The Serpent's tooth

Chapter 6

‘Welcome to Burhanpur, Ustad Ahmad.’

‘I am honoured you sent for me, Majesty. I came as quickly as I could.’

Shah Jahan scrutinised the tall, slenderly built man bowing low before him, hoping that at last he had found an architect who could help give expression to the vision of Mumtaz’s tomb that had begun crystallizing in his mind but was still incomplete. ‘My father-in-law Asaf Khan wrote to me that you have designed buildings of great beauty for Shah Abbas. The task I have for you is greater than any the Persian shah can have set — to design a mausoleum for my wife of such unique beauty that later generations will still hail it as a wonder of our age. The thought doesn’t intimidate you?’

‘No. It’s a challenge no true artist could resist.’

Clearly Ustad Ahmad was not a modest man, but that was a good thing, Shah Jahan thought. Others he’d consulted — like his master builder — had been over-eager to please, praising everything he himself had suggested and contributing few ideas themselves. He waved the architect to sit at the long low table. ‘What thoughts do you have for me?’

‘I think you are familiar with the way the Persians design their gardens?’

‘I’ve seen paintings and drawings. I know they call them pairidaeza.’

‘Exactly, Majesty, “gardens of Paradise”, with two bisecting watercourses running north to south and east to west to represent the sacred rivers of Paradise. Such should be the setting for the tomb of her late Majesty.’

‘But I have already written to you saying that I wished the tomb to be built in the centre of a garden. Do you have nothing new to suggest?’ Shah Jahan couldn’t keep irritation from his voice but Ustad Ahmad didn’t seem abashed.

‘I do, Majesty. I believe the tomb should not sit in the centre of the garden — instead it should overlook it, dominating the eye. The land you have purchased on the banks of the Jumna is perfect for what I have in mind.’

Shah Jahan looked at Ustad Ahmad, trying to picture what he meant. Ashok Singh had suggested he acquire the site which was immediately downstream of an almost right-angled bend in the Jumna river, from his father, the Raja of Amber, because it was so close to the fort — barely a mile and a half away — that the tomb would not only be visible from the battlements but could be visited by boat. The architect continued. ‘I propose building the tomb on a raised platform on the riverbank with the gardens laid out below.’

‘But can the bank take the weight? My builders say the soil is sandy and light and the force of the river may cause erosion.’

‘The bend in the Jumna reduces the thrust of the current at that point. Besides, there are ways of reinforcing the bank to support the buildings.’

‘Buildings? You’re suggesting more than one?’

‘Yes. Let me show you, Majesty.’ Ustad Ahmad took a large folded paper from his battered green leather satchel, opened it and spread it on the table. ‘I have drawn everything on a grid so you can see clearly the layout I’m proposing. The mausoleum would stand on two platforms — a large one surmounted by a smaller plinth for the tomb itself.’

‘What are these structures you’ve marked on either side of the tomb?’

‘To the west a three-domed mosque and to the east a similar structure to be a resthouse for pilgrims but also the jabab — the echo — of the mosque, enhancing the symmetry which is so important to my design. And look, Majesty, to complete the effect, at the far end of the north-south waterway, directly opposite the tomb, I propose a southern gatehouse. As they enter, visitors will see the mausoleum rise before them as if floating against the limitless backdrop of the sky.’

Shah Jahan scanned Ustad Ahmad’s drawing — he had indeed created an image of perfect balance. Yet everything would depend on the design of the tomb itself, which was marked only by a circle. ‘What about the mausoleum?’

The architect produced a silk-wrapped bundle from his bag. ‘Before I show you this let me explain my thoughts. I recently visited the Emperor Humayun’s tomb in Delhi. What if, I wondered, the late empress’s mausoleum was, like Humayun’s, built to an octagonal plan but fuller of light, better befitting the memory of a woman? I experimented over and again with the proportions and concluded that the base should be a cube with its vertical corners chamfered to produce the octagon. The sarcophagus itself would lie in the middle of a central octagonal chamber surrounded by eight interconnecting chambers on each of two levels. The exterior facades would consist of two storeys of arched recesses. But enough words, Majesty. Allow me to show you what I mean.’

