The Serpent's tooth

Chapter 3

A musket ball whistled past Shah Jahan’s head as, turning in the howdah of his war elephant, he shielded his eyes against the blazing sun, attempting to get a better view of the fighting suddenly erupting towards the rear of his force. Moments later another ball hit the mahout sitting behind the ears of his elephant in the throat. The man slipped slowly sideways, blood pumping from the wound, before falling to the stony ground. The elephant’s pace faltered as it raised its trunk, trumpeting in alarm and swinging its head from side to side. As Shah Jahan grabbed the side of his swaying howdah for a moment to steady himself, the second mahout, who had been perched behind the first, quickly slid lower on to the beast’s neck and leant forward to speak into its right ear. ‘Calm, calm, Mover of Mountains,’ he said, pressing his anka, the iron control rod, against the wrinkled grey hide of its shoulder. Reassured, the elephant lowered its red-painted trunk.

All around, the whole column was coming to a halt in disarray. Musketmen were jumping from their saddles and pushing powder and shot down the barrels of their weapons with steel ramrods, preparing to fire. A little way in front of Shah Jahan’s elephant a junior officer — a squat man in a green tunic — was shouting orders to his small group of foot soldiers to form up. Shah Jahan heard another volley of shots and two of the infantrymen twisted and fell. One was immediately still. The other lay sprawled, heels twitching. One of his fellows, an elderly man with a thin grizzled beard, bent to help him but he too was hit. Dropping his spear he slumped over his comrade’s body.

Everywhere was noise and confusion. Unless he acted quickly to master the situation panic could follow, thought Shah Jahan. And to do that he must dismount from his elephant and switch to horseback. Without waiting for the surviving mahout to bring the elephant to its knees, he climbed over the side of the jewel-encrusted howdah and dropped to the ground, bending his own knees to soften the impact. Landing lightly, he shouted to his qorchi, ‘Bring me my horse!’ But before the squire could do so a group of horsemen appeared through the dust and musket smoke, riding hard at the infantrymen in front of Shah Jahan. Encouraged by their green-clad officer, the foot soldiers stood their ground. At his command they crouched down in a rough V formation, their short spears ready to thrust at the horsemen. As the riders — a group of perhaps twenty — galloped closer, one, a slim figure with long black hair streaming behind his helmetless head, outdistanced the rest on his sweat-soaked grey charger. Although the soldier at the head of the V formation bravely held his place his spear was shaking so much in his nervous hands as he thrust at the Bijapuran that he missed. His attacker’s grey horse immediately rode him down, leaving him crumpled on the ground, his skull shattered by one of the horse’s hooves. The soldier behind and to his left was made of sterner stuff. He waited until the last moment and after taking careful aim stabbed upwards from his kneeling position with his spear. As he intended, it caught the horse in the throat. Immediately it stumbled and fell, sending its rider somersaulting over its neck to crash headfirst to the ground where he lay still, blood and brains spilling into his hair.

Where was his own horse? Shah Jahan looked around to see his qorchi running towards him leading his chestnut stallion. Seizing the reins he leapt into the saddle and yelled to his bodyguard, ‘Follow me.’ Drawing his sword, he charged towards the enemy horsemen who were now surrounding the surviving foot soldiers. One of the attackers pulled so hard at his mount’s reins to wheel it to face the new threat that his horse reared and threw him backwards. Another rider armed with a long lance turned his black horse successfully and kicked hard towards Shah Jahan. When they closed the man made a wild thrust at Shah Jahan which missed, but Shah Jahan’s did not. As their horses passed he caught his enemy’s arm with a slashing stroke of his sword. The rider dropped his lance and began to lose control of his horse which careered off, cutting across the path of another enemy rider who could not prevent the bolting animal from crashing into his own mount so hard that both horses fell, taking their riders with them.

A third horseman waving a long curved scimitar wildly above his head rode at Shah Jahan, who saw him only just in time to sway back in the saddle to avoid his flashing blade. However, recovering more quickly than his opponent, Shah Jahan thrust with his sword at the man’s groin. At the last moment the Bijapuran parried the blow with his scimitar but the weapon snapped as he did so. Shah Jahan tried again. This time the thrust got through, penetrating his enemy’s abdomen, and the man fell. Reining in, Shah Jahan saw that others of the attacking horsemen were now turning and beginning to gallop back in the direction from which they had so recently come.

