This time Shah Jahan did respond. ‘Enough, Dara. I have heard what you’ve said.’
‘You will see Jahanara?’
‘Perhaps.’
Three hours later, with an apricot glow lightening the eastern horizon, Shah Jahan sipped the water his qorchi had just handed him. It was still cold from the well and he drank thirstily, holding the jade cup with hands that were still not quite steady. Was it the result of his illness – the strange weakness that had suddenly inflicted him and for which the hakims could find no explanation? Or agitation at Dara’s news of rebellion? Or was it because soon Jahanara would be before him and he must ask her forgiveness once more?
He was still pondering when he heard a series of shrill trumpet blasts – the signal he had ordered to be given to rouse the people of Agra from their sleep and summon them to the banks of the Jumna to witness the reappearance of their emperor on his jharoka balcony. ‘Qorchi, bring me my robes, please.’ Normally the emperor made his brief appearance on the balcony in a simple cotton tunic, but his people hadn’t seen him for nearly three months. He would wear green brocade and sparkle with jewels when he stepped from his bedchamber on to the carved sandstone balcony as the rising sun warmed the earth. He would raise his arms to bless them and the day to come, remaining there longer than usual so that none could doubt that it was indeed their emperor, returned to health, before them.
Half an hour later, the task was done. Shah Jahan turned away from the cheering crowds gathered below and went back into his apartments. Jahanara would be waiting for him on his private terrace as he had asked. For a moment he hesitated, then made his way there, shading his eyes against the now brilliant light as he came outside again. Jahanara was standing there but did not come forward. For a moment they stood looking at one another, then Shah Jahan strode towards her.
He could find no words. Dara had been so eloquent on her behalf, so convincing in his explanations, so insistent that she was innocent, and in his heart Shah Jahan had known his son was right. How could he have reacted with such unthinking anger? Once again he had failed her. ‘Forgive me,’ he managed at last. ‘I judged you in haste and in anger. I make no excuses …’
‘It is past, Father. Perhaps we shouldn’t speak of it again.’ Jahanara’s tone was measured, devoid of the conflicting emotions swirling within her.
‘But tell me you forgive me or I will not be able to rest.’
‘I forgive you.’ As she spoke those words, as she knew she must for the sake of the dynasty, Jahanara saw her father visibly relax. But were they really true, she wondered. Could she forgive him again? Eventually, perhaps, though it would take time to forget his immediate, unthinking belief in her guilt and his unreasoning anger. But looking at her father with fresh eyes after so many weeks of separation, she realised with a shock how old he looked. His broad shoulders were bowed and his once muscular body – a warrior’s body – looked thin and fragile. His still handsome face was riven with deep lines. Had his illness really taken such a toll or was it that she was only now seeing him as he really was?
Pity welled within her and she managed a smile, but it faded as another thought struck her. ‘I’m not the only one who has suffered an injustice. You wronged Nicholas Ballantyne too. He was blameless for what happened. I turned to him because I was worried about my brothers – Aurangzeb especially. I was too impulsive, I know. I should have reflected how my actions might appear to others. But Nicholas’s only crime was to try to help me despite his reluctance. He is taking ship for England. Let me write to him. My letter may not reach him in time but I would like him to know that all is well … that our family are conscious of what they owe him.’
‘Of course. Tell him I regret what happened and remember his past service with gratitude. Should he ever return to my court he will be welcome.’ Shah Jahan put his hand on Jahanara’s arm. He felt a deep relief that one breach at least was mended, but a deadly weariness followed. He sighed and for a moment closed his eyes.
‘Father … are you all right? Should I summon your hakims?’
‘No. I’ve been an invalid too long and must become an emperor once more.’ Shah Jahan straightened his back. ‘How much has Dara told you of your brothers’ rebellion?’
‘That they have used your illness as an excuse to raise troops and intend to challenge for the throne …’
Shah Jahan frowned. ‘That is the gist of it. I keep thinking what your mother would have thought and how badly I have let her memory down. I should have paid more attention to what your brothers were doing and controlled them better, making regular imperial progresses through their provinces. Instead I gave them and their ambitious counsellors time and opportunity to plot against me.’
Jahanara did not respond for a moment. Her father was right. Grief at Mumtaz’s death had forced him into an emotional seclusion from which he had never fully emerged, blunting his empathy with all of his children, herself included, as his willingness to believe the worst of her had shown. But how could she say any of that to him? ‘Father, the past is gone. Nothing you have done or failed to do can justify my brothers’ rebellion. Concentrate on bringing them to heel.’
Shah Jahan looked round the familiar circle of his counsellors, their faces proof that the news of his sons’ insurrection which he had just broken was as great a surprise to them as it had been to him a few hours earlier. Unless, of course, some of them were good dissemblers. At least one had money worries – his lands had been badly affected by drought. What if Aurangzeb had offered him a handsome sum for his support, Shah Jahan wondered, looking hard into the man’s face. And another over there near the door was known to have coveted a rich jagir that not long before his illness he’d granted to another. He too might have been bought. Who could say? Most men had their price. But at least his Rajput allies, Raja Jai Singh of Amber and Raja Jaswant Singh of Marwar were utterly loyal, he was sure, bound to the Moghuls since Akbar’s time by family ties as well as those of honour. Raising his hands, he spoke again. ‘I have told you only the main facts about the treachery of my three youngest sons. Now Prince Dara will give you as much detail about their movements and that of their forces as we’ve been able to gather.’