Ustad Ahmad opened his parcel and took out some wooden blocks which he began carefully arranging into an octagonal structure. ‘Look, Majesty — on each of the four main sides would be iwans, entrance arches, whose top border would rise above the rest of the facade. The height from the ground to the top of the dome would be two hundred and forty feet.’

‘And the dome itself?’

‘I suggest a double one. Again, allow me to demonstrate.’ From his pocket this time, Ustad Ahmad took out two pieces of polished alabaster. ‘In the Emperor Humayun’s tomb inner and outer domes rest on a low drum. What I propose here is an inner dome rising eighty feet from the ground and a swelling outer dome shaped somewhat like a guava, topped by a golden finial.’ As he was talking Ustad Ahmad balanced the inner dome on the model’s octagonal walls then carefully slid the elongated outer dome over it. ‘Finally I suggest placing four chattris, domed kiosks, used in so many of the palaces of your Hindu allies, around the main dome, like pearls surrounding the central gem in a ring.’

Shah Jahan stared at the model in front of him. It was perfect. How had this man understood his wishes so well when he had been unable to articulate them properly even to himself? Ustad Ahmad was looking hard at him, perhaps uncertain how to interpret his silence.

‘I’m appointing you my architect to oversee the creation of the empress’s mausoleum. Return to Agra immediately. Whatever you require — money, materials, labour — you shall have it.’

‘Majesty, I have one further question. What material should we build in? Sandstone?’

‘For the subsidiary buildings perhaps, but the mausoleum itself is to be of the purest white marble — I have already told the Raja of Amber that I will purchase the entire output of his quarries at Makrana and asked him to arrange the safe transport of the marble the two hundred miles to Agra.’

For the first time Ustad Ahmad looked startled. ‘No one has ever built anything on this scale in marble … the cost will be …’

‘Do not concern yourself with the cost. You promised me a heaven on earth and that should be your sole concern.’

That night Shah Jahan fell into a deeper sleep than for many months, anxiety over how best to fulfil Mumtaz’s dying wish quietened by Ustad Ahmad’s sublime design. In his dreams he stood beneath the great southern gateway, gazing at the shimmering mausoleum. As the hours passed he remained there transfixed, watching the white marble flush pink in the dawn light, glitter diamond bright beneath the hot midday sun and soften to violet as dusk descended and shadows shrouded the pearl-like dome. Then, through the velvet darkness, a lantern glowed and a woman appeared in the moonlit doorway. He couldn’t see her face but he knew it was Mumtaz …

Slowly he walked through the gardens, breathing the heavy scent of white-petalled champa flowers and following the marble channel through which water rippled silver towards the tomb. As he passed, each of a row of marble fountains burst into life, sending jewel-bright droplets into the air. All the time his eyes were fixed on Mumtaz waiting in the entrance. He tried desperately to walk more quickly but his legs wouldn’t obey him, even when she raised her arms in silent entreaty. Her face was still in shadow but jewels glittered around her neck, waist and wrists. Just a few more steps and he would be with her, but suddenly the figure shimmered and dissolved before him.

In anguish he climbed the stairs to the pale tomb and touched the milk-smooth marble, expecting it to feel cold. Instead the translucent stone was silken and warm as human flesh — Mumtaz’s flesh. An erotic longing possessed him and he pressed his lips to the stone. The mausoleum was Mumtaz herself. He would adorn it with the gems she loved in life. Emeralds and rubies, amethysts and corals, would shine against the white marble as they had glowed on her body. He stretched out his arms to embrace the tomb but suddenly there was nothing but the gloom of his bedchamber.

Shah Jahan sat up and looked around him, dazed. Rising, he walked to the casement and peered into the darkness at the dim outline of the Tapti winding on its sluggish way, reminding him how far he was from Agra and Mumtaz, lying in her temporary grave. How weary he was of these empty barren lands that had robbed him of so much. Before Mumtaz’s death they had often talked about the visit they would make to the Vale of Kashmir when the fighting was over. They would never go there now — never wander its purple crocus fields or feel the cool wind blowing off its snow-dusted mountains or glide in a barge across its lily-strewn lakes. But as he gazed into the night he made Mumtaz — and himself — a vow. He would end this war quickly and return to Agra to oversee the construction of her tomb himself.

