solemn pace set by the slow beat of a single drum.
Walking over to the casement Shah Jahan looked across the Tapti, imagining that through the pearly early morning light he could see the glow of the thousand candles he had ordered to be kept burning around Mumtaz’s grave. Suddenly his head began to spin and he gripped the edge of a marble table to stop himself falling. With shaking hand he reached for a pitcher of water and emptied its contents down his throat. As the liquid hit the pit of his stomach he thought he was about to be sick. Slumping to the ground, he leant back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth Page 7
