Was that how it would always be from now on? Trying to do what he must but always acting a part? He had once had such a desire for greatness. By discipline and effort he must force it to return.
Chapter 8
Seated beneath a scarlet awning on a specially constructed dais in the courtyard of the Agra fort, his commanders and courtiers before him, Shah Jahan listened to the clashing of cymbals and the beating of drums. For the first time since Mumtaz’s death two years ago he had permitted music at court. It was also the first occasion when he had laid aside his simple white mourning garb for rich clothing and jewels. His gleaming green brocade robes, the stiff jewelled belt round his lean waist and the ropes of gems round his neck and wrists felt unfamiliar and he had no pleasure in their splendour. But this was Dara Shukoh’s wedding day and, as Asaf Khan had reminded him, Mumtaz would have wished him to dress with imperial magnificence to honour the marriage of their eldest son, his grandson.
The cheering of the crowds outside the fort as well as the music told him that the groom and his brothers were approaching. An hour ago Shah Shuja, Aurangzeb and Murad had ridden to the mansion along the banks of the Jumna that he had given to Dara as a wedding present. Now all four brothers would be returning, Dara mounted on a splendid black stallion, and preceded by a hundred gold-sashed attendants carrying round trays laden with gems, gold and silver as well as mounds of vividly coloured spices – orange saffron and yellow turmeric – and scarlet pomegranates, purple figs and green guavas to symbolise the prosperous and fertile future that awaited the groom and his bride.
Sure enough, three trumpet flourishes announced Dara’s arrival and he entered, followed by his brothers. As Dara reached the dais, he glanced briefly at the carved screen high in the wall beside the throne through which his two elder sisters would be watching. Jahanara had been eager to be allowed to make the wedding arrangements and Shah Jahan had agreed. As she’d gone about the task, planning everything from the pulaos studded with dried fruits and nuts wrapped in gold leaf for the wedding feast to the whirling Rajasthani dancers in their bright spangled clothes, and the fireworks that at midnight would transform dark night into dazzling day, he’d been surprised how rapidly his daughter was growing in confidence and authority.
It was time for him to place the groom’s pearl marriage crown on Dara’s head. As Aslan Beg, limping more heavily than ever, stepped forward with the velvet cushion on which sat the crown, Shah Jahan rose. Taking the crown with both hands, he raised it high so all could see it, then placed it on his son’s head. ‘I ask everyone here to witness that I give my blessing to the marriage of my beloved eldest son to his cousin Nadira, the daughter of my half-brother Parvez. May God look kindly on their union and bless it with many healthy children and many years of great happiness.’ Then, taking Dara by the shoulder, he turned him to face the assembled courtiers. ‘I have something else to announce. I hereby appoint my son to the rank of commander of twelve thousand horse – the same rank my own father awarded me at his age.’
Shah Jahan saw the pleasure in Dara’s hazel eyes. Soon Shah Shuja too would wed and he would award him honours as well, but perhaps not with quite the same satisfaction. Dara was everything a son – and a Moghul prince – should be. He was a good swordsman and an accomplished wrestler who could outwit far heavier men. Yet he was also a scholar with the same fascination with science and the natural world as his grandfather Jahangir. By contrast, Shah Shuja’s chief interest was the pursuit of pleasure – natural enough in a young man, but too many of their Moghul forebears had died not at enemy hands but from their own weaknesses, Nadira’s father among them. Parvez had died young, a hopeless drunk.
Dara seemed free of such vices. If he continued to prove himself, perhaps he should soon declare him his heir. It was what Mumtaz would have wanted and surely only what Dara’s younger brothers would be expecting. It would bring the stability and certainty lacking in earlier generations, the absence of which had caused so much fraternal bloodshed and hazarded the empire. If he could achieve that it would be something he could be proud of and one of his most important legacies to future generations. Yet, he thought, his family was different from his forebears’ – his sons were full brothers, not half-brothers, and the bonds between them consequently deeper and stronger. Dara was only nineteen and his own rule still young. Perhaps after all he had no need to hurry to name a successor.