From the protection of the awning of his scarlet command tent pitched on a small hill Shah Jahan surveyed the surrounding low-lying countryside. Heavy raindrops were splashing from a leaden monsoon sky into the already deep puddles around the tent. The drought had broken three weeks earlier and since then the much delayed rains had been almost incessant. Everywhere the ground had been baked so hard that at first it had been unable to absorb so much water so fast. In places flash floods had swept away humans and animals who only days earlier had been longing for water. Now green leaves had begun to sprout on the trees and shrubs. Small orange-pink jungle flowers were appearing and many more birds were singing, all part of the natural renewal of life and at odds with Shah Jahan’s sombre mood and continuing sense of final and irreplaceable loss.

Eager to speed his departure from Burhanpur, despite the atrocious weather he had led a division of his army out into the water-logged and scarcely populated plains on receiving reliable reports that the last sizeable detachment of Bijapuran invaders had taken refuge in a forested area barely two days’ ride away. Now after much thought during another of the many sleepless nights he had suffered since Mumtaz died he had devised a plan of attack.

‘Send my officers to me,’ he shouted to an attendant. Soon they came splashing through the puddles to sit around him on low stools placed under the awning by his servants. Despite the rain Ashok Singh was colourfully and immaculately dressed as ever in a gold-trimmed maroon tunic and surcoat, his extravagant dark moustache brushed and perfumed, but several of the other commanders were mud-spattered. Standing slightly to one side was Aurangzeb. At his persistent urging Shah Jahan had allowed him to join the expedition instead of Shah Shuja, whom he had intended to bring had the boy not dislocated his shoulder playing polo while riding a half-broken pony against his groom’s advice.

When all had arrived, Shah Jahan began. ‘I’ve decided how we will put an end to these invaders once and for all. They descended on our lands like ravening animals and we will deal with them as such. Just as my ancestors on the steppes hunted game by driving them into a confined space, so we will encircle and trap our enemies leaving them no chance to flee. According to our scouts they’ve withdrawn into an area of thick jungle about five miles away to the south. Ashok Singh, I want you to select five thousand of our best horsemen and order each to take a musketman up behind him. They are to surround the jungle — our scouts tell me it is around six miles in circumference. Then, keeping no more than four yards apart from one another, they are to advance.’

‘You intend to take the Bijapurans unawares?’

‘At first yes, but as our noose tightens I want our enemies to know we’re coming. At a signal from me, as our men move through the trees and the length of our perimeter shortens, I want them to start shouting, even to blow trumpets and strike gongs. With noise on every side and realising they’re surrounded, the enemy won’t know which way to run and we will herd them together as we do wild animals in the hunt before we fall on them and slaughter them. Just in case any succeed in breaking through our cordon I want further horsemen backed up by musketmen and archers stationed round the jungle edge. Are my orders clear?’

‘Do we take prisoners, Majesty?’ Ashok Singh asked.

‘No, no prisoners.’ Seeing Ashok Singh’s look of surprise, Shah Jahan said, ‘You Rajputs expect no mercy in battle and fight to the death. But the Rajputs are honourable warriors. If they were ever my foes instead of my allies — as I hope will never be — I would spare any who asked for mercy. But these Bijapurans have brought nothing but havoc and bloodshed to my lands and cost my wife her life. They have spurned every opportunity to surrender and thus have forfeited any right to mercy — even if they beg for it.’

Ashok Singh said nothing, and it was Aurangzeb who spoke next. ‘Father, can I accompany you to the attack?’

Shah Jahan hesitated. He himself had fought his first battle when he’d been only a little older. ‘Very well. But you’re to take no part in the actual fighting.’

‘Father …’

‘No! I won’t change my mind. You’ll remain at a safe distance or not come at all.’

‘It wasn’t that. I just wanted you to know I think you’re right not to give the Bijapurans quarter. They don’t deserve it and should be made to pay the ultimate price for their treachery.’

‘Good.’ Shah Jahan nodded. Despite his youth Aurangzeb was not backward in advancing his forthright and usually stern opinions. He had a dogmatic sense of what he believed just or unjust and in disputes with his brothers was usually the most determined in maintaining he was in the right, using his fists if he had to.

