Through the dust thrown up by his charging cavalry he saw the forelegs of one of the leading Moghul horses crumple. As it collapsed it propelled its rider – a standard-bearer – over its head to smash into the ground. Soon rider and banner were engulfed by the onrushing cavalry, but now other horsemen were falling. A wounded and riderless horse swerved across the path of a group of his Rajput cavalry, two of whom were unable to turn or rein in in time to avoid it so that all three crashed to the earth in a welter of flailing limbs and hooves. However, despite the casualties his men were, like him, pressing forward as hard as they could, urging on their mounts with hands and heels. They should soon be in the camp engaging their opponents at close quarters so that the Bijapuran gunners would be less effective, being unable to distinguish clearly friend from foe.
Noticing at the last minute a small thorn fence just ahead – probably originally constructed to house village cattle – Shah Jahan pulled on his horse’s reins and leaning forward on its neck urged it to make the jump. As the animal landed safely he saw a group of enemy horsemen approaching him at the gallop. How had they been able to arm and mount so quickly? Or had the Bijapurans been expecting him, concealing battle-prepared riders as well as cannon in the tents and shelters? Too late to think about that now. He must concentrate on the battle ahead. The leading Bijapuran was mounted on a grey horse and carrying a long lance in his right hand and heading directly for him. Shah Jahan pulled hard on his reins so that his horse passed to the left of the onrushing rider, meaning he could not make a proper lance thrust at the emperor. As he went by Shah Jahan struck out with his sword, catching his enemy’s horse in its rump causing it to rear up and throw its rider sprawling onto the ground. Another Bijapuran rebel slashed with his curved sword at Shah Jahan, who managed to parry the blow with his own weapon.
Wheeling their horses, the two men rode at each other again, kicking their heels into the heaving flanks of their mounts to urge them on. This time Shah Jahan got in the first blow but the Bijapuran ducked beneath his slashing blade and as he did so thrust his weapon towards Shah Jahan’s breastplate. The armour proved its worth and the blow skidded off harmlessly. Again the two men wheeled and rode at each other. Again Shah Jahan was the quicker to strike – and this time decisively. His slashing blow caught his opponent under his unprotected chin, severing his windpipe and almost decapitating him. Without even a scream he fell backwards from the saddle.
Looking around him as he wiped the sweat from his face with his cotton neckcloth and tried to regain his breath, Shah Jahan saw through the dust and smoke that his men were heavily engaged. More and more rebels were joining the fray, including some Shah Jahan could see galloping from the village beyond the lagoon. It was becoming clearer and clearer that the Bijapurans had indeed been anticipating his arrival, concealing forces wherever they could including in the village huts. He had underestimated his enemy once more and now they were gaining the upper hand. He must do something before it was too late.
Among the fast approaching riders his eye was caught by a small band of no more than a dozen led by two soldiers carrying long Bijapuran gold banners forked like serpents’ tongues. At their centre was a horseman wearing a glistening breastplate almost the equal in splendour of his own, and a plumed helmet. This must be the Bijapuran general who, if reports were true, was one of the sultan’s several sons. If he could kill him that would blunt his enemies’ onslaught and give the Moghuls a much needed chance to regroup.
‘Those of you who can, disengage and rally to me,’ Shah Jahan shouted over the hubbub of battle to the men who were within earshot. As they began to do so, he charged towards the Bijapuran general and his entourage who were now less than six hundred yards away. His horse was blowing hard and there was a thick scum of white sweat on its neck but it was willing and began to outdistance the rest of his men.
