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.