The Serpent's tooth

Chapter 1

Agra Fort, northwestern India, 1628

The glint of the sunlight on the dagger’s serrated blade caught Shah Jahan’s eye at the last moment. As he flung up his right arm to protect his neck, he felt the blade slice into the muscle just below his elbow. Blood immediately began to drip down on to his silver throne. Launching himself with such force that the throne went crashing backwards, he seized the arm of his assailant before he could strike again. Using all his strength he threw the man, who was only slight, on to the marble dais on which his throne had stood. As his attacker hit the marble with a crash, the impact knocked his purple turban from his head and loosened his grip on his dagger. Twisting his assailant’s hand back so hard that he heard the crunch as the wrist broke, Shah Jahan wrenched the weapon from his grasp and dropped with both knees and all his weight on to his would-be assassin’s chest. Immediately his green-clad bodyguards were around him, but he knew that they would have been too late to save him.

As he got to his feet again the soles of Shah Jahan’s sandals crunched on rubies and turquoises dislodged from the silver throne by its fall. He looked hard at his attacker, whom his guards had first dragged roughly to his feet and then, after pulling his arms out tight behind him, kicked to his knees. Shah Jahan half recognised his assailant who was dressed in court garb and appeared no more than a youth.

‘Who are you? Why did you attack your emperor?’

At first the young man did not respond, then a black-bearded bodyguard kicked him hard in his kidneys, twice. ‘Ismail Khan, nephew of Jani. She died because you killed her husband, your own half-brother Khusrau. She could not live without him. I owed vengeance to her. She took me into her family when my parents died.’

Yes, of course, Ismail Khan … After his accession he had allowed him to remain at court at his own wife Mumtaz’s pleading. Clearly he had been too generous, even naive to believe that the divisions of the civil war in which he had come to the throne could be quickly or easily healed. Increasingly aware of the pain in his right arm, he looked down. The gashed gold cloth of his tunic was soaked in blood. It was trickling down his hand and fingers on to the white marble to form a small crimson pool. He must have the wound attended to quickly. He raised his arm to stem the blood flow as he had done when injured in battle. ‘Have no doubt you will die, Ismail Khan, but first you will have a little time to fear death and to repent of your actions while I have the wound you caused your rightful emperor dressed. The manner of your execution will depend on what you tell me of your accomplices.’

‘I confess, Majesty.’ An hour later Ismail Khan was once more on his knees before Shah Jahan — this time in the parade ground outside the Agra fort.

‘What else can you do? You were caught in the act,’ retorted Shah Jahan. By an effort of will he had remained impassive while his hakim had used his needle to place ten stitches into the dagger slash in his forearm before smearing it with neem ointment and binding it tightly. The wound was still stinging but — as the continuing pure whiteness of the cotton bandages attested — no longer bleeding. It should soon heal. Unless … serrated weapons like Ismail Khan’s lent themselves to poison. ‘Did you poison your dagger blade?’

‘No, Majesty,’ Ismail Khan responded immediately, shock on his young face. ‘No, I would not do so. It would be as dishonourable as your action in sending henchmen to kill Khusrau, already blinded by his father … I wanted to strike cleanly, in person, as a man.’

Even if he was scarcely the age to claim the status of manhood, Shah Jahan could not but admire the youth’s courage, relieved as he was that he would live to fulfil those great ambitions he had had when crowned the fifth Moghul emperor only five months ago. Nevertheless, there could be no mercy, no pity, for any who dared attack the emperor. Ismail Khan must die. But first he must reveal his fellow conspirators.

‘Who helped you? You couldn’t have got through my bodyguards without some assistance.’

‘I had no help. I acted from family honour.’ There was defiance in Ismail Khan’s young eyes now, and his beardless chin jutted forward. ‘I take all responsibility. I knew that even if I succeeded, I would not escape alive. Your death would have been no crime, but just punishment for your sins. In killing you I would have been fulfilling God’s wishes.’

Looking into Ismail Khan’s face, Shah Jahan saw a martyr’s self-righteous determination. He was almost certainly the sole instigator and inspiration for the attack. Although he must have had junior accomplices, not even torture would be likely to make him reveal them. Why delay then? ‘Executioner, do your work.’