In less than a minute he was among the Bijapuran group. His first blow bit deep into the unprotected left leg of one of the standard-bearers, catching him just above the knee and slicing through sinew and flesh to judder against the bone, almost jolting the weapon from Shah Jahan’s grasp. However, he held on to the hilt as the banner-bearer fell, dropping his golden standard into the dust. Another rider struck at Shah Jahan but the sword slid off his breastplate. Nevertheless, the force of the impact knocked the emperor back in his saddle. Within moments though, he had recovered his balance to see that he was in striking distance of the general. Putting all his weight into the stroke, he caught the man just beneath his glistening breastplate. Although he retained his seat on his horse, the general dropped his sword and doubled up clutching his belly. Quickly Shah Jahan aimed another thrust designed to finish him off, but as he did so he felt a crashing blow on his own head and his helmet falling. He put up a gauntleted hand in an attempt to steady it but his ears were buzzing, his thoughts scrambling and white stars and flashes appearing before his eyes and hampering his vision. He must get away from the conflict for a little to recover his senses.
Instinctively he kicked his mount forward, urging it on with his hands and heels. The willing animal gathered speed but then the flaring lights and the ringing in his head intensified. Overcome, he fell forward on his horse’s neck …
What was that plucking and pulling at him? He and Mumtaz were cocooned in the stars but something or someone was snatching at him, dragging him away from her. Mumtaz’s pale face held a look of horror and pleading. Then she seemed to recede into the velvet darkness. He couldn’t understand. Was she being pulled away from him and not him from her? It couldn’t be … he mustn’t let it happen. He tried to stretch out a hand, feeling a more distinct tug at his clothing. Someone was indeed clawing and probing at his body, pulling at his limbs, drawing him away from Mumtaz. ‘No, no,’ he muttered, jerking his head as he spoke. ‘Mumtaz, I will stay with you.’ Then he felt what could only be sharp-nailed fingers grasping at his throat.
Eyes opening but still dazed, he saw a blurred but gaunt face with hollow cheeks and bright eyes only inches from his own. Its lips seemed half open in surprise, open enough to reveal the blackened stumps of teeth. Strands of long grey hair were falling from the plait in which it was tied back. Thumbs were digging into his throat, seeking his Adam’s apple. The apparition was definitely trying to strangle him. Instinctively Shah Jahan brought up his hands and knocked the bony fingers from his throat. Then he grasped at the devil’s face. It felt surprisingly warm as it fought back, foul and sour breath polluting his nostrils. He wrenched the head back, twisting it as he did so. There was a crack and the apparition ceased to struggle and slumped forward on to Shah Jahan, warm saliva dripping from its slack mouth on to his face. Although light, the figure had some weight.
The pressure of it, together with the sensation of the spittle running down his cheek, cut into Shah Jahan’s brain, reviving him towards full consciousness. He pushed the body off him, his mind clearing and his eyes focusing. He sat up and looked about him. The sun was blazing from its midday zenith with dazzling ferocity. Except for the body he was alone in a coppice of leafless trees. Slowly, to his horror, Shah Jahan realised that the figure with its head twisted at an unnatural angle, tongue lolling and eyes staring, was a woman, an old woman what’s more. The edges of her tattered red sari were blowing in the breeze, exposing her bony ribcage and beneath it the slack skin crater where her stomach should have been. She must have been starving. He had killed her. Why? And why was he alone?
Slowly, splintered memories – weapon clashes, battle cries both of encouragement and of pain – coalesced in his mind. He remembered his headlong charge towards the Bijapuran camp, the drumming of his horse’s hooves and after a while his attack on the enemy general, but what had happened next? Finally came a recollection of a blow to his head, a memory of falling forward … His horse must have carried him several miles from the battle. He could neither see nor hear signs of conflict, nor, he realised with dismay, of his horse. Scrutinising the surrounding sandy ground he did make ou
t some hoof prints. After he had fallen his horse must have wandered off. But how did the old woman fit in? Looking more closely at her corpse he saw on the ground beside it one of his rings – a large carved emerald – and yes, there was one of the silver clasps that had held on his light cloak, now carefully folded beside her. That must be it – she had been looting his body and when she had felt him stir attempted to kill him.
