The Serpent's tooth

Chapter 4

Supported by Satti al-Nisa and wearing a shift of sapphire silk, Mumtaz stepped carefully down the three white marble steps into the pool of rose oil-scented water. Despite her bulk — in a few weeks she would give birth — her every move was graceful, thought Shah Jahan, watching from the doorway into the hammam. The apricot glow of the candles accentuated the curves of her body. For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of just watching her as she lay back in the pool, resting her head against its side as attendants poured more water down two marble shoots carved in a fish-scale pattern to make the droplets ripple and dance. At least here within the encircling walls of Burhanpur he had created a haven for Mumtaz. Red lilies and sweet-scented champa flowers bloomed in the courtyards and the ancient fountains had been coaxed to new life.

Yet beyond the walls lay an unforgiving landscape where men and beasts struggled beneath a pitiless sun that was daily sucking them and their land dry. In their temples his Hindu subjects were beseeching their gods to relieve their suffering — even making blood sacrifice to the many-armed Kali. Some were blaming the Moghul emperor for failing to aid his people. Last week two saddhus, bony ash-daubed bodies pale as ghosts, had walked up to the gates of Burhanpur, shaking their sticks and denouncing him. He had given orders they should not be molested and they had remained in the blistering heat for an hour. Before departing they had placed what looked like the body of a young child on the ground. When his soldiers investigated they found it was only a bundle of sticks wrapped in dirty cloth with a dried gourd for a head but the message was clear. Children were dying and he, the emperor, was to blame. He hadn’t told Mumtaz.

As he stepped towards the pool, she heard his footsteps and turned her head, smiling. ‘I felt so tired tonight — I thought a bath would revive me.’

He waited until the tall figure of Satti al-Nisa and the other women had withdrawn, then sat on the pool’s marble ledge. ‘The famine’s getting even worse. Every day I receive reports of whole villages emptying as people take their surviving livestock west to seek water. I’ve ordered the imperial granaries in the affected areas to be opened but there’s just not enough grain to go round — only enough to feed the people for a few weeks, not their flocks. Yet without their animals their future is bleak. In some places the Bijapuran rebels are raiding the grain stores.’

‘You are doing what you can.’

‘But I feel helpless. Despite my wealth and power what is needed is water, not gold. If the rains don’t come quickly many more will die.’

‘Not even you can defeat nature.’

‘I should be able to do better for my people and I can’t while this war distracts me … I must end it quickly.’

‘You’re being impatient again. I’d rather stay here a year, two years even, than see you hazard yourself for the sake of a short campaign.’

In the candlelight Shah Jahan saw the earnestness in Mumtaz’s eyes. Leaning forward he stroked her cheek. ‘You’re right. I am impatient. I always have been. It’s not only that I want to deal decisively with my enemies and be free to turn my ambition elsewhere — I want to be able to take you back to the comfort and security of Agra. Long ago, when we first married, I vowed to protect you from dangers of all kinds and to give you the life of peace and luxury you deserved. But when my father turned against us I couldn’t keep that promise. Since we’ve been here in Burhanpur I’ve worried that I’ve failed you again and exposed you to unnecessary hazards. This is no place for you.’

‘It was my choice. I refused be parted from you, as I’ve always done …’ Mumtaz sat up, then, gripping the marble ledge, pulled herself upright. ‘Help me out.’ Standing before him she took his face between her hands and kissed his forehead. ‘The present is as it is. Again I made my choice, and again it was to be with you. As for the past, we survived it together. It is over, as I’ve told you so many times. Why keep tormenting yourself with unrectifiable regrets?’

‘You’re right. I must look ahead, but some things are hard to forget. By defeating my enemies quickly I can do what is best for those I love and win my subjects’ respect for me as their new emperor.’

‘You already have it. Your father himself gave you the title “Shah Jahan”, “Lord of the World”, and time and time again you proved your worthiness of it.’

‘That was a long time ago. Much has happened since then and my people don’t yet know me.’

