‘Yes, but he squandered his advantages, especially by being over-confident. He didn’t bother to woo powerful supporters like Khalilullah Khan — in his conceit he just assumed they’d follow him. But I knew Khalilullah Khan from our time campaigning in the north and I knew he could be, let’s say, “encouraged” to join us …’
‘These past days I’ve thought about Dara a lot … whether his death was necessary. He was our brother. There must have been other ways … exile, or a pilgrimage to Mecca?’
‘You were always kind-hearted as a child. It was him or us. If we’d let Dara live he’d only have plotted against us. The whole conflict might have reignited and more lives been lost.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘I know I am. Anyway, it’s done. Put it out of your mind. I took the decision alone and will answer for it.’
‘It’s ironic, isn’t it? Father criticised both of us for our handling of the campaign in the north yet we’re the ones who’ve ultimately triumphed. Perhaps he’ll now regret being so unfair.’ Murad took another swig before adding, ‘It’s a pity Shah Shuja isn’t with us. This is his victory as well and he’d have enjoyed our celebration. I’ve heard nothing from him. Have you?’
‘Not for a long time. But I’ve sent messengers east to find him and tell him the good news. Perhaps it will give him the backbone to deal with Suleiman.’
‘Backbone?’
‘Yes. By letting Suleiman defeat him and then fleeing he damaged our credibility.’
‘But in a way it worked to our advantage. Shah Shuja kept Suleiman in the east instead of returning to Agra. If Suleiman had joined forces with his father at Samugarh, the outcome might have been different.’
‘Perhaps … thought not ultimately. Suleiman has some of his father’s failings as well as some of his own … he’s impulsive as well as over-confident, and doesn’t think.’
‘So he’s not a threat?’
‘Not a serious one. Once news of Dara’s death reaches Suleiman’s camp, I expect some of his troops to desert and others to lose heart. It would be preferable if Shah Shuja can exploit that situation and defeat him. But if he doesn’t think he has the manpower, I’ve suggested that he bring his forces straight back to Agra. It’s time the three of us were together again so we can decide how to divide the provinces of the empire between us. But that’s enough serious talk for the moment … let’s eat.’
Murad held out his cup for an attendant to refill as others brought in dishes of roasted lamb, quails stuffed with raisins, pheasant breasts flavoured with saffron and pulaos sprinkled with dried cherries and apricots. For a while the two brothers ate, Murad hungrily and in quantity, Aurangzeb more sparingly. The sky, visible through the tent’s half-open flap, was filling with stars and a crescent moon was rising when Murad lay back with a grunt of satisfaction, took another drink from his wine cup and said, ‘You remembered my favourite dishes. I’m flattered …’
‘Of course, my pleasure-loving little brother. And I’ve arranged something else you like.’ At a clap of Aurangzeb’s hands a cloaked and veiled woman, face entirely concealed, entered the tent and touched her hand to her breast. ‘I’ll leave you alone to enjoy my gift — I understand she has skills you’ll appreciate. If you do, you can take her into your service? It’s getting late. Why don’t you spend the night with her here so that we can talk again in the morning?’
As Aurangzeb withdrew and the tent flap closed behind him, Murad beckoned the woman nearer. ‘Let me see your face.’ As she unfastened her veil, Murad saw brown eyes steadily regarding him. Without waiting for further instructions she pushed back her hood, revealing thick hair hanging loose.
Murad’s smile broadened. He loved voluptuous women, as his brother well knew … Aurangzeb really was showing his appreciation.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Zainab.’
‘Well, Zainab, let’s see whether you can fulfil my brother’s promises …’
Swaying slightly with the effects of the wine, Murad rose to his feet and reaching out released the single clasp of her cloak, which slid to the floor revealing her naked body, skin gleaming like marble and the nipples of her full high breasts painted golden. Stepping closer, Murad ran his hands down her body, exploring the curves of her slender waist, the soft swell of her buttocks, and buried his face in that glorious hair, which smelled of jasmine. She was perfect … With one hand still gripping her right buttock, with his other he reached between her legs.
‘Wait, my prince — let me massage you first. It will heighten the pleasure, I promise you. Your brother told you I have special skills … he wants me to use them to please you … don’t disappoint him.’
Intrigued, Murad released Zainab and nodded.
‘Good. You won’t be sorry. First, let me undress you.’ Swiftly she removed his clothes and when he too was naked looked at him appraisingly for a moment, then smiled. ‘Any woman would be glad to spend the night with you … Come, lie face down on those cushions.’
As Murad did so, he felt Zainab straddle him. Then she began gently to caress his shoulders with her breasts, brushing her nipples back and forth against his skin. At the same time he felt her begin to move her hips, rubbing his lower back with the most intimate part of her body and making him groan aloud. ‘See, didn’t I tell you how good it would be? Soon it will be your turn to pleasure me, my prince, but not too soon …’ As she leaned forward, her thick hair fell over him like a scented curtain. From somewhere outside in the camp rose the trumpeting of an elephant, but Murad was oblivious of everything now except the feel of Zainab’s warm, voluptuous body moving against his, and closing his eyes he gave himself up to her.
Drowsy with wine and pleasure, it took him some moments to realise that Zainab had climbed off him and he stretched languorously. What now? Did she have some other way of heightening his anticipation or had the time for the climax arrived? Turning over, he looked up, but the eyes regarding him steadily weren’t wide and female but narrow, black and male. ‘What …?’
Before he could say anything further, a voice from the direction of the tent entrance called out, ‘Seize him!’ Alert too late to the danger, Murad tried to rise, but as he did so the black-eyed man who had been looking down at him put the tip of his dagger to his throat while two other men came out of the shadows to pinion his arms. He opened his mouth to call for his escort, hoping that at least some might be in earshot, but the man pushed his dagger point into his skin, drawing blood, and bent lower over him.
‘Don’t resist!’
‘How dare you! How did you get in here? Where’s my brother?’
‘He doesn’t want to see you. We’re his men. He left to take control of your camp. And you’re going on a journey as well — a longer one.’ Then, glancing quickly round at his two companions holding Murad down, the man said, ‘Get him on his feet, quickly.’
As the men hoisted the dazed and unresisting Murad up and began bundling him into clothes that he realised dimly weren’t his own but like the guards’ own uniform, the man with the dagger strode over to the tent flap and, opening it far enough to reveal a black triangle of night sky, peered briefly outside.
‘Good.’ He nodded, then said to the two guards, ‘Take him outside. The elephants are waiting. You know what to do.’
‘Fetch my sword Alamgir!’ Shah Jahan ordered a startled qorchi, who immediately hurried from his private apartments. Though previously he had considered giving the Moghuls’ ancestral sword — the weapon first brought to Hindustan by his ancestor Babur — to Dara, a feeling that it would be a bad omen to part with it while he still reigned on the peacock throne had stopped him.
A few minutes later, as he once more held the sword in his hands, feeling its ornately fashioned eagle hilt — strong as well as beautiful — and admiring the red glitter of the bird’s ruby eyes, he was glad. Tomorrow, with Alamgir in its jewelled scabbard at his waist and Timur’s heavy gold ring on his finger, he would ride into battle perhaps for the last time. Whatever happened to him — even death — it would be good to feel a man and a warrior once more and to wield that perfectly balanced weapon again. As he had done so many times before on the eve of conflict he ran a finger along one edge of the steel blade. If it cut his skin he would know it was sharp enough. He pressed his right forefinger gently on to it but no bead of blood appeared. ‘Send this to my armourer for sharpening,’ he ordered the qorchi.