Heart thumping with the excitement of battle, Shah Jahan’s first instinct was to pursue and destroy this small band of enemy cavalry, but he quickly realised to do so would be foolish. As the army commander he should leave that to others. He must go to the rear of the column where the conflict had originally broken out to see how the fighting was progressing there. As he rode through the smoke and dust he noticed several of his men lying motionless on the ground and others being tended by their comrades. The body of a war elephant was slumped nearby, as well as those of several horses. Another horse, its left foreleg shattered, was standing neighing piteously. However, he saw little sign of fighting until he approached the rear where the baggage and powder carts had been travelling.

Through a gap in the increasingly thick smoke he made out a number of stationary six-wheeled ox carts. Two of the oxen pulling the leading vehicle were slumped in the shafts, wounded. Their drivers were struggling to cut them from the traces while those of the wagons behind were attempting to manoeuvre around them, shouting at their oxen and pulling at their yokes. Just then Shah Jahan saw six riders clad entirely in black galloping towards them. Each was carrying a double bow and was accompanied by another man holding in his gloved hand two arrows with flaming pitch-soaked cloths bound round them — the same tactics that had killed Abdul Aziz’s father Ahmed Aziz, Shah Jahan just had time to think before the archers all took flaming arrows and fitted them to their bows. Rising in their stirrups they pulled back the drawstrings ready to fire at the wagons, where the drivers had now succeeded in cutting one of the wounded oxen from the shaft of the first cart. A musket ball hit a black-clad bowman before he could discharge his arrow and he pitched from his horse. As he did so his flaming arrow caught his clothing, setting it afire. Screaming in agony, he rolled over and over on the ground trying to extinguish it.

A great blast of hot air blew past Shah Jahan, deafening him and nearly unseating him. As he struggled to control his wildly bucking mount, he wondered what had happened. Then he realised the wagons must have been powder carts and that at least one of the archers’ fire-arrows had penetrated an oiled cloth cover and ignited the powder bags inside. He succeeded in quietening his horse but felt a sharp pain in his left cheek. Removing his gauntlet and probing with his fingers he discovered a wood splinter protruding from it and plucked it out. Glancing down through eyes stinging with grit and dust, he saw several other splinters embedded in his horse’s flank and his gilded saddle. Like him, both were splattered with patches of a red, sticky substance — the flesh of the oxen and their drivers. As the dust began to settle he saw that two of the wagons had exploded. The mutilated bodies of men with fragments of singed cloth still adhering to them were strewn across the ground, mixed with those of the oxen and pieces of the carts. The acrid smell of powder mingled with the sweeter one of burned flesh.

One of his officers rode up. Shah Jahan saw his lips move but could hear nothing. Soon, though, a little of his hearing returned and he made out what the man was repeating. ‘They’re fleeing, Majesty.’ Although still groggy from the explosion, Shah Jahan knew that ‘fleeing’ was not the right word. He had not defeated his enemy. After inflicting casualties on his forces in a successful raid they were beating a hasty but tactical retreat. They — not the Moghuls — were the victors today.

This was not how it should be … not after the haughty Golcondans had predictably fallen out with the Bijapurans and retreated back to their own territories, leaving the latter to continue the war on their own. It was certainly not what he had anticipated when a month previously he’d led his column out from Burhanpur to sweep the rugged hinterland beyond the Tapti river where groups of the invaders had been raiding isolated fortresses and killing his cossids, his messengers, and his tax gatherers. In fact many things had surprised him. Like discovering that among those his men had captured were local people who had joined the invaders. Terrified for their lives, they had tried to excuse their treachery, some claiming they were desperate for plunder to help them buy food during what was becoming a serious drought, others pleading that their families were suffering because of the high taxes he had imposed to pay and feed his large army.

But he had had little choice. If he didn’t raise the taxes, how could he recruit an army sufficient to deal with the invaders without depleting his treasuries? The expedition had scarcely been a success, even before this ambush. Nearly every time his army had encountered groups of enemy fighters they had fled before he could bring the full weight of his firepower to bear — but not before they had inflicted casualties as they had done just now.

