Shah Jahan sat down and for a moment closed his eyes. Dara knew that he was exhausted. Despite his continuing weakness he had sat up through much of the night with himself, Suleiman, Jai Singh, Jaswant Singh and his other commanders, studying maps and discussing logistics — how many troops were ready to move, how long it would take to muster further units, how many cannon he had, how many war elephants there were in the imperial stables and how many more could be provided by his Rajput allies. Only a few weeks ago Shah Jahan had been on his sickbed but now, even if it was draining any reserves of strength remaining in his frail body, his steely determination was inspiring confidence in others. Dara could see it in the counsellors’ faces. He felt it in himself.
He rose to his feet and raised his arms. ‘Long live my father, the emperor. Zinderbad Padishah Shah Jahan!’ As the council’s spirited response echoed around him, his own spirits rose further. As his father had said, their cause was just.
‘Father, Raja Jai Singh is here.’ Dara’s voice broke into Shah Jahan’s slumber. Despite his recovery, he sometimes dozed after his midday meal — itself a much less sumptuous affair than when he had been in his prime. Just some chicken baked in the tandoor and a little saffron rice. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Shah Jahan sat up on the gold brocade couch on which he had been lying, his mind quickly focusing. In recent weeks he’d received few reports of the progress of Suleiman’s army. ‘What’s Jai Singh’s news? Why has he come in person?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ve not seen him. I was in the haram resting with Nadira when an attendant told me of his arrival. I thought you and I should hear his report together. I’ve sent word that he should join us in your private audience chamber in a quarter of an hour.’
In fact it was only ten minutes before a qorchi announced the ruler of Amber to the imperial father and son. As the raja entered he looked as urbane and well groomed as ever, his luxuriant moustaches faultlessly curled and pomaded, his cream robe spotless. Despite the best efforts of attendants in an adjacent chamber pulling the strings of a great punka of peacock’s feathers so that it swayed back and forth like a giant butterfly’s wing above the emperor’s head, the audience chamber was hot and airless, but Jai Singh wasn’t even perspiring.
Anxious and unable to read from the raja’s face what his news was, Dara in an unaccustomed breach of protocol spoke before his father. ‘Is your news good or bad, Jai Singh?’
Slightly taken aback, the raja responded, ‘A mixture, Highness.’
‘Well then, Dara,’ said Shah Jahan, ‘Jai Singh must let me have his report of events in the order they happened so that I can judge them for myself.’
‘I will, Majesty.’ The raja bowed, recognising in Shah Jahan’s words an implicit rebuke to his over-eager son. ‘We made swift progress in our flotilla of barges down first the Jumna and then the Ganges, pausing only occasionally to exercise the horses and at Allahabad to take on more weapons and stores and to rendezvous with Dilir Khan. It took us less than a month to cover five hundred miles before — acting on information brought to us by a local vassal who had himself rowed from his riverside fort to intercept us — your grandson gave the order to disembark near Varanasi. In doing so, he followed the advice of myself and Dilir Khan, as he did in leaving some of the heavy equipment behind and setting out immediately to intercept Shah Shuja and his men, who the vassal had told us were moving west, parallel to the north bank of the river about twelve miles inland.
‘During the late evening of the next day, some of our scouts returned to camp. They had been sweeping well ahead of our main body when they saw at a distance what looked like campfires burning. Dismounting and creeping closer they found Shah Shuja’s camp quiet and scarcely a sentry posted. Hearing their report, we agreed in a war council to break camp just after midnight and attack Shah Shuja’s army at dawn as they prepared for the day ahead. Mindful of your strictures not to shed the blood of your family, Prince Suleiman ordered us to avoid firing on what looked like command positions and to seek to capture rather than kill Shah Shuja.
