The Serpent's tooth

Chapter 21

‘Has there been any serious damage yet Father?’ As Jahanara was still speaking there was a distant boom. The daily bombardment of the fort usually ceased about now as night began to fall and the first cooking fires to glow in the rebel encampment just visible through the trees half a mile away across the Jumna. As had become his habit since the siege began, Shah Jahan spent much of the late afternoon on the battlements watching the exchange of cannon fire as the rebel gunners attacked the fort’s outer defences and his own artillery responded. Guessing she would find him here, Jahanara had just come from the haram to join him.

Shah Jahan shook his head. ‘No. They’re still only using small cannon and targeting points along our defences at random. Only a concerted and prolonged attack by their biggest guns centred on a single point would breach these double walls. I remember my grandfather showing me the plans when he was rebuilding the fort — how proud he was of the walls’ solid construction and their height. I don’t suppose he ever imagined that one day a member of his own family would be assaulting them, any more than I ever thought to be under attack from my own sons …’

‘Why doesn’t Murad bring up his heavy guns? This siege has already lasted a month and what progress has he made? None!’

‘I agree. If Murad were serious he’d deploy all his firepower. But perhaps he isn’t. Maybe he’s no real intention of trying to batter his way into the fort.’

‘In that case why bombard us at all?’

‘My guess is that he wants to remind us of his presence and warn us against sallying from the fort. He knows that if he keeps us isolated we cannot contact supporters with the truth about the rebels’ actions, nor direct our remaining loyal forces. The only version of events that will reach the provinces will be their perverted one and I can scarcely blame the officials there if they believe it, or at least take no action to question it while the outcome of our struggle is uncertain.’

‘Perhaps he also hopes to demoralise the garrison and so precipitate our surrender.’

‘Maybe, but whatever his intentions I mean to stand up to him. We have enough food and water as well as troops, powder and shot to hold out for a long time and even to inflict serious casualties on our enemy. I’ve promised our gunners five hundred rupees for every rebel cannon they silence.’

‘Perhaps Murad’s motives aren’t what you think. Perhaps he’s regretting that things have come to such a pass and is anxious not to do anything to harm you … or his sisters. Maybe he is even thinking of reconciliation …’

‘Murad must know he’s gone too far to think he could ever win my forgiveness. He and Aurangzeb have killed my soldiers on the battlefield and put my appointed heir — their own brother — to flight.’ At the mention of Dara Shah Jahan saw Jahanara’s expression falter. ‘I know how hard this is for you,’ he went on more softly. ‘These past weeks have been difficult for both of us. Every day, like you, I hope for word of Dara.’

‘Not knowing is the hardest. Shut up in this fort we’ve no way of finding out what’s happening in the world outside. And the only news we have had has been bad …’

Shah Jahan knew exactly what she meant — the letter from the Governor of Delhi brought by a messenger that Murad had allowed through his lines three weeks ago, which had reported the governor’s decision to refuse to admit Dara into the city. His justification had been that Aurangzeb had assured him that the emperor was far too ill to have issued any order to hand over the city and its treasure to Dara …

Prince Aurangzeb tells me that Prince Dara is acting on his own account in a bid to seize the throne and that the instruction he claims to be from your Imperial Majesty is his forgery. By denying him I believe I am acting in the best interests of both my emperor and the empire. Instead I have given Delhi into the stewardship of Prince Aurangzeb who, I am convinced, is your loving and obedient son, seeking only to safeguard your Imperial Majesty’s position. May God in his great goodness grant you a swift return to health.

‘I hope one day Dara and I will be in a position to punish the governor for his duplicity and hypocrisy. I’d like to see him executed. That I cannot even send a reply condemning his action only brings home the harder how powerless I’ve become to impose my will on my empire.’

‘Do you think Aurangzeb is still pursuing Dara?’

