The Serpent's Tooth Part 5

'And the dome itself?'

'I suggest a double one. Again, allow me to demonstrate.' From his pocket this time, Ustad Ahmad took out two pieces of polished alabaster. 'In the Emperor Humayun's tomb inner and outer domes rest on a low drum. What I propose here is an inner dome rising eighty feet from the ground and a swelling outer dome shaped somewhat like a guava, topped by a golden finial.' As he was talking Ustad Ahmad balanced the inner dome on the model's octagonal walls then carefully slid the elongated outer dome over it. 'Finally I suggest placing four chattris, domed kiosks, used in so many of the palaces of your Hindu allies, around the main dome, like pearls surrounding the central gem in a ring.'

Shah Jahan stared at the model in front of him. It was perfect. How had this man understood his wishes so well when he had been unable to articulate them properly even to himself? Ustad Ahmad was looking hard at him, perhaps uncertain how to interpret his silence.

'I'm appointing you my architect to oversee the creation of the empress's mausoleum. Return to Agra immediately. Whatever you require money, materials, labour you shall have it.'

'Majesty, I have one further question. What material should we build in? Sandstone?'

'For the subsidiary buildings perhaps, but the mausoleum itself is to be of the purest white marble I have already told the Raja of Amber that I will purchase the entire output of his quarries at Makrana and asked him to arrange the safe transport of the marble the two hundred miles to Agra.'

For the first time Ustad Ahmad looked startled. 'No one has ever built anything on this scale in marble ... the cost will be ...'

'Do not concern yourself with the cost. You promised me a heaven on earth and that should be your sole concern.'

That night Shah Jahan fell into a deeper sleep than for many months, anxiety over how best to fulfil Mumtaz's dying wish quietened by Ustad Ahmad's sublime design. In his dreams he stood beneath the great southern gateway, gazing at the shimmering mausoleum. As the hours pa.s.sed he remained there transfixed, watching the white marble flush pink in the dawn light, glitter diamond bright beneath the hot midday sun and soften to violet as dusk descended and shadows shrouded the pearl-like dome. Then, through the velvet darkness, a lantern glowed and a woman appeared in the moonlit doorway. He couldn't see her face but he knew it was Mumtaz ...

Slowly he walked through the gardens, breathing the heavy scent of white-petalled champa flowers and following the marble channel through which water rippled silver towards the tomb. As he pa.s.sed, each of a row of marble fountains burst into life, sending jewel-bright droplets into the air. All the time his eyes were fixed on Mumtaz waiting in the entrance. He tried desperately to walk more quickly but his legs wouldn't obey him, even when she raised her arms in silent entreaty. Her face was still in shadow but jewels glittered around her neck, waist and wrists. Just a few more steps and he would be with her, but suddenly the figure shimmered and dissolved before him.

In anguish he climbed the stairs to the pale tomb and touched the milk-smooth marble, expecting it to feel cold. Instead the translucent stone was silken and warm as human flesh Mumtaz's flesh. An erotic longing possessed him and he pressed his lips to the stone. The mausoleum was Mumtaz herself. He would adorn it with the gems she loved in life. Emeralds and rubies, amethysts and corals, would shine against the white marble as they had glowed on her body. He stretched out his arms to embrace the tomb but suddenly there was nothing but the gloom of his bedchamber.

Shah Jahan sat up and looked around him, dazed. Rising, he walked to the cas.e.m.e.nt and peered into the darkness at the dim outline of the Tapti winding on its sluggish way, reminding him how far he was from Agra and Mumtaz, lying in her temporary grave. How weary he was of these empty barren lands that had robbed him of so much. Before Mumtaz's death they had often talked about the visit they would make to the Vale of Kashmir when the fighting was over. They would never go there now never wander its purple crocus fields or feel the cool wind blowing off its snow-dusted mountains or glide in a barge across its lily-strewn lakes. But as he gazed into the night he made Mumtaz and himself a vow. He would end this war quickly and return to Agra to oversee the construction of her tomb himself.

