An hour later, the column had already covered three miles. If all went well — and even allowing for the rain falling in a constant veil around them there was no reason why it shouldn’t — they should reach the thick jungle and be ready to attack by midday. Glancing over his shoulder, Shah Jahan saw Aurangzeb riding not far behind him. He was wearing a chain mail tunic and silver breastplate and had an expression of deep concentration. Turning his attention to guiding his own horse across the increasingly soggy ground, Shah Jahan soon found mud flying up all around him, spattering his horse’s steel head armour and speckling his face beneath his jewelled helmet. Soon though the rain began to ease and Shah Jahan could make out the thick jungle ahead of him to the south. A quarter of an hour later a small group of riders appeared from that direction led by Rai Singh.
‘All is well, Majesty,’ called the scout, long hair hanging in wet tendrils. ‘The Bijapurans are still in the jungle and as far as we can tell have no idea of our presence. Now that the rain is stopping they’ve begun lighting their cooking fires — look.’
Sure enough thin trails of smoke were spiralling from several points within the jungle. The Bijapurans’ bivouacs seemed to be scattered rather than concentrated in one large encampment. ‘If they want to eat they’d better be quick — it’ll be the last food they’ll taste. Continue to keep watch. If you see anything suspicious send word at once. Otherwise we will advance into the jungle as soon as we have surrounded it.’
Quickly Shah Jahan issued his final orders to his commanders. ‘Deploy your men around the forest. I will join those entering from its northern edge and will send my orders along the line from there. Aurangzeb — you stay here. Vikram Das — I am making you responsible for my son’s safety.’ The officer nodded, then glanced a little nervously at Aurangzeb as if doubting his ability to control the young prince. Shah Jahan saw the look. ‘Aurangzeb — do I have your word of honour that you will remain here and not attempt to join the fight?’ His son hesitated a moment, then nodded.
Shah Jahan kicked his horse onward, his bodyguard around him, as he joined the horsemen fanning out to surround the forest. The musketmen mounted behind the riders had their long-barrelled weapons and ram rods strapped to their backs while their powder horns were slung from their shoulders. So much moisture dripped from the trees as Shah Jahan and his men pushed through the branches that it seemed still to be raining. Water was trickling down their necks and running beneath their breastplates and the forest floor was sodden. The horses were soon sinking up to their hocks in places as they struggled to pick their way through and around the deep puddles and soft oozing mud. All the time the vegetation was growing denser.
Shah Jahan listened hard, but above the squelching of the horses’ hooves and their occasional blowing and snorting could hear nothing. The Bijapurans must still be too far off to be aware of his advancing forces, but not for much longer. Shah Jahan raised his sword. At the sign, Ashok Singh flung back his head and yelled the ancient war cry of the Rajputs, ‘Onward, children of fire, sun and moon, to glory or to death.’ All around men began shouting, clashing weapons, sounding trumpets and banging drums. As the cacophony rolled around the jungle, samba deer barked their alarm call and doves and pigeons whirred in panic from the shelter of the trees. Soon it would be time for the musketmen to drop to the ground and set up their weapons ready to shoot down any Bijapurans who tried to break out of the circle into which the horsemen were driving them. Heart pounding, Shah Jahan scanned the dripping foliage, right hand fingering his sword hilt.
Within moments shouts of alarm rose ahead. Suddenly over an area of lower bushes slightly to his left, Shah Jahan made out a clearing with a number of tents and some horses tethered nearby. ‘Musketeers, dismount and take up your positions. Pass the order along,’ he yelled. ‘Horsemen, keep the line as you advance — let no one through.’ To his right and left, Ashok Singh’s riders, their lances at the ready, pushed their mounts on through the thinning undergrowth, picking up speed despite the cloying mud.
As he burst with them into the clearing Shah Jahan felt something graze his cheek. A black-flighted arrow embedded itself in the mud close by him. Glancing around he spotted the archer — a long-haired youth — standing in the doorway of a tent not thirty yards away and fumbling with nervous fingers to fit a second arrow to his bow. In a single movement, Shah Jahan pulled one of his two steel-bladed daggers from its scabbard and sent it spinning through the air with all the force he could muster. The dagger tip hit the youth in the throat and he dropped to his knees, blood spurting through his fingers as he clawed at his neck.
