The Serpent's Tooth

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘No. Not an accident. Someone tried to kill me … don’t worry, there’s no need. It’s a flesh wound. The hakim has attended to it.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Mumtaz’s voice was a horrified whisper.

  ‘Ismail Khan. He burst through my guards and attempted to stab me.’

  ‘Jani’s nephew? But he’s only a boy … Why? What possessed him? And what will you do to him?’

  ‘He wanted to avenge Jani. He’s already been punished. I was merciful – I granted him a quick death. I couldn’t let him live … not after he’d attempted to murder me.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but …’ She stopped.

  Shah Jahan took her face gently in his hands. ‘Ever since we married everything I’ve done has been for us and for our children … to protect our lives and our future.’

  ‘I’ve never doubted it, never … not in all these years. But it doesn’t stop me feeling guilty – and also a little afraid. We have everything we ever wanted but there was a price and it was paid in blood.’

  Shah Jahan’s hands dropped to his sides. ‘If I had not had them killed, my half-brothers would have killed me … our sons as well. Their deaths are not something I’m proud of but they were necessary. It would be a lie to say I wished the deeds undone. Though the past troubles me sometimes – as I know it does you – there is nothing I’d change.’

  ‘You did what you had to … I understand that. But what if Ismail Khan was only the first? How many others will seek revenge because of your actions?’

  ‘I am the Moghul emperor and rule over a hundred million souls. As such my life will always be at risk from many quarters. But I will protect myself and my family … I will never relax my vigilance. I will keep us safe, I promise you.’

  Towards sunset Shah Jahan watched from his silver throne as a line of twelve imperial servants approached through the assembled ranks of his courtiers, every man bearing a gold candlestick in which a tall camphor-scented candle was burning. As each reached the dais he bowed before Shah Jahan, then carried his candle away to begin lighting the wicks in the giant brass diyas – large shallow saucers filled with mustard oil – set around the courtyards of the fort. The candle-bearers were followed first by the commander of the guard who assured him in formal tones ‘The fort is secure for the night, Majesty’, and then by his favourite court singer – a young Tajik with a fine, deep voice – who sang a verse in praise of the emperor before adding a prayer for the continuance of his auspicious reign. Shah Jahan enjoyed this nightly ritual which Akbar had instigated. Such links with his grandfather’s long and successful reign were fitting, he thought as he descended the dais and walked through the rows of his bowing courtiers towards Mumtaz’s apartments in the haram. In his hand he held a scroll of paper tied with green velvet ribbons.

  ‘I have a gift for you – a poem written in your praise by one of the court poets,’ he said, bending to kiss her lips.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It’s a bit flowery but it says what I think.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because you told him what to write.’

  ‘Well, perhaps. But should I read it to you?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Mumtaz, a gentle smile on her face as Shah Jahan loosened the ribbons and unrolled the paper.

  ‘No dust from her behaviour ever settles

  On the mirror of the emperor’s mind.

  She is always seeking to please the king;

  She knows full well the King of Kings’ temperament.

  In her eyes she has the light of—’

  Before Shah Jahan could finish, Satti al-Nisa appeared through the thin muslin curtain embroidered with gold stars and moons covering the arched doorway.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Shah Jahan. ‘I gave orders not to be disturbed.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Majesty, but Abdul Aziz has arrived from the south. I told him you and Her Majesty had retired for the night but he was insistent on seeing you.’

  ‘I will come,’ said Shah Jahan. What could have brought the son of his commander in the Deccan to Agra with such urgency that he was demanding to see him at this hour? One thing for sure, the news was unlikely to be good, he thought as he hurried from the room and across the haram courtyard, where two rows of fountains were bubbling in the silver moonlight. Reaching the gatehouse, by the light of the flaming torches kept burning there at night he recognised the slim figure of Abdul Aziz pacing to and fro beyond it. When he saw his emperor emerge into the main courtyard, the young man immediately prostrated himself.

