‘Wait, my prince – let me massage you first. It will heighten the pleasure, I promise you. Your brother told you I have special skills … he wants me to use them to please you … don’t disappoint him.’
Intrigued, Murad released Zainab and nodded.
‘Good. You won’t be sorry. First, let me undress you.’ Swiftly she removed his clothes and when he too was naked looked at him appraisingly for a moment, then smiled. ‘Any woman would be glad to spend the night with you … Come, lie face down on those cushions.’
As Murad did so, he felt Zainab straddle him. Then she began gently to caress his shoulders with her breasts, brushing her nipples back and forth against his skin. At the same time he felt her begin to move her hips, rubbing his lower back with the most intimate part of her body and making him groan aloud. ‘See, didn’t I tell you how good it would be? Soon it will be your turn to pleasure me, my prince, but not too soon …’ As she leaned forward, her thick hair fell over him like a scented curtain. From somewhere outside in the camp rose the trumpeting of an elephant, but Murad was oblivious of everything now except the feel of Zainab’s warm, voluptuous body moving against his, and closing his eyes he gave himself up to her.
Drowsy with wine and pleasure, it took him some moments to realise that Zainab had climbed off him and he stretched languorously. What now? Did she have some other way of heightening his anticipation or had the time for the climax arrived? Turning over, he looked up, but the eyes regarding him steadily weren’t wide and female but narrow, black and male. ‘What …?’
Before he could say anything further, a voice from the direction of the tent entrance called out, ‘Seize him!’ Alert too late to the danger, Murad tried to rise, but as he did so the black-eyed man who had been looking down at him put the tip of his dagger to his throat while two other men came out of the shadows to pinion his arms. He opened his mouth to call for his escort, hoping that at least some might be in earshot, but the man pushed his dagger point into his skin, drawing blood, and bent lower over him.
‘Don’t resist!’
‘How dare you! How did you get in here? Where’s my brother?’
‘He doesn’t want to see you. We’re his men. He left to take control of your camp. And you’re going on a journey as well – a longer one.’ Then, glancing quickly round at his two companions holding Murad down, the man said, ‘Get him on his feet, quickly.’
As the men hoisted the dazed and unresisting Murad up and began bundling him into clothes that he realised dimly weren’t his own but like the guards’ own uniform, the man with the dagger strode over to the tent flap and, opening it far enough to reveal a black triangle of night sky, peered briefly outside.
‘Good.’ He nodded, then said to the two guards, ‘Take him outside. The elephants are waiting. You know what to do.’
‘Fetch my sword Alamgir!’ Shah Jahan ordered a startled qorchi, who immediately hurried from his private apartments. Though previously he had considered giving the Moghuls’ ancestral sword – the weapon first brought to Hindustan by his ancestor Babur – to Dara, a feeling that it would be a bad omen to part with it while he still reigned on the peacock throne had stopped him.
A few minutes later, as he once more held the sword in his hands, feeling its ornately fashioned eagle hilt – strong as well as beautiful – and admiring the red glitter of the bird’s ruby eyes, he was glad. Tomorrow, with Alamgir in its jewelled scabbard at his waist and Timur’s heavy gold ring on his finger, he would ride into battle perhaps for the last time. Whatever happened to him – even death – it would be good to feel a man and a warrior once more and to wield that perfectly balanced weapon again. As he had done so many times before on the eve of conflict he ran a finger along one edge of the steel blade. If it cut his skin he would know it was sharp enough. He pressed his right forefinger gently on to it but no bead of blood appeared. ‘Send this to my armourer for sharpening,’ he ordered the qorchi.
The youth had not been long gone when the doors opened again to admit Jahanara. He could guess her reaction when he told her what he planned to do, but he would not be dissuaded. He might be old but he was an emperor and a warrior and he would show his rebellious children – daughters as well as sons – exactly what that meant.
‘Is it true that Aurangzeb has written to you at last? I came here from the haram as soon as I heard the story.’
Shah Jahan nodded. Aurangzeb had returned to Agra a week ago – he had witnessed his son’s boastful return, banners flying, drums beating, from the battlements himself – but it had taken Aurangzeb till now to send any communication.
