Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth (16 page)

It was true. He had begun entrusting Dara with increasing responsibility, like a review of the army’s equipment. Jahanara’s role must of necessity be more prosaic – things a woman could do from the
haram
, as Mumtaz had done before her – but she was intelligent enough to know that. ‘Very well. I will have the bills sent to you and I’ll find you other duties if you want. I’ll also give you your mother’s ivory seal to authorise imperial
firmans
on my behalf.’

Shah Jahan saw Jahanara’s delight. If he was honest, he’d be as glad of her help as he was of Dara’s. With their open natures and quick minds the two of them were so similar. Small wonder they were close. But what would his eldest daughter’s future be? Akbar had established the rule that an emperor’s daughters should not marry, to reduce the potential for the bloody disputes between rival family claimants to the throne that had tainted the Moghuls’ early years in Hindustan. Yet why should royal daughters be denied the happiness their brothers enjoyed?

Mumtaz would have known instinctively what was both prudent and fair … but maybe fairness didn’t come into it. What mattered most was ensuring the dynasty’s survival, as Akbar – wise and humane though he was – had understood. Shah Jahan glanced at Jahanara, absorbed in the model. He would find other ways of making his daughters happy.

‘Jahanara, what you’ve said reminds me that you’re a grown woman. If you’d like an independent household I will give you your own mansion. There’s that handsome one that used to belong to your great-grandfather Ghiyas Beg. Would you like that?’

She considered but only for a moment. ‘Yes, thank you, Father. But I forgot … I’ve some news. Satti al-Nisa tells me Nicholas Ballantyne has returned to Agra. He’s living in the bazaar.’

‘Nicholas?’ The last time Shah Jahan had seen the young Englishman had been soon after he’d come to the throne. Hadn’t he departed on some trading venture … to Kabul or perhaps Herat? Nicholas had remained faithful to him during his family’s dangerous years as outcasts and exiles. He had even been his emissary to his father Jahangir, helping them to make their peace. ‘I would like to see him again. He was our friend when we had few.’

Next day, as Nicholas Ballantyne bowed before him, Shah Jahan thought he had broadened over the years since he had last seen him. His shoulders strained against his tight-fitting leather tunic and his calves beneath the outlandish slashed pantaloons these foreigners wore were knotted with muscle. But when he raised his head Nicholas’s eyes were the same piercing blue beneath his unruly butter-coloured hair, streaked almost white by the hot Indian sun.

‘Welcome back to my court. I hear you’re lodging in the bazaar. My steward can find lodgings for you within the fort if you wish.’

‘Thank you, Majesty.’

‘What’s brought you to Agra?’

‘To be honest, I hope to find employment at your court.’

‘Didn’t you decide to try your hand as a trader?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t prosper. With the money I’d earned in your service I went to Kabul and bought Persian carpets and Chinese silks in the great bazaar to ship back to Europe. However, Ghilzais ambushed the return caravan I joined as we descended the narrow Khoord-Kabul pass just before dusk. They killed many merchants in their initial attack. The few of us who survived only did so by scrambling up the hillside and taking refuge behind the rocks in the half-light. Once the Ghilzais had seized our mules with their cargos they lost interest in us.’ He smiled a little ruefully.

Shah Jahan, though, was frowning. Nicholas’s words had reminded him that for some time his governor in Kabul had reported growing lawlessness among the tribes inhabiting the passes – Afridis and Kafirs as well as Ghilzais. ‘What did you do after you were robbed?’

‘I made my way south to Kandahar and eventually across the Helmand river into Persia, where I joined the shah’s army for a time.’

‘Did you never think of returning to your own country?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘No. There’s little for me there. My parents are dead – my elder brother has inherited my father’s estate. Besides … I love this land – I have ever since I came ashore with Sir Thomas. That’s why I returned here from Persia. I’m not ready to go home – at least not yet.’

Sir Thomas Roe … Shah Jahan had almost forgotten the spindly-shanked English ambassador whose
qorchi
Nicholas had been.