The executioner stepped forward from where he had been waiting just behind Shah Jahan. He was a burly man dressed in red with a red leather apron and had already unsheathed his sword, two feet long and curving slightly towards the tip. Quickly one of his assistants spread a jute mat on the ground. Two of the guards pushed Ismail Khan forward on to it. ‘Extend your neck,’ the executioner commanded. Moments later his sword flashed in the sunlight above Ismail Khan just as the youth’s own dagger had done above Shah Jahan, but Ismail Khan’s fate was set. His arms were pinioned and he could not raise them to protect himself. The sword swiftly sliced into the smooth skin and soft flesh of his young neck and then scrunched through the bone and sinew, severing head from torso. For a moment the head with its now sightless but still open eyes rolled towards Shah Jahan, but almost before blood had ceased to spurt from the crumpled body two of the executioner’s assistants had gathered body and head into the jute mat and were carrying them away.

The crowd who had quickly assembled around the edge of the parade ground, and were being held back by the spear shafts of some of his men, cheered. Shah Jahan took little comfort from their enthusiasm. Life had taught him that the people’s affections were fickle and that if fate went against him they would readily enough cheer his own execution. He must ensure it did not. Therefore, although he had granted Ismail Khan a dignified death, he could not spare his soulless body indignities. Raising both arms to command silence, he spoke. ‘So will I reward all traitors whatever their status, however close to me in kinship or in favour. To remind my subjects great and humble of their fate, have Ismail Khan’s body quartered and a portion placed at each corner of the marketplace until it rots. Have his head impaled for ever above the main gate of the fort.’

The crowd roared as he knew it would and at what he suspected was the instigation of some of his officers began to chant, ‘Zinderbad Padishah Shah Jahan. Long live the Emperor Shah Jahan.’

Shah Jahan was still not finished. While his arm was being stitched he had asked Kamran Iqbal — his companion during both his long estrangement from his father and his subsequent fight for the throne against his half-brothers Khusrau and Shahriyar — to identify and arrest the guards through whom Ismail Khan had broken to attack him. He was sure at least one would prove to be an accomplice.

‘Bring the prisoners,’ he instructed. A few minutes later two men dressed in the Moghul green of his bodyguard, but with their steel breastplates and helmets removed and their arms tied at the wrist, emerged from a low gateway in the fort walls and surrounded by an armed group of their comrades marched towards him. As they were halted a few yards in front of him, he recognised both. The first was Hari Singh, a member of a military family from Lahore whom he had taken into his service from that of Shahriyar on the pleas of the man’s grandfather, a veteran of his own grandfather the Emperor Akbar’s campaigns. The second, a grizzled Uzbek, Majid Beg, had been in Shah Jahan’s armies for many years. Both looked composed.

‘Kamran Iqbal said that Ismail Khan broke through the guard cordon between you two to attack me. Why did you fail in your duty? Why couldn’t you stop him? He wasn’t a powerful man, after all.’ Neither man responded. ‘Speak or I will have the torturers heat their irons.’

Suddenly Majid Beg blurted out, ‘I felt Hari Singh move a little away from me just before Ismail Khan slipped between us despite my very best efforts to prevent him.’

So that was it, thought Shah Jahan, eyes turning to Hari Singh. He had retained a loyalty to Shahriyar, just as Ismail Khan had acted to avenge Jani and Khusrau. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’

Hari Singh looked directly at Shah Jahan. ‘Majesty, I did not shrink back, I swear. I tried to protect you … to prevent Ismail Khan getting through. I almost succeeded in knocking his heels together to bring him to the ground, as other comrades will bear witness.’

‘And what about Majid Beg? Did he do his best as he claims?’

‘I cannot say. Besides, he is my comrade.’

‘It looks bad for you, Hari Singh. You must speak.’

Before Hari Singh could say anything more Shah Jahan saw the captain of his guard approach across the dry parade ground, from which the breeze was raising puffs of red dust. ‘What is it?’

‘As you ordered, we searched these men’s military chests in their barracks and we found this in one of them.’ As he spoke the captain up-ended a green velvet bag he held in one hand. Out into the dust tumbled several gold mohurs.

‘Whose chest?’ asked Shah Jahan.

‘Majid Beg’s.’

Taken aback that it wasn’t Hari Singh’s, Shah Jahan said nothing for a moment then demanded, ‘What are they, Majid Beg? Your reward for treachery?’

‘No, my savings.’ Majid Beg remained impassive.

