‘Send Suleiman Khan to me at once,’ Shah Jahan told Rai Singh, who kicked his horse down the steep, sandy slopes to the river. While he waited, Shah Jahan surveyed the destruction more closely. Over half of the boat bridge stretching from the middle of the river to the far side was still intact, but the rest had broken apart except for three or four tall wooden posts used to tether the boats. The long barrel of a cannon was sticking out of the water while nearby floated the body of a white bullock still entangled in the traces attaching it to the gun carriage. Two more lay lifeless at the water’s edge. Was all this indeed the result of a deliberate attempt to slow his progress and endanger his men, or was it simply carelessness? He was not sure which he would find the more disturbing.
Anger and frustration were rising inside him as Suleiman Khan — a stout man — laboured up the dunes towards him, his tunic dark with sweat.
‘Majesty.’ He bowed his head.
‘Tell me the truth. Have you been negligent in your duties?’
‘Never, Majesty. This bridge was well and strongly constructed — I swear that on my life. We used good wood and the best rope. We completed it last night and I myself drove a heavy wagon across it to test its strength. The bridge broke up because someone tampered with it. Look, Majesty …’ Suleiman Khan produced two lengths of rope from a jute bag slung across his chest. ‘These were some of the smaller bridge ties we used close to the bank. See how the ends have been cut through — they’re not frayed by wear. We found them caught in the reeds, together with others similarly cut. When we retrieve some of the bigger hawsers, I’m certain we will find the same thing.’
‘Let me look.’ Shah Jahan inspected the ropes then handed them back. ‘You’re right. This was deliberate. Did the guards see anything last night?’
‘No, Majesty.’
‘Quadruple the guard and repair the bridge as quickly as possible. I will send soldiers to the surrounding villages to offer a reward for information about the perpetrators.’
As he galloped back towards the main column, Shah Jahan pondered what had happened. The rebels and invaders did indeed seem prepared to adopt unconventional measures. As his army approached the south, the risks would grow. He must be vigilant and ensure his men were as well. He would increase the size of the screen of lightly armed but well-mounted horsemen who surrounded the column as it marched. But how vulnerable was his camp? The imperial quarters were secure, he reassured himself as his thoughts turned to Mumtaz. After each day’s journey, she and their daughters were carried in their litters through the wooden gatehouse into an enclosure around which protective palisades had been set up. The walls were of thick, iron-studded oak panels draped with scarlet cloth and fastened together with leather straps.
What about the rest of the vast encampment? The tents of his senior commanders and courtiers were pitched around the royal enclosure. Beyond them radiated orderly lines of tents for their retinues and for Shah Jahan’s soldiers and an infinity of roped enclosures for all the animals. But beyond that lay a world of chaos — the thousands of camp followers who always followed an army. Merchants and horse dealers, musicians and dancers, acrobats, magicians and prostitutes — all hoping to find employment. It would be hard to prevent enemies from penetrating that noisy mass, but he must try. He would treble the number of guards who patrolled the camp as well as post pickets around its boundaries to stop and search anyone who looked suspicious.
Golden stars spattered the darkness as the first rockets soared skywards, leaving in their wake a shimmering veil like droplets of silver rain. His Chinese firework makers hadn’t failed him, thought Shah Jahan. This was indeed a display worthy of an empress’s birthday. Mumtaz, standing at his side by the haram tents, gasped as a great peacock spread its sapphire and emerald tail high above. Her pleasure lightened the dark mood that had descended on him since the incident at the crossing. So too did the knowledge that tomorrow the bridge repairs would be complete and he could recommence his advance after a thirty-six hour delay.
Savoury smells were rising from the campfires whose orange flames pricked the darkness. He had ordered thousands of sheep to be purchased and distributed to his men so they could feast. The imperial cooks had begun work even before the morning mists had lifted, plucking fowls, grinding spices, searching their sacks of provisions for the choicest dried apricots, cherries and plums, the best almonds and walnuts, to stir into the fragrant, delicate sauces of cream, ghee and saffron. His lame, elderly steward of the imperial household, Aslan Beg, had been hobbling about, checking the preparations, scolding the cooks and making sure that the correct gold and silver dishes had been unpacked and that the seals to be affixed in his presence to each dish before it was carried to the imperial table, to prevent any tampering with the contents, were ready.
He hoped Mumtaz would be able to do justice to the food. Though she denied it, he was convinced that her appetite — never large — had been diminishing. Her face sometimes looked pinched and the skin beneath her eyes bruised. But soon they would be ascending into the hills and perhaps she would revive in the cooler air.
As the last firework died in the heavens, he was aware of Mumtaz’s scrutiny. ‘What were you thinking about? You looked very serious.’
‘Did I? It was nothing.’
‘Are you sure? I know a messenger came to you earlier this evening. Did he bring some news about who damaged the bridge?’
‘Only that a few days ago three riders were seen close to the Chambal river — southerners from their speech — asking detailed questions about our movements and where we were likely to build our bridge. I’ve sent horsemen to look for them but I expect they’re long gone.’
‘You think they were from Golconda or Bijapur?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
‘Don’t worry too much. I know the delay is frustrating for you, but we’ll soon reach Burhanpur. Then the waiting will be over and you can confront your enemies in the field as I know you’re eager to do.’
‘You’re right. I want to conclude this campaign quickly. Rather than fighting to defend our present borders I want to expand our territories. Sometimes I think of reclaiming the homelands of my ancestor Babur … even of capturing golden Samarkand …’
‘The time for such ambitions will come, but one step at a time. Our enemies are strong. Take nothing for granted.’
Shah Jahan’s horse skittered sideways as a tangle of dried grass blew suddenly beneath its front hooves. The unusual movement jerked him from his reverie. Yesterday, the army had passed the dragon’s teeth battlements of the fortress of Asirgarh, high on its red sandstone escarpment, where he and Mumtaz had spent so many anxious months of exile. Here he had learned that his father had declared him an outlaw, placed a price upon his head and sent an army to hunt him down. Though Aslan Beg had suggested that the imperial family should spend the night within Asirgarh’s walls, he had chosen to sleep in the camp as usual — the fortress was not a place he wished to linger. And tonight they should at last reach Burhanpur. He could plan his campaign in earnest and Mumtaz would be able to rest.
At the thought of her, Shah Jahan wheeled his horse and galloped back to where the haram party was now travelling towards the rear of the main column for safety’s sake since they were getting closer to enemy-occupied territory. Mumtaz was travelling alone in a covered litter being carried on the shoulders of eight eunuchs. Seeing Shah Jahan ride up through one of the gold mesh grilles inset into the curtains, she sat up and called a greeting.