The Serpent's Tooth

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘It still seems to me incredible that ground so close to the river can support the weight.’

  Ustad Ahmad smiled. ‘Majesty, I’ve checked my calculations again and again and I am entirely certain, provided we strengthen the bank in the right way, that it will. I’ve already ordered the workers to dig shafts close to the riverbank, varying their depths to compensate for the slope, and then line them with bricks and a cement made of lime and sand and fill them with rubble and more cement. I’ve also ordered them to position piers on top of the shafts to support the platform.’

  ‘But aren’t labourers digging down on the riverbank too?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty. They’re excavating large holes in which they’re burying cement-filled ebony boxes to provide added reinforcement against the rise and fall of the Jumna.’

  Shah Jahan nodded. Ustad Ahmad had thought of everything.

  ‘We now have twenty thousand workers. Those are their living quarters.’ The architect pointed to the south of the building site. ‘As well as their huts there are four caravanserais for the merchants whose camel and mule trains arrive daily and for the boatmen bringing materials by barge along the Jumna. They have named their city Mumtazabad in honour of the late empress. I hope that doesn’t offend you, Majesty.’

  ‘No, it’s fitting. But tell me, have you everything you need? Is enough sandstone arriving?’

  ‘Yes, we already have a good supply. While you were still in the south, I obtained Prince Dara’s permission to construct a road of packed earth ten miles long so that the teams of oxen can haul their carts laden with stone from the local quarries here more easily. Would you like to see the masons at work, Majesty? A group are over there beneath that cotton awning.’

  A middle-aged man in a white dhoti with a red Hindu tilak mark on his forehead was bending over a large, square block of sandstone, watched by two youths who by their looks were clearly his sons. As Shah Jahan drew closer he saw that the mason was hammering a straight row of small nail-like wedges into the block. Suddenly aware of the emperor and his architect, the man jerked upright.

  ‘We didn’t mean to disturb you. Please continue,’ said Shah Jahan.

  With a nervous look at his visitors the mason resumed his work, sweat beading on his muscular arms as he drove the line of wedges deeper into the stone. After several minutes he passed the hammer to one of his sons, who continued hitting the wedges until suddenly the sandstone split cleanly. Using a large length of wood, the younger man levered one of the pieces aside. The mason ran his fingers over the newly cut surface with a grunt of satisfaction, then took a fine chisel and began almost tenderly to smooth the edges.

  ‘The masons work the stone with their chisels and polish it with grit until the surface becomes as smooth as alabaster,’ explained Ustad Ahmad. ‘When each block is ready they will lift it into place and secure it with cement, iron dowels and clamps. You’ll not detect a crack between them.’

  But Shah Jahan’s attention was on the mason, who was incising a triangle into the stone. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Making my mark. This is the greatest project of my life and I want to leave some sign that it was my work.’

  ‘Other masons have been doing the same, Majesty. I saw no reason to forbid it.’

  ‘And I don’t either. I’m pleased the craftsmen have such pride in their work. Here, take this.’ Shah Jahan handed some coins to the mason. ‘Thank you for your dedication and your skill.’ Then he turned away. ‘Ustad Ahmad, you’ve created a design of great beauty, but something is still lacking.’

  ‘Majesty?’ Ustad Ahmad looked more surprised than disturbed.

  Ever since his dream of a bejewelled Mumtaz standing in the doorway of her tomb, Shah Jahan had been thinking how best to put his vision into effect. ‘I want more ornament for the tomb. I want gems inlaid into the marble. Few people know more about jewels than myself. I will select the best from my treasure houses. If there isn’t enough of any stone – green jade, perhaps, or dark blue lapis lazuli – I’ll import it from beyond my borders. When I have chosen the materials I will have some of my Hindu subjects who are, I know, skilled in the art they call panchi kura – the inlaying of stone – do the work. I may also employ European craftsmen – I remember two Italians who visited my father’s court when I was a boy. They brought pictures of the city of their birth – Florence, they called it – which looked like paintings but in fact were composed of tiny pieces of semi-precious stones.’

  ‘What patterns do you want inlaid into the marble, Majesty? Geometric designs, perhaps?’

  ‘No. Flowers, green leaves and curling tendrils that look as real as if they were truly growing over the mausoleum, so that my wife’s tomb becomes a living thing. I want some further decoration too. I wish other craftsmen to breathe life into the cold marble walls with relief carvings of tall irises and slender-stemmed tulips bending in the breeze as they do in Kashmir. I know it can be done.’