Around Shah Jahan, his horsemen were making swift work of the Bijapurans, of whom there appeared to be no more than thirty. As he watched, Ashok Singh, bending low from his saddle, scythed another bowman’s head from his shoulders with a single sweep of his weapon, sending the head rolling away to rest, mud-covered, among the roots of a tree. The torso remained upright for a few moments before toppling sideways with a splash into a puddle. Other Bijapurans were attempting to flee deeper into the jungle while the smell of powder and the crackle of muskets behind him told Shah Jahan that a few had been foolish enough to attempt to break through the cordon of his musketmen. ‘Set fire to their tents and turn their horses free,’ he shouted, but at almost the same moment he heard a cry of ‘Bijapurans, over here, to me!’
Wrenching his horse round, Shah Jahan saw a group of thirty or forty well-armed riders led by a tall man in a gilded helmet crash through the scrub on the far side of the clearing. They’d obviously had more time to prepare than their comrades here in the encampment, where red blood now stained the muddy ground. ‘Regroup,’ shouted Shah Jahan to his men. ‘Re-form your line.’ There might be more Bijapurans concealed in the trees beyond and he didn’t want his soldiers rushing into a trap.
From Shah Jahan’s right and left, out of his range of vision, came the sounds of battle as his men clashed with other pockets of Bijapurans. He could not tell precisely what was happening but he trusted his men to maintain discipline and remember their orders. The important thing was to keep the encircling cordon tight and intact and continue the advance, driving his enemies into a tightly packed, disordered mass where they would be easier to destroy.
The Bijapuran riders, seeing they were outnumbered, knew better than to stand and fight in the clearing. Instead, pulling two or three survivors from the conflict up behind them, they were already turning their horses and disappearing deeper into the jungle.
Urging his own mount after them, Shah Jahan realised that the vegetation ahead was growing less dense — nearly all scrubby bushes rather than trees — and that the ground, now lit here and there by shafts of sunlight, was growing even more sodden. At first the tracks of the retreating Bijapurans were easy enough to follow. With luck they would lead to the main encampment. As the sun began to shine more strongly, reflecting mirror-like from the puddles, the air grew humid and sweat ran freely down between Shah Jahan’s shoulder blades. With mosquitoes whining in his ears, he glanced around, on the lookout for any Bijapurans lying in ambush amid the brush and fallen branches. He could see none.
Suddenly Shah Jahan’s mount slithered and plunged forward, nearly throwing him. He struggled to keep the animal upright and succeeded, but as the horse tried to walk on it stumbled again. Raising an arm to halt the advance on either side of him, he quickly dismounted and ran his hand over the horse’s front fetlocks. As he touched the left one the beast whinnied in pain. ‘My horse has lamed itself,’ he called to Ashok Singh. As he waited for a spare mount to be brought, a lone rider appeared on a low hillock about fifty yards away. His gilded conical helmet gleamed in the sunshine. It was the officer who had come to the aid of the Bijapurans in their camp. In his hand was a banner of golden yellow silk — the colour of Bijapur — obviously intended as a flag of truce. The officer shouted with all the power of his lungs, ‘I bring a message from our commander. Majesty, we know that your forces have encircled us. To spare fu
rther bloodshed on both sides we wish to surrender.’
‘You have a short memory, Bijapuran,’ replied Shah Jahan. ‘Once before you offered to surrender, then broke your word and innocents died. Today there’ll be no bargaining. Traitors have no right to the protection of a flag of truce, so be gone before I seize you.’ As the man rode quickly away, Shah Jahan glanced up into the sky. From the position of the sun it was still only early afternoon. By sunset, God willing, he would be victorious.
A ragged volley of enemy musket fire forty minutes later was the first sign that he had located the main body of Bijapurans. One ball hit a young Rajput a few yards to his left in the thigh and, blood pouring from his wound, the youth toppled sideways from his horse. Another rider cried out, then slumped forward in his saddle, dropping his lance. The mount of a third, hit twice in the throat, slowly collapsed, allowing its rider time to jump clear. For a moment the animal’s body twitched convulsively, its blood pumping into a puddle, before becoming still.