‘Nicholas, you were always loyal to me. To show my gratitude, I’ll appoint you a captain in my army headquarters – you’ll find some familiar faces there. Your knowledge of the shah’s army – especially his weaponry – will be useful. I suspect – indeed I know – he has ambitions to seize territory on the fringes of my empire. I’ve asked my eldest son to review my army’s preparedness. You can help him.’

‘I’d be glad to, Majesty. I remember Prince Dara well.’ Then Nicholas added more hesitantly, ‘I learned of the empress’s death while I was in Persia. I was truly sorry.’

Shah Jahan nodded but said nothing, then rose, signalling the interview was over.

Twenty-four hours later Shah Jahan looked round the familiar faces before him in his marble audience hall. This was the first time he’d summoned his full council since returning to Agra. Raising his hand to quell the hubbub of expectant conversation, he began to speak.

‘The tribes in the north think they can act with impunity, plundering our merchants in the passes leading to and from Kabul. I have heard first-hand accounts of their crimes and studied reports from my governor in the city. Perhaps these criminals believe I’ve been too preoccupied with the Deccan to notice their misdeeds … if so, they’ll soon discover their error. I’ll not tolerate their defiance. Unless our roads are secure, trade can’t prosper.’

All around, his counsellors were murmuring agreement. ‘Ashok Singh,’ Shah Jahan continued. ‘You proved your courage and ingenuity in the Deccan. I have chosen you to rid me of this menace. I’ve decided to place you in command of ten thousand troops – horsemen and musketeers. You will advance up through the passes and punish these bandits as they deserve. Execute the ringleaders, pull down their forts and villages and drive off their flocks. Make them understand that death and destruction are the only alternatives to accepting Moghul authority.’

‘I suspect the Persian shah has been offering the tribes money to stir up unrest. A show of force may make him think again,’ Asaf Khan said quietly.

‘I’m sure that’s right.’ Mumtaz’s father was growing more frail in body but his brain remained as acute as ever.

‘I’ll assemble my forces quickly so that we can complete our mission before the next cold season puts an end to campaigning. I have only one question: should I take cannon? We’ll move more speedily without them,’ Ashok Singh said.

‘What do you think, Kamran Iqbal?’ Shah Jahan asked.

‘I agree. They will only hold him up. If he needs cannon the governor can supply them from Kabul.’

It was good advice, even though his old comrade’s face looked drawn with pain. The stump of the arm he had lost at Lahore had never healed properly. ‘So be it, then. I’ll have the necessary instructions drawn up.’

Later, when the details of the campaign had been debated and agreed and his counsellors and commanders had departed, Shah Jahan sat for a while. He was glad he’d acted decisively. He mustn’t let his preoccupation with Mumtaz’s tomb make him neglect his empire’s security … Yet though he knew he’d sounded firm and authoritative, he’d felt curiously detached during the meeting. He’d been reminded of watching some puppets a group of travelling players from the east had once brought to his court. Cut from pieces of leather to resemble the outlines of men and women and mounted on sticks, the puppets themselves had been concealed by a silk screen behind which a row of oil lamps had been lit. Only their shadows had been visible as they went through their act. That was how he had felt – a shadow emperor, moving mechanically to create an illusion for his audience.

Was that how it would always be from now on? Trying to do what he must but always acting a part? He had once had such a desire for greatness. By discipline and effort he must force it to return.

S
eated beneath a scarlet awning on a specially constructed dais in the courtyard of the Agra fort, his commanders and courtiers before him, Shah Jahan listened to the clashing of cymbals and the beating of drums. For the first time since Mumtaz’s death two years ago he had permitted music at court. It was also the first occasion when he had laid aside his simple white mourning garb for rich clothing and jewels. His gleaming green brocade robes, the stiff jewelled belt round his lean waist and the ropes of gems round his neck and wrists felt unfamiliar and he had no pleasure in their splendour. But this was Dara Shukoh’s wedding day and, as Asaf Khan had reminded him, Mumtaz would have wished him to dress with imperial magnificence to honour the marriage of their eldest son, his grandson.