‘Aurangzeb’s army is already on the march from the Deccan,’ Dara said. ‘He is apparently claiming that this is not a rebellion – merely that there have been so many rumours that he wishes to come to Agra in person to satisfy himself that the emperor is indeed alive. Shah Shuja also has an army in the field, advancing west along the Ganges. It contains many war elephants bred in the jungles of Assam as well as a large number of horsemen and foot soldiers.’
‘Aurangzeb of course already had standing forces ready to deploy against the rulers of the south, but how did Shah Shuja raise so many men so quickly?’ asked Jai Singh.
Shah Jahan answered. ‘Bengal’s coffers are deep enough to buy him an army twice that size, and he also has the revenues of Bihar, which I was foolish enough to award him though others advised against it. Go on, Dara.’
‘My brother Murad is as deeply implicated as the others. He’s apparently also been mustering troops and buying equipment – or trying to, because unlike his brothers’ his treasuries are nearly empty thanks to his extravagance and incompetence. He’s attempting to raise loans among the wealthy merchants of Gujarat and that will delay him, but not for long, I fear …’
‘You really think they all intend to bring their armies to Agra?’ asked Jaswant Singh.
‘It would seem so. I believe they have made a pact with one another, but whether it is to support one of them for the throne or to divide the empire between them isn’t clear,’ Dara replied.
‘Then it will come to a battle unless I can prevent it,’ said Shah Jahan. ‘I have already sent messages by post riders to every one of my governors and senior officials in the provinces assuring them that I am returned to health – and that anyone who aids my rebellious sons will suffer a traitor’s death. I have also written to my sons, demanding the
y cease their rebellion and reminding them of their duty to their father. But matters may well have advanced too far for that to have much effect on these ingrates. I have no choice but to command you to prepare the imperial troops immediately for war, summoning every warrior you can muster from your fiefs and ordering your vassals to do the same. Perhaps when the traitors realise the strength of the forces ranging against them they will see reason and pull back before Moghul sheds the blood of Moghul.’
Two hours later, after the last of the counsellors had left, Shah Jahan rose a little shakily from his silver chair. Dara hurried to support him but Shah Jahan waved him back. ‘No. I must learn to be strong again … and, Dara, there’s something I must say to you. If I’d formally declared you my heir many years ago, this could never have happened. Now you will be forced to fight for what should have been yours by right. I regret it from the bottom of my heart, but more importantly I mean to try to make amends. Tomorrow, seated on my peacock throne and before all my court, I will formally declare you my successor and your brothers outlaws.’
Chapter 17
Nicholas Ballantyne turned restlessly on the straw mattress on which he had been trying to snatch a few hours’ sleep and slapped at one of the many mosquitoes whining around him. In just three days the Juno would sail from Surat for Bristol, her hold packed with calicos, silks and indigo to add to the fat profits of the English East India Company. He would also be aboard. He’d negotiated a good price for his passage with the Juno’s burly red-faced captain but there was little pleasure in the prospect of the long and hazardous voyage round the Cape of Good Hope and a return to the country which, the more he’d thought about it, was scarcely any longer home.
Abandoning thoughts of sleep as pointless, Nicholas got up. Though dawn was barely an hour away heat still radiated from the mud-brick walls of the small, bare ground floor room of the inn and his near-naked body felt damp with perspiration. Going out into the courtyard he drew a bucket of water from the well and poured it over himself. Then, shaking himself like a dog, he went to sit beneath the spreading branches of a neem tree near a string charpoy on which an old man – supposedly the nightwatchman – was fast asleep. At least he need no longer worry about Princess Jahanara. The short letter that had caught up with him the day before had put his mind at rest, extinguishing any guilt he’d felt at fleeing Agra.
Jahanara was strong. She had learned to be, even in childhood when her family had fled from Jahangir. All the same, the thought of her standing accused of imaginary crimes had troubled him deeply, especially if the rumours circulating among the merchants in Surat were true. But could the emperor’s younger sons really be in revolt? Jahanara’s letter had said nothing explicitly, but she had mentioned her relief at being able again to be at her father’s side with Dara, whatever fate held in store for them. Could this be an oblique reference designed not to alarm him on his voyage? Probably not. Far more likely Dara’s brothers were just posturing. In this vast land, despite the imperial trunk roads and teams of post riders, news took time to travel. It often became distorted along the way and there were always credulous fools to be taken in.
Nicholas had risen to go inside when he heard a barrage of crashes and felt the ground shake. After a minute or two the noise began again, and this time didn’t cease. It could only be cannon fire. Was Surat under attack? By the direction of the sound cannon were pounding the city from the landward side. From nearby streets came shouts of alarm. Nicholas hurried back into his room, hastily pulled on his shirt, breeches and boots and ran into the alley outside to find it already full of people – English merchants, some in their night clothes, some clutching their cash boxes; Indian clerks and shopkeepers. They must be making for the protection of the fort. The square, thick-walled tower lay about a quarter of a mile away on the tip of a promontory. The East India Company stored its treasure there in deep underground vaults and it was well fortified and guarded by a regiment of Company soldiers sent out from England. In case of serious trouble the Company also kept several ships well equipped with cannon riding at anchor beneath its walls.