‘Yes. Dara is the greatest threat to him. I doubt Aurangzeb’ll rest until he’s satisfied he’s driven Dara far away from Agra and Delhi. But he’ll want to get back here as soon as he can. He daren’t risk leaving Murad in sole command for too long. Aurangzeb must secretly fear that Murad means to seize the whole empire if he can — as doubtless he does himself. My hope is that the two of them will soon quarrel. If they do, it may give Dara a chance, especially if Suleiman brings back his army from the east. This war isn’t over yet …’

For a while he and Jahanara stood in silence. That was how it often was these days, she reflected. Cut off as they were from the outside world, what was there to talk about? Speculation was painful, raising fresh anxieties that each doubtless wished to spare the other. With every day she sensed her father retreating more and more into himself and she was doing the same. Sometimes her thoughts turned to Nicholas. The world around her — once so full of certainties — had become such a fragile place. Nicholas was one of the very few she knew she could still trust. She hadn’t forgotten his gentle touch on her scarred face. What had she felt at that moment? Not suprise, or shock, but … and it had taken her a little time to realise this … gratitude for such a human gesture at such a bleak time. If Roshanara had witnessed it, she would doubtless have interpreted it very differently.

The thought of Roshanara reminded Jahanara that she should return to the haram for the evening meal, which since the start of the siege she had taken to eating with her sisters. Her relationship with Roshanara was still strained and they said little to one another, but she knew that the boom of the cannon frightened Gauharara. Though she was no child but a grown woman, her youngest sister was eating little and sleeping badly. Every evening Jahanara tried to reassure her and turn her mind to happier things.

‘Father, with your permission I will return to the haram.’ He nodded but said nothing. Just as in the days of peace the evening torches were lit on either side of the gates leading into the main courtyard of the haram as Jahanara approached.

As the Turkish female guards swung the gates open to admit her, she heard laughter. Three young women were sitting together on the marble edge of a splashing fountain in the centre of the courtyard. For a moment, listening to them, she could pretend that nothing was amiss with the world. Soon she would order the evening meal for herself and her sisters, but first she would go and tell Roshanara what their father had said about defending the fort.

But when she entered Roshanara’s apartments on the far side of the courtyard she saw that her sister wasn’t there. Neither were her attendants. Perhaps she had gone to the bath house? She was turning to leave when she noticed a piece of folded paper lying on top of her sister’s gilded jewellery box. Curious, she picked it up and saw that it was a letter addressed to their father in Roshanara’s neat hand and sealed with her sister’s emblem of a displaying peacock. How odd that Roshanara should write to their father when she could see him whenever she wished … Jahanara was about to put the letter back when she noticed something else — the box’s silver clasps were unfastened despite the fact that Roshanara kept her finest rubies and carved emeralds, including a necklace that had belonged to their great-great-grandmother Hamida, in it. How could her attendants have been so careless? She raised the lid and looked inside. The box was empty except for a few silver bangles.

Letting the heavy lid drop back, Jahanara scanned the room. It was not as tidy as usual. A Kashmir shawl was hanging out of a chest and a gold-tasselled silk skirt was crumpled on the floor. Could there have been a robbery? Surely not in the well-guarded haram. But then a thought struck her … She was being ridiculous and yet … Almost before she knew what she was doing she broke the seal of the letter she was still holding and as fragments of green wax showered the carpet, read what her sister had written.

My dear father,

By the time you read this I will have left the fort to go to my brothers. Please forgive me but I owe my loyalty to those you have wronged and who have the best interests of the empire at heart. I must obey my conscience. May we meet again in happier times.

For a moment Jahanara stood there, scarcely able to take in the meaning of those few lines. Then, refolding the letter, she went to the door and called to an attendant.

‘Ask the khawajasara to come at once. Tell her it’s urgent.’

Barely two minutes later the haram superintendent appeared, carved ivory staff of office in hand, and anxiety on her normally calm and dignified face. ‘Highness?’

‘When I came to visit my sister she wasn’t here. Instead I found this letter saying she’s left the fort.’

‘But that’s impossible … quite, quite impossible.’

‘I think you’re wrong. When did you last see her?’

The khawajasara hesitated. ‘Probably when I spoke to her early this morning … about an incident in the haram …’

‘What incident?’