‘Majesty, the elephants are ready to begin their fight.’
Reining in his horse, Shah Jahan wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was pleased he could still compete with his sons in the sport of racing on horseback to be the first to spear a melon placed on the ground three hundred yards away on the banks of the Jumna. To the roars of the spectators clustered on the battlements of the Agra fort on this the fourth day of the celebration of Dara Shukoh’s wedding, he had challenged and beaten both Shah Shuja and Aurangzeb, albeit by the closest of margins in the case of Aurangzeb who, although two years younger, had outdistanced his brother and to Shah Jahan’s amusement had looked disgusted that he had not succeeded in beating his father, throwing his gauntlets into the dust.
Turning his sweat-scummed horse, Shah Jahan could already hear the trumpeting of the elephants in the enclosure built specially for their fight a little further along the riverbank. As he rode up, accompanied by Ashok Singh, he signalled the mahouts to remove the green silk scarves tied over their elephants’ eyes and for the fight to begin. His mount whinnied nervously as the two elephants, facing each other across the great wall of earth that divided the enclosure and separated them, raised their trunks and bellowed defiance at one another. Shah Jahan whispered reassuring words to his horse and tautened his reins, gripping harder with his knees. As he did so he saw that Aurangzeb and Shah Shuja had already arrived and were seated on their horses a little in front of him, just by the enclosure wall. The lances they had used in their previous contest with him were slung from their saddles. Dara was watching from the opposite side of the enclosure with Asaf Khan.
At first Damudar – a huge beast with sharpened tusks and a scarred trunk, named after one of Akbar’s most famous fighting elephants – seemed to be having the best of it. Goaded by his mahout he mounted the internal dividing wall, dislodging some of the earth, to strike at his opponent Jhalpa, inflicting a long jagged slash in his tough grey shoulder. Ashok Singh’s father, the Raja of Amber, had sent both animals to Dara as a wedding gift. Rising up on his hind legs, Damudar inflicted a second gash, but then, as he hurled himself forward yet again, he slipped on the crumbling earth of the wall and crashed sideways to the ground, sending his mahout flying through the air like a child’s doll to hit the hard ground with a crash, where he lay crumpled and seemingly unconscious as a pool of crimson blood grew around his head. Seeing his chance and urged on by his own mahout perched on his neck, Jhalpa pushed forward despite his wounds. Red-painted trunk coiled, he trampled through what remained of the earth barrier before, lowering his head, he tore into the recumbent Damudar’s right ear with his tusk, half severing it.
Blood dripping down the side of his head, Damudar staggered up and stood swaying and trumpeting defiance, but Jhalpa was again quicker to react, swinging his great domed head at Damudar and this time catching his opponent in his left flank. Suddenly, Damudar seemed to have had enough. Turning, he lumbered towards the wall of the enclosure close to where Shah Shuja and Aurangzeb were watching. Twisting slightly, he hurled his right shoulder against it. Though the wall was five feet high and almost as thick, as Damudar struck it for a second and then a third time the red earth crumbled under the pressure. The mahout-less elephant blundered out of the enclosure and on to the riverbank and began to lurch towards a group of spectators who were on foot.
Frightened once more by the elephant’s appearance, Shah Jahan’s horse began to rear. As he fought to control it, Shah Jahan saw Aurangzeb kick his own mount forward, endeavouring to put it between the enraged animal and the onlookers, several of whom had childre
n on their shoulders, and most of whom appeared rooted to the spot by fear. Something about Aurangzeb – perhaps the flash of the diamonds in his turban or the metallic clinking of his mount’s jewelled bridle – caught Damudar’s attention and he turned his bloodstained head towards him. Then, curling up his trunk, he gave a deep roar and charged.
‘Aurangzeb, get back,’ yelled Shah Jahan as Damudar lumbered towards his son, who was surely about to be knocked from his horse and trampled or gored.