An hour later, Shah Jahan’s mood was grim as he addressed the senior officers clustered in a circle around him. ‘How did the enemy succeed in taking us unawares?’ He fixed his eye on his rearguard commander, Ashok Singh, one of the sons of the Raja of Amber and a promising young officer.

‘They saw us approaching, Majesty. A prisoner told us how they hid in scrub some way from our column and our pickets until we had passed. They were all mounted — they even had spare horses to carry off booty and their own wounded — so they were able to circle to our rear. Then they galloped into the attack from directly behind our column, taking advantage of those great clouds of dust we were raising, which enabled them to be almost upon us before we were aware of them.’

‘Didn’t you post pickets to your rear?’

‘No, Majesty. I am sorry.’

‘You should be. But you are not the only one to blame. We must all learn from this. It’s not just a question of designating more pickets but also of trying to see into our enemies’ minds and understanding their tactics.’ There was no response beyond some nods from his commanders, whose dejection was clear from their expressions, so Shah Jahan continued, ‘Together we will succeed, I’m sure of that. But now we must consider what our immediate moves should be. How many of our men did we lose?’

‘Not too many — fewer than a hundred, I think, but we also lost a lot of equipment in the attack on the baggage train. The massive explosion in the powder wagons knocked several cannon from their limbers and set some food supply wagons ablaze.’

‘Well then, there is nothing for it but to return to Burhanpur, where we can rest and resupply,’ Shah Jahan responded curtly. ‘The council is dismissed.’ As his officers turned away, Shah Jahan knew they were loyal and had felt the reverse as much as he had, but that was not the point. They should all — himself included — have learned better from Ahmed Aziz’s initial defeat. It would be at their peril if they continued to underestimate their enemies’ strength and cunning.

‘Look at those kites circling over there,’ Mumtaz said to Shah Jahan as they stood with their arms around each other on one of the screened balconies of the Burhanpur fort, watching the sun set orange through the dust haze on the horizon. ‘Some poor animal must be dying out there on the plain.’ Shah Jahan nodded. It was becoming a common sight. The monsoon rains had still not come. The trees silhouetted against the sunset were stark and leafless. There was scarcely a blade of grass to be seen and all the crops had withered. The normally broad Tapti river was reduced to a muddy trickle. Man and beast struggled to get precious water from the stream and its few surrounding green slime-fringed puddles. Domestic beasts as well as wild ones were dying now, their carcasses dried husks of skin and bone on the dry earth.

According to reports from outlying villages people too were beginning to die, most from starvation, others killed by tigers driven by hunger from the mountains and jungles to gorge empty bellies on human prey. Some country people, hollow-eyed and skeletal, had made their way to Burhanpur, babies sucking at their mothers’ shrivelled, and milkless breasts. He had ordered them to be given what food could be spared from the commissariat’s limited supplies but his soldiers had to be his first priority with the rebellion still unquelled. Perhaps the latest sweep of the country on which he was embarking the next day with a division of his horsemen would succeed in bringing more of his enemies to battle on his terms than he had done previously. By changing his tactics and leaving his heavy weapons and infantry behind, he would enable his column to move faster and respond more flexibly to the feints and raids at which his enemies appeared so proficient. What’s more, the very mobility of his new force might allow him to approach closer to the rebels before being detected.

As if divining the direction of his thoughts, Mumtaz broke into his introspection. Looking up into his face, she asked, ‘Why must you lead the troops tomorrow? After all, most of the army will remain here and you have competent commanders enough. Why can’t you trust them with the task?’

Shah Jahan smiled. It was a question he had debated with himself, so he had a ready answer. ‘I must go because my presence will hearten our men and I believe overawe many of the country people, some of whom may sympathise with the rebels, who are making them extravagant promises. I will wear my grandfather Akbar’s gilded breastplate and helmet. He always told me that an emperor must project an image of power and authority beyond that of an ordinary man and that his people would love him for it. He proved the wisdom of his assertion time and time again.’

‘But there is a risk in making yourself so conspicuous, isn’t there? Don’t forget you are as susceptible as anyone to weapons and wounds.’

‘I know that I am as mortal as any man. To delude myself otherwise would be a first step to disaster and perhaps madness, but I must bear the increased risk for the sake of the empire and our dynasty.’

