The Serpent's Tooth Page 3

  Sadiq Beg nodded. ‘Yes. Let our enemies wait … let them do the sweating. Give the rulers of Golconda and Bijapur time to contemplate their folly. Let them fall out with each other about who shall take precedence on the march and whose tent pride of place in the camp.’

  Shah Jahan turned in his howdah to glance back over his shoulder. Behind, as far as the horizon, hung a heavy curtain of dust but through it he caught the occasional glitter of the long, broad-headed lances of the mounted rearguard. The very earth seemed to shudder beneath so many feet, animal and human. From all along the line came the wail of long-stemmed trumpets and the steady beat of the mounted drummers whose job was to help the army maintain its pace. His officials measured the length of each day’s march with a piece of knotted rope and reported to him each evening. After six weeks they were approaching the town of Ujjain, over two-thirds of the way to Burhanpur. Tomorrow would be Mumtaz’s birthday. In his mind he yet again went over the arrangements for the celebrations he was planning in the camp. Every detail must be perfect …

  Suddenly Shah Jahan heard fast approaching hooves. A lone rider burst from a patch of scrub to his right and galloped towards him. At once his bodyguard closed ranks around his elephant, drawing their swords. But as the rider drew closer and reined in, Shah Jahan recognised the hawk-nosed features of one of his chief scouts – a young Rajput named Rai Singh – and gestured to his guards to let him approach. The scout slid from the saddle and touched his hand to his breast.

  ‘What’s happened? Speak!’

  ‘A serious incident, Majesty. The wood and boat bridge we constructed over the Chambal river broke up as the first artillery and baggage wagons of the vanguard were crossing. Some of our men have drowned and we’ve lost two cannon and their bullock teams.’

  ‘The bridge can’t have been properly built. Who was the officer responsible?’

  ‘Suleiman Khan. But, Majesty, he says there was nothing wrong with the bridge’s construction. He believes someone deliberately cut through the bridge’s rope bindings and ordered me to inform you at once.’

  Sabotage? If so, this wouldn’t be the first time it had happened, thought Shah Jahan. Two weeks ago someone had crept into one of the animal enclosures and hamstrung some of the oxen. They had been discovered lowing piteously and close to death from loss of blood. There had been no alternative but to slaughter them for the pot. He had put that incident down to some local malcontent, but perhaps the invaders had despatched men north to harry his army’s movement. ‘Bring me my horse,’ he ordered.

  Ten minutes later Shah Jahan was galloping by Rai Singh’s side towards the Chambal. As he breasted the dunes bordering the river’s northern shore, a pair of herons took fright and soared, slender legs trailing, into the hot blue sky. Shah Jahan’s attention though, as he reined in, was focused on the river below him. His soldiers were struggling in the fast-flowing green waters among a moving jumble of twisted wood and capsized boats to retrieve equipment and supplies and to prevent further damage to the bridge. Other boats had drifted a little downstream only to become enmeshed with floating debris in the thick clumps of reeds. As he watched, two men clambered up the slippery bank dragging a comrade whose face was contorted with pain and whose limp and bloodied arm had clearly been crushed. Two more men were carrying a rough wooden stretcher along the riverbank. On it lay a body, arms dangling. Further along the bank what seemed to be several corpses were piled up, feet protruding from beneath the rough cotton cover that had been thrown over them.

  ‘Send Suleiman Khan to me at once,’ Shah Jahan told Rai Singh, who kicked his horse down the steep, sandy slopes to the river. While he waited, Shah Jahan surveyed the destruction more closely. Over half of the boat bridge stretching from the middle of the river to the far side was still intact, but the rest had broken apart except for three or four tall wooden posts used to tether the boats. The long barrel of a cannon was sticking out of the water while nearby floated the body of a white bullock still entangled in the traces attaching it to the gun carriage. Two more lay lifeless at the water’s edge. Was all this indeed the result of a deliberate attempt to slow his progress and endanger his men, or was it simply carelessness? He was not sure which he would find the more disturbing.