‘You are as stubborn as our son Aurangzeb. Go if you must. But promise me one thing, at least — that before charging headlong into battle you will think what may be in your enemy’s mind … Others can be as clever and cunning as you. Each time I bid you farewell I need to believe you will come back to me.’

‘I promise to take care.’ He saw that Mumtaz was shivering despite the warm air. ‘You should put on dry clothes — I will summon your attendants.’

He was about to ring the silver bell hanging from a green silk cord when Jahanara appeared through the cusped doorway, breathing hard as if she’d run quickly. ‘It’s Dara … a rider has just brought the news … He’ll be here tomorrow.’

‘You’re sure? He wasn’t due to reach Burhanpur for another two weeks,’ Shah Jahan said.

‘The messenger says Dara has been insisting on riding all day and much of the night.’

Shah Jahan glanced at Mumtaz, whose face was glowing at the thought of seeing their son after so many months. ‘I’ll send troops at once to meet the party.’

‘Let Aurangzeb go with them so he can share in the glory of his brother’s return,’ Mumtaz said. ‘Young as he is, I know how much he envied Dara the opportunity of going to the Persian court.’

Shah Jahan considered for a moment. ‘If we were at peace I’d agree, but the Bijapurans are impudent enough for anything. I’m not sending an escort for show but to ensure Dara and the rest of embassy reach Burhanpur safely. I think it best that Aurangzeb remains here.’

Seated on his throne on the sandstone platform in the middle of the courtyard of the Burhanpur fort, Shah Jahan waited, hiding his impatience. There were few times when he wished himself an ordinary family man, free to behave as he pleased, but this was one of them. The neighing of horses and the clatter of hooves on flagstones from beyond the arched gateway had told him that Tuhin Roy, his envoy, and his party had arrived. He found it hard not to rush to greet his son but protocol demanded a formal ceremony. That was why his courtiers and commanders were standing in rows before him, while on a low dais to his right his three younger sons waited, dressed in brocade coats of Moghul green with ropes of pearls round their necks.

Thirteen-year-old Shah Shuja was looking around grinning but the stockier, square-jawed Aurangzeb, two years his junior, was solemn-faced. Soon he must find suitable tasks for them both, just as he had for Dara. An imperial prince’s training couldn’t begin too early. Shah Shuja needed to learn that life was about more than hunting and hawking and Aurangzeb to appreciate that the exercise of power might not be as easy as he sometimes seemed to think from his reading about his ancestors. At least it would be some years before he need worry about the six-year-old Murad, who was trying without success to attract Shah Shuja’s attention by tugging on his sash.

The trumpets sounded and, as precedence required, Tuhin Roy as the head of the embassy appeared first through the gateway. Elderly but still upright, his beard dyed black, he approached with slow, stately steps and bowed low before the throne.

‘Welcome back, Tuhin Roy. Did your embassy to the shah prosper?’ Shah Jahan knew perfectly well that it had — the envoy had sent regular despatches — but it was important to announce the success of his mission in public.

‘The shah sends you his greetings and calls you brother. I carry a letter from him. May I read it aloud, Majesty?’

‘Proceed, Tuhin Roy.’

The envoy opened an ivory case and took out a paper. Unfolding it he began to read, starting with a flowery passage extolling the greatness of the Moghul empire at which Shah Jahan suppressed a smile — the Persian shah and the Moghul emperor had long been rivals rather than allies. But then the envoy came to the meat: ‘I, Shah Abbas, am graciously pleased to accept the trading rights you offer in Herat in return for which I pledge myself not to levy taxes on the merchants of the Moghul empire passing through my city of Isfahan.’

‘You have negotiated well, Tuhin Roy, and you will be well rewarded. But first you must rest, as you have had a tiring journey. For that I know I must blame my son and his eagerness to return to his family. Forgive me, but I am equally eager to be reunited with him.’

Tuhin Roy looked a little hurt to be dismissed so quickly, but bowed and withdrew. At Shah Jahan’s signal a trumpet sounded and Dara Shukoh appeared through the gateway, the ranks of courtiers bowing like stalks of wheat in the breeze as he passed between them to acknowledge the return of the emperor’s eldest son. Dara was smiling as Shah Jahan descended his dais and enfolded him in his arms. Then taking Dara by the right hand he turned to his assembled courtiers. ‘To celebrate the safe return of my beloved son, I hereby present him with a yaks-tail banner — since the days of my ancestor Babur one of the highest honours an emperor can bestow.’

