The Serpent's Tooth

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘I will tell your son that you refuse, and ask for his further instructions.’

  Shah Jahan saw that the Uzbek’s expression was more respectful than at the start of their interview and drew himself up, conscious that though a prisoner he still retained the aura of imperial authority his grandfather Akbar had so strongly urged him to cultivate. The governor hesitated, then said softly, ‘You maintain that you are still emperor, but if you watch from your terrace this evening towards sunset you will see that age and events overtake everyone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  But Makhdumi Khan clearly felt he had said enough. He gave an almost imperceptible bow of his head before turning to stride from the room.

  All that afternoon there was frenetic activity on the riverbank across from Shah Jahan’s apartments. At first, he paid no attention. All his thoughts were focused on the son who was dead and the son and grandson who were still alive but incarcerated in Gwalior. Would Aurangzeb order pousta to be fed to Sipihr too? He wished Jahanara were here with him … he needed her good sense and compassion more than ever as darkness enveloped his family – a miasma conjured by Aurangzeb for reasons that he still struggled to comprehend. Ambition was one thing – it had driven the Moghuls to great as well as terrible deeds – but spite and vindictiveness were something else.

  Sending Dara’s decomposing head had been an act of deliberate malice. Why did Aurangzeb hate him so much, and when had those feelings begun? Had they already been festering that day when Aurangzeb had defied his order to inspect the underground chamber of Dara’s mansion? At the time he had been too angry to consider what really lay behind his son’s strange behaviour … whether he had genuinely thought Dara intended to kill him and that his father would collude in his murder. Surely not. But Aurangzeb’s suspicions and insecurities ran deeper and further back than he had ever suspected. His humiliation and killing of Dara was calculated, cold-hearted revenge against his father as well as a brother he had envied and despised. It signalled a determination to rid himself of anyone who posed a threat. First Dara, then Murad. Who would be next? Probably Shah Shuja – wherever he might be – and his grandson Suleiman? Ever since Dara’s flight from Agra after the battle of Samugarh a good portion of Shah Jahan’s hopes had focused on Suleiman. He had longed to hear that his army was marching on Agra, but no more. Having slaughtered Dara, Aurangzeb wouldn’t hesitate to kill his eldest son, now his most serious rival for the throne. He wouldn’t care whether it was a clean death in battle or by the blade of a paid assassin creeping into Suleiman’s camp. One way or another Aurangzeb would have his way …

  Shah Jahan remained deep in contemplation – all of it bleak and dark – until finally the raucous clamour outside grew too loud to be ignored any longer. He had no intention of going out on to his terrace where he might be observed, but looking through a carved jali screen he could see well enough what was happening. About two hundred feet away on the opposite side of the Jumna soldiers had almost finished erecting a large green silk pavilion edged with gold and supported by tall, slender poles striped green and gold. At each corner, the fabric was tied back on either side with golden cords on to which, from the bright sparkle, gems had been sewn. Beneath the canopy the troops had spread the earth with rich carpets while on the strip of ground between the pavilion and the river itself they were arranging more carpets in rows like prayer rugs in the mosque. Two jewelled incense burners shaped like crouching tigers and almost as large had been positioned on either side of the pavilion and thin trails of white smoke were already issuing from the tigers’ open jaws, inside which perfumed crystals must have been lit.

  Curious crowds had already assembled. Straining to see what was going on, they were being held back by soldiers who had formed a cordon from one side of the canopy round its back to the other. Excited cries and shouts filled the air. He had long realised – even before the crowd roared their approval of Ismail Khan’s execution at the beginning of his reign – how fickle the people were and how short were their memories and loyalties. So many times he’d ridden at the head of his troops into the Agra fort while his attendants flung ornaments of beaten gold to his cheering subjects as they roared their enthusiasm for their ruler. Did a single person waiting so expectantly on the riverbank have a sympathetic thought to spare for their true emperor standing betrayed just across the river? Probably not. Like children craving entertainment and trinkets, not caring from whom they came, all their thoughts would be focused on the coming spectacle and Aurangzeb’s potential largesse.

