Was that how it would always be from now on? Trying to do what he must but always acting a part? He had once had such a desire for greatness. By discipline and effort he must force it to return.
Chapter 8
Seated beneath a scarlet awning on a specially constructed dais in the courtyard of the Agra fort, his commanders and courtiers before him, Shah Jahan listened to the clashing of cymbals and the beating of drums. For the first time since Mumtaz’s death two years ago he had permitted music at court. It was also the first occasion when he had laid aside his simple white mourning garb for rich clothing and jewels. His gleaming green brocade robes, the stiff jewelled belt round his lean waist and the ropes of gems round his neck and wrists felt unfamiliar and he had no pleasure in their splendour. But this was Dara Shukoh’s wedding day and, as Asaf Khan had reminded him, Mumtaz would have wished him to dress with imperial magnificence to honour the marriage of their eldest son, his grandson.
The cheering of the crowds outside the fort as well as the music told him that the groom and his brothers were approaching. An hour ago Shah Shuja, Aurangzeb and Murad had ridden to the mansion along the banks of the Jumna that he had given to Dara as a wedding present. Now all four brothers would be returning, Dara mounted on a splendid black stallion, and preceded by a hundred gold-sashed attendants carrying round trays laden with gems, gold and silver as well as mounds of vividly coloured spices — orange saffron and yellow turmeric — and scarlet pomegranates, purple figs and green guavas to symbolise the prosperous and fertile future that awaited the groom and his bride.
Sure enough, three trumpet flourishes announced Dara’s arrival and he entered, followed by his brothers. As Dara reached the dais, he glanced briefly at the carved screen high in the wall beside the throne through which his two elder sisters would be watching. Jahanara had been eager to be allowed to make the wedding arrangements and Shah Jahan had agreed. As she’d gone about the task, planning everything from the pulaos studded with dried fruits and nuts wrapped in gold leaf for the wedding feast to the whirling Rajasthani dancers in their bright spangled clothes, and the fireworks that at midnight would transform dark night into dazzling day, he’d been surprised how rapidly his daughter was growing in confidence and authority.
It was time for him to place the groom’s pearl marriage crown on Dara’s head. As Aslan Beg, limping more heavily than ever, stepped forward with the velvet cushion on which sat the crown, Shah Jahan rose. Taking the crown with both hands, he raised it high so all could see it, then placed it on his son’s head. ‘I ask everyone here to witness that I give my blessing to the marriage of my beloved eldest son to his cousin Nadira, the daughter of my half-brother Parvez. May God look kindly on their union and bless it with many healthy children and many years of great happiness.’ Then, taking Dara by the shoulder, he turned him to face the assembled courtiers. ‘I have something else to announce. I hereby appoint my son to the rank of commander of twelve thousand horse — the same rank my own father awarded me at his age.’
Shah Jahan saw the pleasure in Dara’s hazel eyes. Soon Shah Shuja too would wed and he would award him honours as well, but perhaps not with quite the same satisfaction. Dara was everything a son — and a Moghul prince — should be. He was a good swordsman and an accomplished wrestler who could outwit far heavier men. Yet he was also a scholar with the same fascination with science and the natural world as his grandfather Jahangir. By contrast, Shah Shuja’s chief interest was the pursuit of pleasure — natural enough in a young man, but too many of their Moghul forebears had died not at enemy hands but from their own weaknesses, Nadira’s father among them. Parvez had died young, a hopeless drunk.
Dara seemed free of such vices. If he continued to prove himself, perhaps he should soon declare him his heir. It was what Mumtaz would have wanted and surely only what Dara’s younger brothers would be expecting. It would bring the stability and certainty lacking in earlier generations, the absence of which had caused so much fraternal bloodshed and hazarded the empire. If he could achieve that it would be something he could be proud of and one of his most important legacies to future generations. Yet, he thought, his family was different from his forebears’ — his sons were full brothers, not half-brothers, and the bonds between them consequently deeper and stronger. Dara was only nineteen and his own rule still young. Perhaps after all he had no need to hurry to name a successor.
‘Majesty, the elephants are ready to begin their fight.’
Reining in his horse, Shah Jahan wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was pleased he could still compete with his sons in the sport of racing on horseback to be the first to spear a melon placed on the ground three hundred yards away on the banks of the Jumna. To the roars of the spectators clustered on the battlements of the Agra fort on this the fourth day of the celebration of Dara Shukoh’s wedding, he had challenged and beaten both Shah Shuja and Aurangzeb, albeit by the closest of margins in the case of Aurangzeb who, although two years younger, had outdistanced his brother and to Shah Jahan’s amusement had looked disgusted that he had not succeeded in beating his father, throwing his gauntlets into the dust.
Turning his sweat-scummed horse, Shah Jahan could already hear the trumpeting of the elephants in the enclosure built specially for their fight a little further along the riverbank. As he rode up, accompanied by Ashok Singh, he signalled the mahouts to remove the green silk scarves tied over their elephants’ eyes and for the fight to begin. His mount whinnied nervously as the two elephants, facing each other across the great wall of earth that divided the enclosure and separated them, raised their trunks and bellowed defiance at one another. Shah Jahan whispered reassuring words to his horse and tautened his reins, gripping harder with his knees. As he did so he saw that Aurangzeb and Shah Shuja had already arrived and were seated on their horses a little in front of him, just by the enclosure wall. The lances they had used in their previous contest with him were slung from their saddles. Dara was watching from the opposite side of the enclosure with Asaf Khan.
At first Damudar — a huge beast with sharpened tusks and a scarred trunk, named after one of Akbar’s most famous fighting elephants — seemed to be having the best of it. Goaded by his mahout he mounted the internal dividing wall, dislodging some of the earth, to strike at his opponent Jhalpa, inflicting a long jagged slash in his tough grey shoulder. Ashok Singh’s father, the Raja of Amber, had sent both animals to Dara as a wedding gift. Rising up on his hind legs, Damudar inflicted a second gash, but then, as he hurled himself forward yet again, he slipped on the crumbling earth of the wall and crashed sideways to the ground, sending his mahout flying through the air like a child’s doll to hit the hard ground with a crash, where he lay crumpled and seemingly unconscious as a pool of crimson blood grew around his head. Seeing his chance and urged on by his own mahout perched on his neck, Jhalpa pushed forward despite his wounds. Red-painted trunk coiled, he trampled through what remained of the earth barrier before, lowering his head, he tore into the recumbent Damudar’s right ear with his tusk, half severing it.