That night, as darkness fell and a new moon cast its pale reflection across the fortress of Burhanpur, the haram was a place transformed. Burning wicks flickered in glass balls of red, green and blue suspended on chains from trees in the main courtyard, their light softening the austerity of the sandstone masonry. Shah Jahan sat cross-legged in the centre of a dais spread with rich Persian carpets — gifts from the shah. His three eldest sons were still eating. Mumtaz was lying back against a yellow brocade bolster, Jahanara and Roshanara beside her, heads close as they laughed together. Little Murad was on his back sleeping the deep sleep that comes only to the very young.

Shah Jahan’s first thought on learning of Dara’s return had been to order a celebratory feast, but Mumtaz had taken him on one side. ‘Should we do such a thing during a famine?’ she had asked. ‘Won’t it seem uncaring if we feast lavishly? The smells from our cooking fires will waft over the walls of Burhanpur to those who may not know when they will eat again.’ He had realised at once that — more sensitive than he to what others might be feeling — she was right. She usually was. Instead of the great celebration he had planned, at Mumtaz’s suggestion he had ordered an extra issue of grain to the surrounding villages in Dara’s honour and instructed his cooks to prepare a plain meal for his family to share alone here in the haram.

Shah Shuja was quizzing Dara Shukoh about the Persian court. It was good to see them so easy in each other’s company, Shah Jahan thought. How different from his own boyhood — even in his early years he and his half-brothers had never been close, and later ambition for the throne had severed any bonds there might have been. If he had had a full brother — as his sons were to one another — things might have been different …

Something Dara was saying — Shah Jahan had been too caught in his own reflections to pay attention — was making Shah Shuja shake his head in disbelief.

‘What is it, Shah Shuja?’

‘Dara was telling us what the shah told him — that many years ago the Persians helped our great-great-great grandfather Babur in his struggle against the Uzbek leader Shaibani Khan … that the Persians rescued Babur’s sister from the Uzbeks and sent him a drinking cup made from Shaibani Khan’s skull. It can’t be true … When were the Moghuls ever in such thrall to the Persians, Father?’

But it was Aurangzeb, sitting a little behind the other two, who answered. ‘The story’s true, as you’d know, Shah Shuja, if you ever bothered to read the chronicles — especially Babur’s own account. You’d also know that one of the reasons Humayun finally won back Hindustan was because the Persians loaned him an army.’

‘I am impressed, Aurangzeb. Your tutors told me you were studious but I didn’t realise how much. Perhaps one day you’ll be a great scholar,’ said Shah Jahan.

‘A scholar? No — I’ll be a warrior like you!’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I mean it, Father.’ Aurangzeb’s serious young face was flushed. ‘What I read tells me the Moghuls won Hindustan by the sword — not by the pen. That’s how we’ll keep it.’

Shah Jahan suppressed a smile. Aurangzeb’s sense of humour was not strong and his feelings were easily bruised — something his brothers, who often teased him, understood only too well. ‘I’m sure you will be whatever you wish to be.’

As Shah Jahan looked at his family, reunited once more, his eyes met Mumtaz’s and she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod — her signal to broach the subject that they had talked of deep into the night.

‘Dara Shukoh, Tuhin Roy praised your tact and discretion in Persia. You acquitted yourself as a man, not a boy, and your mother has a suggestion for how we might declare this to all the world.’

‘What do you mean, Father?’ Dara Shukoh’s clear hazel eyes looked from Shah Jahan to Mumtaz.

