The Serpent's tooth eotm-5

by Alex Rutherford

  Wearily, Nicholas sheathed his sword and turning his horse called to one of his mercenary captains, a scarred French veteran from Navarre. ‘Gather our men. The prince has ordered us to retreat. The reason why defeats me, but do so we must.’

  Alone on the terrace of his apartments Shah Jahan stared ahead, blind to the grace of a flock of geese flying in arrow formation across the Jumna. Once more, just as when the cossids had first brought news of the disaster in the north three months previously, all he could see were thousands of his men lying dead or crippled through hunger and frostbite in the chill passes of the Hindu Kush as they had tried to fall back once more on Kabul. So many casualties as well as twenty million rupees lost to the imperial treasuries and not a single inch of territory gained. These campaigns were proving the first serious and lasting military reverses of his entire reign … Once more he asked himself how Aurangzeb could have failed him so badly, even worse than had Murad the previous year. This time the Moghul army hadn’t even reached the Oxus … hadn’t exchanged a single sword stroke with the Uzbeks. Instead they had allowed motley bands of hit and run Turkoman and Afghan raiders to hold them up so long that winter — the most relentless and implacable foe of all — had overtaken them as they had tried to retreat back to Kabul.

  And now this latest news. The Persian shah had taken advantage of his stalled Samarkand campaign to send an army against Kandahar, and after a siege of only fifty-seven days the spineless Moghul garrison had opened their gates to the triumphant Persians. The more he’d thought about it, the more his resentment had grown against Aurangzeb, now waiting for an audience following his return last night to Agra in response to his father’s urgent summons. Aurangzeb’s failures were harder to forgive than Murad’s because he was more experienced. Everything Dara had said was right … Aurangzeb had a conceited view of his abilities and now his shortcomings had been exposed, as Shah Jahan was about to tell him.

  ‘Send Prince Aurangzeb to me,’ he ordered a qorchi.

  Five minutes later his son stood before him, dressed in his usual plain garments. One look at his posture, straight shoulders, head held high, told Shah Jahan that he was in a combative rather than either a humble or penitent mood and that made him even angrier.

  ‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself?’ Shah Jahan demanded as soon as they were alone.

  ‘The narrow mountain passes defeated us. Though we managed to drag some of our heavy cannon through several of them the wheels of many of our gun carriages were damaged and some shattered on the rocky ground.’

  ‘So you abandoned the cannon rather than halting to repair the carriages!’

  ‘Yes. I saw no alternative. Repairs would have taken time and the damage would have reoccurred. Besides, the guns were slowing our progress and were useless.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have been useless once you were out of the mountains and on to the flat steppe. How could simple tribesmen have withstood artillery? You should have tried harder. With cannon to support you, you could have been over the Oxus by now!’

  ‘In my judgement it was impossible to get them to the Oxus, Father.’

  ‘Did you ever consider advancing without them? No! You retreated in defiance of my orders and brought shame on both me and the Moghul army. No wonder Ashok Singh — a good friend as well as one of my best and most honourable generals — preferred to die.’

  ‘You call his behaviour honourable? I call it stupid to sacrifice yourself needlessly rather than live to fight again. Whatever he might have thought, my actions were correct. Struggling with the guns delayed us too long. The enemy knew we were coming and with every day that passed were massing to oppose us. What they lacked in modern weaponry they made up for in numbers. I couldn’t take the guns forward. I couldn’t risk the lives of my men by continuing without them.’

  ‘You could scarcely have lost more men if you had. How many was it?’

  ‘Almost twenty thousand — five thousand in battle and fifteen thousand dead from disease and cold. The snow and ice came earlier than for many years … Father, for once have some trust in me. I did all that I could. Everything was against me, and the men were restive. They lacked commitment — particularly those from the plains — and there were many deserters. Without my efforts our losses would have been even worse.’

