Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne (20 page)

After another pause during which Iqbal Beg wiped his tears with his face cloth and slowly regained his composure, he continued. ‘Having forestalled any organised resistance, Malik Ambar’s men then divided themselves into three groups. The first concentrated on killing as many of our war elephants as possible, thrusting lances deep into their mouths or simply slashing through their trunks, without which they can’t live. The second group carried off the money from the baggage wagons my son had died defending as well as as much equipment as they could, and the third
fired our tents using brands from our own cooking fires. Then they withdrew as quickly as they descended. We had lost too many men and in truth too much confidence to pursue them. We could do nothing but pull back to recoup our strength.’

‘How were you so easily surprised?’ Jahangir asked sternly.

‘They attacked over hills that we thought were impassable to large bodies of men.’ The officer dropped his eyes. ‘I must confess, Majesty, they knew the terrain much better than we did.’

‘And my son, Parvez?’

‘He was still in his tent when the attack began. His bodyguard were alert and armed as they are at all times. They defended your son’s quarters well. Besides, Malik Ambar preferred easier targets. We should have done better . . . I am truly sorry, Majesty.’

‘I know that you are and I grieve with you for your son. What is past is gone. We must turn our minds to revenging ourselves on Malik Ambar and driving him from our lands. Let each of us consider how best this can be done. We will resume our discussions in the morning.’

As the war council broke up, Jahangir called Khurram back. ‘This defeat is an insult that must be avenged. If it is not, other neighbours or even rebellious vassals may take their cue from it. I am recalling Parvez. He has no head for war, and although Iqbal Beg is too honourable to mention it, if the reports from some of my other officers are true, he seldom has a sober moment. I fear his failure to post sufficient pickets and his lingering in his tent when his men were already awake and outside may both have had their cause in his drinking. He begged me for the command and
I gave it to him, hoping the responsibility would be good for him, but I was wrong.’

Khurram said nothing. Though only two years separated him and Parvez, they had been brought up in different households and had never been close. Jahangir continued, ‘I have decided to send you in his stead to command the imperial armies. The empress says, and I agree with her, that you are far more able. Prove yourself against Malik Ambar and more honours will follow.’

‘I won’t fail you, Father,’ Khurram said, hardly able to contain his excitement at being given his first independent command.

‘Good. From now on until you depart – which I wish to be as soon as fresh forces and equipment can be made ready to accompany you – I want you to attend every meeting of the war council.’

Khurram’s euphoria lasted all the way from the Agra fort to the gates of his own mansion, where at the thought of what he must say to Arjumand it evaporated. Their daughter Jahanara was barely two years old. The idea of leaving them both was almost unbearable. And what would Arjumand say? But this was the chance for which he had been hoping and he must seize it. If he couldn’t face Arjumand how could he face the enemy? he asked himself as he headed towards the
haram
apartments.

Arjumand was waiting for him as usual. She was wearing a pair of diaphanous blue trousers and a tight-fitting
choli
which left her midriff bare, and in her navel glinted a blue topaz set with diamonds. He thought he had never seen her
look more beautiful, though perhaps that was because he knew that very soon he would be denied the luxury of looking at her.

He kissed her lips then took her hands in his. ‘Arjumand. My father has conferred a great honour on me. He has appointed me commander of the imperial forces fighting the rebels in the Deccan. If I do well I think there is a good chance he will publicly name me his heir . . .’

For a moment she was silent but then said gravely, ‘I am very proud of you. You will exceed your father’s expectations. When must you go?’

‘Soon. That is my only regret . . . that I must leave you and our daughter behind.’

Arjumand stared at him. ‘Why must you?’

‘I can’t take you all that way – over five hundred miles, maybe more – into heat and danger and discomfort. You should stay here where I know you are safe.’

‘Khurram, when you said you must take another wife – that it was your duty – I accepted it. Now I tell you that I must come with you – that it is my duty – and you must accept it. My grandfather and grandmother stayed together through the direst of circumstances. They knew that to be parted would be worse than anything else that could happen. Look at the emperor and Aunt Mehrunissa – they are never apart. Even when he goes on hunting expeditions she goes too. She is a better marksman and tiger killer than he is. She even rides on horseback with him when they’re alone. If he went to war, so would she, I’m certain of it. Why should I be any different?’

‘You’re not strong. Jahanara’s birth was difficult . . . you need to be here where the best
hakims
are, should you become pregnant again . . .’

‘The best
hakims
can come with us. Khurram, I’m not a doll. I enjoy the comfort of my life here in the
haram
but none of that matters compared to being with you. I’d follow you barefoot carrying Jahanara in my arms if I had to and I’d be glad.’ She gripped his arm and he could feel her nails sharp in his flesh. He had never seen her look so determined, her gentle face almost pugnacious.

‘Perhaps my father should send you into the field against Malik Ambar – you look fierce enough.’ He grinned, hoping to coax an answering smile from her, but her expression didn’t alter. What should he do? His father was giving him the chance to prove himself fit to be the next emperor . . . Yet though he had been trained for war, had spent hours with his tutors studying the strategies of past Moghul campaigns, could fight with sword, dagger, mace and musket, he had never conducted a campaign before. He must allow nothing – no one – to deflect his focus. Nevertheless to part from Arjumand would be to leave a part of himself behind. Maybe he would think more clearly, fight more effectively, if he knew that at the end of every day she would be there waiting for him. He would certainly be happier . . .

‘Khurram . . .’ Her nails dug even harder.