Clearly, the instinct to survive had overwhelmed any more feminine feelings of care and protection. That same instinct must account for her being alone. Had she left her village in search of food after the death of her family? Were they lying somewhere too weak to move? Or had they in fact abandoned her? Survival was truly paramount in the human mind. That was why she had tried to kill him … why he had killed her … why indeed, he reflected, he had had his half-brothers killed. Now he himself must strive to survive once more.
Picking up his cloak from beside the woman’s body he wound it roughly round his bare head to protect it, aching as it was from the fierce sun. The glint from his breastplate might betray him to searching enemies as well as burdening him as he walked. He quickly unbuckled it and, after scraping out a small depression in the sand, buried it. Then he looked at what he had assumed were his horse’s hoof prints. His mount seemed to have come from the northwest before he fell from the saddle, after which it had headed off to the south. Should he follow it and try to recapture it or should he retrace his steps in the direction of the battle? He should go after the horse, he reasoned. It would probably have stopped quite soon. Besides, the outcome of the fighting had been highly uncertain. He might be returning to the scene of his column’s defeat and face capture or death.
Slowly he began to pick his way southwards through the leafless trees, following the horse’s tracks, which became less and less distinct as the ground grew more flinty towards the edge of the coppice. How he wished he had spent more time with his scouts learning the secrets of tracking. Lifting his eyes from the faint hoof prints, he scanned the horizon in the hope of catching sight of his mount. Instead, he saw some riders perhaps a mile away, approaching from the north in a cloud of dust. He couldn’t tell whether they were friend or enemy and took cover behind the trunk of one of the larger trees, straining his eyes to pick out any identifying signs. He could not, and remained still behind the trunk as the squadron came closer. Then it divided. Half the men headed around one side of the coppice, the remainder around the other, both halves clearly bent on a thorough search. As they came even nearer, Shah Jahan shrank back against the tree trunk, trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as he could. Suddenly to his intense relief he recognised the leading officer – a tall Rajput mounted on a black horse and wearing saffron robes beneath his steel breastplate. It was Ashok Singh. The troops were his own. He emerged from the shelter of the tree trunk and ran to the edge of the coppice.
‘Majesty, is that you? Are you wounded?’ Ashok Singh shouted, dropping from his saddle.
‘Yes – and no, at least not seriously. Praise God you have found me. I was knocked out and my horse carried me here, I think, before I collapsed from it.’
‘We found it wandering not too far away.’
‘Were we victorious in the battle?’
‘Yes, Majesty. We gained the upper hand in the fighting during which we lost sight of you and drove the Bijapurans from their camp, inflicting many casualties on them as they retreated.’
‘Is the pursuit still continuing?’
‘No. Our losses were also high. In your absence your generals thought it better to regroup and tend our wounded rather than maintain the chase. They feared another ambush of the type that overtook Ahmed Aziz and of course we needed to discover what had happened to you.’
So the victory was by no means complete, thought Shah Jahan, but better a partial success than the setbacks he had suffered previously.
Two hours later, once more wearing his breastplate, which one of his soldiers had retrieved from its hiding place, Shah Jahan mounted his horse. Nearby the pyre hastily constructed by his Rajputs from the coppice’s dead trees crackled and burned. By her dress the old woman had clearly been a Hindu and it had seemed only proper to accord her the rites of her faith. But with the flames licking around the cotton-wrapped corpse there was no need to linger. Let the old woman crumble to ash alone in the desert. The important thing now was to re-join the main body of his troops before demoralising rumours spread that the emperor had been injured, even killed. Casting a last look at the spiralling black smoke of the pyre, he urged his tired horse to a canter.
For the first few miles not a living thing crossed their path in the arid and featureless terrain, but then Shah Jahan noticed what looked like a small village – no more than six or seven shacks – away to their right. Perhaps there was a well not yet dry where they could water their horses. Signalling to his men, he turned his mount in the direction of the low mud-brick houses. As they approached, an old man staggered up from his charpoy beneath a withered banyan tree which had retained just a few of its leaves and stumbled forward on stick-thin legs that looked too weak to bear even his frail weight.
‘Food, gentlemen, food, I beg you …’ he cried out through cracked lips.