And trouble, it seemed, had definitely arrived … Pressing himself into a doorway to allow the tide of humanity to sweep past, he looked back over their heads towards the city walls and sure enough in the pale light of dawn saw billowing columns of dust and smoke. Suddenly he caught sight of a young merchant he knew slightly, clutching a leather-bound ledger to his chest as he ran towards him. ‘John, what’s happening?’ Nicholas yelled above the confusion. When the young man didn’t appear to hear him Nicholas reached out a muscular arm and yanked him over as he passed. ‘It’s me, Nicholas. Do you know what’s going on? Is it dacoits?’ But even as he posed the question Nicholas knew it couldn’t be. They might lurk outside the city to prey on caravan trains but where would they get large cannon?
‘Someone said Prince Murad has hired Turkish mercenaries to attack Surat.’
‘But he’s the Governor of Gujarat! Why is he assaulting its richest city – the one that pays him most in taxes?’ The young merchant was trying to twist from his grip and Nicholas saw his pale eyes turn towards the stream of people who in their eagerness to get away from the danger and into the fort were now pushing and shoving each other as they ran.
‘Because the prince asked the Company for a huge loan and the local board of directors refused him,’ the young man gasped, feeling Nicholas’s hold on him tighten.
‘So now he’s decided to help himself …’ Nicholas released his grip and the merchant dashed away to be swallowed up in the crowd. Nicholas stayed where he was. Should he too take sanctuary in the fort? He was no longer a Moghul commander with troops to deploy but a foreigner caught in the middle of someone else’s problems on the eve of his return home. His first duty was to himself. Or was it? If Murad had indeed launched an attack on Surat this was anarchy. Shah Jahan would never have sanctioned such a thing, in which case the rumours must be true: the emperor’s sons – or Murad at least – had indeed risen against their father.
Stepping out of the doorway, Nicholas barged his way through the jumbled mass of frightened people and back into the inn from which everyone else seemed to have fled. The string charpoy was empty and the only sign of life was a pale-furred dog that had taken refuge beneath the bed where it lay, head between its front paws, whimpering in fear as the bombardment continued. Running into his room Nicholas grabbed his two saddlebags from beneath the straw mattress. They were not heavy – so much for his many years’ service in Hindustan – but he still owed something to this land and he knew where he must go.
There had been so little time to organise the imperial armies but delay was not an option, Shah Jahan reflected as he prepared to address his council once more. Like him, his counsellors were growing old. Barely a man under fifty. Not for the first time since the crisis had broken three weeks ago he regretted Dara’s lack of military experience. He had wanted to keep his eldest son by his side, content, as in truth Dara had been also, for his younger brothers to go off on campaign, never for a moment thinking it was giving them the chance to develop skills they would one day turn against himself and Dara on the battlefield.
‘My loyal counsellors, the latest reports I have through scouts and post riders are that Shah Shuja’s forces are still advancing westward along the Ganges, making slow but steady progress,’ he began. ‘I have sent orders to those whose lands lie in his path to do all they can to obstruct him and deny him supplies, but I must meet force with force. Therefore I am despatching an army against Shah Shuja. My grandson, Dara’s son Suleiman, will lead it, with you, Raja Jai Singh of Amber, as his adviser. Your force will consist of twenty thousand horsemen and five thousand foot soldiers. You and my grandson will be reinforced as you travel down the Ganges by my Afghan general Dilir Khan and his men.’
‘Is Shah Shuja to be taken alive?’ asked the raja.
‘Yes. I want to avoid shedding my sons’ blood. I wish him brought before me to answer for his crimes.
’
‘Is there any news of your other two sons, Majesty?’ asked the Uzbek Khalilullah Khan, whose scarred face testified to his hard and loyal fighting at the side of Aurangzeb against his fellow countrymen in his northern campaign.
‘The information on Murad is still patchy and vague. Some reports state that he has proclaimed himself emperor in Gujarat – that the khutba has been read in his name in the mosques and he has ordered coins to be struck to mark the start of his reign – others that he has murdered his revenue minister – Ali Naqi, a man who was always loyal to me – for protesting against his treasonous acts. They say Murad himself ran him through with a sword. There are also rumours that Murad plans to attack and loot Surat and then, when he has filled his war chest, to march from his capital at Ahmadabad to rendezvous with Aurangzeb as he moves up from the Deccan. Murad has apparently sent his women and children to safety in the fortress of Champanir, which means he anticipates a long campaign.’
‘Surely if Prince Murad has already crowned himself emperor, he intends to fight Prince Aurangzeb, not join forces with him?’ asked Raja Jaswant Singh of Marwar, running a finger along the hilt of the dagger hanging in its jewelled scabbard from a gold chain round his waist.
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