Looking down at Mumtaz in the gathering dusk he saw from her expression that she was not fully convinced so he added quickly, ‘Besides, I will take care, and my equipment and bodyguard are the best there could be.’ As he spoke the last rays of the sun dipped beneath the dusty western horizon. He bent and kissed Mumtaz. How much he had to lose.

Rai Singh flung himself from his horse and hurried towards Shah Jahan. ‘Majesty … we surprised a small group of Bijapuran horsemen as they rested after their midday meal. They were sheltering from the heat in the shade of a deserted herdsman’s hut. Two got away — one who was guarding their horses and a second who had wandered off to relieve himself and somehow reached his mount — but we captured the rest. Look, they’re coming now.’

Shading his eyes against the metallic glare of the late afternoon sun, Shah Jahan saw the scouts he had despatched under Rai Singh to sweep the arid countryside ahead of his main force galloping into the camp. Five were holding the reins of the horses on which, hands bound behind their backs, the prisoners were swaying. Four of the prisoners were men of about his own age but the fifth was much younger — a tall youth whose dirt-streaked red and gold tunic hung loosely on his slender frame. The guards were keeping him separate from the rest and the youth’s eyes flicked nervously from side to side.

‘Did you interrogate them, Rai Singh?’ Shah Jahan asked.

‘Yes, Majesty. Two of us took them individually into the herdsman’s hut. We kept them blindfolded and my comrade interspersed promises of reward with my threats of torture. The four men were brave enough, refusing to reveal anything, but that youth began to piss himself with fear when I suggested that iron claws were being heated ready to rip his bowels from his belly. He was only too eager to accept my friend’s subsequent softly voiced promises of his freedom and poured out all he knew. The other Bijapurans suspect he has betrayed them and have been yelling threats of what they’ll do to him. That’s why we’ve kept them apart.’

‘Good work, Rai Singh. What did he tell you?’

‘Charge!’ yelled Shah Jahan. He and his horsemen kicked their mounts into a gallop towards the Bijapuran camp one and a half miles away. The camp was a collection of tents and makeshift shelters made from the dead branches of trees clustered around the sticky mud which was all that remained of a small lagoon. At the far side of the lagoon were the huts of what looked to have been a poor village even before the onset of the drought. After a brief consultation with his officers about the information provided by the captured youth on the whereabouts of his enemy’s camp and their strength, Shah Jahan had decided on an attack just after dawn when his opponents should be preoccupied with their ablutions and their breakfast.

During the long moonlit ride towards the camp he had worried whether — since two Bijapurans had escaped — his enemy might be on high alert. However, he had convinced himself that even if his opponents attached any importance to the seizure of their scouts, from their past experience they would not expect his own forces to respond so quickly to any information they obtained. Neither would they expect them to cover the thirty miles between the point of capture and their camp so fast.

But his fears seemed to have been groundless, Shah Jahan had thought as, breasting some low hillocks, he and his men had looked down on the camp with its smoking cooking fires and lines of tethered horses and soldiers moving to and fro on their normal duties. His men had quickly overwhelmed the few sentries posted around the hillocks. Now as he and his troops galloped, green banners streaming in the wind and horses’ hooves pounding the hard-baked ground, towards the Bijapuran camp his enemies were running towards the horse lines buckling on their swords, grabbing lances from their pyramid racks and preparing to face his onslaught. But they would not be in time, thought Shah Jahan, urging his horse into an even faster gallop.

Then above the battle cries of his men and the drumming hooves he heard a loud crash, and then another. The sounds were coming from his front and left. Turning his head in that direction he saw the branches of several of the Bijapuran shelters had been thrown aside to reveal cannon which were already being brought into action. Musketeers too were crouching behind the cannon, steadying their long-barrelled weapons on the limbers as they fired. Both cannon and musket balls were finding their mark.

Through the dust thrown up by his charging cavalry he saw the forelegs of one of the leading Moghul horses crumple. As it collapsed it propelled its rider — a standard-bearer — over its head to smash into the ground. Soon rider and banner were engulfed by the onrushing cavalry, but now other horsemen were falling. A wounded and riderless horse swerved across the path of a group of his Rajput cavalry, two of whom were unable to turn or rein in in time to avoid it so that all three crashed to the earth in a welter of flailing limbs and hooves. However, despite the casualties his men were, like him, pressing forward as hard as they could, urging on their mounts with hands and heels. They should soon be in the camp engaging their opponents at close quarters so that the Bijapuran gunners would be less effective, being unable to distinguish clearly friend from foe.