‘It is time for you to marry. Your mother has suggested your cousin Nadira as your bride. She has noticed how much you like her …’

Dara Shukoh’s somewhat abashed but delighted expression showed that Mumtaz hadn’t been wrong. So did the knowing grins on the faces of Shah Shuja and Aurangzeb. Even though he hadn’t been aware of the attachment till now, Shah Jahan was pleased. If one day Dara had to take other wives for dynastic reasons it was good that his first marriage should be to a woman for whom he cared. He hadn’t been much older himself when he’d been betrothed to Mumtaz. And it was a good alliance for the dynasty. Nadira was the daughter of his half-brother Parvez, whose passion for drink and opium had killed him at the age of only thirty-eight at a time when conflict had divided the dynasty. A union between Nadira and Dara Shukoh would heal at least some of the wounds of the past and bind the wider imperial family closer. She was also beautiful — short but voluptuous — and with a ready wit that she had already showed was a match for Dara’s agile mind at the family gatherings where Mumtaz had observed their mutual attraction.

‘Well, Dara, what do you say?’

‘It would make me very happy to marry Nadira,’ Dara replied, his voice betraying a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment — the latter doubtless fuelled by his brothers’ smirking scrutiny.

‘I’m glad you approve. I’ll start planning your wedding. It will be a welcome distraction during these final weeks of waiting for your new brother or sister to join us,’ said Mumtaz, looking down on her swollen belly.

Shah Jahan lay back against the cushions, already visualising the splendour of the marriage procession. The ceremony would take place as soon as possible after their victorious return to Agra. It would mark not only the nuptials of a beloved son and an imperial prince but also the true start of his own reign when, with the rebels of the south subdued, he could begin to take the Moghul empire forward to new splendours and new conquests.

‘Majesty, Rai Singh has located a large Bijapuran force some thirty miles to the west.’ The messenger’s sweat-stained clothing showed the speed with which he had ridden to Burhanpur.

Shah Jahan felt a shiver of excitement. At last this might be the opportunity to deal his elusive enemy a decisive blow. For a moment his mind raced, but then it was made up. ‘Take a fresh horse and return to Rai Singh. Tell him I’m bringing a force of horsemen and cannon-equipped elephants to join him. You said the Bijapurans were thirty miles away? If I ride hard with the vanguard of the cavalry, I can be with Rai Singh in under three hours.’

As he hurried towards the haram after giving the necessary orders, Shah Jahan was smiling. He was tired of being played with by a disciplined enemy who appeared now here, now there, in hit and run raids only to melt away again before he could engage them fully.

Mumtaz was sitting on a stool while Satti al-Nisa combed out her long hair. Jahanara was sitting close by reading aloud from a volume of poems by the Persian Firduz that Mumtaz loved. Jahanara was as much of a scholar as Dara or Aurangzeb, thought Shah Jahan.

‘What is it? You look excited?’ Mumtaz asked, stretching out her hand to him.

‘Good news at last — at least I hope so. My men have encountered a large group of Bijapurans. If I am quick we may finally have the battle I’ve been hoping for.’

Mumtaz’s smile faded. ‘You again mean to go yourself, don’t you?’

‘I must. This is too great a chance to turn the campaign decisively in our favour to neglect.’

‘I hope it is indeed the turning point … and I’m sure it will be. Take care.’

‘I will.’ He bent to kiss her warm lips, then, at her urging, placed his hand for a moment on her belly to feel the kicking of the new life within her. The child wasn’t due for another month. He would be back long before then and perhaps with his campaign over. As he half ran from Mumtaz’s room, his mind was already focused on the fighting ahead.

Three hours later Shah Jahan, who had just ridden up with the main body of his troops, followed the pointing arm of Rai Singh. ‘The rebels have occupied the old fort on that rock-strewn hill over there, Majesty.’ On the crown of the low hill about half a mile away he could see the crenellations of a dilapidated mud-brick fort. Some stretches of the wall appeared to have collapsed completely. The small fort would provide only limited protection for the enemy horsemen and foot soldiers he could make out moving about on the slope, but the hilltop position was a clear advantage. Some of the rebels were stationing themselves behind the stronger, more intact-looking portions of the walls. Others were dragging brushwood into the gaps in the defences or trying desperately to pile up fallen bricks and other rubble into makeshift barricades.

‘How long have they been up there?’ Shah Jahan asked.

