‘You have a short memory, Bijapuran,’ replied Shah Jahan. ‘Once before you offered to surrender, then broke your word and innocents died. Today there’ll be no bargaining. Traitors have no right to the protection of a flag of truce, so be gone before I seize you.’ As the man rode quickly away, Shah Jahan glanced up into the sky. From the position of the sun it was still only early afternoon. By sunset, God willing, he would be victorious.
A ragged volley of enemy musket fire forty minutes later was the first sign that he had located the main body of Bijapurans. One ball hit a young Rajput a few yards to his left in the thigh and, blood pouring from his wound, the youth toppled sideways from his horse. Another rider cried out, then slumped forward in his saddle, dropping his lance. The mount of a third, hit twice in the throat, slowly collapsed, allowing its rider time to jump clear. For a moment the animal’s body twitched convulsively, its blood pumping into a puddle, before becoming still.
‘Keep low,’ Shah Jahan yelled, kicking his horse forward. Through the spindly bushes he could see a large encampment on to which most of the Bijapurans seemed to have fallen back. They had overturned their few baggage carts to use as barricades, but surrounded as they were, they didn’t seem to know how best to position them or on which side to take refuge. From all around came the cries of the advancing Moghul troops. The cordon had held and his men had advanced together just as he had planned, Shah Jahan thought as, determined to finish the campaign, fresh energy surged through him.
Yanking on his left rein, he swerved round a tent to slash at a Bijapuran musketeer struggling to reload. His blade caught the man’s right arm and dropping both his musket and his ram rod he screamed and turned to run. Shah Jahan struck again, cleaving the musketman’s back open to the bone. Looking round, he spotted a huge man in a yellow turban standing with his back to an overturned cart, a spear in his right hand. At that moment a Moghul cavalryman swept past and the man thrust his weapon hard into the horse’s stomach. It fell, trapping the Moghul rider beneath it by his thigh. As he struggled to free himself, the yellow-turbaned Bijapuran leapt on him and holding his already dripping spear in both hands raised it above his head. So intent was he on despatching his victim that he didn’t notice Shah Jahan until it was too late. Leaning low from his saddle, Shah Jahan cut with his sword into the nape of the man’s neck, half severing the head so that it flopped forward in a froth of blood as he fell.
But suddenly the world was spinning around Shah Jahan as he found himself flying through the air to land with a thud on the squelchy ground. Dazed and winded, he looked about to see his horse on its knees in the mud. It had clearly stumbled over the shaft of the overturned cart. His sword was lying a few feet away. Dragging himself to his knees he reached for his weapon but at that moment a boot caught him in the small of his back and sent him sprawling forward into a deep puddle. His mouth and nose filled with muddy water and he spluttered for breath. He tried to get up but felt a hand pull off his helmet, grab hold of his hair and force him face down into the water again. He was starting to choke and his lungs felt as if they were on fire. Gathering his remaining strength he tried to dislodge his attacker but the man was too strong, while every attempt to breathe just brought another mouth and noseful of muddy viscous liquid. With a last desperate effort he felt in his sash for his second dagger and managed to grip its hilt. Pulling it from its scabbard he lunged blindly upwards. The weapon cut through empty air. Blood pounding in his ears as if the drums were about to rupture, he tried again. This time the blade penetrated muscle. A startled, high-pitched scream followed and the hold on his hair relaxed.
Pushing his opponent from him and rolling sideways, he gulped in air. His enemy — tall and heavily built — was writhing doubled up on the ground, clutching at a wound in his left side. Taking a few more deep breaths Shah Jahan got up and staggered across to him, pulled him over onto his stomach and thrust his head into the same puddle where just a moment ago he had been struggling for his own life. Straddling the man, he pushed his head down as hard as he could into the liquid mud. The Bijapuran threshed and bucked, trying to dislodge him, but he held on. For some moments the man’s feet kicked furiously but then his body grew limp. Standing, Shah Jahan retrieved his sword. Then he stood for a moment, back against the overturned cart, trying to gauge the progress of the battle.
‘Majesty, are you all right? I lost sight of you in the fighting.’ It was Ashok Singh, leaning from his saddle.
‘That new horse of mine tripped and fell.’
‘Give me your hand, Majesty. Pull yourself up behind me. Even if the fighting’s nearly over it’s still safer on horseback than on the ground.’ Ashok Singh was right, Shah Jahan thought, though most of the bodies sprawled on the earth were Bijapuran and resistance seemed to be over. As he watched, four yellow-clad soldiers emerged from a tent and threw down their weapons while a few yards away a Moghul cavalryman pinioned a Bijapuran whose sword was still drawn to the side of a baggage cart with the tip of his lance.
‘Majesty. We have taken a number of prisoners. Are your orders still the same?’
‘Yes. Execute them. But do it quickly and cleanly.’
Their death agony would be short, Shah Jahan thought, gazing at the carnage around him, unlike the death of Mumtaz and the long agony of his own grief. He felt no joy in the death of his foes, just an overwhelming weariness and gratitude that the fighting was over and he was victorious. At last he could return to Agra to raise his monument to love — his love of Mumtaz.
Chapter 7
As he topped the crest of the low ridge, Shah Jahan signalled the column to halt and, shading his eyes, looked north towards Agra. The familiar sandstone walls of the fort glowed red in the noonday heat. In the centre of the plain extending from the bottom of the ridge to the outskirts of the city he could make out a long line of troops — some on horseback, others on elephants — coming to escort the Moghul emperor and his victorious army on the final mile of their journey home.
He would re-enter his fortress with fitting ceremony — drums would beat in the gatehouse and green banners flutter on the battlements — but he had ordered that there should be no throwing of flowers or showering of silver and gold coin, no processions of dancers and musicians, as there would have been if Mumtaz had still been at his side. Ever since Dara and Jahanara had accompanied her coffin back to Agra he had longed for the moment when he could follow. Now, the thought of riding alone up the fort’s familiar winding ramp to the imperial apartments, refurbished during his absence for an empress who would never see them, was inexpressibly painful.
Yet he must, it was his duty. His astrologers had named today as the most auspicious for his return for many weeks to come. Such things mattered to the people if not to him. Though he had lost his empress he must make it appear that an aura of good fortune still surrounded him and his dynasty. To reinforce the message he would ride slowly through the streets of the city to the fort accompanied by his sons. Dara Shukoh would arrive with the escort while Shah Shuja, Aurangzeb and Murad, dressed in the white of mourning as he still was and riding matched white horses with green trappings, were waiting just a few yards behind him, ready to take their place in the procession.
As soon as the ceremonials were over he would go by barge along the Jumna to inspect the progress on Mumtaz’s tomb. Ustad Ahmad’s reports had been buoyant. Narrowing his eyes, Shah Jahan looked beyond the fort and across the bend of the river, trying to identify the site, but it was masked by the dull apricot shimmer on the horizon.