An hour later, the column had already covered three miles. If all went well — and even allowing for the rain falling in a constant veil around them there was no reason why it shouldn’t — they should reach the thick jungle and be ready to attack by midday. Glancing over his shoulder, Shah Jahan saw Aurangzeb riding not far behind him. He was wearing a chain mail tunic and silver breastplate and had an expression of deep concentration. Turning his attention to guiding his own horse across the increasingly soggy ground, Shah Jahan soon found mud flying up all around him, spattering his horse’s steel head armour and speckling his face beneath his jewelled helmet. Soon though the rain began to ease and Shah Jahan could make out the thick jungle ahead of him to the south. A quarter of an hour later a small group of riders appeared from that direction led by Rai Singh.

‘All is well, Majesty,’ called the scout, long hair hanging in wet tendrils. ‘The Bijapurans are still in the jungle and as far as we can tell have no idea of our presence. Now that the rain is stopping they’ve begun lighting their cooking fires — look.’

Sure enough thin trails of smoke were spiralling from several points within the jungle. The Bijapurans’ bivouacs seemed to be scattered rather than concentrated in one large encampment. ‘If they want to eat they’d better be quick — it’ll be the last food they’ll taste. Continue to keep watch. If you see anything suspicious send word at once. Otherwise we will advance into the jungle as soon as we have surrounded it.’

Quickly Shah Jahan issued his final orders to his commanders. ‘Deploy your men around the forest. I will join those entering from its northern edge and will send my orders along the line from there. Aurangzeb — you stay here. Vikram Das — I am making you responsible for my son’s safety.’ The officer nodded, then glanced a little nervously at Aurangzeb as if doubting his ability to control the young prince. Shah Jahan saw the look. ‘Aurangzeb — do I have your word of honour that you will remain here and not attempt to join the fight?’ His son hesitated a moment, then nodded.

Shah Jahan kicked his horse onward, his bodyguard around him, as he joined the horsemen fanning out to surround the forest. The musketmen mounted behind the riders had their long-barrelled weapons and ram rods strapped to their backs while their powder horns were slung from their shoulders. So much moisture dripped from the trees as Shah Jahan and his men pushed through the branches that it seemed still to be raining. Water was trickling down their necks and running beneath their breastplates and the forest floor was sodden. The horses were soon sinking up to their hocks in places as they struggled to pick their way through and around the deep puddles and soft oozing mud. All the time the vegetation was growing denser.

Shah Jahan listened hard, but above the squelching of the horses’ hooves and their occasional blowing and snorting could hear nothing. The Bijapurans must still be too far off to be aware of his advancing forces, but not for much longer. Shah Jahan raised his sword. At the sign, Ashok Singh flung back his head and yelled the ancient war cry of the Rajputs, ‘Onward, children of fire, sun and moon, to glory or to death.’ All around men began shouting, clashing weapons, sounding trumpets and banging drums. As the cacophony rolled around the jungle, samba deer barked their alarm call and doves and pigeons whirred in panic from the shelter of the trees. Soon it would be time for the musketmen to drop to the ground and set up their weapons ready to shoot down any Bijapurans who tried to break out of the circle into which the horsemen were driving them. Heart pounding, Shah Jahan scanned the dripping foliage, right hand fingering his sword hilt.

Within moments shouts of alarm rose ahead. Suddenly over an area of lower bushes slightly to his left, Shah Jahan made out a clearing with a number of tents and some horses tethered nearby. ‘Musketeers, dismount and take up your positions. Pass the order along,’ he yelled. ‘Horsemen, keep the line as you advance — let no one through.’ To his right and left, Ashok Singh’s riders, their lances at the ready, pushed their mounts on through the thinning undergrowth, picking up speed despite the cloying mud.

As he burst with them into the clearing Shah Jahan felt something graze his cheek. A black-flighted arrow embedded itself in the mud close by him. Glancing around he spotted the archer — a long-haired youth — standing in the doorway of a tent not thirty yards away and fumbling with nervous fingers to fit a second arrow to his bow. In a single movement, Shah Jahan pulled one of his two steel-bladed daggers from its scabbard and sent it spinning through the air with all the force he could muster. The dagger tip hit the youth in the throat and he dropped to his knees, blood spurting through his fingers as he clawed at his neck.