‘We clashed with some of their scouts at first light. Once alerted to our presence the enemy quickly began to move up to the hilltop.’

‘I’m surprised they did not simply retreat, disappearing into the countryside as they have before.’

‘They have more infantry with them than I have known previously, and those men would not have got far on foot.’

‘About how many of them are there?’

‘No more than two thousand or so.’

‘We outnumber them then, but that’s no bad thing … As we attack up the slope we will be much more exposed than they will be behind the walls.’ Shah Jahan turned to Ashok Singh. ‘Have our horsemen surround the hill. Then once the war elephants with the small cannon arrive we will advance. There is no point in delaying.’

The elephants took longer than he had anticipated to appear, during which time he could see the rebels continuing to work feverishly with their hands as well as picks and shovels to strengthen their makeshift fortifications. Shah Jahan could not relax. He ordered small parties of his musketmen to scramble up the hillside, water bottles and spare ammunition slung across their backs together with their muskets, to take up positions behind rocky outcrops just outside the range of enemy fire so that they could join the action quickly when it began.

Once the elephants had arrived and the gunners had loaded the cannon in their howdahs with powder and ball, sweating in the afternoon heat as they rammed the shot down the barrels, Shah Jahan gave the command for them to advance. They began to do so steadily and slowly, with groups of musketeers, archers and foot soldiers running along behind them, taking advantage of the protection afforded by their bulk. His scouts had told Shah Jahan that they did not believe the rebels had even small cannon. Nevertheless, he waited apprehensively for a crash and burst of white smoke from the hillside to show that they had been mistaken and he had once more underestimated his enemies’ strength and cunning. None came.

By now, his leading elephants were more than halfway up the slope and the gunners in their howdahs were bringing their small cannon into action. Shah Jahan saw a long portion of the fortress’s brick wall collapse after being hit by some of the cannon balls. Some enemy horsemen who had been sheltering behind it rode out through the dust but Shah Jahan was sure others had been trapped by the falling debris. Still there was no answering cannon fire from the Bijapurans. His scouts must have been right — they had no cannon, he thought with relief. The assault was going well and now was the time for him to join it with his main body of horsemen. Waving his sword as the signal to attack, he began to gallop forward. As they saw him and his bodyguard advance, other horsemen surrounding the hill took up the charge until, green banners billowing, they were riding at the fortress from all sides.

Kicking his horse onward while taking care to avoid the scattered rocks, Shah Jahan soon came up with the war elephants. Suddenly one — a massive beast with three gunners as well as a small cannon in its open howdah — raised its red-painted trunk and began to trumpet in pain. A lucky musket shot had hit it not where the overlapping steel plates of its armoured surcoat gave some protection but in the right eye socket. With blood pouring down its cheek and running on to its curved tusk, it turned from the advance and slowly crashed to the ground, dislodging both the gunners and the bronze cannon. The weapon fell into the path of the mounted bodyguard immediately on Shah Jahan’s right, bringing his horse to the ground and trapping its rider by his leg between its flank and a large jagged rock.

The bodyguard’s scream of agony reached Shah Jahan’s ears above the other sounds of battle. As it did so, he himself felt a sharp pain in his left ankle and his mount skittered sideways, half rearing. The fallen horse, thrashing its legs, had kicked both of them. Hot pain searing his ankle, Shah Jahan reined in his horse and tried to bring it under control, but for some moments it crossed the line of his advancing cavalry, slowing their charge up the hill, which was particularly steep at this point. Just as he regained mastery of his mount, Shah Jahan became aware of a party of at least thirty enemy horsemen galloping from the fortifications now no more than three hundred yards away, intent on exploiting the temporary chaos in this section of his advance.

Musketeers firing from the elephant howdahs knocked two enemy riders from their saddles before the rest, benefitting from the impetus provided by the slope, crashed into Shah Jahan’s troops. One bearded rider, yelling wildly, thrust his lance deep into the cheek of a war elephant, which veered sharply away from the attack and crashed back down the hill, trampling some of the foot soldiers who had been following in its wake. Another rebel horseman caught the grey mount of one of Shah Jahan’s bodyguards full in the chest with his long lance, killing the animal almost instantly. A third spitted from his saddle one of Shah Jahan’s young qorchis, whose first battle and now almost certainly his last it was.