‘All went well until we were pushing through some scrubland less than a mile or so from Shah Shuja’s camp. An agonised scream tore the air and our leading scout suddenly pitched from his saddle. His terrified mount galloped back towards us, reins dangling. For a moment we thought an unseen sentry had killed the scout but then, as the horse got closer, we saw great bleeding slashes on its rump as it pushed its way into and through our ranks, unsettling our own horses, followed by a great male tiger. He was the cause of the wounds and the scout’s scream — not an enemy attack. On seeing our numbers the tiger veered away back into the night. However, the hubbub had roused the few sentries Shah Shuja had posted. They began to yell warnings.
‘We immediately dug our heels into our horses’ flanks and charged for the camp, levelling our lances and drawing our swords as we went. We were scarcely a hundred yards away from the nearest tents when a few ragged musket volleys crackled out and one of my qorchis tumbled from his horse. Then we were among the tents, slashing at the guy ropes with our swords to collapse them on to the occupants and thrusting into them with our lances. Soon the fabric of the tents was stained with blood and wounded men were struggling from beneath it to surrender. Within what could have been no more than a quarter of an hour, we had penetrated right into the centre of the camp. Then I saw a large phalanx of horsemen gallop away and disappear into a clump of woodland to the east. I shouted to Prince Suleiman that Shah Shuja must be among them but he replied to let them go … that we could deal with him later. For the moment it was better to concentrate on the rout of the remainder of Shah Shuja’s forces and the seizure of the camp with all the valuable equipment it contained, including the magnificent war elephants he had never been able to deploy.’
‘Was it my son who fled? If not, what happened to him?’
‘I believe it was Shah Shuja, Majesty, but I can’t be sure. The group escaped. We did not capture Shah Shuja anywhere else — nor was he among the dead or wounded,’ Jai Singh added hastily, seeing the look on Shah Jahan’s face.
‘But surely this is all good news? Under your guidance Suleiman has defeated Shah Shuja.’
‘Yes, Majesty, but what happened next is the bad news.’
‘Do you mean Shah Shuja’s forces regrouped and attacked you?’
‘No, Majesty, it’s not that — simply that your grandson insisted that our forces follow the remnants of Shah Shuja’s army, at least half of whom escaped one way or the other and were, we soon discovered, fleeing east towards Patna. Dilir Khan and I argued hard that Shah Shuja was already spent as a contender for your throne and that Aurangzeb and Murad who, as far as we knew, were undefeated, now posed a far greater threat. We wanted to lead our troops, whom we considered the very cream of your army, back west where they were most needed. Prince Suleiman just would not agree and as our commander we had to obey him. The most I could achieve was his permission to return to Agra with my personal retainers and bodyguard to report back to you while Dilir Khan stayed with him as his counsellor.’
‘Have you heard any more from Suleiman’s forces?’
‘Yes, only yesterday. A hard-riding cossid reached me from Dilir Khan. He and Suleiman are a hundred and twenty miles east of Varanasi, pursuing their adversaries into the jungles and marshes of Bengal.’
Shah Jahan frowned. Jai Singh was right: the news was mixed. Shah Shuja had been routed but Suleiman was behaving as if he were on a hunt rather than engaged in a deadly contest. All would be well if Jaswant Singh succeeded in defeating Aurangzeb and Murad, but if not Suleiman’s men would be needed. His reckless pursuit of Shah Shuja must stop. Shah Jahan would send orders at once recalling the prince to Agra.