Suddenly everything became very simple. They would not be parted and he would do whatever he must to keep her safe. ‘Very well. We go together.’

‘And always will.’ Her voice was firm.

The stark outline of the sandstone fortress-palace at Burhanpur, 450 miles southwest of Agra, was reflected in the wide slow-flowing waters of the Tapti river. Khurram had reached the city – the Moghul command centre in the Deccan – a month ago and was now leaving it again to begin in earnest his campaign against Malik Ambar. A procession of war elephants already clothed in their overlapping steel plate armour was being led down the twisting ramp from the four-storeyed elephant stables, the
hati mahal,
to the parade ground beside the fortress’s high walls. Here their drivers, sitting behind their ears, tapped the great beasts with the iron rods they held in their hands to make them kneel, and other attendants lifted gilded howdahs on to their backs. Once these had been secured with leather straps Khurram’s chief generals and their
qorchis
and bodyguards clambered aboard, usually three men to a howdah but in the case of the biggest elephants four. Sweating labourers clad only in grubby white loincloths
lifted the small-calibre cannon, the
gajnals,
into the howdahs of others.

When all were loaded the main gates of the fortress opened and Khurram’s own war elephant emerged. Larger than any of the others, it bore a green-canopied howdah in which Khurram himself was already sitting, immaculately dressed for war in an engraved steel breastplate studded with turquoises and wearing a gilded helmet on his head. Four other elephants followed his. The first had the embroidered muslin curtains of its howdah tied shut with golden ribbons to conceal Arjumand Banu from any prying gaze; the remaining three each contained four orange-turbaned Rajput warriors, the most trusted of Khurram’s bodyguard, ordered by him on pain of death to protect Arjumand Banu from any insult. Each Rajput was heavily armed not only with the latest design of musket but also with the quicker-firing if less deadly bow and arrow as well as a sword. Their expressions beneath their luxuriant wide moustaches were stern. Their alert eyes were even now relentlessly scanning the small crowd which had formed around the gate for any sign of trouble, any lurking assassin that Malik Ambar might have sent to deprive the Moghul army of its leader or that leader of his beautiful wife. However, the only movement from the crowd was a respectful bowing of heads and the waving and clapping of weaponless hands.

The other war elephants formed up behind Khurram and Arjumand and their bodyguards. Together they moved slowly along the dusty parade ground past the intricately engraved bronze cannon on their heavy wooden limbers and the teams of oxen and bullocks already yoked to them. The teams designated to pull the largest cannon numbered as many as
thirty animals with horns painted Moghul green, with one whip-equipped driver for every three beasts to ensure that none shirked their work. Interspersed with the cannon were the eight-wheeled ammunition wagons, some pulled by camels, others by mules, which contained the bags of powder for the cannon, well covered with oiled cloth to protect against rain or damp, and beside them the large stone or iron cannon balls.

Eventually Khurram’s elephant and its companions took their places behind a vanguard of his elite horsemen drawn up in ranks of twelve abreast and on Khurram’s orders all dressed alike in gold cloth with white egrets’ feathers fluttering at the peaks of their turbans of the same material. They were mounted on dark horses and at the tops of their lances fluttered green and gold pennants. ‘When the news of our battle array reaches Malik Ambar through his spies, as I’m sure it must,’ said Khurram to his
qorchi
beside him, ‘he’ll realise he’d be wise to fear a commander whose attention to detail goes beyond that to weapons and stores to matters of appearance.’ Then, full of pride and confidence, Khurram shouted the order to move out. Bronze trumpets blared from the fortress walls as well as from mounted trumpeters in the vanguard. Large bass drums ten feet in circumference sounded from the gatehouse and the side drums of mounted bandsmen beat a steady tattoo to the accompaniment of which the column swung slowly into motion.

As it made its way south up the sandy banks of the Tapti and away from the fortress, it was joined by more regiments of horsemen and then by the less well-clothed and shod but still well-armed ranks of infantry. Next followed the carts of all sizes carrying the main baggage. Finally, as with any
army on the march, choking in the dust of those who went before, came a disorganised and unruly mass of camp followers eager to service the army’s needs and provide entertainment and relaxation. There were tailors and cobblers ready to renew clothing and footwear worn out by the march. There were sweetmeat and liquor vendors. There were fire-eaters, acrobats and magicians as well as a troupe of whirling dervishes. To provide more private release and solace, scores of whores had joined the column, not all young and not all pretty, but all eager to give themselves for the price of a meal of rice and lentils.

Six weeks later Khurram opened his eyes in the bed he was sharing in the
haram
tent with Arjumand and found her already awake. She caught him in her arms, begging him to take care in the day’s fighting. Promising that he would and that all he intended was a raid on Malik Ambar’s forces to weaken them, he kissed her on her full warm lips. Then he gently disengaged himself from her arms and threw aside the bed’s embroidered blue wool coverlet. Standing up, he folded a green silk robe around his muscular naked body and ducked out of the
haram
tent just as the first light of dawn was gilding the low hills surrounding the camp. After pausing for a few moments to breathe in the cool fresh morning air he crossed to a neighbouring tent where his
qorchi
was waiting to help him dress for battle. Soon Khurram was strapped into his engraved breastplate and was wearing his domed helmet with its iron mesh fringe hanging down his neck to protect it. He snatched a hasty breakfast of a chicken leg baked in the tandoor with spices and two pieces
of hot nan bread, then mounted his black horse and with his bodyguard around him rode over to where the raiding force of about five thousand of his best horsemen were waiting, their mounts restlessly pawing the ground, eager to be on their way.