The cheering of the crowds outside the fort as well as the music told him that the groom and his brothers were approaching. An hour ago Shah Shuja, Aurangzeb and Murad had ridden to the mansion along the banks of the Jumna that he had given to Dara as a wedding present. Now all four brothers would be returning, Dara mounted on a splendid black stallion, and preceded by a hundred gold-sashed attendants carrying round trays laden with gems, gold and silver as well as mounds of vividly coloured spices – orange saffron and yellow turmeric – and scarlet pomegranates, purple figs and green guavas to symbolise the prosperous and fertile future that awaited the groom and his bride.

Sure enough, three trumpet flourishes announced Dara’s arrival and he entered, followed by his brothers. As Dara reached the dais, he glanced briefly at the carved screen high in the wall beside the throne through which his two elder sisters would be watching. Jahanara had been eager to be allowed to make the wedding arrangements and Shah Jahan had agreed. As she’d gone about the task, planning everything from the
pulaos
studded with dried fruits and nuts wrapped in gold leaf for the wedding feast to the whirling Rajasthani dancers in their bright spangled clothes, and the fireworks that at midnight would transform dark night into dazzling day, he’d been surprised how rapidly his daughter was growing in confidence and authority.

It was time for him to place the groom’s pearl marriage crown on Dara’s head. As Aslan Beg, limping more heavily than ever, stepped forward with the velvet cushion on which sat the crown, Shah Jahan rose. Taking the crown with both hands, he raised it high so all could see it, then placed it on his son’s head. ‘I ask everyone here to witness that I give my blessing to the marriage of my beloved eldest son to his cousin Nadira, the daughter of my half-brother Parvez. May God look kindly on their union and bless it with many healthy children and many years of great happiness.’ Then, taking Dara by the shoulder, he turned him to face the assembled courtiers. ‘I have something else to announce. I hereby appoint my son to the rank of commander of twelve thousand horse – the same rank my own father awarded me at his age.’

Shah Jahan saw the pleasure in Dara’s hazel eyes. Soon Shah Shuja too would wed and he would award him honours as well, but perhaps not with quite the same satisfaction. Dara was everything a son – and a Moghul prince – should be. He was a good swordsman and an accomplished wrestler who could outwit far heavier men. Yet he was also a scholar with the same fascination with science and the natural world as his grandfather Jahangir. By contrast, Shah Shuja’s chief interest was the pursuit of pleasure – natural enough in a young man, but too many of their Moghul forebears had died not at enemy hands but from their own weaknesses, Nadira’s father among them. Parvez had died young, a hopeless drunk.

Dara seemed free of such vices. If he continued to prove himself, perhaps he should soon declare him his heir. It was what Mumtaz would have wanted and surely only what Dara’s younger brothers would be expecting. It would bring the stability and certainty lacking in earlier generations, the absence of which had caused so much fraternal bloodshed and hazarded the empire. If he could achieve that it would be something he could be proud of and one of his most important legacies to future generations. Yet, he thought, his family was different from his forebears’ – his sons were full brothers, not half-brothers, and the bonds between them consequently deeper and stronger. Dara was only nineteen and his own rule still young. Perhaps after all he had no need to hurry to name a successor.

‘Majesty, the elephants are ready to begin their fight.’

Reining in his horse, Shah Jahan wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was pleased he could still compete with his sons in the sport of racing on horseback to be the first to spear a melon placed on the ground three hundred yards away on the banks of the Jumna. To the roars of the spectators clustered on the battlements of the Agra fort on this the fourth day of the celebration of Dara Shukoh’s wedding, he had challenged and beaten both Shah Shuja and Aurangzeb, albeit by the closest of margins in the case of Aurangzeb who, although two years younger, had outdistanced his brother and to Shah Jahan’s amusement had looked disgusted that he had not succeeded in beating his father, throwing his gauntlets into the dust.