From the protection of the awning of his scarlet command tent pitched on a small hill Shah Jahan surveyed the surrounding low-lying countryside. Heavy raindrops were splashing from a leaden monsoon sky into the already deep puddles around the tent. The drought had broken three weeks earlier and since then the much delayed rains had been almost incessant. Everywhere the ground had been baked so hard that at first it had been unable to absorb so much water so fast. In places flash floods had swept away humans and animals who only days earlier had been longing for water. Now green leaves had begun to sprout on the trees and shrubs. Small orange-pink jungle flowers were appearing and many more birds were singing, all part of the natural renewal of life and at odds with Shah Jahan's sombre mood and continuing sense of final and irreplaceable loss.

Eager to speed his departure from Burhanpur, despite the atrocious weather he had led a division of his army out into the water-logged and scarcely populated plains on receiving reliable reports that the last sizeable detachment of Bij.a.puran invaders had taken refuge in a forested area barely two days' ride away. Now after much thought during another of the many sleepless nights he had suffered since Mumtaz died he had devised a plan of attack.

'Send my officers to me,' he shouted to an attendant. Soon they came splashing through the puddles to sit around him on low stools placed under the awning by his servants. Despite the rain Ashok Singh was colourfully and immaculately dressed as ever in a gold-trimmed maroon tunic and surcoat, his extravagant dark moustache brushed and perfumed, but several of the other commanders were mud-spattered. Standing slightly to one side was Aurangzeb. At his persistent urging Shah Jahan had allowed him to join the expedition instead of Shah Shuja, whom he had intended to bring had the boy not dislocated his shoulder playing polo while riding a half-broken pony against his groom's advice.

When all had arrived, Shah Jahan began. 'I've decided how we will put an end to these invaders once and for all. They descended on our lands like ravening animals and we will deal with them as such. Just as my ancestors on the steppes hunted game by driving them into a confined s.p.a.ce, so we will encircle and trap our enemies leaving them no chance to flee. According to our scouts they've withdrawn into an area of thick jungle about five miles away to the south. Ashok Singh, I want you to select five thousand of our best hors.e.m.e.n and order each to take a musketman up behind him. They are to surround the jungle our scouts tell me it is around six miles in circ.u.mference. Then, keeping no more than four yards apart from one another, they are to advance.'

'You intend to take the Bij.a.purans unawares?'

'At first yes, but as our noose tightens I want our enemies to know we're coming. At a signal from me, as our men move through the trees and the length of our perimeter shortens, I want them to start shouting, even to blow trumpets and strike gongs. With noise on every side and realising they're surrounded, the enemy won't know which way to run and we will herd them together as we do wild animals in the hunt before we fall on them and slaughter them. Just in case any succeed in breaking through our cordon I want further hors.e.m.e.n backed up by musketmen and archers stationed round the jungle edge. Are my orders clear?'

'Do we take prisoners, Majesty?' Ashok Singh asked.

'No, no prisoners.' Seeing Ashok Singh's look of surprise, Shah Jahan said, 'You Rajputs expect no mercy in battle and fight to the death. But the Rajputs are honourable warriors. If they were ever my foes instead of my allies as I hope will never be I would spare any who asked for mercy. But these Bij.a.purans have brought nothing but havoc and bloodshed to my lands and cost my wife her life. They have spurned every opportunity to surrender and thus have forfeited any right to mercy even if they beg for it.'

Ashok Singh said nothing, and it was Aurangzeb who spoke next. 'Father, can I accompany you to the attack?'

Shah Jahan hesitated. He himself had fought his first battle when he'd been only a little older. 'Very well. But you're to take no part in the actual fighting.'

'Father ...'

'No! I won't change my mind. You'll remain at a safe distance or not come at all.'

'It wasn't that. I just wanted you to know I think you're right not to give the Bij.a.purans quarter. They don't deserve it and should be made to pay the ultimate price for their treachery.'

'Good.' Shah Jahan nodded. Despite his youth Aurangzeb was not backward in advancing his forthright and usually stern opinions. He had a dogmatic sense of what he believed just or unjust and in disputes with his brothers was usually the most determined in maintaining he was in the right, using his fists if he had to.