‘What does he say? Was it him who gave the order to stop the cannonade?’
‘Yes. He writes that Murad should never have begun the bombardment of a fort housing a man so old and frail as myself. However, this is not because he intends us any good. He claims it is his duty both to me – who am no longer fit to rule or even to command the fort garrison – and to the empire to force my surrender as soon as possible so that he can restore order. What’s more, he also claims that he has found a means of doing so.’
‘How?’
‘By cutting off the fort’s water supply. A rebel detachment has seized the fort’s water gate opening on to the Jumna so we can no longer take in fresh water. All we have are a few stagnant long disused wells … He hopes in this summer heat to break the spirit of our troops.’
‘I don’t understand him … I’d hoped that even having come this far he and Murad might yet draw back …’
‘They have no sense of shame or guilt.’
‘Does Aurangzeb say anything about Dara?’
‘Nothing. My hope is that Aurangzeb has returned to Agra because Dara has evaded him.’
‘I will write to my brothers … I will make Aurangzeb and Murad see reason.’
‘They will not listen and I won’t let you demean yourself by pleading with traitors.’
‘I wouldn’t plead … I am their equal …’
‘Even so, I forbid it. I am still emperor. I’m not going to remain here in the fort waiting impotently for my sons’ next outrages against me. They have told the world that I am too old and ill to rule but I will show them and my subjects otherwise.’
‘What do you mean to do?’
‘Ride out to face them at the head of my men. The garrison are still loyal and will follow me, I am certain.’ As he spoke, Shah Jahan drew himself up. ‘I’ve been inactive too long. I should have taken to the field myself instead of sending Dara against his brothers. It gave credence to their claims that I was losing my powers but it still isn’t too late. Even if I am killed, I will have regained my pride, and in time Dara and Suleiman may return to avenge me.’
‘Father, you can’t do this … Please …’
‘It is the only way. I have left a letter with my steward to be given to Aurangzeb and Murad if I die, telling them it is my last my wish that they treat you with all honour and respect. Despite everything that has happened and their malice towards me, I still trust them to do so. You mustn’t be afraid.’
‘I’m not – at least not for myself, but I fear for you … Aurangzeb knows your nature. He has provoked you to this. Forgive me, Father, but you are acting rashly and in haste.’
‘Perhaps, but at least I am acting. I may no longer have the body of a warrior, but I have the warrior spirit.’
For a moment he saw his wife’s lovely face before him. Many, many times she had watched him ride off to battle and he had always returned to her. Never had he thought that she would be the one to die and leave him … but that was long ago and perhaps he would soon be with her in Paradise. Hearing a knock on the door, he rose as Jahanara drew her veil. Was it the qorchi returning with his sword? If so, the youth had been quick. But as the doors opened he saw that it was his garrison commander.
‘Majesty, a further messenger has arrived under flag of truce from your sons. He insists on seeing you in person. He says he has something for you from Prince Aurangzeb.�
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‘What? Another letter?’
‘No, Majesty. It looks like some kind of parcel. When I ordered my men to inspect it, the messenger resisted, saying he had been instructed to hand it only to you and he would not yield it up. If you wish it, Majesty, I will order my men to take it from him.’
‘No, search him for weapons then bring him to me under close guard.’
Shah Jahan and Jahanara exchanged glances but neither said anything as they waited. A few minutes later the commander returned, followed by eight of his guards surrounding a tall, bearded man with the neat black turban and plain flowing robes of an official. He was carrying a large brocade bag secured with a piece of silken cord.
‘I understand you have something for me. What is it?’ Shah Jahan asked.
‘My master did not tell me – only that I must hand it to you and no one else.’
‘Very well. Place it on the carpet in front of you then step well back. Guards, keep an eye on him.’ Shah Jahan waited until the man had retreated and his guards were stationed round him. Then he approached the brocade bag and carefully lifted it. Despite its bulk it wasn’t very heavy. Placing it back on the carpet, he leaned over and unfastened the silk cord. Inside was another bag, this time of a coarser material, fastened round the top with a piece of thin rope. Shah Jahan lifted it out carefully. Tucked beneath the rope was a sliver of folded paper. Pulling it out, Shah Jahan opened it: The only punishment for heresy is death. God’s will has been done and those in the gardens of Paradise rejoice.
