Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth (44 page)

Father and daughter were silent for a minute or two. Then Shah Jahan said, ‘There is some truth in what he writes. I was responsible for the deaths of my half-brothers, but they had to die for the safety of all of you – my children – and of the dynasty. They died so that my sons, full brothers, would never have to face the dangers I had to. I was never easy in my mind about their deaths. Now it seems it was all for nothing … the old cycle of blood, of father against son, of brother against brother, has begun again. I blame myself. I was complacent when I should have been vigilant. I believed the rivalries that have cursed the Moghuls for generations could never happen in my family.’

‘You couldn’t have foreseen Aurangzeb’s behaviour.’

‘You did – you tried to warn me about him!’

‘No. I was worried that you and he were drawing apart but I never dreamed his discontent would lead him to rebel against you or to kill Dara …’ Jahanara’s voice shook. Fighting to retain her composure, she turned back to the rest of Aurangzeb’s letter.

Hearing a movement, Jahanara looked up. Her father was on his knees before the leather-bound chest in which he kept his most precious possessions. Taking a key on a slender gold chain from round his neck, he opened the chest and then reaching inside began flinging out the contents – enamelled chains, necklaces of rubies, emeralds and diamonds and heavy gold bracelets. Out they all came to lie gleaming on the carpet.

‘Father, what are you doing?’

‘He has stolen my throne but some things will never be his … like Timur’s ring, which will go with me to my grave – or this!’ So saying he took out what he must have been searching for – a roll of dark green velvet. Clearing a space, he laid it down on the carpet and unrolled it to reveal a long, triple-stranded necklace of creamy, perfectly matched lustrous pearls. ‘My father gave me this when I won my first battle. It once belonged to my grandfather Akbar.’

Getting to his feet with some difficulty, with the pearls trailing from his right hand, Shah Jahan walked to the corner of the room and knelt down again, this time next to a large inlaid marble carpet weight. Spreading the pearls out in front of him, he picked up the weight with both hands and began pounding the pearls, crushing some to a powder while others, freed from the silk cord on which they’d been strung, went rolling across the floor.

‘Father … Father, please don’t!’ But Shah Jahan paid no attention to Jahanara. There was something frightening about his cold, concentrated expression as he continued to crush the pearls, sending up clouds of filmy white dust. When he had finished, he looked up at her, chest heaving with effort and tears in his eyes.

Roshanara stared into Jahanara’s face. ‘Timur’s ring must be found.’

An hour earlier Jahanara had been surprised to hear a fanfare of trumpets, and hurrying outside had been in time to watch the painted elephant carrying her sister in a closed silver howdah that had once been her own make its slow way into the
haram
courtyard. Roshanara was magnificently dressed in stiff gold-embroidered maroon silk. Gems glittered on her fingers and round her neck while a filet of twisted gold set with rubies was wound through her hennaed hair, which beneath the dye would be as grey as Jahanara’s own. Now she knew what had brought Roshanara back to the Agra fort after all these months.

‘I’ve already told you that I don’t know what Father has done with it. He’s surrendered the rest of his jewels … isn’t that enough?’

‘No. Timur’s ring is our greatest family heirloom. Aurangzeb says that Father must be brought to his senses.’

‘Is that why he has dismissed Makhdumi Khan and sent his head eunuch to be the new governor?’

‘Yes. He thinks that Makhdumi Khan was over-indulgent towards our father, encouraging his arrogance and his obstinacy. Itibar Khan understands his duty better.’

‘By refusing to allow our father to leave his apartments to walk in the gardens? By further reducing the number of his attendants? By restricting the length of my visits to him?’

‘Yes. It is all on Aurangzeb’s orders.’

‘It is vindictiveness and spite towards an old man – his own father.’

‘Aurangzeb won’t relent until he has the ring. You know how stubborn he can be.’

‘Father is stubborn as well, and he has cause to be. Can’t you and Aurangzeb understand how much the ring means to him? Aurangzeb has taken everything else – the peacock throne on which he now sits in the Red Fort in Delhi, the imperial treasuries, all the Moghul palaces and estates. Can’t he show enough greatness of spirit to be content? He pretends to be an emperor but he behaves like a
dacoit
preying on the weak and vulnerable.’

‘I have no voice in the matter. I came to the fort to see you because Aurangzeb asked me to. He believes you could make Father see reason if you wanted to. If you help him in this matter he will make your life more comfortable. Of course, if you refuse …’

‘Tell Aurangzeb I will try to persuade Father to give up the ring but not because of his promises or his threats. I will do it for Father’s sake. Every time Aurangzeb demands the ring Father becomes so agitated that I fear for him. I want him to live the remainder of his years quietly and peacefully with no further harassment – just as you should!’

Roshanara said nothing.

‘All these months I’ve waited for some word from you,’ Jahanara continued, her emotions rising. ‘Even if you didn’t wish to visit us, would it have hurt you to write a few words to me or to Father? You must have known how he would react to Dara’s death. Did you know Aurangzeb was planning to send Dara’s head to him? Imagine how he felt when he lifted it out of the bag and saw what it was … Couldn’t you have stopped Aurangzeb doing such a cruel thing, or didn’t you care?’

‘I didn’t know what Aurangzeb meant to do,’ Roshanara said slowly. ‘Believe me, if I had I would have tried to dissuade him. But don’t ask me to feel too sorry for Dara. Aurangzeb did what he had to for the sake of the empire.’

‘Aurangzeb did what was good for him as he’s always done – just as you’ve always done what was best for you. Why have you really come in your silks and jewels? To make me jealous? Do you think I envy your position as First Lady of the Empire, doing the bidding of a brother with blood on his hands? I just wonder at the woman you’ve become – no conscience, no charity, no compassion – as hard as those diamonds on your fingers.’