  ‘Rise,’ said Shah Jahan. As Abdul Aziz did so, he saw that the man’s face and garments were streaked with dust and sweat. He hadn’t even paused to bathe and change before seeking the emperor’s presence. ‘What brings you to me so urgently?’

  ‘My father sent me to report to you immediately about the reverses your armies in the Deccan have suffered. The rulers of Golconda and Bijapur have renounced their allegiance to you and invaded from the southwest. They overran our frontier defences and penetrated deep into our territory. My father assembled a large army well equipped with war elephants and modern cannon and confronted them about ninety miles south of the Tapti river. At first the invaders would not stand and fight but finally my father forced them to do so.’

  ‘He is a good general.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty, he was …’ Abdul Aziz’s face was etched with grief. ‘The battle lasted a whole day with no quarter given on either side. Men collapsed and died simply from exhaustion from the heat and lack of water. Towards sunset the invaders began to give ground. My father mounted his grey stallion to lead a last charge to disperse them … I begged him to let me accompany him but he wouldn’t.’ Tears were now running through the dust on Abdul Aziz’s face. ‘The weight of our horsemen’s onslaught overwhelmed the invaders. Many fell. As my father attacked one of their cannon positions the artillerymen got off one last shot. By great misfortune the ball hit my father’s right arm as he waved it above his head to urge our men on, severing the limb above the elbow. He wouldn’t accept treatment until the position was taken and the enemy in retreat. Then he allowed the hakims to apply a tourniquet and dress and tidy the stump. Despite the pain and his loss of blood he slept well that night and I had great hopes for his speedy recovery …’ Abdul Aziz paused.

  ‘The next morning my father gave the order to pursue the enemy, whom our scouts reported fleeing south. Towards midday on the second day of the chase, intent on overhauling our foes we were marching through a valley with gently sloping hills on either side when a great number of Golcondan cavalry suddenly appeared over one of the ridges and immediately galloped down, smashing into our troops before we could form battle order. Their first impact cut our column in two. The attackers circled around the rear portion, where most of the cannon and baggage carts were, in a pincer movement, hacking and slashing as they went. Many of our men fell in the chaos. Some fled but most of the cowards did so in vain as the Golcondan horsemen cut at their backs as they ran.

  ‘Others of the rearguard tried to form up and fight their way through their attackers to the front half of our column where my father now had musketmen in action. Their disciplined volleys were succeeding in holding the enemy back. Numbers of our cavalry did manage to join him but few of the infantry. I saw one party of orange-clad Rajputs all on foot defending themselves against the lances of the enemy cavalry. Several times horses struck by the Rajputs’ swords reared up and threw their riders. But it was an unequal contest. The Rajputs could rarely get close enough to use their weapons effectively. There could be but one outcome. Only two of the Rajputs made it back to our lines, both bleeding heavily. Next the attackers fired arrows bound with pitch-soaked burning rags. These frightened our war elephants and some panicked, crashing into their comrades and overturning the gun limbers they were pulling, adding to the chaos.

  ‘My father ordered all the remaining troops to fight their way towards a low hillock near the end of the valley around which we could regroup. We were doing so s
uccessfully despite the enemy’s constant assaults when, just as we were approaching it, some mounted archers attacked, loosing off more of their flaming arrows as they stood in their stirrups holding their reins in their teeth. Three of their arrows penetrated the palanquin my father was being carried in because of his wound. Two set the palanquin alight, the third hit my father in the thigh, setting fire to his garments. His attendants bravely pulled him clear and smothered the flames on his clothes. He remained conscious but his wounds were such that he knew that this time not even the hakims could save him.

  ‘Fighting against the pain, he handed the command of the column to his second-in-command, Zafir Abas, instructing him to conduct an orderly withdrawal as best he could. Then, summoning me to him, he clasped my hand and ordered me to carry the news of the defeat to you … to tell you he was sorry for leading so many of your troops to their death and that many well-trained reinforcements were required immediately or all our territories in the south would be lost.’ Abdul Aziz’s whole body shuddered as he broke into a series of great heaving sobs. ‘Majesty, the attendants had not been able to prevent the flames from setting fire to my father’s beard. Burnt skin was peeling in strips from his face … his blistered lips were bursting … he could say no more. A few minutes later he died.’