Shah Jahan flung the note aside and ripped open the bag. As he did so, a sickly sweet stench – the once encountered never forgotten stench of death – filled his nostrils and his gorge rose. Yet another parcel was inside the bag, this time cocooned in a swathe of black silk. He unravelled the silk with frantic hands and at last something rolled out across the carpet: Dara’s head, no longer handsome, with creamy white maggots crawling around his dead eyes and in and out of his gaping mouth and blood-encrusted nostrils.
With Jahanara’s anguished cries coming as if from far away, Shah Jahan’s eyes remained fixed on the rotting object before him for some moments. Then he said dully, ‘I can bear no more. Let it be over. Open the gates …’
Chapter 22
Shah Jahan had been wondering when the officer Aurangzeb had placed in control of the Agra fort would present himself. He had already been told that he was an Uzbek – one of Khalilullah Khan’s men who with his commander had deserted Dara at Samugarh. Now Makhdumi Khan stood before him and he could see him for himself. He was tall, with a close-cropped grey beard and a pink shiny scar that looked recent across his right eyebrow. He made no attempt at obeisance but nor did he meet Shah Jahan’s gaze, keeping his eyes averted.
‘Why have you ignored the messages I sent you? Answer me now! Where are my daughters?’ Shah Jahan demanded.
‘Princess Gauharara has left the fort at her own request to join Princess Roshanara in the palace she now occupies along the Jumna. Your other daughter remains confined here in the imperial haram.’
‘I wish to see Princess Jahanara as soon as possible. I must be sure you are treating her with the respect due to her rank.’
‘I can assure you your daughter is in good health and being well treated. It isn’t for me to say when you will be permitted to see one another. Please listen to what your son Aurangzeb has commanded me to tell you. He has ordered you to be confined here in your apartments. He has also instructed me to post guards outside day and night to ensure your safety.’
‘I have always had guards at my door to protect me. I assume these are to prevent me from leaving?’
Makhdumi Khan said nothing.
‘And why have my attendants and qorchis been replaced? I do not wish to be served by strangers I neither know nor trust.’
‘It was on His Majesty’s orders …’
‘What do you mean, “His Majesty”? Who are you talking about?’
‘The Emperor Aurangzeb.’
‘There is no such person. I, Shah Jahan, am Emperor of Hindustan and no other.’
‘I am only the bearer of His Majesty the Emperor Aurangzeb’s messages. I cannot debate with you,’ Makhdumi Khan said awkwardly.
With an immense effort of will, Shah Jahan had been speaking slowly and calmly, masking emotions still in turmoil even though it was nearly three weeks since he had been confronted by Dara’s rotten head and the awful reality of his murder. After he had ordered the fort’s surrender he had retreated to his rooms. There he had contemplated ending his life and only the thought of Jahanara, whose distress he knew would be as great as his own and whom he could not desert, had stayed his hand. As the days had passed, a determination to defy – and ultimately to defeat – his traitorous sons had begun to strengthen him. He had waited with growing impatience for the moment when he could confront Aurangzeb and Murad face to face, rehearsing again and again the words he would use to them. But neither had come to him. Instead, cowards as well as traitors, they had simply sent soldiers to occupy and garrison the fort.
Suddenly something else about the commander’s words struck Shah Jahan. ‘At least tell me this. Why do you only mention Aurangzeb? What about his ally in rebellion, my son Murad?’
Makhdumi Khan looked surprised. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘How can I know anything when I’m kept in seclusion like this?’
‘I thought an attendant would have told you … Not long after Aurangzeb returned to Agra he ordered Prince Murad to be arrested.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘That while he was your governor in Gujarat he murdered his finance minister, Ali Naqi. Aurangzeb said that it was a crime before man and before God and his conscience could not allow it to go unpunished even though it was committed by his own brother.’ Shah Jahan almost smiled. He had wondered how Aurangzeb would get rid of his rival. The hypocrisy was breathtaking – Aurangzeb himself had ordered Dara’s murder yet he could pretend to be shocked by his brother’s killing of an official. ‘Didn’t Murad resist?’