Noticing at the last minute a small thorn fence just ahead — probably originally constructed to house village cattle — Shah Jahan pulled on his horse’s reins and leaning forward on its neck urged it to make the jump. As the animal landed safely he saw a group of enemy horsemen approaching him at the gallop. How had they been able to arm and mount so quickly? Or had the Bijapurans been expecting him, concealing battle-prepared riders as well as cannon in the tents and shelters? Too late to think about that now. He must concentrate on the battle ahead. The leading Bijapuran was mounted on a grey horse and carrying a long lance in his right hand and heading directly for him. Shah Jahan pulled hard on his reins so that his horse passed to the left of the onrushing rider, meaning he could not make a proper lance thrust at the emperor. As he went by Shah Jahan struck out with his sword, catching his enemy’s horse in its rump causing it to rear up and throw its rider sprawling onto the ground. Another Bijapuran rebel slashed with his curved sword at Shah Jahan, who managed to parry the blow with his own weapon.

Wheeling their horses, the two men rode at each other again, kicking their heels into the heaving flanks of their mounts to urge them on. This time Shah Jahan got in the first blow but the Bijapuran ducked beneath his slashing blade and as he did so thrust his weapon towards Shah Jahan’s breastplate. The armour proved its worth and the blow skidded off harmlessly. Again the two men wheeled and rode at each other. Again Shah Jahan was the quicker to strike — and this time decisively. His slashing blow caught his opponent under his unprotected chin, severing his windpipe and almost decapitating him. Without even a scream he fell backwards from the saddle.

Looking around him as he wiped the sweat from his face with his cotton neckcloth and tried to regain his breath, Shah Jahan saw through the dust and smoke that his men were heavily engaged. More and more rebels were joining the fray, including some Shah Jahan could see galloping from the village beyond the lagoon. It was becoming clearer and clearer that the Bijapurans had indeed been anticipating his arrival, concealing forces wherever they could including in the village huts. He had underestimated his enemy once more and now they were gaining the upper hand. He must do something before it was too late.

Among the fast approaching riders his eye was caught by a small band of no more than a dozen led by two soldiers carrying long Bijapuran gold banners forked like serpents’ tongues. At their centre was a horseman wearing a glistening breastplate almost the equal in splendour of his own, and a plumed helmet. This must be the Bijapuran general who, if reports were true, was one of the sultan’s several sons. If he could kill him that would blunt his enemies’ onslaught and give the Moghuls a much needed chance to regroup.

‘Those of you who can, disengage and rally to me,’ Shah Jahan shouted over the hubbub of battle to the men who were within earshot. As they began to do so, he charged towards the Bijapuran general and his entourage who were now less than six hundred yards away. His horse was blowing hard and there was a thick scum of white sweat on its neck but it was willing and began to outdistance the rest of his men.

In less than a minute he was among the Bijapuran group. His first blow bit deep into the unprotected left leg of one of the standard-bearers, catching him just above the knee and slicing through sinew and flesh to judder against the bone, almost jolting the weapon from Shah Jahan’s grasp. However, he held on to the hilt as the banner-bearer fell, dropping his golden standard into the dust. Another rider struck at Shah Jahan but the sword slid off his breastplate. Nevertheless, the force of the impact knocked the emperor back in his saddle. Within moments though, he had recovered his balance to see that he was in striking distance of the general. Putting all his weight into the stroke, he caught the man just beneath his glistening breastplate. Although he retained his seat on his horse, the general dropped his sword and doubled up clutching his belly. Quickly Shah Jahan aimed another thrust designed to finish him off, but as he did so he felt a crashing blow on his own head and his helmet falling. He put up a gauntleted hand in an attempt to steady it but his ears were buzzing, his thoughts scrambling and white stars and flashes appearing before his eyes and hampering his vision. He must get away from the conflict for a little to recover his senses.

