But Makhdumi Khan clearly felt he had said enough. He gave an almost imperceptible bow of his head before turning to stride from the room.
All that afternoon there was frenetic activity on the riverbank across from Shah Jahan’s apartments. At first, he paid no attention. All his thoughts were focused on the son who was dead and the son and grandson who were still alive but incarcerated in Gwalior. Would Aurangzeb order pousta to be fed to Sipihr too? He wished Jahanara were here with him … he needed her good sense and compassion more than ever as darkness enveloped his family — a miasma conjured by Aurangzeb for reasons that he still struggled to comprehend. Ambition was one thing — it had driven the Moghuls to great as well as terrible deeds — but spite and vindictiveness were something else.
Sending Dara’s decomposing head had been an act of deliberate malice. Why did Aurangzeb hate him so much, and when had those feelings begun? Had they already been festering that day when Aurangzeb had defied his order to inspect the underground chamber of Dara’s mansion? At the time he had been too angry to consider what really lay behind his son’s strange behaviour … whether he had genuinely thought Dara intended to kill him and that his father would collude in his murder. Surely not. But Aurangzeb’s suspicions and insecurities ran deeper and further back than he had ever suspected. His humiliation and killing of Dara was calculated, cold-hearted revenge against his father as well as a brother he had envied and despised. It signalled a determination to rid himself of anyone who posed a threat. First Dara, then Murad. Who would be next? Probably Shah Shuja — wherever he might be — and his grandson Suleiman? Ever since Dara’s flight from Agra after the battle of Samugarh a good portion of Shah Jahan’s hopes had focused on Suleiman. He had longed to hear that his army was marching on Agra, but no more. Having slaughtered Dara, Aurangzeb wouldn’t hesitate to kill his eldest son, now his most serious rival for the throne. He wouldn’t care whether it was a clean death in battle or by the blade of a paid assassin creeping into Suleiman’s camp. One way or another Aurangzeb would have his way …
Shah Jahan remained deep in contemplation — all of it bleak and dark — until finally the raucous clamour outside grew too loud to be ignored any longer. He had no intention of going out on to his terrace where he might be observed, but looking through a carved jali screen he could see well enough what was happening. About two hundred feet away on the opposite side of the Jumna soldiers had almost finished erecting a large green silk pavilion edged with gold and supported by tall, slender poles striped green and gold. At each corner, the fabric was tied back on either side with golden cords on to which, from the bright sparkle, gems had been sewn. Beneath the canopy the troops had spread the earth with rich carpets while on the strip of ground between the pavilion and the river itself they were arranging more carpets in rows like prayer rugs in the mosque. Two jewelled incense burners shaped like crouching tigers and almost as large had been positioned on either side of the pavilion and thin trails of white smoke were already issuing from the tigers’ open jaws, inside which perfumed crystals must have been lit.
Curious crowds had already assembled. Straining to see what was going on, they were being held back by soldiers who had formed a cordon from one side of the canopy round its back to the other. Excited cries and shouts filled the air. He had long realised — even before the crowd roared their approval of Ismail Khan’s execution at the beginning of his reign — how fickle the people were and how short were their memories and loyalties. So many times he’d ridden at the head of his troops into the Agra fort while his attendants flung ornaments of beaten gold to his cheering subjects as they roared their enthusiasm for their ruler. Did a single person waiting so expectantly on the riverbank have a sympathetic thought to spare for their true emperor standing betrayed just across the river? Probably not. Like children craving entertainment and trinkets, not caring from whom they came, all their thoughts would be focused on the coming spectacle and Aurangzeb’s potential largesse.
What was Aurangzeb planning? It wasn’t too long before he had his answer. A large, flat-bottomed barge of a design Shah Jahan had not seen before came slowly into view from downstream, rowed by a dozen men whom Shah Jahan did recognise as imperial boatmen who crewed the vessels usually kept moored beneath the fort walls for the emperor’s use. Bare backs glistening with sweat in the late afternoon sun, they were straining at the oars not only because they were battling the current but because of the weight of a tall object covered with a piece of oiled cloth positioned in the middle of the boat. It was so heavy that the vessel seemed to ride low in the water. As the boatmen nudged the bow in at an angle against the far bank, soldiers ran forward to grab ropes the oarsmen flung to them and heaved the boat a little farther up on to the flat, muddy bank.
Soon soldiers climbed into the boat. One drew his dagger and began to saw at the thick ropes holding the object’s covering in place. It took some minutes before the ropes fell away and other men were finally able to pull off the oiled cloth. Shah Jahan gasped as he saw what it had been concealing. Facing towards him was his golden peacock throne. The twelve emerald-studded pillars supporting its domed roof blazed green in the sunlight. The gem-studded peacocks and trees set with rubies, diamonds, emeralds and pearls atop the pillars were dazzling.
For a moment a kind of pride pushed aside Shah Jahan’s troubles. He and he alone had created this fabulous thing, personally selecting the best jewels from the treasure of his empire. No ruler since the days of King Solomon had possessed such a throne … When the idea had first come to him at the start of his reign he had still been young and full of hope. For just a few moments he was that man again, with his glory days still ahead of him and his family around him, but then the feeling faded. His family had imploded. This was no longer his throne. A usurping son had stolen it from him. As he watched, two of the oarsmen lowered the front of the barge, which must have been specially constructed for this purpose. A group of soldiers edged behind the throne and began to push. Slowly and painfully they inched it forward. When at last it started to emerge from the boat on to the bank Shah Jahan could see that it had been placed on a wooden platform with rollers at either end. After twenty more minutes’ pushing, the throne was finally in place beneath the canopy, its gleaming, glittering front facing directly towards the fort.
Towards sunset, Makhdumi Khan had said … Glancing towards the horizon, Shah Jahan saw it wasn’t far off. As if on cue, moments later a series of strident trumpet blasts sounded, apparently from somewhere along the fort’s battlements. Then the great, silver-oared imperial barge — his barge — appeared from the same direction as the boat that had carried the throne. It had been re-gilded and banners of Moghul green fluttered from prow and stern, and its decks were deep with rose petals that drifted in the breeze like pink snowflakes. In the centre of the vessel shielded from the sun beneath a giant green umbrella stood Aurangzeb, dressed in cream-coloured robes with long ropes of pearls round his neck. On his head was the imperial turban with its white egret feathers and his fingers gleamed with gems. Everything about the way he was holding himself, from his straight back to his raised chin, suggested pride and authority.
Two more boats were following. Shah Jahan recognised nearly every one of the thirty bright-robed courtiers aboard. Some were Aurangzeb’s commanders and nobles but among them were men he had thought loyal to him, even a few who had helped defend the fort during the siege. Aurangzeb had bought them … or had they too simply bowed to the inevitable?
Saddened by the sight, Shah Jahan left the jali screen and walked the room, feeling a little like one of his hunting leopards restlessly prowling its cage — except that the leopards sometimes had the chance to run free. He might never know freedom again … But eventually, even though he knew that whatever he was about to witness could only bring him pain, further fanfares of trumpets followed by the booming of kettledrums drew him back to the jali screen.