  Anger and frustration were rising inside him as Suleiman Khan – a stout man – laboured up the dunes towards him, his tunic dark with sweat.

  ‘Majesty.’ He bowed his head.

  ‘Tell me the truth. Have you been negligent in your duties?’

  ‘Never, Majesty. This bridge was well and strongly constructed – I swear that on my life. We used good wood and the best rope. We completed it last night and I myself drove a heavy wagon across it to test its strength. The bridge broke up because someone tampered with it. Look, Majesty …’ Suleiman Khan produced two lengths of rope from a jute bag slung across his chest. ‘These were some of the smaller bridge ties we used close to the bank. See how the ends have been cut through – they’re not frayed by wear. We found them caught in the reeds, together with others similarly cut. When we retrieve some of the bigger hawsers, I’m certain we will find the same thing.’

  ‘Let me look.’ Shah Jahan inspected the ropes then handed them back. ‘You’re right. This was deliberate. Did the guards see anything last night?’

  ‘No, Majesty.’

  ‘Quadruple the guard and repair the bridge as quickly as possible. I will send soldiers to the surrounding villages to offer a reward for information about the perpetrators.’

  As he galloped back towards the main column, Shah Jahan pondered what had happened. The rebels and invaders did indeed seem prepared to adopt unconventional measures. As his army approached the south, the risks would grow. He must be vigilant and ensure his men were as well. He would increase the size of the screen of lightly armed but well-mounted horsemen who surrounded the column as it marched. But how vulnerable was his camp? The imperial quarters were secure, he reassured himself as his thoughts turned to Mumtaz. After each day’s journey, she and their daughters were carried in their litters through the wooden gatehouse into an enclosure around which protective palisades had been set up. The walls were of thick, iron-studded oak panels draped with scarlet cloth and fastened together with leather straps.

  What about the rest of the vast encampment? The tents of his senior commanders and courtiers were pitched around the royal enclosure. Beyond them radiated orderly lines of tents for their retinues and for Shah Jahan’s soldiers and an infinity of roped enclosures for all the animals. But beyond that lay a world of chaos – the thousands of camp followers who always followed an army. Merchants and horse dealers, musicians and dancers, acrobats, magicians and prostitutes – all hoping to find employment. It would be hard to prevent enemies from penetrating that noisy mass, but he must try. He would treble the number of guards who patrolled the camp as well as post pickets around its boundaries to stop and search anyone who looked suspicious.

  Golden stars spattered the darkness as the first rockets soared skywards, leaving in their wake a shimmering veil like droplets of silver rain. His Chinese firework makers hadn’t failed him, thought Shah Jahan. This was indeed a display worthy of an empress’s birthday. Mumtaz, standing at his side by the haram tents, gasped as a great peacock spread its sapphire and emerald tail high above. Her pleasure lightened the dark mood that had descended on him since the incident at the crossing. So too did the knowledge that tomorrow the bridge repairs would be complete and he could recommence his advance after a thirty-six hour delay.

  Savoury smells were rising from the campfires whose orange flames pricked the darkness. He had ordered thousands of sheep to be purchased and distributed to his men so they could feast. The imperial cooks had begun work even before the morning mists had lifted, plucking fowls, grinding spices, searching their sacks of provisions for the choicest dried apricots, cherries and plums, the best almonds and walnuts, to stir into the fragrant, delicate sauces of cream, ghee and saffron. His lame, elderly steward of the i
mperial household, Aslan Beg, had been hobbling about, checking the preparations, scolding the cooks and making sure that the correct gold and silver dishes had been unpacked and that the seals to be affixed in his presence to each dish before it was carried to the imperial table, to prevent any tampering with the contents, were ready.

  He hoped Mumtaz would be able to do justice to the food. Though she denied it, he was convinced that her appetite – never large – had been diminishing. Her face sometimes looked pinched and the skin beneath her eyes bruised. But soon they would be ascending into the hills and perhaps she would revive in the cooler air.

  As the last firework died in the heavens, he was aware of Mumtaz’s scrutiny. ‘What were you thinking about? You looked very serious.’

