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.