‘That cannot be true, Majesty,’ said the captain. ‘One of the other guards told me Majid Beg is well known as a gambler and has been trying to borrow money for his daughter’s dowry. He is guilty.’

‘Come, Hari Singh, now you must speak,’ urged Shah Jahan.

‘I cannot condemn a colleague without being entirely sure, but he moved away from me, I’m almost certain.’ Hari Singh spoke quietly, his eyes this time on the ground. As he did so, Majid Beg made a desperate lunge as if to run, but then as guards closed around him his whole body sagged.

‘Majid Beg, it was you.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

‘Who approached you?’

Majid Beg was close to breaking down. ‘Ismail Khan himself. He said he had heard of my need for money from a guard who used to be one of his family retainers.’

‘Were others involved?’

‘No … Not to my knowledge, Majesty.’

‘Like Ismail Khan you will die, Majid Beg, but unlike him, because you tried to divert blame on to an innocent comrade, you will die beneath the elephant’s foot. Bring forward the execution elephant.’

Slowly a large elephant, the edges of its ears tattered with age, was urged forward from the shade of the fort walls by the equally elderly mahout sitting on its neck. At the same time bodyguards roughly spreadeagled Majid Beg on the granite execution stone and tied his wrists and ankles to the steel rings embedded in each corner. At first he did not resist, seemingly resigned to his fate. However, as the execution elephant reached the stone, casting its shadow over him, and began slowly to raise its right forefoot above his abdomen, he started to struggle, bucking and writhing. ‘Remember my past service, Majesty! Pardon me!’ he shouted hoarsely.

‘I cannot,’ said Shah Jahan. ‘Proceed with the execution.’

At a tap on its head with the steel rod the mahout held in his hand, the elephant brought its foot down on to Majid Beg’s abdomen. His screams rose to an animal pitch and there was a crunch as his pelvic bones broke, crushed against the hard granite. A pop of air followed as his stomach wall burst and the stench of human faeces rose as his intestines ruptured. After a few moments he ceased both his screams and struggles. At another command from its mahout, the elephant raised its foot, turned and slowly plodded back towards the fort, more orange dust adhering to its bloodied right forefoot with each step.

‘So perishes another traitor,’ Shah Jahan shouted as once again the crowd roared. Then he turned to Hari Singh. ‘You are free, and for your refusal — even at peril to your own life — to implicate Majid Beg before you were certain of his guilt, take those gold mohurs spilled in the dust there. Let Majid Beg’s pay for his treachery become your reward for loyalty.’

As guards cut Hari Singh’s bonds and he bent to retrieve the coins, Shah Jahan turned towards the fort, brushing aside the good wishes of courtiers eager to congratulate him on his escape and to assure him of their loyalty. He must go to Mumtaz in the haram. While his injury was being treated he had given orders she was not to be told of the assassination attempt. It would alarm her less if she heard about it from him and saw with her own eyes that he was safe. But also, she might have tried to persuade him to pardon Ismail Khan. Jani’s horrible end — she had swallowed a hot coal on learning of her husband’s killing — had long preyed on her mind. But though he loved to make Mumtaz happy, for once he would not have been able to agree to her request.

‘No … no … Roshanara …!’

‘Majesty, what is it?’

Mumtaz woke, body shaking and forehead damp with the perspiration that Satti al-Nisa, her strong-featured Persian lady-in-waiting, was already wiping away with a yellow silk handkerchief. ‘I dreamed that the emperor and I were crossing the swollen Mahanadi river in a bullock cart when one of the animals slipped, tipping the wagon over … the torrent ripped Roshanara from my arms … I tried to swim after her but couldn’t reach her … I knew she was drowning but the water was choking me … closing over my head, filling my nostrils … I couldn’t breathe.’

‘Hush. Nothing is amiss, madam. You’ve been having bad dreams again. Roshanara is with Jahanara. I saw your daughters together barely half an hour ago.’ Satti al-Nisa’s voice was as gentle and soothing as if she were speaking to a child rather than an empress aged almost forty. Lying back, Mumtaz willed her body to relax, but some minutes passed before her heart ceased its hectic thumping. She had fallen asleep just after the midday meal but the room was now in shadow. Surely she hadn’t been asleep that long? Glancing around she realised that while she had dozed servants had covered the arched windows with tattis — screens filled with the roots of scented kass grass — to filter out the harsh summer sun. A dripping noise told her they had also begun trickling rosewater down the screens — a trick to create fragrant draughts of air. Perhaps the sound of the running water had prompted her sleeping mind to relive the moments when her younger daughter had nearly drowned.