  ‘Did I? It was nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure? I know a messenger came to you earlier this evening. Did he bring some news about who damaged the bridge?’

  ‘Only that a few days ago three riders were seen close to the Chambal river – southerners from their speech – asking detailed questions about our movements and where we were likely to build our bridge. I’ve sent horsemen to look for them but I expect they’re long gone.’

  ‘You think they were from Golconda or Bijapur?’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Don’t worry too much. I know the delay is frustrating for you, but we’ll soon reach Burhanpur. Then the waiting will be over and you can confront your enemies in the field as I know you’re eager to do.’

  ‘You’re right. I want to conclude this campaign quickly. Rather than fighting to defend our present borders I want to expand our territories. Sometimes I think of reclaiming the homelands of my ancestor Babur … even of capturing golden Samarkand …’

  ‘The time for such ambitions will come, but one step at a time. Our enemies are strong. Take nothing for granted.’

  Shah Jahan’s horse skittered sideways as a tangle of dried grass blew suddenly beneath its front hooves. The unusual movement jerked him from his reverie. Yesterday, the army had passed the dragon’s teeth battlements of the fortress of Asirgarh, high on its red sandstone escarpment, where he and Mumtaz had spent so many anxious months of exile. Here he had learned that his father had declared him an outlaw, placed a price upon his head and sent an army to hunt him down. Though Aslan Beg had suggested that the imperial family should spend the night within Asirgarh’s walls, he had chosen to sleep in the camp as usual – the fortress was not a place he wished to linger. And tonight they should at last reach Burhanpur. He could plan his campaign in earnest and Mumtaz would be able to rest.

  At the thought of her, Shah Jahan wheeled his horse and galloped back to where the haram party was now travelling towards the rear of the main column for safety’s sake since they were getting closer to enemy-occupied territory. Mumtaz was travelling alone in a covered litter being carried on the shoulders of eight eunuchs. Seeing Shah Jahan ride up through one of the gold mesh grilles inset into the curtains, she sat up and called a greeting.

  ‘We’ve made good progress today – we’ll definitely be in Burhanpur by sunset.’ Shah Jahan reined his horse back to keep pace with the litter-bearers.

  ‘Good. I’ve been noticing how parched everything looks.’

  ‘Last year’s rains were poor … they tell me famine’s breaking out. I’ll learn more in Burhanpur.’

  ‘Shah Jahan …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Does returning here seem strange to you? These past days I’ve felt it more and more. Everything – the smell of the dust, the way the red sun looks ready to explode just before it sinks, the stark beauty of these hills – rouses memories. The first time we came here we were young and life seemed very simple. It makes me sad to realise how swiftly time passes.’

  ‘We are still young.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  As he rode on, Shah Jahan pondered Mumtaz’s words. The past – the good as well as the bad – was a dangerous place best left unvisited. Last night, with Mumtaz already asleep beside him, he had reread by candlelight some words of one of Akbar’s chroniclers:

  They told the great emperor that Burhanpur was a place of sinister reputation, ill-omened and dark, where no man could prosper but he laughed at their superstitions and captured it for the Moghuls, saying that he would make it a place of glory and victory … and so he did.

  He had always relished this reminder that from Akbar’s time Burhanpur had indeed been a place of Moghul triumph. As a young prince he himself had ridden out from here to military victory – as he had every intention of doing again. Yet this time, instead of images of battle he had seen something else – purblind Khusrau, lying helpless in his Burhanpur dungeon and starting as the door had creaked open. What had gone through his mind during those last moments of life? How would it feel to realise you were about to die and know that it was by your own brother’s orders? He’d pushed the thoughts away, telling himself not to give in to weak sentimentality, especially when everything he had ever wanted was his. But now he felt a fresh unease. Had be been wrong to come to Burhanpur? He could easily have made his command centre somewhere else – Mandu perhaps …

  A violet dusk was descending as Shah Jahan, again riding close by Mumtaz’s litter, passed through Burhanpur’s ancient gateway surmounted by two stone war elephants locked in combat, features blunted by the violence of sandstorms and monsoon rains. Reaching the inner courtyard of the haram where a fountain bubbled listlessly, Shah Jahan dismounted. Drawing back the curtains, he lifted the sleeping Mumtaz from her litter and slowly carried her inside.