The spring sunshine — warm but not overly fierce — felt good on his face. Shah Jahan was glad to be on horseback again as he urged his bay stallion into a gallop. It wasn’t long before the red sandstone gateway of Akbar’s great tomb at Sikandra loomed before him. Needing time and sol
itude to absorb the latest news, he had felt a sudden impulse to visit the final resting place of the grandfather who had taught him so much about the duties of an emperor. What would Akbar have said about the crisis now confronting his favourite grandson? Akbar himself had never faced such peril, perhaps because he had been a better ruler, more assiduous and astute in reading the mood of his empire …
As green-turbaned guards snapped to attention, Shah Jahan dismounted stiffly. Either through age or the aftermath of his illness — probably both — the ride had tested and tired his muscles and bones more than he had anticipated. Throwing his reins to a qorchi, he signalled his escort to remain outside and walked alone through the gateway. As he emerged into the gardens beyond, a monkey, taken by surprise, scampered off screeching and a trio of deer grazing beneath a plane tree raised their heads and looked towards him. But Shah Jahan’s eyes were on his grandfather’s tomb directly ahead at the end of a long raised sandstone path shaded by trees. The tomb was too solid for beauty but its bulk seemed to embody Akbar’s spirit. He had been a big and powerful man, physically and mentally, expanding his empire and placing it on foundations as firm and deep as those that supported his burial place. Slowly, Shah Jahan made his way down the path and reaching the end sat on one of two marble benches facing the tomb. He had come here to think but, exhausted by the ride and the shock of the day’s events, almost immediately his eyes began to close.
Footsteps on the sandstone paving woke him with a start. Standing, he turned to see someone walking quickly towards him but the shadows cast by the trees made it impossible to see who it was. Why had his bodyguards admitted anyone when he’d asked to be left alone? Instinctively his right hand went to the dagger at his belt. ‘Who are you? Who permitted you to intrude on my privacy?’ he called.
The newcomer paused. Shah Jahan saw golden hair — not as bright or as thick as it had once been but unmistakable all the same.
‘Approach.’ He waited as Nicholas Ballantyne came closer.
‘Majesty, forgive me for interrupting you. The captain of your guard knows me. When I told him I had urgent information for you, he allowed me to enter.’
Shah Jahan let his hand drop back to his side. Now that the Englishman was closer he could see that his face was gaunt and there were deep circles beneath his eyes. ‘My daughter wrote to you, I know, expressing my … regret at the … misunderstanding that caused you to leave Agra.’
‘Majesty, that’s not why I’ve ridden so hard to find you. I’ve something to tell you that cannot — must not — wait.’ Nicholas’s words tumbled out.
‘Speak, then.’
‘I was in Surat waiting to embark for England when the forces of your son Murad attacked the city. They smashed through the walls with their cannon and looted the East India Company’s treasury … From what I learned from those I met on the road from Surat, one of Murad’s generals led the assault. The prince himself was already riding south with an even larger force to rendezvous with Prince Aurangzeb … I knew I must bring you this news at once. I …’ Seeing Shah Jahan’s faint, sad smile, Nicholas tailed off.
‘I appreciate your coming, but I already knew about the attack on Surat. Even before the event I heard that Murad planned to seize the city and its treasuries but I had no troops to despatch who could arrive in time …’
‘I’m relieved you know, Majesty. My worry was that I’d be too late.’
‘And what action do you think I’ve taken?’
‘Sent an army to intercept Murad before he and his brother join forces?’
‘Quite right. In fact, I did it before I heard the definitive news about Surat. You look surprised, Nicholas. You don’t believe my rebellious sons’ claims that I’ve become too enfeebled to rule, do you?’
Seeing Nicholas’s hurt expression Shah Jahan softened his tone — after all, the Englishman had had no need to return to Agra rather than take ship for his homeland. ‘Matters have moved more quickly than you realise. You’ve come back to Agra in one of my darkest hours since the death of my empress. You thought you had important news to tell me — for which I thank you. But now let me tell you something … Only a few hours ago I learned that Aurangzeb and Murad had joined forces by the time Raja Jaswant Singh and the strong army I had sent to confront them caught up with them at Dharmat, not far from Ujjain. Jaswant Singh was misinformed — or perhaps deliberately misled — about the strength of his enemies’ artillery and ordered a frontal attack. As his Rajput horsemen galloped into battle over open ground, the rebel cannon cut them down. When the rebels followed their cannonade with a cavalry charge of their own, our troops broke under the impact and scattered, many — Jaswant Singh included — into the Rajasthani desert.’
‘Where are Aurangzeb and Murad now?’
‘I don’t know for certain. If I were them I’d be making for the Chambal river, the last obstacle between them and Agra. Naturally I’ve despatched scouts south to report to me the moment their forces appear.’