Mumtaz turned on her side to watch the pricks of sunlight penetrating the screen create small, dancing pools of light on the rich Persian carpets around her couch. Shah Jahan had rescued Roshanara from the river that day — she would never forget his harrowed look as he had placed their daughter — sodden but still breathing — into her arms. Simply staying alive as they had been hunted across India by Shah Jahan’s vengeful father, the Emperor Jahangir, was all that had mattered then. How strange that now she was empress, living in luxury and security, those bleak years should so often haunt her. Sometimes she wondered if Roshanara, young as she’d then been, retained some memory of the incident. More than any other of her children she seemed to need the reassurance of her mother’s presence and love, hating to be alone for long.

‘Satti al-Nisa, send word that I wish all my children to eat with us this evening.’ Their company would revive her spirits, Mumtaz thought, impatient with herself for conjuring dark thoughts when she should be happy. Weren’t her six fine children proof that, despite past trials, God had been good? And it was right that just now they should be together as much as possible. In two weeks’ time Dara Shukoh would leave Agra with a Moghul embassy to the court of the Persian shah. Shah Jahan thought that at nearly fourteen and almost a man it was high time for Dara Shukoh to start gaining experience of imperial duties, and she had agreed.

Serenity regained, Mumtaz stretched. Soon she would prepare for the evening ahead. Her attendants would massage her body with scented oils, rim her eyes with kohl and dress her in the clothes her husband loved to see her wear — flowing pyjamas of muslins so gossamer-thin the court tailors gave them names like ‘running water’ and ‘woven air’ and an embroidered choli, a tight bodice. Suddenly she thought she heard the beat of the drum which announced that the emperor had entered the haram. Startled, she sat up — it couldn’t be … Shah Jahan normally arrived just after sunset. Moments later attendants flung back the double doors and he entered.

One look at his face told her he was troubled. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

He said nothing but pulled her to him and held her close. The warmth of her body, the familiar jasmine scent of her hair, made him give thanks yet again that Ismail Khan had failed in his attack. He didn’t fear death but being parted from those he loved … At last he released her and stepping back slowly eased off his coat. Her eyes flew to his bandaged forearm. ‘You have had an accident?’

‘No. Not an accident. Someone tried to kill me … don’t worry, there’s no need. It’s a flesh wound. The hakim has attended to it.’

‘Who was it?’ Mumtaz’s voice was a horrified whisper.

‘Ismail Khan. He burst through my guards and attempted to stab me.’

‘Jani’s nephew? But he’s only a boy … Why? What possessed him? And what will you do to him?’

‘He wanted to avenge Jani. He’s already been punished. I was merciful — I granted him a quick death. I couldn’t let him live … not after he’d attempted to murder me.’

‘Perhaps not, but …’ She stopped.

Shah Jahan took her face gently in his hands. ‘Ever since we married everything I’ve done has been for us and for our children … to protect our lives and our future.’

‘I’ve never doubted it, never … not in all these years. But it doesn’t stop me feeling guilty — and also a little afraid. We have everything we ever wanted but there was a price and it was paid in blood.’

Shah Jahan’s hands dropped to his sides. ‘If I had not had them killed, my half-brothers would have killed me … our sons as well. Their deaths are not something I’m proud of but they were necessary. It would be a lie to say I wished the deeds undone. Though the past troubles me sometimes — as I know it does you — there is nothing I’d change.’

‘You did what you had to … I understand that. But what if Ismail Khan was only the first? How many others will seek revenge because of your actions?’

‘I am the Moghul emperor and rule over a hundred million souls. As such my life will always be at risk from many quarters. But I will protect myself and my family … I will never relax my vigilance. I will keep us safe, I promise you.’