  What was Aurangzeb planning? It wasn’t too long before he had his answer. A large, flat-bottomed barge of a design Shah Jahan had not seen before came slowly into view from downstream, rowed by a dozen men whom Shah Jahan did recognise as imperial boatmen who crewed the vessels usually kept moored beneath the fort walls for the emperor’s use. Bare backs glistening with sweat in the late afternoon sun, they were straining at the oars not only because they were battling the current but because of the weight of a tall object covered with a piece of oiled cloth positioned in the middle of the boat. It was so heavy that the vessel seemed to ride low in the water. As the boatmen nudged the bow in at an angle against the far bank, soldiers ran forward to grab ropes the oarsmen flung to them and heaved the boat a little farther up on to the flat, muddy bank.

  Soon soldiers climbed into the boat. One drew his dagger and began to saw at the thick ropes holding the object’s covering in place. It took some minutes before the ropes fell away and other men were finally able to pull off the oiled cloth. Shah Jahan gasped as he saw what it had been concealing. Facing towards him was his golden peacock throne. The twelve emerald-studded pillars supporting its domed roof blazed green in the sunlight. The gem-studded peacocks and trees set with rubies, diamonds, emeralds and pearls atop the pillars were dazzling.

  For a moment a kind of pride pushed aside Shah Jahan’s troubles. He and he alone had created this fabulous thing, personally selecting the best jewels from the treasure of his empire. No ruler since the days of King Solomon had possessed such a throne … When the idea had first come to him at the start of his reign he had still been young and full of hope. For just a few moments he was that man again, with his glory days still ahead of him and his family around him, but then the feeling faded. His family had imploded. This was no longer his throne. A usurping son had stolen it from him. As he watched, two of the oarsmen lowered the front of the barge, which must have been specially constructed for this purpose. A group of soldiers edged behind the throne and began to push. Slowly and painfully they inched it forward. When at last it started to emerge from the boat on to the bank Shah Jahan could see that it had been placed on a wooden platform with rollers at either end. After twenty more minutes’ pushing, the throne was finally in place beneath the canopy, its gleaming, glittering front facing directly towards the fort.

  Towards sunset, Makhdumi Khan had said … Glancing towards the horizon, Shah Jahan saw it wasn’t far off. As if on cue, moments later a series of strident trumpet blasts sounded, apparently from somewhere along the fort’s battlements. Then the great, silver-oared imperial barge – his barge – appeared from the same direction as the boat that had carried the throne. It had been re-gilded and banners of Moghul green fluttered from prow and stern, and its decks were deep with rose petals that drifted in the breeze like pink snowflakes. In the centre of the vessel shielded from the sun beneath a giant green umbrella stood Aurangzeb, dressed in cream-coloured robes with long ropes of pearls round his neck. On his head was the imperial turban with its white egret feathers and his fingers gleamed with gems. Everything about the way he was holding himself, from his straight back to his raised chin, suggested pride and authority.

  Two more boats were following. Shah Jahan recognised nearly every one of the thirty bright-robed courtiers aboard. Some were Aurangzeb’s commanders and nobles but among them were men he had thought loyal to him, even a few who had helped defend the fort during the siege. Aurangzeb h
ad bought them … or had they too simply bowed to the inevitable?

  Saddened by the sight, Shah Jahan left the jali screen and walked the room, feeling a little like one of his hunting leopards restlessly prowling its cage – except that the leopards sometimes had the chance to run free. He might never know freedom again … But eventually, even though he knew that whatever he was about to witness could only bring him pain, further fanfares of trumpets followed by the booming of kettledrums drew him back to the jali screen.