‘What will you do then, Majesty?’
‘The only thing I can — send my remaining troops to block their advance. Prince Dara must take the field for the honour and salvation of the empire — for everything my grandfather achieved and now hangs in the balance.’
Chapter 18
Nicholas sat relaxed on his chestnut horse atop a low hill rising from the plain about four miles southwest of Agra. Looking back in the soft early morning light he could still see the familiar outline of the Taj Mahal on the horizon. To him, the dome was a teardrop. The coarser minds among his mercenaries, of whom at his own request he had once more taken command, insisted it was nothing but a woman’s breast and its gold finial a fine pert nipple. In the pre-dawn hours Dara had despatched Nicholas and his five hundred men — disease, wounds and desertions had much reduced their number since the beginning of the northern campaign — to check the early stages of his route before he himself led the main body of his army out towards the Chambal river.
As, flaming torches in their hands, they had made their way down the steep ramp, through the towering gateway and out across the plain they had come upon nothing to concern them militarily. Nicholas had relished what to him was the wonderful and unique scent of Hindustan — the mixture of the smells of earth, night-flowering plants such as the champa, dung cooking fires and spices, as the country dwellers began to awake and prepare for the new day. He had heard nothing beyond the jingling of the harnesses of his men’s horses, the occasional wild screech of a peacock and the nocturnal howl of some wakeful village hound swiftly taken up by its newly roused fellows.
Now, though, the peace was being broken literally and metaphorically. Dara and his main army were beginning their march to face his brothers Aurangzeb and Murad in battle in person. Civil war was under way, with all its bitterness and divisions within families, high and low. He had seen enough of it during his early days in Hindustan as Shah Jahan fought for the throne to know its bloody perils and consequences. Later, letters from his older brother at home on the family estates in the west of England had told him of the civil war raging in his own country — of the execution of the king and the establishment of a people’s parliament. Its puritanical leader insisted on the following of a fundamentalist faith as strict and austere as any prescribed by Aurangzeb and his mullahs, banning even harmless festivities such as dancing around the maypole and the theatre.
Almost instinctively Nicholas put his hand to one of the two pistols in his sash. They had arrived in a tightly bound parcel accompanying his brother’s last letter. Such weapons were rarely seen in Hindustan. They should however prove useful in the fighting to come, even if he was unlikely to have the necessary time in the press of battle to reload them. He must make each of their single shots count, something his initial attempts had shown was difficult to achieve at much more than fifteen yards.
An ear-splitting blast jolted Nicholas from his reverie. It came from a long-stemmed trumpet held by an outrider of the vanguard as it approached.
The vanguard, all mounted on matching black horses and wearing tunics and turbans of Moghul green, were advancing thirty abreast. The front two ranks were made up of trumpeters interspersed with drummers who beat out a steady tattoo on the drums mounted on each side of the saddles of their horses who were so well trained as to appear oblivious of the noise. Behind the musicians the next ranks were of straight-backed cavalrymen. Except for those — one in every six, Nicholas guessed — who gripped the wooden staves of green banners blowing gently in the breeze, they held erect long lances with green pennants. Beyond them came further lines of horsemen, the pennants at their lance tips seeming to roll like the waves of a gentle sea swell or a ripple of wind through an autumn cornfield as their riders bobbed in their saddles.
After some minutes through the golden dust haze Nicholas saw a phalanx of war elephants approaching, each with a great howdah and a coat of overlapping steel plate armour. The individual plates were small to allow the elephants to move freely. Nicholas couldn’t help remembering how he had once tried to count the number in each coat, getting to over three thousand before giving up. As well as their war coats, every elephant had an outsize cutlass securely tied to each tusk. The tusks themselves were painted blood red and some filed to a sharp point to inflict the maximum damage at close quarters. From about a third of the howdahs poked the barrels of gajnals, the small cannon so effective in a war of movement because the elephants could transport them relatively quickly into the thick of the action.
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