Towards sunset Shah Jahan watched from his silver throne as a line of twelve imperial servants approached through the assembled ranks of his courtiers, every man bearing a gold candlestick in which a tall camphor-scented candle was burning. As each reached the dais he bowed before Shah Jahan, then carried his candle away to begin lighting the wicks in the giant brass diyas — large shallow saucers filled with mustard oil — set around the courtyards of the fort. The candle-bearers were followed first by the commander of the guard who assured him in formal tones ‘The fort is secure for the night, Majesty’, and then by his favourite court singer — a young Tajik with a fine, deep voice — who sang a verse in praise of the emperor before adding a prayer for the continuance of his auspicious reign. Shah Jahan enjoyed this nightly ritual which Akbar had instigated. Such links with his grandfather’s long and successful reign were fitting, he thought as he descended the dais and walked through the rows of his bowing courtiers towards Mumtaz’s apartments in the haram. In his hand he held a scroll of paper tied with green velvet ribbons.

‘I have a gift for you — a poem written in your praise by one of the court poets,’ he said, bending to kiss her lips.

‘What does it say?’

‘It’s a bit flowery but it says what I think.’

‘Maybe that’s because you told him what to write.’

‘Well, perhaps. But should I read it to you?’

‘Go on,’ said Mumtaz, a gentle smile on her face as Shah Jahan loosened the ribbons and unrolled the paper.

‘No dust from her behaviour ever settles

On the mirror of the emperor’s mind.

She is always seeking to please the king;

She knows full well the King of Kings’ temperament.

In her eyes she has the light of-’

Before Shah Jahan could finish, Satti al-Nisa appeared through the thin muslin curtain embroidered with gold stars and moons covering the arched doorway.

‘What is it?’ demanded Shah Jahan. ‘I gave orders not to be disturbed.’

‘I’m sorry, Majesty, but Abdul Aziz has arrived from the south. I told him you and Her Majesty had retired for the night but he was insistent on seeing you.’

‘I will come,’ said Shah Jahan. What could have brought the son of his commander in the Deccan to Agra with such urgency that he was demanding to see him at this hour? One thing for sure, the news was unlikely to be good, he thought as he hurried from the room and across the haram courtyard, where two rows of fountains were bubbling in the silver moonlight. Reaching the gatehouse, by the light of the flaming torches kept burning there at night he recognised the slim figure of Abdul Aziz pacing to and fro beyond it. When he saw his emperor emerge into the main courtyard, the young man immediately prostrated himself.

‘Rise,’ said Shah Jahan. As Abdul Aziz did so, he saw that the man’s face and garments were streaked with dust and sweat. He hadn’t even paused to bathe and change before seeking the emperor’s presence. ‘What brings you to me so urgently?’

‘My father sent me to report to you immediately about the reverses your armies in the Deccan have suffered. The rulers of Golconda and Bijapur have renounced their allegiance to you and invaded from the southwest. They overran our frontier defences and penetrated deep into our territory. My father assembled a large army well equipped with war elephants and modern cannon and confronted them about ninety miles south of the Tapti river. At first the invaders would not stand and fight but finally my father forced them to do so.’

‘He is a good general.’

‘Yes, Majesty, he was …’ Abdul Aziz’s face was etched with grief. ‘The battle lasted a whole day with no quarter given on either side. Men collapsed and died simply from exhaustion from the heat and lack of water. Towards sunset the invaders began to give ground. My father mounted his grey stallion to lead a last charge to disperse them … I begged him to let me accompany him but he wouldn’t.’ Tears were now running through the dust on Abdul Aziz’s face. ‘The weight of our horsemen’s onslaught overwhelmed the invaders. Many fell. As my father attacked one of their cannon positions the artillerymen got off one last shot. By great misfortune the ball hit my father’s right arm as he waved it above his head to urge our men on, severing the limb above the elbow. He wouldn’t accept treatment until the position was taken and the enemy in retreat. Then he allowed the hakims to apply a tourniquet and dress and tidy the stump. Despite the pain and his loss of blood he slept well that night and I had great hopes for his speedy recovery …’ Abdul Aziz paused.

‘The next morning my father gave the order to pursue the enemy, whom our scouts reported fleeing south. Towards midday on the second day of the chase, intent on overhauling our foes we were marching through a valley with gently sloping hills on either side when a great number of Golcondan cavalry suddenly appeared over one of the ridges and immediately galloped down, smashing into our troops before we could form battle order. Their first impact cut our column in two. The attackers circled around the rear portion, where most of the cannon and baggage carts were, in a pincer movement, hacking and slashing as they went. Many of our men fell in the chaos. Some fled but most of the cowards did so in vain as the Golcondan horsemen cut at their backs as they ran.