  ‘Nothing’s ever your fault, but someone else’s! Isn’t that always your excuse? You’ve shown no respect for me either as your father or as your emperor, and far too much belief in your own opinions and abilities. You have disappointed me more than I thought possible. What’s more, you have cost me the lives of too many — including Ashok Singh.’

  ‘Why harp on Ashok Singh? These Rajputs aren’t like us — their beliefs are warped and their pride insufferable. He would have served the empire better had he simply obeyed my orders and helped me manage the retreat instead of indulging in grandiose gestures.’

  ‘How dare you deride Rajput pride! The Rajputs’ bravery and loyalty are beyond question and they have been responsible for many of the Moghuls’ greatest conquests. Hold your tongue and listen to me. I summoned you to me in private because what I have to say would reflect no credit on our family if I said it in public. Weakness was something I never thought to have to accuse you of, but you and no one else have brought disgrace on our dynasty by making us appear weak. Because of you, laughing Persians are pissing down on us from the walls of Kandahar …’

  ‘I see your mind is made up. There is strength, not weakness, in knowing when to suspend your ambitions and how and when to pursue them, so I bow to your will. What do you intend to do with me?’

  ‘Were it not for the watching eyes of the world, I would banish you to the remotest part of my empire, or perhaps send you on the haj to Mecca since you seem so fond of praying. But I won’t give our enemies the satisfaction of knowing the extent of my anger. You will return to your former post in the Deccan but I will be keeping a close eye on how you conduct yourself. At least all seems peaceful there, so you are unlikely to face any military challenges beyond your capabilities. You will depart within the week. Now leave me.’

  ‘He understands neither me nor my ambitions and never has because he doesn’t want to.’ Aurangzeb shook his head.

  ‘But at least he’s sending you back as his viceroy in the Deccan.’ Roshanara moved a little closer and placed a comforting arm round her brother’s shoulder as they stood on a terrace of the Agra fort.

  ‘He’s only done it to save face — his face, not mine. He wasn’t interested in why the campaign failed — only in what people will say. I’m sure Dara has been stirring him up against me. Both of them should take care not to push me too far.’

  ‘You may well be right in suspecting Dara has influenced Father against you. While you were away, they spent a great deal of time together. I felt quite left out, Jahanara was so often with them.’

  At the mention of his oldest sister Aurangzeb’s face softened. He had always been fond of Jahanara, Roshanara reflected. But it was time he realised that his eldest sister’s first loyalty was to Dara, not him, and that if he wanted a sisterly ally she, Roshanara, was willing and waiting. Perhaps he should know that the First Lady of the Empire might not be as perfect as he seemed to think.

  ‘Nicholas Ballantyne returned to Agra with you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He was wounded in the leg in the final stages of the retreat but has recovered. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because of something that happened just before Murad left on campaign. Nicholas Ballantyne visited Jahanara in her mansion. Since then they have been exchanging letters, even while he was away fighting for you …’

  ‘That can’t be … Who told you that? How do you know?’ Aurangzeb looked stunned.

  ‘One of my former waiting women is in her employ and tells me what is going on. I tried to talk to Father about it, but you know what he’s like where Jahanara’s concerned, especially since the fire. But who knows the real purpose of their letters? I’m not saying there
is anything truly improper, just that Nicholas doesn’t understand our ways and perhaps has been giving Jahanara information about your conduct of the campaign, and she’s been using that to help Dara turn Father against you.’

  ‘Jahanara wouldn’t do such a thing.’

  ‘Are you sure? Father is growing older. Perhaps she’s already looking ahead to a time when she might have to choose between her brothers. If she wants Dara to become the next emperor, she’ll do her best to help him. That doesn’t make her your enemy — I know how fond you are of her, as indeed I am — but love of position and of influence changes people and I believe it has changed her. After all, she’s not content to live in the haram as I and Gauharara do, but has her own palace and household, gives her own parties and entertainments. And her relationship with the Englishman is another symptom of her arrogance. She thinks she can ignore the conventions that bind the rest of us.’