Shah Jahan reined in his horse. The old man’s eyes stared unnaturally bright in sunken eye sockets above prominent cheekbones. ‘Are your stores exhausted? When did you last eat?’
‘Our grain was gone six weeks ago. A few days later our animals began to die. We ate their carcasses – skin and entrails too. We even ground their bones to make a kind of flour. We were lucky our well still had a little water. But other than that we’ve eaten nothing but dried leaves and two geckos we caught a few days ago.’
‘Where are the other villagers?’
‘They left three days since to seek food elsewhere but my wife was too weak and I’ve remained with her.’
‘Give him what food we have and any spare water bottles,’ Shah Jahan told Ashok Singh. ‘I hadn’t realised the extent of the famine.’
‘It is bad, Majesty. Around the walls of Burhanpur I have seen proud men fight over undigested grain one had extracted from animal dung. But it seems far worse in these outlying regions. Parents are said to be selling their children into servitude for a few coins in the hope that both they and the children may thereby live. There are even rumours of cannibalism among some of the hill people whose flocks of sheep and goats have perished.’
As his Rajputs handed the man food and water Shah Jahan could not get the thought of people grinding bones for flour and even descending to cannibalism from his mind. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, it was only a few hours since he himself had killed the old woman. However, as he rode on another thought struck him. The man must have truly loved his wife to stay with her rather than desert her to seek his chances away from the village, just as he himself would have stayed with Mumtaz. If survival was a basic and selfish instinct shared with animals, man also had other more noble ones … like love.
Chapter 4
Supported by Satti al-Nisa and wearing a shift of sapphire silk, Mumtaz stepped carefully down the three white marble steps into the pool of rose oil-scented water. Despite her bulk – in a few weeks she would give birth – her every move was graceful, thought Shah Jahan, watching from the doorway into the hammam. The apricot glow of the candles accentuated the curves of her body. For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of just watching her as she lay back in the pool, resting her head against its side as attendants poured more water down two marble shoots carved in a fish-scale pattern to make the droplets ripple and dance. At least here within the encircling walls of Burhanpur he had created a haven for Mumtaz. Red lilies and sweet-scented champa flowers bloomed in the courtyards and the ancient fountains had been coaxed to new life.
Yet beyond the walls lay an unforgiving landscape where men and beasts struggled beneath a pitiless sun that was daily sucking them and their land dry. In their temples his Hindu subjects were b
eseeching their gods to relieve their suffering – even making blood sacrifice to the many-armed Kali. Some were blaming the Moghul emperor for failing to aid his people. Last week two saddhus, bony ash-daubed bodies pale as ghosts, had walked up to the gates of Burhanpur, shaking their sticks and denouncing him. He had given orders they should not be molested and they had remained in the blistering heat for an hour. Before departing they had placed what looked like the body of a young child on the ground. When his soldiers investigated they found it was only a bundle of sticks wrapped in dirty cloth with a dried gourd for a head but the message was clear. Children were dying and he, the emperor, was to blame. He hadn’t told Mumtaz.
As he stepped towards the pool, she heard his footsteps and turned her head, smiling. ‘I felt so tired tonight – I thought a bath would revive me.’
He waited until the tall figure of Satti al-Nisa and the other women had withdrawn, then sat on the pool’s marble ledge. ‘The famine’s getting even worse. Every day I receive reports of whole villages emptying as people take their surviving livestock west to seek water. I’ve ordered the imperial granaries in the affected areas to be opened but there’s just not enough grain to go round – only enough to feed the people for a few weeks, not their flocks. Yet without their animals their future is bleak. In some places the Bijapuran rebels are raiding the grain stores.’
‘You are doing what you can.’
‘But I feel helpless. Despite my wealth and power what is needed is water, not gold. If the rains don’t come quickly many more will die.’
‘Not even you can defeat nature.’
‘I should be able to do better for my people and I can’t while this war distracts me … I must end it quickly.’
Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth Page 5