  ‘Your father was a great man. I honour his memory. You too have done your duty. Now you must sleep. We will speak further in the morning.’

  As Abdul Aziz departed, his shoulders still shaking with grief at the memory of his father’s death, Shah Jahan turned and walked slowly back through the gatehouse into the haram. His army in the Deccan had clearly suffered a great defeat. A new army and a new commander must be sent to restore order and take revenge. Who should the general be? If Mahabat Khan, his khan-i-khanan, commander-in-chief, had not been leading an army in the foothills of the Himalayas against incursions by the King of Nepal and his Gurkha warriors he would have been the obvious choice, but to recall him would take too long. As he walked past the still bubbling fountains, Shah Jahan went over the names of some other commanders. His loyal friend Kamran Iqbal, commander of the Agra garrison, was needed here. Besides, he had not yet fully recovered from the wounds he had suffered during the fighting against Shahriyar in Lahore and perhaps never would. His father-in-law Asaf Khan was ageing and might not be up to the rigours of campaigning. Others were either too impulsive or too cautious. Yet others were inclined to deal harshly with local populations, living off their lands without payment, and forcing them into unpaid labour. Such behaviour could only prove counterproductive among the proud, restless population of the Deccan. No. There was nothing for it. He must return south and lead his armies in person.

  A few minutes later he was pushing back the gold-embroidered muslin curtains of Mumtaz’s room once more. She was lying with her back against a lilac brocade bolster drinking a glass of watermelon juice. Looking up she asked, ‘What did Abdul Aziz want?’

  ‘We’ve suffered a major invasion and rebellion in the Deccan. I must assemble an army and lead it south immediately.’

  ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘I will go alone. You should stay here.’

  ‘Why should this be any different from your previous campaigns in the Deccan? I accompanied you then and you were glad to have me with you.’

  ‘Yes, and I would be happy for you to join me again if we hadn’t just discovered you are pregnant once more. Your last pregnancies have been harder than the previous ones. You will have better hakims here.’

  ‘And as I told you before you embarked on your first campaign, I refuse to be parted from you. The best hakims can come with us.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘No. There’s no “perhaps”. I and all our children and as many hakims as you wish will accompany you. Together we will march to victory.’ Mumtaz’s expression brooked no denial.

  Chapter 2

  Standing alone on the jharoka balcony of the Agra fort in the pale early morning light, Shah Jahan raised his sword and circled it three times above his head. At his signal, the artillerymen on the battlements fired their small cannons to set in motion the army that had been assembling in camps on the banks of the Jumna below in the fortnight since Abdul Aziz had brought the news from the Deccan. How magnificent it looked – not even the Persian shah could put a better equipped army in the field, Shah Jahan thought with a shiver of pride.

  First of the twenty thousand men to move out were the vanguard of the cavalry, their green silken standards rippling. Elephants of state, gorgeous in velvet and cloth of gold and clanking with gold and silver chains and bells, followed, bearing his senior commanders. Next came the great bronze cannons pulled on wooden gun carriages by teams of milk-white bullocks, the tips of their horns striped green and gold. Behind them Shah Jahan made out the advance columns of infantry marching twenty abreast. The enormous baggage train followed, its mass of pack elephants resembling a fleet of ships afloat in a sea of dust. In their wake came ranks of laden camels and mules and lines of ox carts.

  Soon it would be time for him to mount his own elephant, descend the fort’s broad winding ramp and proceed out through the gateway, while in the drumhouse above muscular bare-torsoed drummers beat their kettledrums to signal to the world that the Moghul emperor was riding to war. ‘Don’t understimate the power of spectacle and in particular the spectacle of power,’ Akbar had once said to him with a smile. As a youth the aphorism had puzzled him but he was beginning to understand what his grandfather had meant. He was learning never to neglect the image of himself and his empire he presented to his people, whether on campaign or presiding over his court. That was why, while he was away, he had ordered his architects to modify the Agra fort by adding white marble pavilions to the existing sandstone edifice. The blood-red sandstone would convey his empire’s martial power while the marble would show his wealth and opulence.