  But O thou soul at peace,

  Return thou unto thy Lord, well pleased, and well pleasing unto Him,

  Enter thou among My servants,

  And enter thou My Paradise.

  ‘What do you think, Father? Have Dara and I chosen well from the Koran? It wasn’t easy.’ Jahanara spoke softly.

  Shah Jahan nodded. Soon after returning to Agra he’d asked his two eldest children to suggest some wording. The verse was exactly right to inlay around the frame of the gateway, reminding visitors that they were entering both a spiritual place and an earthly heaven. ‘I’ll order Amanat Khan to lay out the words for the stonecutters to chisel out.’

  ‘He is a true artist. His calligraphy is so fluid.’

  ‘That’s why I summoned him from Shiraz.’ Shah Jahan looked down at the table on which stood a wooden model of the entire complex. The four white minarets – one at each corner of the marble plinth – were an inspired touch. In his excitement to convince him they would enhance the design, Ustad Ahmad had called them ‘ladders to heaven’. Just to look at the model gave Shah Jahan pleasure, but then his smile faded. ‘It will be many years, of course, before the tomb is ready to receive your mother’s body. Meanwhile I can do little except inspect progress and authorise the payment of the bills my treasurer keeps presenting.’

  ‘Would you like me to see to the bills? As First Lady of the Empire I should have some responsibilities.’

  ‘I gave you that title because it was your mother’s, not to make a drudge of you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be any more onerous than dealing with the correspondence and petitions your steward sent me on your behalf while you were still in the Deccan. Anyway, it would provide me with an occupation. You’ve been giving Dara more tasks – why shouldn’t I do more too?’

  It was true. He had begun entrusting Dara with increasing responsibility, like a review of the army’s equipment. Jahanara’s role must of necessity be more prosaic – things a woman could do from the haram, as Mumtaz had done before her – but she was intelligent enough to know that. ‘Very well. I will have the bills sent to you and I’ll find you other duties if you want. I’ll also give you your mother’s ivory seal to authorise imperial firmans on my behalf.’

  Shah Jahan saw Jahanara’s delight. If he was honest, he’d be as glad of her help as he was of Dara’s. With their open natures and quick minds the two of them were so similar. Small wonder they were close. But what would his eldest daughter’s future be? Akbar had established the rule that an emperor’s daughters should not marry, to reduce the potential for the bloody disputes between rival family claimants to the throne that had tainted the Moghuls’ early years in Hindustan. Yet why should royal daughters be denied the happiness their brothers enjoyed?

  Mumtaz would have known instinctively what was both prudent and fair … but maybe fairness didn’t come into it. What mattered most was ensuring the dynasty’s survival, as Akbar – wise and humane though he was – had understood. Shah Jahan glanced at Jahanara, absorbed in the model. He would find othe
r ways of making his daughters happy.

  ‘Jahanara, what you’ve said reminds me that you’re a grown woman. If you’d like an independent household I will give you your own mansion. There’s that handsome one that used to belong to your great-grandfather Ghiyas Beg. Would you like that?’

  She considered but only for a moment. ‘Yes, thank you, Father. But I forgot … I’ve some news. Satti al-Nisa tells me Nicholas Ballantyne has returned to Agra. He’s living in the bazaar.’

  ‘Nicholas?’ The last time Shah Jahan had seen the young Englishman had been soon after he’d come to the throne. Hadn’t he departed on some trading venture … to Kabul or perhaps Herat? Nicholas had remained faithful to him during his family’s dangerous years as outcasts and exiles. He had even been his emissary to his father Jahangir, helping them to make their peace. ‘I would like to see him again. He was our friend when we had few.’

  Next day, as Nicholas Ballantyne bowed before him, Shah Jahan thought he had broadened over the years since he had last seen him. His shoulders strained against his tight-fitting leather tunic and his calves beneath the outlandish slashed pantaloons these foreigners wore were knotted with muscle. But when he raised his head Nicholas’s eyes were the same piercing blue beneath his unruly butter-coloured hair, streaked almost white by the hot Indian sun.

  ‘Welcome back to my court. I hear you’re lodging in the bazaar. My steward can find lodgings for you within the fort if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you, Majesty.’

  ‘What’s brought you to Agra?’

  ‘To be honest, I hope to find employment at your court.’