Yet the fifteen-year-old Aurangzeb looked far from frightened. Controlling his horse with one hand, with the other he reached down to the side of his saddle where his lance was tied and tried to pull it free. But before he could do so, Damudar was on him, catching his horse a glancing blow in the shoulder with the tip of his right tusk, causing it to rear and throw Aurangzeb backwards from the saddle. Somehow he managed to get to his feet and draw his sword while attendants began hurling firecrackers at Damudar in an attempt to drive him off. As acrid smoke filled the air, Damudar appeared to hesitate as if confused by the explosions.
‘Shah Shuja, no!’ shouted Shah Jahan, still struggling to prevent his bucking horse from bolting, as his second son rode into the drifting smoke brandishing his own lance, followed immediately by Ashok Singh. As Shah Shuja flung his weapon – which bounced harmlessly off Damudar’s thick hide – his skittering horse tripped over some obstacle hidden by the smoke and fell, sending Shah Shuja too tumbling to the ground. Ashok Singh wheeled his mount and succeeded in interposing himself between the two unhorsed princes and Damudar. But then came a thundering so great that the earth seemed to shake. Jhalpa, having dislodged his own mahout who up till then had been struggling to control him, pushed through the gap in the enclosure wall made by Damudar, seemingly determined to get at his enemy. Turning, Damudar for a moment stood his ground, head down, but then his courage failed him again and with a desperate trumpeting roar he rushed down the riverbank and into the Jumna, pursued by Jhalpa, as spectators scattered before them.
Shah Jahan flung himself from his quietening horse and ran towards his sons. Both were now on their feet, covered in dust and breathing hard but looking unharmed. For a moment Shah Jahan closed his eyes in silent gratitude and then he embraced them. ‘You both showed great courage. You were true bahadurs, heroes. You too, Ashok Singh.’
‘It was no more than my duty to intervene, Majesty. Damudar was a gift from my father.’
Shah Jahan turned back to his sons. ‘Aurangzeb – you were too rash. You shouldn’t have tried to fight the elephant alone but waited for some of the bodyguards to join you.’
Aurangzeb shrugged. ‘There wasn’t time and I wasn’t rash. Yes, I knew there was a risk but I wanted to protect the spectators. If I’d died there would have been no dishonour. Death comes to us all. What matters is how we meet it. The shame would have been in doing nothing.’ As he spoke he glanced towards Dara, on the other side of the enclosure, jaw set in that way he had when he wanted to make a point. What was Aurangzeb implying? That his eldest brother was a coward for not having tried to intervene? If so it was unfair. Dara had been too far away. But surely it was nothing – just the conceit of an adolescent boy embracing the glory of the moment and unable to resist a snipe at an elder brother. He mustn’t let memories of past family rivalries make him see anything more sinister in it.
Chapter 9
Shah Jahan’s eyes were closed as he thrust harder and harder, throwing back his head at the exquisite moment of release. Then, panting, he collapsed on to the Baluchi woman’s soft-fleshed body which like his was beaded with sweat. She was voluptuously beautiful, he thought, with her full breasts and lushly rounded hips. Her shinning hennaed hair spilled over the brocade cushions and her kohl-rimmed eyes looked confidently into his. She thought she had pleased him.
The khawajasara, the superintendent of the imperial haram, had chosen well. ‘What are your tastes, Majesty?’ she had asked. ‘Slender or curvaceous? Tall or short? Dark or fair?’ Shah Jahan had stared at her. In all his years of marriage to Mumtaz he had never asked for a woman from the haram. Other rulers – eager for the Moghul emperor’s favour – had sent him women but until recently he had never given them a thought. ‘You choose for me,’ he had replied. ‘I don’t care.’
For a long time after Mumtaz’s death he’d never even thought of having a woman, but latterly he’d felt the stirrings of physical desire which had grown stronger until he had decided he must satisfy it.
‘Majesty, you are a stallion among men,’ the woman was saying, stretching her body invitingly before him. ‘I have never known such vigour …’
Shah Jahan rolled from her and standing up looked at her with a feeling bordering on disgust – but with himself, not her.