‘I didn’t think I needed to trouble you with it, Highness. Yesterday evening one of the haram servants, an elderly latrine cleaner, died. She was a Hindu from the town and her last wish was that her body be taken from the fort and returned to her people for cremation. The poor creature was very agitated at the last and I promised to do my best, though to be honest I doubted it would be possible. Somehow Princess Roshanara learned of the death and summoned me. I was surprised. It was unlike her to take such an interest in a humble member of my staff. She questioned me closely, then said that it was our duty to do our very best to fulfil the woman’s dying request. At first light this morning she sent a note to the garrison commander asking him to send a messenger to Prince Murad’s camp under flag of truce before the day’s bombardment began, carrying a letter she’d already written and sealed appealing for permission for the corpse to be carried from the fort … at least that’s what she claimed was in the letter …’ The khawajasara’s voice tailed off. ‘Madam, I …’

‘Go on.’

‘Our messenger brought back word that at dusk we would be permitted to send the woman’s body from the fort in safety. We had everything in readiness and shortly after you had gone to join His Majesty on the battlements four white-clad haram attendants carried the corpse from the fort …’ The khawajasara clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘That must be how she managed it. One of the women must have been your sister in disguise. They were all heavily veiled and it never occurred to me to check their identities …’

‘Which gate did they use?’

‘The same side gate as our messenger had earlier — a small one facing the town.’

So that was why she and her father, looking out across the Jumna, had seen nothing, Jahanara thought. When they had been standing talking Roshanara had slipped away … How could she have done such a thing? And how dare she write about conscience when she plainly didn’t have one? But then a fresh worry struck Jahanara.

‘What about Princess Gauharara? When did you last see her?’

‘She has been in her apartments all day with a bad headache. At least, that’s what her attendants said and I’d no reason to disbelieve them … I promise you I’ve always taken my responsibilities very seriously.’

But Jahanara wasn’t listening. With the khawajasara close behind, Jahanara rushed to her youngest sister’s rooms across the courtyard. Gauharara hadn’t deserted their father as well, had she? The ivory-clad doors were closed, just as they’d been to Roshanara’s quarters. Jahanara’s heart was thumping as she pushed them open. The blinds were lowered over the casements and only a few lamps were burning. Some herbal smell — camomile perhaps — filled the air. Squinting into the gloom Jahanara made out a form lying on a divan, then heard a querulous voice. ‘Who is it? My head is splitting.’

The voice sounded like Gauharara’s but she must be certain this wasn’t yet another trick. Taking an oil lamp from a niche Jahanara went closer. By its flickering light she saw her sister’s thin face … thank goodness.

‘Oh, it’s you, Jahanara. I thought it might be Satti al-Nisa. I’ve been asking for her all day. She’s the only one who knows how to get rid of these headaches of mine but she hasn’t been near me.’

‘Madam, I haven’t seen Satti al-Nisa since this morning,’ said the khawajasara, who had followed Jahanara into the room.

Looking over her shoulder Jahanara signalled to the woman to say nothing further. There was no point in telling Gauharara about Roshanara’s flight yet. She turned back to her sister. ‘I’m sorry you’re not well. I’ll see if I can find Satti al-Nisa for you.’ Still accompanied by the khawajasara, Jahanara turned into the thickly carpeted, silk-hung corridor at the far end of which was the room Satti al-Nisa had occupied for nearly three decades — ever since she had become Mumtaz’s confidante. Satti al-Nisa was the one person she could rely on to tell her what was happening, yet she didn’t seem to have detected anything of Roshanara’s plans. Had her sister simply taken an opportunity when it appeared or had she been planning this for a long time?

As soon as Jahanara pushed aside the curtains and entered her friend’s room she saw that something was wrong. Satti al-Nisa was slumped on a silk bolster on the floor, her long silvery-grey hair loose around her. Had she had a seizure? She was still so vigorous it was easy to forget how old she was. Kneeling beside her, Jahanara took Satti al-Nisa’s hand in hers. It felt chill, and as she chafed it there was no response … neither was there any sign of the rise and fall of her breast. No, it couldn’t be … Jahanara’s eyes filled with tears as she put her face closer to Satti al-Nisa’s. Then she felt — or thought she did — a faint exhalation of breath against her own skin. Gently releasing Satti al-Nisa’s hand, she rose to her feet. ‘She’s very ill but I think she’s still alive … Fetch help quickly,’ she shouted to the khawajasara standing in the doorway.