  ‘Not just conventions but the tenets of her religion that condemn such immodesty,’ Aurangzeb said quietly.

  ‘Don’t be so angry with her. She loves you as a brother, I’m certain. It’s just that she perhaps favours Dara for the throne.’ Roshanara smiled, but won no answering smile from her brother. Instead he was staring at the ground. That he might hold second place to Dara in Jahanara’s heart was painful. If he’d ever thought about it at all, he’d assumed she loved them equally. Yet the more he pondered, the clearer it became that Roshanara was right. Didn’t Jahanara always take Dara’s part in their disagreements? Didn’t she sympathise with his philosophic musings? When it came down to it, mightn’t she prefer the weak rule of Dara with his lax and flexible views to the stricter and sterner regime he would impose?

  Roshanara’s soft voice intruded into thoughts growing ever more bitter and suspicious. ‘If I gain further information about Jahanara’s relationship with the Englishman, what should I do?’

  ‘Speak to our father again and this time in such terms as to make sure he listens. And tell me … I need to know everything so that I’m prepared. Can I count on you for that? I’ll not stand for anyone — not even Jahanara — conspiring against me.’

  Chapter 15

  Jahanara re-read Nicholas Ballantyne’s letter more slowly. If she’d hoped a second reading would bring any more comfort than the first she was disappointed. How could things have gone so wrong? She simply didn’t understand, however hard she tried. Shah Jahan’s dismissal of Aurangzeb back to the Deccan had been so peremptory that she’d had no opportunity even to see her brother, let alone talk to him and hear his side of the northern campaign. When she’d tried to raise the subject of Aurangzeb with her father he had refused to discuss him with a tight-lipped obstinacy that had both surprised and wounded her.

  Dara thought she was wrong to worry about Aurangzeb. ‘He has a hot head but a cold heart. Firm treatment is the only thing he understands. I’ve told our father so.’ Dara had looked unusually stern as he’d spoken those words, but perhaps he’d never truly forgiven Aurangzeb’s accusations during their inspection of his mansion.

  At least she had Nicholas Ballantyne to turn to. Just as he had honoured his promise to write to her about Murad he was again at her urging proving a candid and reliable informant, this time about Aurangzeb and the debacles in the Hindu Kush. He had replied quickly to the message she had sent to his lodgings within the Agra fort asking about Aurangzeb and the reason for the failure of his campaign. If only she could have found something in his letter to help her understand her brother better … Glancing down, her eyes fell again on the passage that had disturbed her most — Nicholas’s account of a skirmish early in the campaign.

  Though this particular ambush — only one among many — was unexpected and made in greater strength than usual, our greater discipline and better weapons made our victory certain — at least I thought so. Your brother was in the heart of the fighting — he’s certainly no coward — and was about to charge with his bodyguard against a group of Kafir tribesmen firing down on us from a crest some two hundred yards away. He had ordered me to lead some of my French mercenaries to circle round to support him. We were ready to move, weapons unsheathed, hearts thumping and our horses pawing the ground. We expected him to give the signal at any moment but instead he did something that made us gasp with astonishment.

  After gazing up into the sky for a few moments, Aurangzeb suddenly dismounted and pulled something from his saddle. As he lifted it clear, I saw it was a prayer mat. With his bodyguards forming a cordon around him, Aurangzeb laid the mat on the ground and kneeling down began to pray, leaning forward to touch his forehead to the mat, then sitting back on his heels again and again. Glancing up at the sky myself, I realised by the position of the sun that it was the hour of evening prayer.

  By now musket balls and arrows were flying all around us. The captain of his guard was one of several killed or wounded as we continued to wait, but their screams had no effect on your brother. He went on praying calmly and without hurry. When he had finished, he rolled up his mat, replaced it on his saddle, remounted and gave the order to charge as if nothing had intervened. We still put the enemy to flight. That evening his mullahs, travelling as always with the army, their tents pitched close to his, commended his piety and his bravery, telling him that both would bring him victory. However, others — myself included if I am honest and Ashok Singh too — were disturbed. A commander who breaks off in the thick of the battle to pray is reckless as well as pious and courageous. However keen he is to ensure his own place in Paradise he has no right to be so careless of the earthly lives of his men.

