Wheeling their horses, the two men rode at each other again, kicking their heels into the heaving flanks of their mounts to urge them on. This time Shah Jahan got in the first blow but the Bijapuran ducked beneath his slashing blade and as he did so thrust his weapon towards Shah Jahan’s breastplate. The armour proved its worth and the blow skidded off harmlessly. Again the two men wheeled and rode at each other. Again Shah Jahan was the quicker to strike — and this time decisively. His slashing blow caught his opponent under his unprotected chin, severing his windpipe and almost decapitating him. Without even a scream he fell backwards from the saddle.
Looking around him as he wiped the sweat from his face with his cotton neckcloth and tried to regain his breath, Shah Jahan saw through the dust and smoke that his men were heavily engaged. More and more rebels were joining the fray, including some Shah Jahan could see galloping from the village beyond the lagoon. It was becoming clearer and clearer that the Bijapurans had indeed been anticipating his arrival, concealing forces wherever they could including in the village huts. He had underestimated his enemy once more and now they were gaining the upper hand. He must do something before it was too late.
Among the fast approaching riders his eye was caught by a small band of no more than a dozen led by two soldiers carrying long Bijapuran gold banners forked like serpents’ tongues. At their centre was a horseman wearing a glistening breastplate almost the equal in splendour of his own, and a plumed helmet. This must be the Bijapuran general who, if reports were true, was one of the sultan’s several sons. If he could kill him that would blunt his enemies’ onslaught and give the Moghuls a much needed chance to regroup.
‘Those of you who can, disengage and rally to me,’ Shah Jahan shouted over the hubbub of battle to the men who were within earshot. As they began to do so, he charged towards the Bijapuran general and his entourage who were now less than six hundred yards away. His horse was blowing hard and there was a thick scum of white sweat on its neck but it was willing and began to outdistance the rest of his men.
In less than a minute he was among the Bijapuran group. His first blow bit deep into the unprotected left leg of one of the standard-bearers, catching him just above the knee and slicing through sinew and flesh to judder against the bone, almost jolting the weapon from Shah Jahan’s grasp. However, he held on to the hilt as the banner-bearer fell, dropping his golden standard into the dust. Another rider struck at Shah Jahan but the sword slid off his breastplate. Nevertheless, the force of the impact knocked the emperor back in his saddle. Within moments though, he had recovered his balance to see that he was in striking distance of the general. Putting all his weight into the stroke, he caught the man just beneath his glistening breastplate. Although he retained his seat on his horse, the general dropped his sword and doubled up clutching his belly. Quickly Shah Jahan aimed another thrust designed to finish him off, but as he did so he felt a crashing blow on his own head and his helmet falling. He put up a gauntleted hand in an attempt to steady it but his ears were buzzing, his thoughts scrambling and white stars and flashes appearing before his eyes and hampering his vision. He must get away from the conflict for a little to recover his senses.
Instinctively he kicked his mount forward, urging it on with his hands and heels. The willing animal gathered speed but then the flaring lights and the ringing in his head intensified. Overcome, he fell forward on his horse’s neck …
What was that plucking and pulling at him? He and Mumtaz were cocooned in the stars but something or someone was snatching at him, dragging him away from her. Mumtaz’s pale face held a look of horror and pleading. Then she seemed to recede into the velvet darkness. He couldn’t understand. Was she being pulled away from him and not him from her? It couldn’t be … he mustn’t let it happen. He tried to stretch out a hand, feeling a more distinct tug at his clothing. Someone was indeed clawing and probing at his body, pulling at his limbs, drawing him away from Mumtaz. ‘No, no,’ he muttered, jerking his head as he spoke. ‘Mumtaz, I will stay with you.’ Then he felt what could only be sharp-nailed fingers grasping at his throat.
Eyes opening but still dazed, he saw a blurred but gaunt face with hollow cheeks and bright eyes only inches from his own. Its lips seemed half open in surprise, open enough to reveal the blackened stumps of teeth. Strands of long grey hair were falling from the plait in which it was tied back. Thumbs were digging into his throat, seeking his Adam’s apple. The apparition was definitely trying to strangle him. Instinctively Shah Jahan brought up his hands and knocked the bony fingers from his throat. Then he grasped at the devil’s face. It felt surprisingly warm as it fought back, foul and sour breath polluting his nostrils. He wrenched the head back, twisting it as he did so. There was a crack and the apparition ceased to struggle and slumped forward on to Shah Jahan, warm saliva dripping from its slack mouth on to his face. Although light, the figure had some weight.
The pressure of it, together with the sensation of the spittle running down his cheek, cut into Shah Jahan’s brain, reviving him towards full consciousness. He pushed the body off him, his mind clearing and his eyes focusing. He sat up and looked about him. The sun was blazing from its midday zenith with dazzling ferocity. Except for the body he was alone in a coppice of leafless trees. Slowly, to his horror, Shah Jahan realised that the figure with its head twisted at an unnatural angle, tongue lolling and eyes staring, was a woman, an old woman what’s more. The edges of her tattered red sari were blowing in the breeze, exposing her bony ribcage and beneath it the slack skin crater where her stomach should have been. She must have been starving. He had killed her. Why? And why was he alone?
Slowly, splintered memories — weapon clashes, battle cries both of encouragement and of pain — coalesced in his mind. He remembered his headlong charge towards the Bijapuran camp, the drumming of his horse’s hooves and after a while his attack on the enemy general, but what had happened next? Finally came a recollection of a blow to his head, a memory of falling forward … His horse must have carried him several miles from the battle. He could neither see nor hear signs of conflict, nor, he realised with dismay, of his horse. Scrutinising the surrounding sandy ground he did make out some hoof prints. After he had fallen his horse must have wandered off. But how did the old woman fit in? Looking more closely at her corpse he saw on the ground beside it one of his rings — a large carved emerald — and yes, there was one of the silver clasps that had held on his light cloak, now carefully folded beside her. That must be it — she had been looting his body and when she had felt him stir attempted to kill him.
Clearly, the instinct to survive had overwhelmed any more feminine feelings of care and protection. That same instinct must account for her being alone. Had she left her village in search of food after the death of her family? Were they lying somewhere too weak to move? Or had they in fact abandoned her? Survival was truly paramount in the human mind. That was why she had tried to kill him … why he had killed her … why indeed, he reflected, he had had his half-brothers killed. Now he himself must strive to survive once more.
Picking up his cloak from beside the woman’s body he wound it roughly round his bare head to protect it, aching as it was from the fierce sun. The glint from his breastplate might betray him to searching enemies as well as burdening him as he walked. He quickly unbuckled it and, after scraping out a small depression in the sand, buried it. Then he looked at what he had assumed were his horse’s hoof prints. His mount seemed to have come from the northwest before he fell from the saddle, after which it had headed off to the south. Should he follow it and try to recapture it or should he retrace his steps in the direction of the battle? He should go after the horse, he reasoned. It would probably have stopped quite soon. Besides, the outcome of the fighting had been highly uncertain. He might be returning to the scene of his column’s defeat and face capture or death.