Shah Jahan kicked his own horse towards the attacker, who was trying to extract his lance from the squire’s chest as the young man lay squirming and screaming on the ground. The rebel could not turn to face Shah Jahan in time and the emperor’s sword struck him hard above the knee before knocking his lance from his hand to land beside the dying qorchi. Leaving others to finish the rebel off, Shah Jahan attacked another man who was so intent on scything the head from an imperial musketeer that he did not notice the emperor’s approach until he felt the blow which split his own skull. Twisting in his saddle, Shah Jahan saw that the rebel attack had been blunted and his own men and horses were advancing up the hill again. Despite the pain in his rapidly swelling ankle, he urged his mount forward once more.

As his horse leapt one of the makeshift brushwood barricades, Shah Jahan felt another sharp impact, this time on the point of his left shoulder blade. A spent ball had caught the edge of his breastplate before thudding into his shoulder. A second ball hissed through the air close to his head. Then he was upon the musketeers, who were desperately trying to reload in the shelter of some rocks. One, reversing his musket, whirled it by its long barrel over his head in an attempt to knock Shah Jahan from his horse, only to be felled by Shah Jahan’s sword cut which laid open his cheek, leaving his teeth exposed.

Within minutes Shah Jahan and his men were inside the mud-brick walls of the fort, hacking and slashing at their increasingly desperate enemy as the Bijapurans tried to retreat from one position to the next. Soon some rebels were throwing down their swords and falling to the ground to beg for mercy. Others, mainly horsemen, were trying to flee but in most cases were ridden down by the emperor’s cavalry or shot from their saddles by his musketeers. One rider — a large man in billowing white robes — fell from his horse only for his foot to be caught in his stirrup so that he was dragged behind his mount as it careered downhill, his head smashing to bloody pulp as it ricocheted from rock to rock. Another man who from the look of his garments was an officer was brought to the ground, arms flailing, by a shot fired by a musketeer at Shah Jahan’s side which must have travelled nearly two hundred yards. Shah Jahan was turning to congratulate the man and promise him a reward for his skill when from his hilltop vantage point his eye was caught by a small group of riders approaching fast from the direction of Burhanpur.

Shah Jahan hesitated a moment. The battle was won and he was curious to know who the riders were. Calling to his bodyguard to follow, he kicked his horse forward and galloped down the hill towards a clump of trees where the riders had reined in. As he got closer he saw there were six of them — five soldiers and a white-haired man in dark green robes. As the man turned his head, Shah Jahan recognised Aslan Beg. What could have brought his elderly steward from Burhanpur to the field of battle?

Kicking his tired horse so hard it snorted in protest and flattened its ears, he outstripped his escort and thundered towards the little knot of men. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ he called out as soon as he was in earshot.

‘Majesty, the empress has gone into labour before her time. The lady Jahanara asked me to send word … I felt it was my duty to come myself …’ The old man was swaying with fatigue; the exertion of the hard ride had clearly drained his strength.

Shah Jahan felt a sudden coldness in the pit of his stomach. What had prompted Jahanara’s message? If all was well, wouldn’t they have left the good news of the birth to await his return? ‘How is the empress?’

‘I don’t know. The hakims were with her when I left … I did not wait to ask them. Your daughter was insistent no time be lost.’

Shah Jahan hesitated. His every instinct was to ride at once for Burhanpur but he mustn’t throw away a longed-for victory gained at such cost. He thought quickly, then turned to his captain of bodyguard. ‘Tell Ashok Singh he is to assume command here. My orders to him are to pursue the Bijapurans as far as seems prudent but to take no risks, to garrison this fort and then to bring the rest of the troops back to Burhanpur. And quickly bring me a fresh horse.’