The woman returned a few minutes later with a purple-robed companion whose forehead was curiously tattooed. ‘This is Yasmin. She is from Arabia, where she learned some of the skills of the hakim from her doctor father.’

As Jahanara moved aside to give her room, Yasmin leant over Satti al-Nisa, felt for her pulse and then raised one of her eyelids to reveal a dark, dilated pupil.

‘What’s wrong with her? Has she had a fit?’ Jahanara asked.

‘No, Highness. I think she has swallowed opium and is in a very deep drugged sleep.’

‘Opium? Are you certain? I have never known her take it.’

Turning, Yasmin picked up a silver cup standing on a low white marble table, dipped in her right forefinger and then licked it. ‘The bitter taste of the poppy is unmistakeable, even when mixed, as it has been here, with rose-flavoured sherbet.’

‘Someone must have deliberately drugged her. That’s the only explanation.’ Jahanara could guess who. Roshanara had left as little as possible to chance and given opium to an old woman who had looked after her nearly all her life. ‘You’re absolutely certain she’s in no danger?’

‘There should be no lasting harm. She’ll be herself again in a few hours, though her head will ache and she will feel weak and sick.’

‘Stay with her and let me know at once when she wakes.’ With that, Jahanara turned and left the room. How would she break the news of all this to her father? Yet tell him she must and as quickly as possible … Just a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, she re-joined him.

‘What is it? Why have you returned so soon?’

She hesitated, but there was no way to disguise the truth — that yet again her father had been betrayed by his own flesh and blood. ‘It’s Roshanara. She’s left the fort and gone to Murad. She wrote you this … Forgive me. In my haste to find out what had happened I opened it.’

Shah Jahan took Roshanara’s note from her and scanned the short message. Then he crumpled the paper and let it fall to the ground.

‘It seems she disguised herself as one of a party of mourners carrying the body of a dead Hindu woman out of the fort. She …’

Shah Jahan held up a hand. ‘How she did it is of no consequence,’ he said quietly. ‘What about Gauharara?’

‘She is still here, Father.’

‘I am glad.’ Shah Jahan said no more but turned away from her so that she couldn’t see his face. She had expected him to be very angry but she sensed only a deep sadness in him. She understood it very well, because she felt exactly the same. How had their family become so divided? Could scars like this within any family — let alone an imperial one — ever truly heal? Probably not.

‘Welcome to my camp. It’s time you and I celebrated properly now that I’ve returned to Agra.’ Aurangzeb clapped Murad on the back. ‘I’ve arranged for food to be served separately to your escort but we two will eat in my tent.’

‘I came as soon as I received your invitation. Roshanara sends greetings. Wasn’t it good she found a way of escaping from the fort and joining me?’

‘I only wish Jahanara would see sense, but you know what she’s like. She sets loyalty to our father above the good of the dynasty …’ Aurangzeb led the way to his command tent, where silk cushions had been spread on the rug-covered floor and a cloth already laid on a low table for the meal to come.

As Murad lay back on some of the cushions, an attendant poured water into a brass bowl for him to wash his hands. Then another offered wine. ‘I thought you’d renounced alcohol, Aurangzeb?’

Aurangzeb smiled. ‘I have, in accord with what I believe are the tenets of our religion, but I know you haven’t. And as I said, this is a moment to savour and be generous, not to be too strict … I will not drink, but you should take as much as you wish in celebration.’

‘You really believe we’ve won?’

‘Yes. Think about it for a moment. Dara’s dead. Who else is there to challenge us? That’s certainly what most of the important nobles and vassals seem to think … even those who fought for Dara are rushing to abase themselves and declare allegiance to us. I’ve been receiving such messages almost daily and you must have been as well.’

Murad nodded and then said, ‘But what about Father and the forces in the fort? He’s showing no sign of giving in.’

‘He’s not the man he was. It can’t be long before even he sees reason — especially when he hears that I’ve returned to Agra with my army to reinforce you. And if he doesn’t, we’ll find a way to compel him to capitulate.’