An hour later, the column had already covered three miles. If all went well and even allowing for the rain falling in a constant veil around them there was no reason why it shouldn't they should reach the thick jungle and be ready to attack by midday. Glancing over his shoulder, Shah Jahan saw Aurangzeb riding not far behind him. He was wearing a chain mail tunic and silver breastplate and had an expression of deep concentration. Turning his attention to guiding his own horse across the increasingly soggy ground, Shah Jahan soon found mud flying up all around him, spattering his horse's steel head armour and speckling his face beneath his jewelled helmet. Soon though the rain began to ease and Shah Jahan could make out the thick jungle ahead of him to the south. A quarter of an hour later a small group of riders appeared from that direction led by Rai Singh.

'All is well, Majesty,' called the scout, long hair hanging in wet tendrils. 'The Bij.a.purans are still in the jungle and as far as we can tell have no idea of our presence. Now that the rain is stopping they've begun lighting their cooking fires look.'

Sure enough thin trails of smoke were spiralling from several points within the jungle. The Bij.a.purans' bivouacs seemed to be scattered rather than concentrated in one large encampment. 'If they want to eat they'd better be quick it'll be the last food they'll taste. Continue to keep watch. If you see anything suspicious send word at once. Otherwise we will advance into the jungle as soon as we have surrounded it.'

Quickly Shah Jahan issued his final orders to his commanders. 'Deploy your men around the forest. I will join those entering from its northern edge and will send my orders along the line from there. Aurangzeb you stay here. Vikram Das I am making you responsible for my son's safety.' The officer nodded, then glanced a little nervously at Aurangzeb as if doubting his ability to control the young prince. Shah Jahan saw the look. 'Aurangzeb do I have your word of honour that you will remain here and not attempt to join the fight?' His son hesitated a moment, then nodded.

Shah Jahan kicked his horse onward, his bodyguard around him, as he joined the hors.e.m.e.n fanning out to surround the forest. The musketmen mounted behind the riders had their long-barrelled weapons and ram rods strapped to their backs while their powder horns were slung from their shoulders. So much moisture dripped from the trees as Shah Jahan and his men pushed through the branches that it seemed still to be raining. Water was trickling down their necks and running beneath their breastplates and the forest floor was sodden. The horses were soon sinking up to their hocks in places as they struggled to pick their way through and around the deep puddles and soft oozing mud. All the time the vegetation was growing denser.

Shah Jahan listened hard, but above the squelching of the horses' hooves and their occasional blowing and snorting could hear nothing. The Bij.a.purans must still be too far off to be aware of his advancing forces, but not for much longer. Shah Jahan raised his sword. At the sign, Ashok Singh flung back his head and yelled the ancient war cry of the Rajputs, 'Onward, children of fire, sun and moon, to glory or to death.' All around men began shouting, clashing weapons, sounding trumpets and banging drums. As the cacophony rolled around the jungle, samba deer barked their alarm call and doves and pigeons whirred in panic from the shelter of the trees. Soon it would be time for the musketmen to drop to the ground and set up their weapons ready to shoot down any Bij.a.purans who tried to break out of the circle into which the hors.e.m.e.n were driving them. Heart pounding, Shah Jahan scanned the dripping foliage, right hand fingering his sword hilt.

Within moments shouts of alarm rose ahead. Suddenly over an area of lower bushes slightly to his left, Shah Jahan made out a clearing with a number of tents and some horses tethered nearby. 'Musketeers, dismount and take up your positions. Pa.s.s the order along,' he yelled. 'Hors.e.m.e.n, keep the line as you advance let no one through.' To his right and left, Ashok Singh's riders, their lances at the ready, pushed their mounts on through the thinning undergrowth, picking up speed despite the cloying mud.

