His jewellers would be busy too, creating a glorious takht-i-taus, a peacock throne, like that from which the great King Solomon once dispensed justice. He had allocated two thousand pounds of the purest gold and personally selected the finest gems in the Agra treasury, finding an almost sensuous pleasure in their glittering colours. He was determined his campaign would prosper. When it did he would return with fresh supplies of diamonds from the mines of Golconda, their sole source, and would have some inlaid into each of the three steps leading up to the throne’s seat so that he would symbolically trample his enemies underfoot every time he mounted them.
Raising his sword once more in salute to his departing troops, Shah Jahan turned and left the balcony. He must go to Mumtaz. Entering the courtyard of the haram, he saw her gilded and curtained litter and the eight eunuchs who were to carry it waiting ready. A few moments later, Mumtaz herself appeared, followed by fifteen-year-old Jahanara and twelve-year-old Roshanara.
‘I’m glad you’ve decided to use the litter — in your condition it’s safer than riding on an elephant.’
‘You advised it so often I could hardly disagree.’
‘Something else. For the moment at least it’s best that you and the haram party take a parallel route to avoid the thick dust the main column will raise. I’ve ordered eunuchs to walk beside your litter to cool you with peacock-feather fans and others to sprinkle the road ahead with rosewater. And you will be well protected. Five hundred of my best Rajput cavalrymen will escort you.’
‘You fuss and worry too much about me.’
‘Because I know a long and arduous journey lies ahead of us.’
‘It’s of my choosing. I’m stronger than you seem to think, as I’ve proved to you before. At least at the end of each day’s journey I will be there to bid you “mubarak manzil”, “welcome”.’
‘I think we should increase our pace — the more days that pass, the more we allow our enemies to consolidate their position.’ Malik Ali’s long face was earnest. ‘In this terrain we could easily manage at least five … even ten miles a day — more.’
‘But why? According to despatches I received this morning, Zafir Abas has successfully withdrawn our forces back to Burhanpur with far fewer casualties than we anticipated. For some reason the forces of Bijapur and Golconda did little more than harry our rearguard.’ Shah Jahan glanced around at the members of his war council, sitting in a semicircle around him in the canopied tent.
‘Why haven’t they followed up their advantage? I suspect a trick,’ said his quartermaster Sadiq Beg, a grey-bearded veteran from the mountains of Baluchistan, taking an almond from the brass dish in front of him and crunching it with relish.
Shah Jahan shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It’s difficult to think of what sort. More likely their early success surprised them as much as it did us and now they’re arguing over their next move. Bijapur and Golconda have never made easy allies. Their jealousy and hatred of ourselves only exceeds a little that they have of each other. But there is some other news … It seems that the invasion has encouraged one or two vassals within our southern borders to attempt to reassert their independence. My governor in Mandu reports that in the province of Mirapur the local raja hanged three Moghul tax collectors from a banyan tree and left their bodies swinging as meat for the vultures before leading his men to join our enemies.’
‘Aren’t such risings alone reason enough to push on as fast as we can?’ Malik Ali persisted.
His master of horse was like a small dog refusing to let go of a rat, thought Shah Jahan. ‘Some such risings were almost inevitable, and as long as they remain small in scale and few in number our existing forces should be able to suppress them and punish the foolish perpetrators for their insolence. The raja in Mirapur is a bit of a special case. He is nearly in his dotage and is said to be ruled by his new young wife — a member of the Bijapur royal family. She was always likely to push him to join the rebels. If we have real cause, we will of course hasten our march or detach an advance force to the Deccan. As it is, we’re making better progress than I’d hoped. Rushing south would only exhaust our troops and pack animals so that they would need more time to recuperate before attacking the invader than if we proceed at a sensible pace. So, eager as I am to defeat our enemies quickly, we’d gain little advantage from increasing our speed.’
Sadiq Beg nodded. ‘Yes. Let our enemies wait … let them do the sweating. Give the rulers of Golconda and Bijapur time to contemplate their folly. Let them fall out with each other about who shall take precedence on the march and whose tent pride of place in the camp.’
Shah Jahan turned in his howdah to glance back over his shoulder. Behind, as far as the horizon, hung a heavy curtain of dust but through it he caught the occasional glitter of the long, broad-headed lances of the mounted rearguard. The very earth seemed to shudder beneath so many feet, animal and human. From all along the line came the wail of long-stemmed trumpets and the steady beat of the mounted drummers whose job was to help the army maintain its pace. His officials measured the length of each day’s march with a piece of knotted rope and reported to him each evening. After six weeks they were approaching the town of Ujjain, over two-thirds of the way to Burhanpur. Tomorrow would be Mumtaz’s birthday. In his mind he yet again went over the arrangements for the celebrations he was planning in the camp. Every detail must be perfect …
Suddenly Shah Jahan heard fast approaching hooves. A lone rider burst from a patch of scrub to his right and galloped towards him. At once his bodyguard closed ranks around his elephant, drawing their swords. But as the rider drew closer and reined in, Shah Jahan recognised the hawk-nosed features of one of his chief scouts — a young Rajput named Rai Singh — and gestured to his guards to let him approach. The scout slid from the saddle and touched his hand to his breast.
‘What’s happened? Speak!’
‘A serious incident, Majesty. The wood and boat bridge we constructed over the Chambal river broke up as the first artillery and baggage wagons of the vanguard were crossing. Some of our men have drowned and we’ve lost two cannon and their bullock teams.’
‘The bridge can’t have been properly built. Who was the officer responsible?’
‘Suleiman Khan. But, Majesty, he says there was nothing wrong with the bridge’s construction. He believes someone deliberately cut through the bridge’s rope bindings and ordered me to inform you at once.’
Sabotage? If so, this wouldn’t be the first time it had happened, thought Shah Jahan. Two weeks ago someone had crept into one of the animal enclosures and hamstrung some of the oxen. They had been discovered lowing piteously and close to death from loss of blood. There had been no alternative but to slaughter them for the pot. He had put that incident down to some local malcontent, but perhaps the invaders had despatched men north to harry his army’s movement. ‘Bring me my horse,’ he ordered.
Ten minutes later Shah Jahan was galloping by Rai Singh’s side towards the Chambal. As he breasted the dunes bordering the river’s northern shore, a pair of herons took fright and soared, slender legs trailing, into the hot blue sky. Shah Jahan’s attention though, as he reined in, was focused on the river below him. His soldiers were struggling in the fast-flowing green waters among a moving jumble of twisted wood and capsized boats to retrieve equipment and supplies and to prevent further damage to the bridge. Other boats had drifted a little downstream only to become enmeshed with floating debris in the thick clumps of reeds. As he watched, two men clambered up the slippery bank dragging a comrade whose face was contorted with pain and whose limp and bloodied arm had clearly been crushed. Two more men were carrying a rough wooden stretcher along the riverbank. On it lay a body, arms dangling. Further along the bank what seemed to be several corpses were piled up, feet protruding from beneath the rough cotton cover that had been thrown over them.