  From that time we suffered a number of desertions, particularly among troops not of your religion. I suspect your brother knew that he was losing the confidence of some of his men. In consequence he almost ceased asking his officers’ advice. His orders became ever more autocratic — even sometimes irrational — as he sought to impose his will and enforce his men’s loyalty. Ashok Singh did what he could to maintain the army’s morale but after his death — a matter of great personal sorrow to me; I cannot help worrying whether I could have done anything to save him — I think your brother doubted his ability to hold his army together through a long and dangerous campaign and that I believe was why he aborted the mission. He is unlike other commanders I have served, being austere and cold. It’s hard to tell what is in his mind and I suspect he would have it thus.

  Jahanara touched her scarred cheek. In those terrible weeks after the fire Aurangzeb had hurried back from the Deccan to be at her bedside. Could that tender affectionate brother have become the remote, self-contained man conjured by Nicholas? Yet now that she thought back she realised how little Aurangzeb had ever revealed of himself, his feelings and ambitions, even during the hours they’d spent together at that time. If he was indeed a man such as Nicholas described, what had made him become so? Did some seam of bitterness run through him like a vein of marble or of granite, cold and unyielding, hidden until you dug deep enough? As the eldest of her parents’ children — and as a sister who loved him — it was her duty to try to find out … She owed it to her mother who, had she lived, would surely have penetrated her son’s reserve.

  Sitting down cross-legged at her desk she took her pen and began to write again to Nicholas.

  Thank you for your letter, even if it has caused me great heartache. How can a woman living such a protected life as I understand fully what is in men’s hearts — their thoughts and feelings, their true desires. What you have said raises so many questions that I cannot rest until I know more. Please, I must see you. Come to me here in my palace tomorrow evening, as you did before.

  Heating a stick of wax over a candle she let the red tallow trickle in a little pool on to the bottom of the letter. Then, taking her mother’s ivory seal, she pressed it firmly into the wax. She would have given the letter to her steward but his daughter had just given birth to his first grandson in the town and he had gone to visit her. This time she would have to entrust the errand to someone else.<
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  ‘Nasreen!’ she called to her attendant. ‘Come quickly. I have a task for you.’

  As he often did, her father had ordered that he was not to be disturbed that evening, but the piece of smooth ivory-coloured paper in her hand gave Roshanara the confidence she needed.

  ‘I have information for my father that cannot wait,’ she told the captain of the Turkish female guards who protected the main entrance to the emperor’s apartments from the imperial haram. The Turk — broad-shouldered and muscular as a man in her tightly belted leather jerkin — hesitated a moment then bowed her close-cropped head. At her signal the guards flung open the silver-clad doors to admit Roshanara into a long torchlit corridor at the far end of which was a second set of doors, also flanked by Turkish haram guards.

  Accompanied by the captain of the guard, Roshanara took her time as she made her way towards them, the hem of her turquoise silk robe rustling as it brushed the ground. After all, she’d already waited long enough … indeed she’d even begun to think that Nasreen would never obtain any useful information, but finally her patience had been rewarded. She had something to dislodge Jahanara from her patronising pedestal and prove to her father that he should not have treated her so roughly when she had first voiced her suspicions. She paused while the captain of the guard tapped on the second set of doors and informed the haram eunuch who appeared that the Princess Roshanara had urgent business with her father.

  A few moments later she was in his familiar apartments overlooking the Jumna. Shah Jahan was on the terrace where he often stood at night, gazing across the river at Mumtaz’s mausoleum by the light of an almost full moon.

  ‘What is it, Roshanara?’ He looked tired, but there was no reproach in his voice for disturbing him so late.