‘Keep low,’ Shah Jahan yelled, kicking his horse forward. Through the spindly bushes he could see a large encampment on to which most of the Bijapurans seemed to have fallen back. They had overturned their few baggage carts to use as barricades, but surrounded as they were, they didn’t seem to know how best to position them or on which side to take refuge. From all around came the cries of the advancing Moghul troops. The cordon had held and his men had advanced together just as he had planned, Shah Jahan thought as, determined to finish the campaign, fresh energy surged through him.
Yanking on his left rein, he swerved round a tent to slash at a Bijapuran musketeer struggling to reload. His blade caught the man’s right arm and dropping both his musket and his ram rod he screamed and turned to run. Shah Jahan struck again, cleaving the musketman’s back open to the bone. Looking round, he spotted a huge man in a yellow turban standing with his back to an overturned cart, a spear in his right hand. At that moment a Moghul cavalryman swept past and the man thrust his weapon hard into the horse’s stomach. It fell, trapping the Moghul rider beneath it by his thigh. As he struggled to free himself, the yellow-turbaned Bijapuran leapt on him and holding his already dripping spear in both hands raised it above his head. So intent was he on despatching his victim that he didn’t notice Shah Jahan until it was too late. Leaning low from his saddle, Shah Jahan cut with his sword into the nape of the man’s neck, half severing the head so that it flopped forward in a froth of blood as he fell.
But suddenly the world was spinning around Shah Jahan as he found himself flying through the air to land with a thud on the squelchy ground. Dazed and winded, he looked about to see his horse on its knees in the mud. It had clearly stumbled over the shaft of the overturned cart. His sword was lying a few feet away. Dragging himself to his knees he reached for his weapon but at that moment a boot caught him in the small of his back and sent him sprawling forward into a deep puddle. His mouth and nose filled with muddy water and he spluttered for breath. He tried to get up but felt a hand pull off his helmet, grab hold of his hair and force him face down into the water again. He was starting to choke and his lungs felt as if they were on fire. Gathering his remaining strength he tried to dislodge his attacker but the man was too strong, while every attempt to breathe just brought another mouth and noseful of muddy viscous liquid. With a last desperate effort he felt in his sash for his second dagger and managed to grip its hilt. Pulling it from its scabbard he lunged blindly upwards. The weapon cut through empty air. Blood pounding in his ears as if the drums were about to rupture, he tried again. This time the blade penetrated muscle. A startled, high-pitched scream followed and the hold on his hair relaxed.
Pushing his opponent from him and rolling sideways, he gulped in air. His enemy — tall and heavily built — was writhing doubled up on the ground, clutching at a wound in his left side. Taking a few more deep breaths Shah Jahan got up and staggered across to him, pulled him over onto his stomach and thrust his head into the same puddle where just a moment ago he had been struggling for his own life. Straddling the man, he pushed his head down as hard as he could into the liquid mud. The Bijapuran threshed and bucked, trying to dislodge him, but he held on. For some moments the man’s feet kicked furiously but then his body grew limp. Standing, Shah Jahan retrieved his sword. Then he stood for a moment, back against the overturned cart, trying to gauge the progress of the battle.
‘Majesty, are you all right? I lost sight of you in the fighting.’ It was Ashok Singh, leaning from his saddle.
‘That new horse of mine tripped and fell.’
‘Give me your hand, Majesty. Pull yourself up behind me. Even if the fighting’s nearly over it’s still safer on horseback than on the ground.’ Ashok Singh was right, Shah Jahan thought, though most of the bodies sprawled on the earth were Bijapuran and resistance seemed to be over. As he watched, four yellow-clad soldiers emerged from a tent and threw down their weapons while a few yards away a Moghul cavalryman pinioned a Bijapuran whose sword was still drawn to the side of a baggage cart with the tip of his lance.
‘Majesty. We have taken a number of prisoners. Are your orders still the same?’