  His jewellers would be busy too, creating a glorious takht-i-taus, a peacock throne, like that from which the great King Solomon once dispensed justice. He had allocated two thousand pounds of the purest gold and personally selected the finest gems in the Agra treasury, finding an almost sensuous pleasure in their glittering colours. He was determined his campaign would prosper. When it did he would return with fresh supplies of diamonds from the mines of Golconda, their sole source, and would have some inlaid into each of the three steps leading up to the throne’s seat so that he would symbolically trample his enemies underfoot every time he mounted them.

  Raising his sword once more in salute to his departing troops, Shah Jahan turned and left the balcony. He must go to Mumtaz. Entering the courtyard of the haram, he saw her gilded and curtained litter and the eight eunuchs who were to carry it waiting ready. A few moments later, Mumtaz herself appeared, followed by fifteen-year-old Jahanara and twelve-year-old Roshanara.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve decided to use the litter – in your condition it’s safer than riding on an elephant.’

  ‘You advised it so often I could hardly disagree.’

  ‘Something else. For the moment at least it’s best that you and the haram party take a parallel route to avoid the thick dust the main column will raise. I’ve ordered eunuchs to walk beside your litter to cool you with peacock-feather fans and others to sprinkle the road ahead with rosewater. And you will be well protected. Five hundred of my best Rajput cavalrymen will escort you.’

  ‘You fuss and worry too much about me.’

  ‘Because I know a long and arduous journey lies ahead of us.’

  ‘It’s of my choosing. I’m stronger than you seem to think, as I’ve proved to you before. At least at the end of each day’s journey I will be there to bid you “mubarak manzil”, “welcome”.’

  ‘I think we should increase our pace – the more days that pass, the more we allow our enemies to consolidate their position.’ Malik Ali’s long face was earnest. ‘In this terrain we could easily manage at least five … even ten miles a day – more.’

  ‘B
ut why? According to despatches I received this morning, Zafir Abas has successfully withdrawn our forces back to Burhanpur with far fewer casualties than we anticipated. For some reason the forces of Bijapur and Golconda did little more than harry our rearguard.’ Shah Jahan glanced around at the members of his war council, sitting in a semicircle around him in the canopied tent.

  ‘Why haven’t they followed up their advantage? I suspect a trick,’ said his quartermaster Sadiq Beg, a grey-bearded veteran from the mountains of Baluchistan, taking an almond from the brass dish in front of him and crunching it with relish.

  Shah Jahan shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It’s difficult to think of what sort. More likely their early success surprised them as much as it did us and now they’re arguing over their next move. Bijapur and Golconda have never made easy allies. Their jealousy and hatred of ourselves only exceeds a little that they have of each other. But there is some other news … It seems that the invasion has encouraged one or two vassals within our southern borders to attempt to reassert their independence. My governor in Mandu reports that in the province of Mirapur the local raja hanged three Moghul tax collectors from a banyan tree and left their bodies swinging as meat for the vultures before leading his men to join our enemies.’

  ‘Aren’t such risings alone reason enough to push on as fast as we can?’ Malik Ali persisted.

  His master of horse was like a small dog refusing to let go of a rat, thought Shah Jahan. ‘Some such risings were almost inevitable, and as long as they remain small in scale and few in number our existing forces should be able to suppress them and punish the foolish perpetrators for their insolence. The raja in Mirapur is a bit of a special case. He is nearly in his dotage and is said to be ruled by his new young wife – a member of the Bijapur royal family. She was always likely to push him to join the rebels. If we have real cause, we will of course hasten our march or detach an advance force to the Deccan. As it is, we’re making better progress than I’d hoped. Rushing south would only exhaust our troops and pack animals so that they would need more time to recuperate before attacking the invader than if we proceed at a sensible pace. So, eager as I am to defeat our enemies quickly, we’d gain little advantage from increasing our speed.’