Instinctively he kicked his mount forward, urging it on with his hands and heels. The willing animal gathered speed but then the flaring lights and the ringing in his head intensified. Overcome, he fell forward on his horse’s neck …

What was that plucking and pulling at him? He and Mumtaz were cocooned in the stars but something or someone was snatching at him, dragging him away from her. Mumtaz’s pale face held a look of horror and pleading. Then she seemed to recede into the velvet darkness. He couldn’t understand. Was she being pulled away from him and not him from her? It couldn’t be … he mustn’t let it happen. He tried to stretch out a hand, feeling a more distinct tug at his clothing. Someone was indeed clawing and probing at his body, pulling at his limbs, drawing him away from Mumtaz. ‘No, no,’ he muttered, jerking his head as he spoke. ‘Mumtaz, I will stay with you.’ Then he felt what could only be sharp-nailed fingers grasping at his throat.

Eyes opening but still dazed, he saw a blurred but gaunt face with hollow cheeks and bright eyes only inches from his own. Its lips seemed half open in surprise, open enough to reveal the blackened stumps of teeth. Strands of long grey hair were falling from the plait in which it was tied back. Thumbs were digging into his throat, seeking his Adam’s apple. The apparition was definitely trying to strangle him. Instinctively Shah Jahan brought up his hands and knocked the bony fingers from his throat. Then he grasped at the devil’s face. It felt surprisingly warm as it fought back, foul and sour breath polluting his nostrils. He wrenched the head back, twisting it as he did so. There was a crack and the apparition ceased to struggle and slumped forward on to Shah Jahan, warm saliva dripping from its slack mouth on to his face. Although light, the figure had some weight.

The pressure of it, together with the sensation of the spittle running down his cheek, cut into Shah Jahan’s brain, reviving him towards full consciousness. He pushed the body off him, his mind clearing and his eyes focusing. He sat up and looked about him. The sun was blazing from its midday zenith with dazzling ferocity. Except for the body he was alone in a coppice of leafless trees. Slowly, to his horror, Shah Jahan realised that the figure with its head twisted at an unnatural angle, tongue lolling and eyes staring, was a woman, an old woman what’s more. The edges of her tattered red sari were blowing in the breeze, exposing her bony ribcage and beneath it the slack skin crater where her stomach should have been. She must have been starving. He had killed her. Why? And why was he alone?

Slowly, splintered memories — weapon clashes, battle cries both of encouragement and of pain — coalesced in his mind. He remembered his headlong charge towards the Bijapuran camp, the drumming of his horse’s hooves and after a while his attack on the enemy general, but what had happened next? Finally came a recollection of a blow to his head, a memory of falling forward … His horse must have carried him several miles from the battle. He could neither see nor hear signs of conflict, nor, he realised with dismay, of his horse. Scrutinising the surrounding sandy ground he did make out some hoof prints. After he had fallen his horse must have wandered off. But how did the old woman fit in? Looking more closely at her corpse he saw on the ground beside it one of his rings — a large carved emerald — and yes, there was one of the silver clasps that had held on his light cloak, now carefully folded beside her. That must be it — she had been looting his body and when she had felt him stir attempted to kill him.

Clearly, the instinct to survive had overwhelmed any more feminine feelings of care and protection. That same instinct must account for her being alone. Had she left her village in search of food after the death of her family? Were they lying somewhere too weak to move? Or had they in fact abandoned her? Survival was truly paramount in the human mind. That was why she had tried to kill him … why he had killed her … why indeed, he reflected, he had had his half-brothers killed. Now he himself must strive to survive once more.

Picking up his cloak from beside the woman’s body he wound it roughly round his bare head to protect it, aching as it was from the fierce sun. The glint from his breastplate might betray him to searching enemies as well as burdening him as he walked. He quickly unbuckled it and, after scraping out a small depression in the sand, buried it. Then he looked at what he had assumed were his horse’s hoof prints. His mount seemed to have come from the northwest before he fell from the saddle, after which it had headed off to the south. Should he follow it and try to recapture it or should he retrace his steps in the direction of the battle? He should go after the horse, he reasoned. It would probably have stopped quite soon. Besides, the outcome of the fighting had been highly uncertain. He might be returning to the scene of his column’s defeat and face capture or death.