Around Shah Jahan, his horsemen were making swift work of the Bijapurans, of whom there appeared to be no more than thirty. As he watched, Ashok Singh, bending low from his saddle, scythed another bowman’s head from his shoulders with a single sweep of his weapon, sending the head rolling away to rest, mud-covered, among the roots of a tree. The torso remained upright for a few moments before toppling sideways with a splash into a puddle. Other Bijapurans were attempting to flee deeper into the jungle while the smell of powder and the crackle of muskets behind him told Shah Jahan that a few had been foolish enough to attempt to break through the cordon of his musketmen. ‘Set fire to their tents and turn their horses free,’ he shouted, but at almost the same moment he heard a cry of ‘Bijapurans, over here, to me!’

Wrenching his horse round, Shah Jahan saw a group of thirty or forty well-armed riders led by a tall man in a gilded helmet crash through the scrub on the far side of the clearing. They’d obviously had more time to prepare than their comrades here in the encampment, where red blood now stained the muddy ground. ‘Regroup,’ shouted Shah Jahan to his men. ‘Re-form your line.’ There might be more Bijapurans concealed in the trees beyond and he didn’t want his soldiers rushing into a trap.

From Shah Jahan’s right and left, out of his range of vision, came the sounds of battle as his men clashed with other pockets of Bijapurans. He could not tell precisely what was happening but he trusted his men to maintain discipline and remember their orders. The important thing was to keep the encircling cordon tight and intact and continue the advance, driving his enemies into a tightly packed, disordered mass where they would be easier to destroy.

The Bijapuran riders, seeing they were outnumbered, knew better than to stand and fight in the clearing. Instead, pulling two or three survivors from the conflict up behind them, they were already turning their horses and disappearing deeper into the jungle.

Urging his own mount after them, Shah Jahan realised that the vegetation ahead was growing less dense — nearly all scrubby bushes rather than trees — and that the ground, now lit here and there by shafts of sunlight, was growing even more sodden. At first the tracks of the retreating Bijapurans were easy enough to follow. With luck they would lead to the main encampment. As the sun began to shine more strongly, reflecting mirror-like from the puddles, the air grew humid and sweat ran freely down between Shah Jahan’s shoulder blades. With mosquitoes whining in his ears, he glanced around, on the lookout for any Bijapurans lying in ambush amid the brush and fallen branches. He could see none.

Suddenly Shah Jahan’s mount slithered and plunged forward, nearly throwing him. He struggled to keep the animal upright and succeeded, but as the horse tried to walk on it stumbled again. Raising an arm to halt the advance on either side of him, he quickly dismounted and ran his hand over the horse’s front fetlocks. As he touched the left one the beast whinnied in pain. ‘My horse has lamed itself,’ he called to Ashok Singh. As he waited for a spare mount to be brought, a lone rider appeared on a low hillock about fifty yards away. His gilded conical helmet gleamed in the sunshine. It was the officer who had come to the aid of the Bijapurans in their camp. In his hand was a banner of golden yellow silk — the colour of Bijapur — obviously intended as a flag of truce. The officer shouted with all the power of his lungs, ‘I bring a message from our commander. Majesty, we know that your forces have encircled us. To spare further bloodshed on both sides we wish to surrender.’

‘You have a short memory, Bijapuran,’ replied Shah Jahan. ‘Once before you offered to surrender, then broke your word and innocents died. Today there’ll be no bargaining. Traitors have no right to the protection of a flag of truce, so be gone before I seize you.’ As the man rode quickly away, Shah Jahan glanced up into the sky. From the position of the sun it was still only early afternoon. By sunset, God willing, he would be victorious.

A ragged volley of enemy musket fire forty minutes later was the first sign that he had located the main body of Bijapurans. One ball hit a young Rajput a few yards to his left in the thigh and, blood pouring from his wound, the youth toppled sideways from his horse. Another rider cried out, then slumped forward in his saddle, dropping his lance. The mount of a third, hit twice in the throat, slowly collapsed, allowing its rider time to jump clear. For a moment the animal’s body twitched convulsively, its blood pumping into a puddle, before becoming still.