As he rode, urging his new mount on, Shah Jahan’s eyes were fixed on the hazy horizon, willing the battlements of Burhanpur to come into view though he knew many miles separated him from his goal. His injured left ankle was throbbing painfully and glancing down he saw that his garments were spattered with blood — whether his own or his enemies’ he couldn’t be sure — but memories of the conflict were already fading. All he could think of was Mumtaz and how soon he could be with her. At least it would ease her mind to know he had come safely through the fighting.

At last, through the fast fading light, he saw the Tapti river before him and overlooking its northern bank the square tower in which were Mumtaz’s apartments. Urging his blowing horse down the bank, he splashed through the shallow, sluggish waters and rode on up to the gateway through which each evening his elephants were led down from their stables, the hati mahal, to the river to bathe and drink. This wasn’t the way he usually entered his fortress but it was the quickest. He saw the guards’ surprise as he cantered into the small courtyard outside the hati mahal, jumped from his saddle, pain shooting through his ankle, and half running, half limping, made for the stairs leading into the heart of the fortress and the haram. He mounted the steps as fast as he could, unbuckling his breastplate which he thrust into the hands of an attendant as he reached the entrance to the haram. Normally he would have washed away the blood and sweat of battle but he rushed towards Mumtaz’s apartments just as he was.

His appearance was so sudden that there was no time for the usual cry of ‘the emperor approaches’ to precede him. Jahanara was standing by the half-open door to her mother’s room. Hearing his steps on the stone floor she raised her head and he saw tears running down her face.

‘Jahanara, what is it? What’s happened?’

‘The baby will not come. She has been in such torment these past hours. Nothing seems to help. I tried to calm her but all she will say is that she must see you …’ Before Jahanara could finish, there came a long agonised scream more animal than human. Fear such as he had never felt on the battlefield took hold of Shah Jahan. Stepping forward, he pushed the door fully open and looked inside.

Mumtaz was lying on a low divan, knees drawn up, back arched, her hands clenching the sides of the bed. Her white shift was soaked in sweat and her long hair was plastered to her contorted face as raising her chin she screamed again. Satti al-Nisa, who was kneeling by the divan, attempted to take her in her arms and hold her still but Mumtaz was threshing so wildly that she couldn’t. Two hakims, one elderly, the other a youth, were standing in a corner of the room by a small brazier of burning charcoals over which some bitter-smelling potion was bubbling in a copper pot. ‘Leave her be, madam. The opium is almost ready and will ease her pain,’ one of them said.

Looking up, Satti al-Nisa saw Shah Jahan in the doorway. Her face wore the same helpless expression as his daughter’s as she rose and stepped aside. Slowly Shah Jahan approached the bed. Somehow Mumtaz sensed he was there and turned her head towards him as another spasm racked her body. She gasped but this time did not cry out, and as he knelt beside her she managed a smile. ‘You came,’ she whispered.

‘Of course. All will be well.’

‘No. The baby won’t come … I’ve tried and tried … I don’t want it to die inside me.’

‘It will come when it is ready … try to relax.’

‘That is what the hakims say but I can’t. My body feels about to split with pressure and pain but nothing happens.’

‘Majesty.’ The older of the hakims was by his side, a cup in his hand. ‘This medicine will relieve her suffering.’

‘Give it to me.’ Kneeling by the side of the divan, Shah Jahan held the cup to Mumtaz’s lips. ‘Drink …’ At first the amber liquid trickled down her chin but at last she swallowed some.

‘That will soothe her, Majesty, relax some of the tensions building within her. This is the sixteenth hour of her labour and she is exhausted. In a few minutes she will grow drowsy,’ said the hakim. But as if to contradict his words, Mumtaz began to cry out again. As she struggled she knocked the cup from Shah Jahan’s hand and it rolled across the floor. ‘It’s coming,’ she gasped. ‘Thank the heavens, it’s coming at last …’ Her nails dug into the flesh of his right forearm as she clung to him.

‘Transfer her pain to me. Let me be the one who suffers,’ Shah Jahan found himself praying.

Suddenly Mumtaz let go of him and dragged herself into a sitting position, knees doubled up beneath her shift. Then she flung back her head but this time her cry was one of triumph rather than despair. The next moment Shah Jahan heard the sound of a baby crying.