  Aurangzeb had disembarked and, flanked on each side by twelve bodyguards in silver breastplates, was making his way towards the peacock throne followed at a respectful distance by the courtiers. Reaching the throne, Aurangzeb paused for a moment, looked up at the dazzling canopy, then mounted its golden steps, turned and sat down. His courtiers ranged themselves before him. Then at a single shrill trumpet blast they fell to the ground, prostrating themselves in the age-old obeisance of the korunush, arms spread wide and faces pressed against the earth. At the further sounding of a trumpet they rose again. Next, a bearded man whom Shah Jahan hadn’t noticed before stepped forward. Dressed in a white robe and black turban he looked like a mullah. At a sign from Aurangzeb, he turned to face the courtiers and began a loud chant that Shah Jahan recognised at once as the prayer inaugurating the reign of a new Moghul emperor:

  ‘By the grace of God, and in succession to the glorious reigns of the mighty Genghis Khan and Timur, of Babur the Great and Humayun, of Akbar and Jahangir, of Shah Jahan …’

  As Shah Jahan heard his own name, for a moment he clenched his eyes tight shut.

  ‘… I now proclaim that Aurangzeb is the new Emperor of Hindustan. May his glorious reign bring light to his people so that they and their descendants will bless his name for centuries without end and his memory will be as a shaft of sunlight driving away the darkness of the world. Long life to the Ruler of the Age!’

  As the mullah ceased his sonorous chanting, Aurangzeb raised his right hand. From behind the throne emerged a line of qorchis, each carrying a heaped tray. From the glint Shah Jahan guessed what they were carrying – gold rupees, the traditional gift of a new emperor to his people. At a nod from Aurangzeb, the qorchis divided, half making their way to the right, the other half to the left, where the spectators were waiting. As they reached the cordon of soldiers they threw the contents of the trays into the air, showering the crowds with golden coins. There was a wild scrambling as people rushed for a share of the new emperor’s largesse. Meanwhile, more qorchis brought silken robes of honour and small bags doubtless containing money and jewels which Aurangzeb began handing to his nobles as each in turn approached the throne and knelt before him. Shah Jahan’s eyes narrowed as the tall figure of Khalilullah Khan advanced and Aurangzeb presented him with a sword whose jewelled scabbard flashed in the dying rays of the sun. The reward of treachery.

  By the time Aurangzeb had finished, the light was fading and attendants were thrusting burning torches into the ground at intervals along the riverbank. From the battlements of the fort came the crack and whizz of fireworks and bursts of gold and green stars patterned the sky above Aurangzeb. Unseen drums and trumpets were sounding and attendants carrying lanterns waited to escort the emperor and his courtiers back to the boats. So many lamps had been lit on the imperial barge that the dark waters of the Jumna shimmered gold around it.

  What had this ritual really been about, Shah Jahan wondered. Why had Aurangzeb chosen the riverbank as the place to proclaim himself emperor instead of the Hall of Public Audience within the fort? There was only one answer … Aurangzeb had chosen a spot directly opposite his father’s apartments in the fort because he had wanted, just as Makhdumi Khan had hinted, to show his father who was emperor now. Taking one last look through the jali, Shah Jahan saw his son still seated on his throne erect and motionless and looking directly towards him, as if he knew his father was watching and that after all these years he had his full attention at last.

  Chapter 23

  ‘He refuses to come to Agra to see me. Look what he writes … that I have forfeited the rights of a father …’ Shah Jahan held out Aurangzeb’s letter to Jahanara, whom Makhdumi Khan was now allowing to visit him each day.

  Over the past six months of their incarceration she herself had written several times to her brother begging him to come to Shah Jahan. She had advanced every argument she could think of – Shah Jahan’s age and frailty, the duty owed by a son to his father, even the love Aurangzeb had once had for her. She had reminded him of how he had rushed to her bedside after she had nearly burned to death. His replies had been polite but cold, their implication that by choosing to give her loyalty to their father she had forfeited any rights to his affection or attention, but as she read Aurangzeb’s brutal words to Shah Jahan she gasped.

  You ask me to come to you. Why should I? What good would it do either of us?

  You demand to know how I can treat you, my father, in this way. The answer is simple. You were never a father to me and so can have no claims on me.

  You never loved me. You slighted and neglected me in favour of your other children – the more so after the death of my mother. You scorned me when I advised you to follow more closely the teachings of our religion in your own life and that of the empire.