‘Keep low,’ Shah Jahan yelled, kicking his horse forward. Through the spindly bushes he could see a large encampment on to which most of the Bijapurans seemed to have fallen back. They had overturned their few baggage carts to use as barricades, but surrounded as they were, they didn’t seem to know how best to position them or on which side to take refuge. From all around came the cries of the advancing Moghul troops. The cordon had held and his men had advanced together just as he had planned, Shah Jahan thought as, determined to finish the campaign, fresh energy surged through him.

Yanking on his left rein, he swerved round a tent to slash at a Bijapuran musketeer struggling to reload. His blade caught the man’s right arm and dropping both his musket and his ram rod he screamed and turned to run. Shah Jahan struck again, cleaving the musketman’s back open to the bone. Looking round, he spotted a huge man in a yellow turban standing with his back to an overturned cart, a spear in his right hand. At that moment a Moghul cavalryman swept past and the man thrust his weapon hard into the horse’s stomach. It fell, trapping the Moghul rider beneath it by his thigh. As he struggled to free himself, the yellow-turbaned Bijapuran leapt on him and holding his already dripping spear in both hands raised it above his head. So intent was he on despatching his victim that he didn’t notice Shah Jahan until it was too late. Leaning low from his saddle, Shah Jahan cut with his sword into the nape of the man’s neck, half severing the head so that it flopped forward in a froth of blood as he fell.

But suddenly the world was spinning around Shah Jahan as he found himself flying through the air to land with a thud on the squelchy ground. Dazed and winded, he looked about to see his horse on its knees in the mud. It had clearly stumbled over the shaft of the overturned cart. His sword was lying a few feet away. Dragging himself to his knees he reached for his weapon but at that moment a boot caught him in the small of his back and sent him sprawling forward into a deep puddle. His mouth and nose filled with muddy water and he spluttered for breath. He tried to get up but felt a hand pull off his helmet, grab hold of his hair and force him face down into the water again. He was starting to choke and his lungs felt as if they were on fire. Gathering his remaining strength he tried to dislodge his attacker but the man was too strong, while every attempt to breathe just brought another mouth and noseful of muddy viscous liquid. With a last desperate effort he felt in his sash for his second dagger and managed to grip its hilt. Pulling it from its scabbard he lunged blindly upwards. The weapon cut through empty air. Blood pounding in his ears as if the drums were about to rupture, he tried again. This time the blade penetrated muscle. A startled, high-pitched scream followed and the hold on his hair relaxed.

Pushing his opponent from him and rolling sideways, he gulped in air. His enemy — tall and heavily built — was writhing doubled up on the ground, clutching at a wound in his left side. Taking a few more deep breaths Shah Jahan got up and staggered across to him, pulled him over onto his stomach and thrust his head into the same puddle where just a moment ago he had been struggling for his own life. Straddling the man, he pushed his head down as hard as he could into the liquid mud. The Bijapuran threshed and bucked, trying to dislodge him, but he held on. For some moments the man’s feet kicked furiously but then his body grew limp. Standing, Shah Jahan retrieved his sword. Then he stood for a moment, back against the overturned cart, trying to gauge the progress of the battle.

‘Majesty, are you all right? I lost sight of you in the fighting.’ It was Ashok Singh, leaning from his saddle.

‘That new horse of mine tripped and fell.’

‘Give me your hand, Majesty. Pull yourself up behind me. Even if the fighting’s nearly over it’s still safer on horseback than on the ground.’ Ashok Singh was right, Shah Jahan thought, though most of the bodies sprawled on the earth were Bijapuran and resistance seemed to be over. As he watched, four yellow-clad soldiers emerged from a tent and threw down their weapons while a few yards away a Moghul cavalryman pinioned a Bijapuran whose sword was still drawn to the side of a baggage cart with the tip of his lance.

‘Majesty. We have taken a number of prisoners. Are your orders still the same?’

‘Yes. Execute them. But do it quickly and cleanly.’

Their death agony would be short, Shah Jahan thought, gazing at the carnage around him, unlike the death of Mumtaz and the long agony of his own grief. He felt no joy in the death of his foes, just an overwhelming weariness and gratitude that the fighting was over and he was victorious. At last he could return to Agra to raise his monument to love — his love of Mumtaz.