Murad took a long swallow of wine from the cup and leaned back, beaming. ‘You were right all along … You always said we’d win even when I had doubts — even after Samugarh. After all, Dara had our father and most of the imperial armies behind him …’

‘Yes, but he squandered his advantages, especially by being over-confident. He didn’t bother to woo powerful supporters like Khalilullah Khan — in his conceit he just assumed they’d follow him. But I knew Khalilullah Khan from our time campaigning in the north and I knew he could be, let’s say, “encouraged” to join us …’

‘These past days I’ve thought about Dara a lot … whether his death was necessary. He was our brother. There must have been other ways … exile, or a pilgrimage to Mecca?’

‘You were always kind-hearted as a child. It was him or us. If we’d let Dara live he’d only have plotted against us. The whole conflict might have reignited and more lives been lost.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I know I am. Anyway, it’s done. Put it out of your mind. I took the decision alone and will answer for it.’

‘It’s ironic, isn’t it? Father criticised both of us for our handling of the campaign in the north yet we’re the ones who’ve ultimately triumphed. Perhaps he’ll now regret being so unfair.’ Murad took another swig before adding, ‘It’s a pity Shah Shuja isn’t with us. This is his victory as well and he’d have enjoyed our celebration. I’ve heard nothing from him. Have you?’

‘Not for a long time. But I’ve sent messengers east to find him and tell him the good news. Perhaps it will give him the backbone to deal with Suleiman.’

‘Backbone?’

‘Yes. By letting Suleiman defeat him and then fleeing he damaged our credibility.’

‘But in a way it worked to our advantage. Shah Shuja kept Suleiman in the east instead of returning to Agra. If Suleiman had joined forces with his father at Samugarh, the outcome might have been different.’

‘Perhaps … thought not ultimately. Suleiman has some of his father’s failings as well as some of his own … he’s impulsive as well as over-confident, and doesn’t think.’

‘So he’s not a threat?’

‘Not a serious one. Once news of Dara’s death reaches Suleiman’s camp, I expect some of his troops to desert and others to lose heart. It would be preferable if Shah Shuja can exploit that situation and defeat him. But if he doesn’t think he has the manpower, I’ve suggested that he bring his forces straight back to Agra. It’s time the three of us were together again so we can decide how to divide the provinces of the empire between us. But that’s enough serious talk for the moment … let’s eat.’

Murad held out his cup for an attendant to refill as others brought in dishes of roasted lamb, quails stuffed with raisins, pheasant breasts flavoured with saffron and pulaos sprinkled with dried cherries and apricots. For a while the two brothers ate, Murad hungrily and in quantity, Aurangzeb more sparingly. The sky, visible through the tent’s half-open flap, was filling with stars and a crescent moon was rising when Murad lay back with a grunt of satisfaction, took another drink from his wine cup and said, ‘You remembered my favourite dishes. I’m flattered …’

‘Of course, my pleasure-loving little brother. And I’ve arranged something else you like.’ At a clap of Aurangzeb’s hands a cloaked and veiled woman, face entirely concealed, entered the tent and touched her hand to her breast. ‘I’ll leave you alone to enjoy my gift — I understand she has skills you’ll appreciate. If you do, you can take her into your service? It’s getting late. Why don’t you spend the night with her here so that we can talk again in the morning?’

As Aurangzeb withdrew and the tent flap closed behind him, Murad beckoned the woman nearer. ‘Let me see your face.’ As she unfastened her veil, Murad saw brown eyes steadily regarding him. Without waiting for further instructions she pushed back her hood, revealing thick hair hanging loose.

Murad’s smile broadened. He loved voluptuous women, as his brother well knew … Aurangzeb really was showing his appreciation.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Zainab.’

‘Well, Zainab, let’s see whether you can fulfil my brother’s promises …’

Swaying slightly with the effects of the wine, Murad rose to his feet and reaching out released the single clasp of her cloak, which slid to the floor revealing her naked body, skin gleaming like marble and the nipples of her full high breasts painted golden. Stepping closer, Murad ran his hands down her body, exploring the curves of her slender waist, the soft swell of her buttocks, and buried his face in that glorious hair, which smelled of jasmine. She was perfect … With one hand still gripping her right buttock, with his other he reached between her legs.

‘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.’

‘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 …’