‘Others of the rearguard tried to form up and fight their way through their attackers to the front half of our column where my father now had musketmen in action. Their disciplined volleys were succeeding in holding the enemy back. Numbers of our cavalry did manage to join him but few of the infantry. I saw one party of orange-clad Rajputs all on foot defending themselves against the lances of the enemy cavalry. Several times horses struck by the Rajputs’ swords reared up and threw their riders. But it was an unequal contest. The Rajputs could rarely get close enough to use their weapons effectively. There could be but one outcome. Only two of the Rajputs made it back to our lines, both bleeding heavily. Next the attackers fired arrows bound with pitch-soaked burning rags. These frightened our war elephants and some panicked, crashing into their comrades and overturning the gun limbers they were pulling, adding to the chaos.

‘My father ordered all the remaining troops to fight their way towards a low hillock near the end of the valley around which we could regroup. We were doing so successfully despite the enemy’s constant assaults when, just as we were approaching it, some mounted archers attacked, loosing off more of their flaming arrows as they stood in their stirrups holding their reins in their teeth. Three of their arrows penetrated the palanquin my father was being carried in because of his wound. Two set the palanquin alight, the third hit my father in the thigh, setting fire to his garments. His attendants bravely pulled him clear and smothered the flames on his clothes. He remained conscious but his wounds were such that he knew that this time not even the hakims could save him.

‘Fighting against the pain, he handed the command of the column to his second-in-command, Zafir Abas, instructing him to conduct an orderly withdrawal as best he could. Then, summoning me to him, he clasped my hand and ordered me to carry the news of the defeat to you … to tell you he was sorry for leading so many of your troops to their death and that many well-trained reinforcements were required immediately or all our territories in the south would be lost.’ Abdul Aziz’s whole body shuddered as he broke into a series of great heaving sobs. ‘Majesty, the attendants had not been able to prevent the flames from setting fire to my father’s beard. Burnt skin was peeling in strips from his face … his blistered lips were bursting … he could say no more. A few minutes later he died.’

‘Your father was a great man. I honour his memory. You too have done your duty. Now you must sleep. We will speak further in the morning.’

As Abdul Aziz departed, his shoulders still shaking with grief at the memory of his father’s death, Shah Jahan turned and walked slowly back through the gatehouse into the haram. His army in the Deccan had clearly suffered a great defeat. A new army and a new commander must be sent to restore order and take revenge. Who should the general be? If Mahabat Khan, his khan-i-khanan, commander-in-chief, had not been leading an army in the foothills of the Himalayas against incursions by the King of Nepal and his Gurkha warriors he would have been the obvious choice, but to recall him would take too long. As he walked past the still bubbling fountains, Shah Jahan went over the names of some other commanders. His loyal friend Kamran Iqbal, commander of the Agra garrison, was needed here. Besides, he had not yet fully recovered from the wounds he had suffered during the fighting against Shahriyar in Lahore and perhaps never would. His father-in-law Asaf Khan was ageing and might not be up to the rigours of campaigning. Others were either too impulsive or too cautious. Yet others were inclined to deal harshly with local populations, living off their lands without payment, and forcing them into unpaid labour. Such behaviour could only prove counterproductive among the proud, restless population of the Deccan. No. There was nothing for it. He must return south and lead his armies in person.

A few minutes later he was pushing back the gold-embroidered muslin curtains of Mumtaz’s room once more. She was lying with her back against a lilac brocade bolster drinking a glass of watermelon juice. Looking up she asked, ‘What did Abdul Aziz want?’

‘We’ve suffered a major invasion and rebellion in the Deccan. I must assemble an army and lead it south immediately.’

‘When do we leave?’

‘I will go alone. You should stay here.’

‘Why should this be any different from your previous campaigns in the Deccan? I accompanied you then and you were glad to have me with you.’

‘Yes, and I would be happy for you to join me again if we hadn’t just discovered you are pregnant once more. Your last pregnancies have been harder than the previous ones. You will have better hakims here.’

‘And as I told you before you embarked on your first campaign, I refuse to be parted from you. The best hakims can come with us.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘No. There’s no “perhaps”. I and all our children and as many hakims as you wish will accompany you. Together we will march to victory.’ Mumtaz’s expression brooked no denial.