‘Majesties, look. A beautiful girl.’ Satti-al Nisa was holding out a tiny bundle already wrapped in a piece of green linen — fit clothing for this newest addition to the Moghul line.

Feeling dazed, he got to his feet and looked briefly at the child, but all his thoughts were for Mumtaz. ‘I knew all would be well …’ he began. But as he looked at her again he saw not joy but terror on her face and realised that her shift, in fact the entire divan, was crimsoning with her blood. He didn’t need the hakims’ cries of consternation to tell him that this was not the ordinary blood-letting of childbirth.

He moved aside to allow them room to work while Satti al-Nisa, who had handed the child to an attendant, rushed to fetch the cotton pads for which the doctors were calling to staunch the blood. Mumtaz was lying back, eyes closed and her body very still. As the minutes passed, it seemed to Shah Jahan that the hakims were doing nothing except mopping up the bright red flow which continued to stream from Mumtaz. Water from the copper basins in which they were rinsing out their cloths slopped crimson on the floor.

‘Surely you can do something,’ he heard himself say but there was no reply, only a shaking of heads and a muffled conversation between the two doctors.

‘Leave us!’ Mumtaz’s voice suddenly rang out sharp and clear. ‘I wish to be alone with my husband. Go … go now!’ Never in twenty years of marriage had he heard her sound more commanding.

The hakims and Satti al-Nisa looked at Shah Jahan. ‘Do as the empress says but remain within earshot,’ he ordered.

‘Mumtaz …’ he began as soon as they were alone.

‘No, let me speak. My life is flowing from me with my blood. I’m dying … I know it. There is nothing anyone can do. I must have these final precious moments with you. Put your strong arms around me … let me feel the beat of your heart.’

Kneeling down again he cradled her in his arms. ‘You have given birth to a fine child and you will recover … the hakims will stop the bleeding …’

‘No, my heart tells me that it isn’t so. Listen to me … our remaining time together is short. I have things to ask of you while my mind is still clear …’

‘Anything.’

‘Please don’t marry again … if you have more children by another woman they will be a threat to our own sons. That mustn’t happen … rivalries between half-brothers bring nothing but sorrow. We both know that.’

‘I could never marry another. You are everything to me … everything.’

‘That gives me such comfort — knowing that I can endure anything, even the pain of parting from you. But I have something else to beg of you. In my dreams I’ve seen a white marble tomb, luminous as a great pearl … build me such a resting place where you and our children can come to remember me.’

‘Don’t speak of tombs. We will have many more years together.’ He held her even tighter, as if by doing so he could make the life force pulsing within him flow into her and give her strength.

‘Please … you must promise me … you must. Then I can go in peace to whatever awaits me.’

‘When the time comes I will create you a paradise on earth. I will spare nothing, no cost, no effort. It will be the marvel of the world not only for its flawless beauty but because people will know it represents a flawless love.’

He heard Mumtaz give a deep sigh as if what he said had satisfied her. For a few minutes they clung to one other in silence, then Mumtaz whispered, ‘You mustn’t spend your life in regret, not you or Dara, Jahanara or any of our children … Love them as I did … They have so much before them, as I once did, the night I first saw you at the Meena Bazaar. Do you remember that night? All the lanterns hanging on the trees and how you came to my stall. You didn’t bargain very well … Shah Jahan, in the years to come remember how much I loved you — more than I ever thought it possible to love another …’

‘And I love you … that is why you mustn’t leave me …’

‘My fate is written. I don’t have a choice. Stand up and let me look at you one last time …’

As if in a dream Shah Jahan released her and rose. Her pale face held such an expression of yearning that tears came pouring down his face as all sensation drained from his body and he struggled to find words. ‘Mumtaz …’ was all he could manage. He knelt and cradled her once more.

A veil was already falling over her beautiful eyes. So many times on the battlefield he’d seen that look on the face of friend or foe at the very moment the soul was about to flee the body. ‘Don’t forget me …’ she whispered as her head fell back. As he looked down on her small, blood-soaked form it seemed to him that her last words to him on this earth still lingered, though the woman he loved was gone for ever.