  You upbraid me for my treatment of the heretic Dara and of the murderer Murad as if the fact that they are my brothers should make me excuse their crimes. They deserved their fates and I acted within the law in punishing them. Indeed I would have been culpable if I had not. What’s more, your protests are the purest hypocrisy. You appear to forget you had my uncles Khusrau and Shahriyar killed for no better reason than that they stood between you and the fulfilment of your ambition, yet under the customs of our people their claims to the throne were no less than yours. You, not I, are the murderer – the truly guilty man.

  Father and daughter were silent for a minute or two. Then Shah Jahan said, ‘There is some truth in what he writes. I was responsible for the deaths of my half-brothers, but they had to die for the safety of all of you – my children – and of the dynasty. They died so that my sons, full brothers, would never have to face the dangers I had to. I was never easy in my mind about their deaths. Now it seems it was all for nothing … the old cycle of blood, of father against son, of brother against brother, has begun again. I blame myself. I was complacent when I should have been vigilant. I believed the rivalries that have cursed the Moghuls for generations could never happen in my family.’

  ‘You couldn’t have foreseen Aurangzeb’s behaviour.’

  ‘You did – you tried to warn me about him!’

  ‘No. I was worried that you and he were drawing apart but I never dreamed his discontent would lead him to rebel against you or to kill Dara …’ Jahanara’s voice shook. Fighting to retain her composure, she turned back to the rest of Aurangzeb’s letter.

  But now I must raise practical matters. I have wished to be merciful and give you time to adjust to your new circumstances. I have tolerated your abusive and accusing letters as the outpourings of an old man whose mental and physical powers are fading and who cannot accept that the times have moved on and he is no longer emperor. I have also borne your continued refusal over these past months to give up your imperial jewels, but my patience is becoming exhausted. You will either send me what I ask – including Timur’s ring – or I will have them taken from you. I hope you will act with dignity, but the choice is yours.

  Hearing a movement, Jahanara looked up. Her father was on his knees before the leather-bound chest in which he kept his most precious possessions. Taking a key on a slender gold chain from round his neck, he opened the chest and then reaching inside began flinging out the contents – enamelled chains, necklaces of rubies, emeralds and diamonds and heavy gold bracelets. Out they all came to lie gleaming on the carpet.

  ‘Father, what are you doing?’

  ‘He has stolen my throne but some things will never be his … like Timur’s ring, which wi
ll go with me to my grave – or this!’ So saying he took out what he must have been searching for – a roll of dark green velvet. Clearing a space, he laid it down on the carpet and unrolled it to reveal a long, triple-stranded necklace of creamy, perfectly matched lustrous pearls. ‘My father gave me this when I won my first battle. It once belonged to my grandfather Akbar.’

  Getting to his feet with some difficulty, with the pearls trailing from his right hand, Shah Jahan walked to the corner of the room and knelt down again, this time next to a large inlaid marble carpet weight. Spreading the pearls out in front of him, he picked up the weight with both hands and began pounding the pearls, crushing some to a powder while others, freed from the silk cord on which they’d been strung, went rolling across the floor.

  ‘Father … Father, please don’t!’ But Shah Jahan paid no attention to Jahanara. There was something frightening about his cold, concentrated expression as he continued to crush the pearls, sending up clouds of filmy white dust. When he had finished, he looked up at her, chest heaving with effort and tears in his eyes.

  Roshanara stared into Jahanara’s face. ‘Timur’s ring must be found.’

  An hour earlier Jahanara had been surprised to hear a fanfare of trumpets, and hurrying outside had been in time to watch the painted elephant carrying her sister in a closed silver howdah that had once been her own make its slow way into the haram courtyard. Roshanara was magnificently dressed in stiff gold-embroidered maroon silk. Gems glittered on her fingers and round her neck while a filet of twisted gold set with rubies was wound through her hennaed hair, which beneath the dye would be as grey as Jahanara’s own. Now she knew what had brought Roshanara back to the Agra fort after all these months.