Slowly he began to pick his way southwards through the leafless trees, following the horse’s tracks, which became less and less distinct as the ground grew more flinty towards the edge of the coppice. How he wished he had spent more time with his scouts learning the secrets of tracking. Lifting his eyes from the faint hoof prints, he scanned the horizon in the hope of catching sight of his mount. Instead, he saw some riders perhaps a mile away, approaching from the north in a cloud of dust. He couldn’t tell whether they were friend or enemy and took cover behind the trunk of one of the larger trees, straining his eyes to pick out any identifying signs. He could not, and remained still behind the trunk as the squadron came closer. Then it divided. Half the men headed around one side of the coppice, the remainder around the other, both halves clearly bent on a thorough search. As they came even nearer, Shah Jahan shrank back against the tree trunk, trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as he could. Suddenly to his intense relief he recognised the leading officer — a tall Rajput mounted on a black horse and wearing saffron robes beneath his steel breastplate. It was Ashok Singh. The troops were his own. He emerged from the shelter of the tree trunk and ran to the edge of the coppice.

‘Majesty, is that you? Are you wounded?’ Ashok Singh shouted, dropping from his saddle.

‘Yes — and no, at least not seriously. Praise God you have found me. I was knocked out and my horse carried me here, I think, before I collapsed from it.’

‘We found it wandering not too far away.’

‘Were we victorious in the battle?’

‘Yes, Majesty. We gained the upper hand in the fighting during which we lost sight of you and drove the Bijapurans from their camp, inflicting many casualties on them as they retreated.’

‘Is the pursuit still continuing?’

‘No. Our losses were also high. In your absence your generals thought it better to regroup and tend our wounded rather than maintain the chase. They feared another ambush of the type that overtook Ahmed Aziz and of course we needed to discover what had happened to you.’

So the victory was by no means complete, thought Shah Jahan, but better a partial success than the setbacks he had suffered previously.

Two hours later, once more wearing his breastplate, which one of his soldiers had retrieved from its hiding place, Shah Jahan mounted his horse. Nearby the pyre hastily constructed by his Rajputs from the coppice’s dead trees crackled and burned. By her dress the old woman had clearly been a Hindu and it had seemed only proper to accord her the rites of her faith. But with the flames licking around the cotton-wrapped corpse there was no need to linger. Let the old woman crumble to ash alone in the desert. The important thing now was to re-join the main body of his troops before demoralising rumours spread that the emperor had been injured, even killed. Casting a last look at the spiralling black smoke of the pyre, he urged his tired horse to a canter.

For the first few miles not a living thing crossed their path in the arid and featureless terrain, but then Shah Jahan noticed what looked like a small village — no more than six or seven shacks — away to their right. Perhaps there was a well not yet dry where they could water their horses. Signalling to his men, he turned his mount in the direction of the low mud-brick houses. As they approached, an old man staggered up from his charpoy beneath a withered banyan tree which had retained just a few of its leaves and stumbled forward on stick-thin legs that looked too weak to bear even his frail weight.

‘Food, gentlemen, food, I beg you …’ he cried out through cracked lips.

Shah Jahan reined in his horse. The old man’s eyes stared unnaturally bright in sunken eye sockets above prominent cheekbones. ‘Are your stores exhausted? When did you last eat?’

‘Our grain was gone six weeks ago. A few days later our animals began to die. We ate their carcasses — skin and entrails too. We even ground their bones to make a kind of flour. We were lucky our well still had a little water. But other than that we’ve eaten nothing but dried leaves and two geckos we caught a few days ago.’

‘Where are the other villagers?’

‘They left three days since to seek food elsewhere but my wife was too weak and I’ve remained with her.’

‘Give him what food we have and any spare water bottles,’ Shah Jahan told Ashok Singh. ‘I hadn’t realised the extent of the famine.’

‘It is bad, Majesty. Around the walls of Burhanpur I have seen proud men fight over undigested grain one had extracted from animal dung. But it seems far worse in these outlying regions. Parents are said to be selling their children into servitude for a few coins in the hope that both they and the children may thereby live. There are even rumours of cannibalism among some of the hill people whose flocks of sheep and goats have perished.’

As his Rajputs handed the man food and water Shah Jahan could not get the thought of people grinding bones for flour and even descending to cannibalism from his mind. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, it was only a few hours since he himself had killed the old woman. However, as he rode on another thought struck him. The man must have truly loved his wife to stay with her rather than desert her to seek his chances away from the village, just as he himself would have stayed with Mumtaz. If survival was a basic and selfish instinct shared with animals, man also had other more noble ones … like love.