Blood dripping down the side of his head, Damudar staggered up and stood swaying and trumpeting defiance, but Jhalpa was again quicker to react, swinging his great domed head at Damudar and this time catching his opponent in his left flank. Suddenly, Damudar seemed to have had enough. Turning, he lumbered towards the wall of the enclosure close to where Shah Shuja and Aurangzeb were watching. Twisting slightly, he hurled his right shoulder against it. Though the wall was five feet high and almost as thick, as Damudar struck it for a second and then a third time the red earth crumbled under the pressure. The mahout-less elephant blundered out of the enclosure and on to the riverbank and began to lurch towards a group of spectators who were on foot.
Frightened once more by the elephant’s appearance, Shah Jahan’s horse began to rear. As he fought to control it, Shah Jahan saw Aurangzeb kick his own mount forward, endeavouring to put it between the enraged animal and the onlookers, several of whom had children on their shoulders, and most of whom appeared rooted to the spot by fear. Something about Aurangzeb — perhaps the flash of the diamonds in his turban or the metallic clinking of his mount’s jewelled bridle — caught Damudar’s attention and he turned his bloodstained head towards him. Then, curling up his trunk, he gave a deep roar and charged.
‘Aurangzeb, get back,’ yelled Shah Jahan as Damudar lumbered towards his son, who was surely about to be knocked from his horse and trampled or gored.
Yet the fifteen-year-old Aurangzeb looked far from frightened. Controlling his horse with one hand, with the other he reached down to the side of his saddle where his lance was tied and tried to pull it free. But before he could do so, Damudar was on him, catching his horse a glancing blow in the shoulder with the tip of his right tusk, causing it to rear and throw Aurangzeb backwards from the saddle. Somehow he managed to get to his feet and draw his sword while attendants began hurling firecrackers at Damudar in an attempt to drive him off. As acrid smoke filled the air, Damudar appeared to hesitate as if confused by the explosions.
‘Shah Shuja, no!’ shouted Shah Jahan, still struggling to prevent his bucking horse from bolting, as his second son rode into the drifting smoke brandishing his own lance, followed immediately by Ashok Singh. As Shah Shuja flung his weapon — which bounced harmlessly off Damudar’s thick hide — his skittering horse tripped over some obstacle hidden by the smoke and fell, sending Shah Shuja too tumbling to the ground. Ashok Singh wheeled his mount and succeeded in interposing himself between the two unhorsed princes and Damudar. But then came a thundering so great that the earth seemed to shake. Jhalpa, having dislodged his own mahout who up till then had been struggling to control him, pushed through the gap in the enclosure wall made by Damudar, seemingly determined to get at his enemy. Turning, Damudar for a moment stood his ground, head down, but then his courage failed him again and with a desperate trumpeting roar he rushed down the riverbank and into the Jumna, pursued by Jhalpa, as spectators scattered before them.
Shah Jahan flung himself from his quietening horse and ran towards his sons. Both were now on their feet, covered in dust and breathing hard but looking unharmed. For a moment Shah Jahan closed his eyes in silent gratitude and then he embraced them. ‘You both showed great courage. You were true bahadurs, heroes. You too, Ashok Singh.’
‘It was no more than my duty to intervene, Majesty. Damudar was a gift from my father.’
Shah Jahan turned back to his sons. ‘Aurangzeb — you were too rash. You shouldn’t have tried to fight the elephant alone but waited for some of the bodyguards to join you.’
Aurangzeb shrugged. ‘There wasn’t time and I wasn’t rash. Yes, I knew there was a risk but I wanted to protect the spectators. If I’d died there would have been no dishonour. Death comes to us all. What matters is how we meet it. The shame would have been in doing nothing.’ As he spoke he glanced towards Dara, on the other side of the enclosure, jaw set in that way he had when he wanted to make a point. What was Aurangzeb implying? That his eldest brother was a coward for not having tried to intervene? If so it was unfair. Dara had been too far away. But surely it was nothing — just the conceit of an adolescent boy embracing the glory of the moment and unable to resist a snipe at an elder brother. He mustn’t let memories of past family rivalries make him see anything more sinister in it.
Chapter 9
Shah Jahan’s eyes were closed as he thrust harder and harder, throwing back his head at the exquisite moment of release. Then, panting, he collapsed on to the Baluchi woman’s soft-fleshed body which like his was beaded with sweat. She was voluptuously beautiful, he thought, with her full breasts and lushly rounded hips. Her shinning hennaed hair spilled over the brocade cushions and her kohl-rimmed eyes looked confidently into his. She thought she had pleased him.
The khawajasara, the superintendent of the imperial haram, had chosen well. ‘What are your tastes, Majesty?’ she had asked. ‘Slender or curvaceous? Tall or short? Dark or fair?’ Shah Jahan had stared at her. In all his years of marriage to Mumtaz he had never asked for a woman from the haram. Other rulers — eager for the Moghul emperor’s favour — had sent him women but until recently he had never given them a thought. ‘You choose for me,’ he had replied. ‘I don’t care.’
For a long time after Mumtaz’s death he’d never even thought of having a woman, but latterly he’d felt the stirrings of physical desire which had grown stronger until he had decided he must satisfy it.
‘Majesty, you are a stallion among men,’ the woman was saying, stretching her body invitingly before him. ‘I have never known such vigour …’
Shah Jahan rolled from her and standing up looked at her with a feeling bordering on disgust — but with himself, not her.
‘What is the matter? You look displeased, Majesty.’ She too rose from the bed and moving towards him pressed her naked body against his own so that he could feel the tautness of her henna-painted nipples. ‘Have I offended you?’
Despite himself, Shah Jahan felt a fresh surging in his loins and her soft laugh told him she had detected it as well. ‘Perhaps I haven’t displeased you after all.’ Her hands were caressing him and suddenly he was pushing her back on to the bed, burying his face in the tangled masses of her scented hair as once again he entered her. This time the climax took a little longer and as he pulled away from her to lie face down, head in his arms; his body was still shaking, but no longer with the dying moments of sexual fulfilment. Tears pricked his eyelids. What had he done? How could he have betrayed his unique and sacred love for Mumtaz?
‘Go now,’ he said, not raising his head as self-loathing welled within him again.
‘Majesty?’
‘I said go. I’ve no further use for you.’
‘He barely eats and his qorchis say that despite his proclamations of abstinence he sometimes calls for wine and has ordered fresh supplies to be sent from the province of Ghazni. Occasionally he dissolves pellets of opium in it … Four mornings ago his attendants found him almost impossible to rouse for his daily appearance to the people on the jharoka balcony. They had to half carry him on to the balcony and a qorchi supported him on each side as he gave the blessing. Sometimes he can go weeks without touching either wine or poppy but even then Aslan Beg can’t get him to deal with court business. Instead he sits for hours staring into the middle distance without saying anything and rebuking anyone who dares approach him. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I do what I can. I’ve talked to him but though he is never sharp with me he takes little notice.’ Jahanara shook her head.