‘He didn’t understand what was happening until too late. Aurangzeb invited him to his tent in his camp a mile or so away from his own to celebrate their victory alone together. While refusing it himself on account of his strict religious beliefs he ordered his brother to be plied with wine, then called for a concubine to massage the prince and lie with him. While the prince was naked and off guard in his brother’s tent, Aurangzeb’s guards came for him.’
Aurangzeb had foolishly feared to be alone with Dara in his underground room. Why had Murad not had the sense to beware being alone in Aurangzeb’s tent, knowing he had killed his older brother, thought Shah Jahan. ‘Surely Murad’s own soldiers fought to defend him when they learned what was happening?’
‘That is where His Majesty was so clever.’ Despite himself the Uzbek’s face cracked into a smile that showed deep admiration for Aurangzeb’s cunning. ‘The prince knew his brother would not be missed until the morning and had previously ordered four near-identical elephants to be readied with their howdahs closely curtained. While most of the camp slept he had Prince Murad, still bemused from the effects of the wine, placed in one of the howdahs. Then, to confuse those of his brother’s followers whom he had not already secretly won over with promises of money and advancement and hinder them from rescuing him, while it was still dark he despatched each elephant to a separate point of the compass with a strong escort. In fact, the elephant bearing Murad headed south, making for the fort at Gwalior. By the time his few loyal commanders had discovered what had happened pursuit was impossible and they were easily persuaded to accept the inevitable.’
Gwalior … The huge cliff-top fortress with its many-turreted and brightly painted walls was a formidable prison. Many of the Moghuls’ enemies had disappeared into its deep dungeons, seldom to see daylight again.
‘I heard that he is in a cell near your grandson Prince Sipihr,’ the governor went on.
‘Sipihr?’ So Dara�
�s younger son was still alive … Shah Jahan gave private thanks to God.
‘Yes. Aurangzeb has not yet decided his fate.’
‘What about Murad? What is to happen to him?’
‘His Majesty says that he does not wish to spill the blood of a brother who fought beside him against the heretic Dara. Therefore he has not had him executed. Instead every day he is to be fed pousta.’
Shah Jahan stared at the Uzbek. They both knew perfectly well what that meant. Pousta was a concoction made from the milky juice of the opium poppy, so potent that any man dosed on it turned first into a mumbling idiot before eventually – and it could take years – dying. It was a terrible and protracted end – better by far to perish on the battlefield. For a moment, Shah Jahan thought of Murad as he had been in his childhood – so good-looking and full of energy and daring. A son any man could be proud of. Yet this was what he had come to – first treachery against his own father, then cold condemnation by his brother to a slow death that would rot both body and mind. The burst of compassion he was experiencing at Murad’s plight and his own inability to help him was hard to reconcile with his anger at his previous behaviour. Perhaps it was proof that a father’s feelings for a son, especially the instinct to protect, never entirely dissipated whatever the circumstances … however badly the child behaved. Perhaps in his heart his own father Jahangir had felt the same towards him.
‘I have further orders from the emperor.’ Makhdumi Khan broke into his thoughts. ‘Your steward has already given me the keys to the imperial treasury, but you are to hand over to me your personal jewels since living a life of retirement you will no longer need them. In particular, you have a gold ring that once belonged to Timur the Great. I am instructed to be sure that the ring is included among the jewels you are to relinquish.’
‘No! I will hand over nothing – not the smallest diamond or pearl. And if my son covets Timur’s ring he must come to me and cut it from my finger himself!’ Shah Jahan’s eyes blazed defiance as he locked his left hand over the middle finger of his right hand on which he was wearing the heavy ring engraved with its snarling tiger. ‘Tell my son he is no more than a common thief stealing from his lawful emperor and that as the good Muslim he claims to be he should know there will be a reckoning in the next life if not in this.’
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