‘I have nothing to be ashamed of. If my presence is distasteful to you I will leave, though I have some news for you.’

‘What news?’

‘Our nephew Suleiman has been captured.’

Jahanara’s thoughts flew instantly to Shah Jahan. He would be grief-stricken. ‘How? What happened?’

‘After Dara’s arrest, Suleiman’s army deserted him. He himself tried to flee north but he was betrayed and handed over to one of Aurangzeb’s generals. He was brought to Delhi in chains and appeared before our brother in the Hall of Private Audience. I observed everything from the women’s gallery.’

‘What sentence did Aurangzeb pronounce?’ Jahanara’s voice was a whisper.

‘He was merciful. He has ordered Suleiman to be sent to the Gwalior fort.’

‘To be fed
pousta
like Murad?’

Roshanara didn’t answer. Then she said quietly. ‘There is something else you should know. Murad is dead.’

‘From the opium?’

‘No. The brother of Ali Naqi, the official murdered by Murad, petitioned Aurangzeb claiming he and his family had the right to compensation in blood or in money for his death. Aurangzeb acknowledged the justice of his case. He offered him gold but the man refused, insisting on a life for a life.’

‘And Aurangzeb agreed, of course,’ said Jahanara. How convenient to be able to get rid of a rival all in the name of the law. Perhaps he had even encouraged Ali Naqi’s brother to come forward …

‘Aurangzeb had no choice. He asked the man to forgive him for allowing brotherly sentiment to override duty and had Murad publicly beheaded. Afterwards, he rewarded the man for his determination to see his brother avenged and his refusal to be bought off. As Aurangzeb said, many would have been tempted by the gold.’

Jahanara’s mind was numb. As if from far away she heard Roshanara say, ‘But now I must leave. Send word to me about the ring.’ Then with a rustle of silk her sister was gone.

So Murad was dead … At least he had been spared the torments of
pousta
. But what about the captive Suleiman, perhaps even at this moment already on the long path to destruction by poppy … Her thoughts cleared. Nothing could be done for Murad, but she could still help her nephew. Timur’s ring must be traded for Aurangzeb’s promise not to harm him. Knowing her father as she did, she was certain he wouldn’t hesitate.

‘A
urangzeb has refused me. I thought he would. He writes that his campaigns in the south are costly and he can’t afford expensive building projects. He dismisses the idea as an old man’s fantasy and tells me not to raise the question again …’

Jahanara sighed. Though in her heart she’d known it was unlikely, she’d still hoped that Aurangzeb might be swayed. It had long been her father’s dream to construct a black marble counterpart of the Taj across the Jumna as his own tomb.

‘You mustn’t be sad, Father – not on your birthday.’ Jahanara had dressed carefully in her best silks and jewels and sent special instructions to the kitchens for the preparation of her father’s favourite dishes, even though she knew he’d not eat much. His appetite was growing smaller and smaller. Shah Jahan, though, would not be distracted.

‘Aurangzeb’s right, of course. I am old. No other Moghul emperor survived to this great age of mine. Akbar, the oldest, was over ten years younger than me when he died.’

‘Seventy-four is not so old, Father …’ But even as she spoke Jahanara thought how weary he looked – and how frail. As he neared his birthday Shah Jahan’s strong constitution had begun to weaken and the slow but irreversible decline into deep old age to set in. In the last few weeks he had scarcely ventured from his comfortable apartments overlooking the right-hand bend in the Jumna beneath the fort and beyond that the Taj Mahal.

How handsome and strong her father had once been as he rode out at the head of his army, but now his once muscular warrior’s frame was wasting away. Time had been unkind to him, as it was to most men, but in his case perhaps not as cruel as his own flesh and blood. In the seven years of Shah Jahan’s imprisonment Aurangzeb had not visited him once nor written a single spontaneous letter. Any important news had continued to come from Roshanara … It was from her sister that she and her father had finally learned of Shah Shuja’s disappearance on the eastern fringes of the empire. In his eagerness to escape Suleiman’s approaching army the prince had ventured into the swamplands ruled by wild Arakan pirates and never been seen again. Of the four brothers who had once been so close, only one had survived … Aurangzeb.

‘I was born under the sign of Libra …’ Shah Jahan was continuing. Jahanara guessed what was coming next. She had heard him say it many times before. ‘The conjunction of the planets at the moment of my birth was the same as at the birth of Timur. My grandfather named me Khurram, “joyous”. He said I was “a riband in the cap of royalty and more resplendent than the sun.”’ Shah Jahan looked up at her from the divan where he was resting and such a smile lit his face that for a moment the years rolled back to reveal the man he had once been. She was glad that he could take such pleasure in the past. The present sometimes seemed so bleak, even though Aurangzeb had honoured his promise to make their confinement more comfortable. Their apartments were well furnished and they had enough servants. But what could compensate for their loss of liberty? Often she found her father looking across the Jumna towards the Taj Mahal. It was his dearest wish to be allowed to visit Mumtaz’s tomb and walk in the gardens he himself had planted, but Aurangzeb had repeatedly refused to allow him to leave the fort.

‘Father, tell me that story again – the one about how my great-grandfather led you through the streets of Agra on the back of a baby elephant to the imperial mosque school to begin your education. I always enjoy hearing it …’

It wasn’t a lie. She enjoyed the stories of his boyhood only a little less than he did telling them. Now, as she listened to his soft, low voice, she saw before her a young boy – exactly four years, four months and four days old as tradition demanded – with Akbar by the side of his gorgeously caparisoned elephant, looking excitedly around him as the crowds cheered and flung rose petals … She pictured the beturbaned scholars, Hindus as well as Muslims, grouped at the entrance to the school, waiting to take the child inside so he could begin his education as an imperial prince.