‘Yes. Execute them. But do it quickly and cleanly.’
Their death agony would be short, Shah Jahan thought, gazing at the carnage around him, unlike the death of Mumtaz and the long agony of his own grief. He felt no joy in the death of his foes, just an overwhelming weariness and gratitude that the fighting was over and he was victorious. At last he could return to Agra to raise his monument to love — his love of Mumtaz.
Chapter 7
As he topped the crest of the low ridge, Shah Jahan signalled the column to halt and, shading his eyes, looked north towards Agra. The familiar sandstone walls of the fort glowed red in the noonday heat. In the centre of the plain extending from the bottom of the ridge to the outskirts of the city he could make out a long line of troops — some on horseback, others on elephants — coming to escort the Moghul emperor and his victorious army on the final mile of their journey home.
He would re-enter his fortress with fitting ceremony — drums would beat in the gatehouse and green banners flutter on the battlements — but he had ordered that there should be no throwing of flowers or showering of silver and gold coin, no processions of dancers and musicians, as there would have been if Mumtaz had still been at his side. Ever since Dara and Jahanara had accompanied her coffin back to Agra he had longed for the moment when he could follow. Now, the thought of riding alone up the fort’s familiar winding ramp to the imperial apartments, refurbished during his absence for an empress who would never see them, was inexpressibly painful.
Yet he must, it was his duty. His astrologers had named today as the most auspicious for his return for many weeks to come. Such things mattered to the people if not to him. Though he had lost his empress he must make it appear that an aura of good fortune still surrounded him and his dynasty. To reinforce the message he would ride slowly through the streets of the city to the fort accompanied by his sons. Dara Shukoh would arrive with the escort while Shah Shuja, Aurangzeb and Murad, dressed in the white of mourning as he still was and riding matched white horses with green trappings, were waiting just a few yards behind him, ready to take their place in the procession.
As soon as the ceremonials were over he would go by barge along the Jumna to inspect the progress on Mumtaz’s tomb. Ustad Ahmad’s reports had been buoyant. Narrowing his eyes, Shah Jahan looked beyond the fort and across the bend of the river, trying to identify the site, but it was masked by the dull apricot shimmer on the horizon.
‘Father, look, there’s Dara …’ Shah Shuja broke into his thoughts.
Peering down towards the bottom of the ridge, Shah Jahan saw a figure urging his horse up the path. The sight cheered him. God had taken Mumtaz but with four fine sons his dynasty would live on. He had much he should be grateful for.
The next morning Shah Jahan glanced up into the pale, almost colourless sky. According to the scientific in
strument an Italian trader had brought to his court, today was the hottest of the year so far. The curious-looking device consisted of a glass bulb filled with water attached to a long tube, also of glass, on which a series of lines had been etched. According to the Italian, a man named Galileo had invented it and it was in common use in Europe. The trader had shown Aslan Beg how to use it. The complicated process fascinated Dara Shukoh, though he himself doubted the instrument’s utility. Wasn’t nearly every day on the plains of Hindustan hot?
Approaching the place where the brick core of the sandstone platform was taking shape and Ustad Ahmad was waiting for him, Shah Jahan coughed as the coarse dust hanging in the air caught at his throat. ‘Majesty, if you accompany me to that mound over there you will see better and the air will be clearer.’ Shah Jahan followed Ustad Ahmad across the hard-baked ground to a small hillock. His architect was right — the view was better from here. He could clearly distinguish the perimeter of the vast platform — 970 feet long and 364 feet wide according to Ustad Ahmad — on which the mausoleum would stand.
‘It still seems to me incredible that ground so close to the river can support the weight.’
Ustad Ahmad smiled. ‘Majesty, I’ve checked my calculations again and again and I am entirely certain, provided we strengthen the bank in the right way, that it will. I’ve already ordered the workers to dig shafts close to the riverbank, varying their depths to compensate for the slope, and then line them with bricks and a cement made of lime and sand and fill them with rubble and more cement. I’ve also ordered them to position piers on top of the shafts to support the platform.’
‘But aren’t labourers digging down on the riverbank too?’
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