‘What is the matter? You look displeased, Majesty.’ She too rose from the bed and moving towards him pressed her naked body against his own so that he could feel the tautness of her henna-painted nipples. ‘Have I offended you?’
Despite himself, Shah Jahan felt a fresh surging in his loins and her soft laugh told him she had detected it as well. ‘Perhaps I haven’t displeased you after all.’ Her hands were caressing him and suddenly he was pushing her back on to the bed, burying his face in the tangled masses of her scented hair as once again he entered her. This time the climax took a little longer and as he pulled away from her to lie face down, head in his arms; his body was still shaking, but no longer with the dying moments of sexual fulfilment. Tears pricked his eyelids. What had he done? How could he have betrayed his unique and sacred love for Mumtaz?
‘Go now,’ he said, not raising his head as self-loathing welled within him again.
‘Majesty?’
‘I said go. I’ve no further use for you.’
‘He barely eats and his qorchis say that despite his proclamations of abstinence he sometimes calls for wine and has ordered fresh supplies to be sent from the province of Ghazni. Occasionally he dissolves pellets of opium in it … Four mornings ago his attendants found him almost impossible to rouse for his daily appearance to the people on the jharoka balcony. They had to half carry him on to the balcony and a qorchi supported him on each side as he gave the blessing. Sometimes he can go weeks without touching either wine or poppy but even then Aslan Beg can’t get him to deal with court business. Instead he sits for hours staring into the middle distance without saying anything and rebuking anyone who dares approach him. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I do what I can. I’ve talked to him but though he is never sharp with me he takes little notice.’ Jahanara shook her head.
‘I could tell from your letters you were worried, but I hadn’t realised how serious it’s become.’
‘You’ve been away some time. I visit Father nearly every day. I’d hoped he was finally overcoming his grief – after all it’s nearly five years since our mother died – and for a while it seemed like it. But either I was wrong, perhaps only seeing what I wanted to see, or he’s relapsed … He’s becoming more melancholic and isolating himself from the world again.’
‘Does he at least still take an interest in the building of our mother’s tomb?’
‘Yes. He inspects progress most days, giving detailed instructions, especially about the inlaying of the gems into the marble. But he doesn’t stay long and as soon as he returns he relapses into brooding introspection. If he isn’t careful it will either erode his sanity or lead to internal rebellions, but he doesn’t realise the danger either to himself or to the empire …’
‘Danger? You really think things have become that bad again?’
‘I’m not sure, but quite possibly … I can only tell you what I’ve observed recently. Father is once more finding it difficult to concentrate. The deaths of Kamran Iqbal and our grandfather Asaf Khan following each other in such quick succession have unsettled him, severing further links with his past. What’s more, both of them felt able to speak to him frankly about problems they saw arising and advise him how to deal with them before they grew. Without their p
rompting he’s become ever more reluctant to turn his mind to issues like official appointments or taxation.’
‘But these things matter.’
‘Yes. They’re what bind our empire together. It’s essential for the empire’s well-being that he retains not just the outward loyalty of his commanders and officials but their genuine support and enthusiasm, but he won’t take time to listen to their petitions and complaints, nor will he read the reports from the provinces. However, I read them and I see what’s beginning to happen …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re growing lax. We’re alienating our nobles by disregarding their ambitions at the same time as relaxing our scrutiny of their activities. Though they remain outwardly faithful and deferential much of it is mere show – they feel free to flout obligations like maintaining troops for imperial use in return for the gold we pay them. While you were away, the commander of the Agra garrison wrote to the Governor of Ajmer asking for five thousand men to escort the imperial court when we journey to Lahore in three months’ time. However, the governor replied that the local landowners couldn’t raise that number of men so quickly.’
‘But they’re supposed to keep them ready for action in case of sudden war. Aren’t we still sending inspectors to their estates to check that they’re maintaining the correct numbers of troops and collecting the taxes efficiently?’
‘Yes, but the landowners must be bribing them. I asked Aslan Beg for the records of the Ajmer inspections, and discovered that our officials were there three months ago but reported nothing amiss.’
Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth Page 12