  ‘Didn’t you decide to try your hand as a trader?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t prosper. With the money I’d earned in your service I went to Kabul and bought Persian carpets and Chinese silks in the great bazaar to ship back to Europe. However, Ghilzais ambushed the return caravan I joined as we descended the narrow Khoord-Kabul pass just before dusk. They killed many merchants in their initial attack. The few of us who survived only did so by scrambling up the hillside and taking refuge behind the rocks in the half-light. Once the Ghilzais had seized our mules with their cargos they lost interest in us.’ He smiled a little ruefully.

  Shah Jahan, though, was frowning. Nicholas’s words had reminded him that for some time his governor in Kabul had reported growing lawlessness among the tribes inhabiting the passes – Afridis and Kafirs as well as Ghilzais. ‘What did you do after you were robbed?’

  ‘I made my way south to Kandahar and eventually across the Helmand river into Persia, where I joined the shah’s army for a time.’

  ‘Did you never think of returning to your own country?’

  Nicholas shook his head. ‘No. There’s little for me there. My parents are dead – my elder brother has inherited my father’s estate. Besides … I love this land – I have ever since I came ashore with Sir Thomas. That’s why I returned here from Persia. I’m not ready to go home – at least not yet.’

  Sir Thomas Roe … Shah Jahan had almost forgotten the spindly-shanked English ambassador whose qorchi Nicholas had been.

  ‘Nicholas, you were always loyal to me. To show my gratitude, I’ll appoint you a captain in my army headquarters – you’ll find some familiar faces there. Your knowledge of the shah’s army – especially his weaponry – will be useful. I suspect – indeed I know – he has ambitions to seize territory on the fringes of my empire. I’ve asked my eldest son to review my army’s preparedness. You can help him.’

  ‘I’d be glad to, Majesty. I remember Prince Dara well.’ Then Nicholas added more hesitantly, ‘I learned of the empress’s death while I was in Persia. I was truly sorry.’

  Shah Jahan nodded but said nothing, then rose, signalling the interview was over.

  Twenty-four hours later Shah Jahan looked round the familiar faces before him in his marble audience hall. This was the first time he’d summoned his full council since returning to Agra. Raising his hand to quell the hubbub of expectant conversation, he began to speak.

  ‘The tribes in the north think they can act with impunity, plundering our merchants in the passes leading to and from Kabul. I have heard first-hand accounts of their crimes and studied reports from my governor in the city. Perhaps these criminals believe I’ve been too preoccupied with the Deccan to notice their misdeeds … if so, they’ll soon discover their error. I’ll not tolerate their defiance. Unless our roads are secure, trade can’t prosper.’

  All around, his counsellors were murmuring agreement. ‘Ashok Singh,’ Shah Jahan continued. ‘You proved your courage and ingenuity in the Deccan. I have chosen you to rid me of this menace. I’ve decided to place you in command of ten thousand troops – horsemen and musketeers. You will advance up through the passes and punish these bandits as they deserve. Execute the ringleaders, pull down their forts and villages and drive off their flocks. Make them understand that death and destruction are the only alternatives to accepting Moghul authority.’

  ‘I suspect the Persian shah has been offering the tribes money to stir up unrest. A show of force may make him think again,’ Asaf Khan said quietly.

  ‘I’m sure that’s right.’ Mumtaz’s father was growing more frail in body but his brain remained as acute as ever.

  ‘I’ll assemble my forces quickly so that we can complete our mission before the next cold season puts an end to campaigning. I have only one question: should I take cannon? We’ll move more speedily without them,’ Ashok Singh said.

  ‘What do you think, Kamran Iqbal?’ Shah Jahan asked.

  ‘I agree. They will only hold him up. If he needs cannon the governor can supply them from Kabul.’

  It was good advice, even though his old comrade’s face looked drawn with pain. The stump of the arm he had lost at Lahore had never healed properly. ‘So be it, then. I’ll have the necessary instructions drawn up.’

  Later, when the details of the campaign had been debated and agreed and his counsellors and commanders had departed, Shah Jahan sat for a while. He was glad he’d acted decisively. He mustn’t let his preoccupation with Mumtaz’s tomb make him neglect his empire’s security … Yet though he knew he’d sounded firm and authoritative, he’d felt curiously detached during the meeting. He’d been reminded of watching some puppets a group of travelling players from the east had once brought to his court. Cut from pieces of leather to resemble the outlines of men and women and mounted on sticks, the puppets themselves had been concealed by a silk screen behind which a row of oil lamps had been lit. Only their shadows had been visible as they went through their act. That was how he had felt – a shadow emperor, moving mechanically to create an illusion for his audience.

  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 a
ttendants 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.