  Chapter 3

  A musket ball whistled past Shah Jahan’s head as, turning in the howdah of his war elephant, he shielded his eyes against the blazing sun, attempting to get a better view of the fighting suddenly erupting towards the rear of his force. Moments later another ball hit the mahout sitting behind the ears of his elephant in the throat. The man slipped slowly sideways, blood pumping from the wound, before falling to the stony ground. The elephant’s pace faltered as it raised its trunk, trumpeting in alarm and swinging its head from side to side. As Shah Jahan grabbed the side of his swaying howdah for a moment to steady himself, the second mahout, who had been perched behind the first, quickly slid lower on to the beast’s neck and leant forward to speak into its right ear. ‘Calm, calm, Mover of Mountains,’ he said, pressing his anka, the iron control rod, against the wrinkled grey hide of its shoulder. Reassured, the elephant lowered its red-painted trunk.

  All around, the whole column was coming to a halt in disarray. Musketmen were jumping from their saddles and pushing powder and shot down the barrels of their weapons with steel ramrods, preparing to fire. A little way in front of Shah Jahan’s elephant a junior officer – a squat man in a green tunic – was shouting orders to his small group of foot soldiers to form up. Shah Jahan heard another volley of shots and two of the infantrymen twisted and fell. One was immediately still. The other lay sprawled, heels twitching. One of his fellows, an elderly man with a thin grizzled beard, bent to help him but he too was hit. Dropping his spear he slumped over his comrade’s body.

  Everywhere was noise and confusion. Unless he acted quickly to master the situation panic could follow, thought Shah Jahan. And to do that he must dismount from his elephant and switch to horseback. Without waiting for the surviving mahout to bring the elephant to its knees, he climbed over the side of the jewel-encrusted howdah and dropped to the ground, bending his own knees to soften the impact. Landing lightly, he shouted to his qorchi, ‘Bring me my horse!’ But before the squire could do so a group of horsemen appeared through the dust and musket smoke, riding hard at the infantrymen in front of Shah Jahan. Encouraged by their green-clad officer, the foot soldiers stood their ground. At his command they crouched down in a rough V formation, their short spears ready to thrust at the horsemen. As the riders – a group of perhaps twenty – galloped closer, one, a slim figure with long black hair streaming behind his helmetless head, outdistanced the
rest on his sweat-soaked grey charger. Although the soldier at the head of the V formation bravely held his place his spear was shaking so much in his nervous hands as he thrust at the Bijapuran that he missed. His attacker’s grey horse immediately rode him down, leaving him crumpled on the ground, his skull shattered by one of the horse’s hooves. The soldier behind and to his left was made of sterner stuff. He waited until the last moment and after taking careful aim stabbed upwards from his kneeling position with his spear. As he intended, it caught the horse in the throat. Immediately it stumbled and fell, sending its rider somersaulting over its neck to crash headfirst to the ground where he lay still, blood and brains spilling into his hair.

  Where was his own horse? Shah Jahan looked around to see his qorchi running towards him leading his chestnut stallion. Seizing the reins he leapt into the saddle and yelled to his bodyguard, ‘Follow me.’ Drawing his sword, he charged towards the enemy horsemen who were now surrounding the surviving foot soldiers. One of the attackers pulled so hard at his mount’s reins to wheel it to face the new threat that his horse reared and threw him backwards. Another rider armed with a long lance turned his black horse successfully and kicked hard towards Shah Jahan. When they closed the man made a wild thrust at Shah Jahan which missed, but Shah Jahan’s did not. As their horses passed he caught his enemy’s arm with a slashing stroke of his sword. The rider dropped his lance and began to lose control of his horse which careered off, cutting across the path of another enemy rider who could not prevent the bolting animal from crashing into his own mount so hard that both horses fell, taking their riders with them.