As he burst with them into the clearing Shah Jahan felt something graze his cheek. A black-flighted arrow embedded itself in the mud close by him. Glancing around he spotted the archer a long-haired youth standing in the doorway of a tent not thirty yards away and fumbling with nervous fingers to fit a second arrow to his bow. In a single movement, Shah Jahan pulled one of his two steel-bladed daggers from its scabbard and sent it spinning through the air with all the force he could muster. The dagger tip hit the youth in the throat and he dropped to his knees, blood spurting through his fingers as he clawed at his neck.

Around Shah Jahan, his hors.e.m.e.n were making swift work of the Bij.a.purans, of whom there appeared to be no more than thirty. As he watched, Ashok Singh, bending low from his saddle, scythed another bowman's head from his shoulders with a single sweep of his weapon, sending the head rolling away to rest, mud-covered, among the roots of a tree. The torso remained upright for a few moments before toppling sideways with a splash into a puddle. Other Bij.a.purans were attempting to flee deeper into the jungle while the smell of powder and the crackle of muskets behind him told Shah Jahan that a few had been foolish enough to attempt to break through the cordon of his musketmen. 'Set fire to their tents and turn their horses free,' he shouted, but at almost the same moment he heard a cry of 'Bij.a.purans, over here, to me!'

Wrenching his horse round, Shah Jahan saw a group of thirty or forty well-armed riders led by a tall man in a gilded helmet crash through the scrub on the far side of the clearing. They'd obviously had more time to prepare than their comrades here in the encampment, where red blood now stained the muddy ground. 'Regroup,' shouted Shah Jahan to his men. 'Re-form your line.' There might be more Bij.a.purans concealed in the trees beyond and he didn't want his soldiers rushing into a trap.

From Shah Jahan's right and left, out of his range of vision, came the sounds of battle as his men clashed with other pockets of Bij.a.purans. He could not tell precisely what was happening but he trusted his men to maintain discipline and remember their orders. The important thing was to keep the encircling cordon tight and intact and continue the advance, driving his enemies into a tightly packed, disordered ma.s.s where they would be easier to destroy.

The Bij.a.puran riders, seeing they were outnumbered, knew better than to stand and fight in the clearing. Instead, pulling two or three survivors from the conflict up behind them, they were already turning their horses and disappearing deeper into the jungle.

Urging his own mount after them, Shah Jahan realised that the vegetation ahead was growing less dense nearly all scrubby bushes rather than trees and that the ground, now lit here and there by shafts of sunlight, was growing even more sodden. At first the tracks of the retreating Bij.a.purans were easy enough to follow. With luck they would lead to the main encampment. As the sun began to shine more strongly, reflecting mirror-like from the puddles, the air grew humid and sweat ran freely down between Shah Jahan's shoulder blades. With mosquitoes whining in his ears, he glanced around, on the lookout for any Bij.a.purans lying in ambush amid the brush and fallen branches. He could see none.

Suddenly Shah Jahan's mount slithered and plunged forward, nearly throwing him. He struggled to keep the animal upright and succeeded, but as the horse tried to walk on it stumbled again. Raising an arm to halt the advance on either side of him, he quickly dismounted and ran his hand over the horse's front fetlocks. As he touched the left one the beast whinnied in pain. 'My horse has lamed itself,' he called to Ashok Singh. As he waited for a spare mount to be brought, a lone rider appeared on a low hillock about fifty yards away. His gilded conical helmet gleamed in the sunshine. It was the officer who had come to the aid of the Bij.a.purans in their camp. In his hand was a banner of golden yellow silk the colour of Bij.a.pur obviously intended as a flag of truce. The officer shouted with all the power of his lungs, 'I bring a message from our commander. Majesty, we know that your forces have encircled us. To spare further bloodshed on both sides we wish to surrender.'

'You have a short memory, Bij.a.puran,' replied Shah Jahan. 'Once before you offered to surrender, then broke your word and innocents died. Today there'll be no bargaining. Traitors have no right to the protection of a flag of truce, so be gone before I seize you.' As the man rode quickly away, Shah Jahan glanced up into the sky. From the position of the sun it was still only early afternoon. By sunset, G.o.d willing, he would be victorious.

A ragged volley of enemy musket fire forty minutes later was the first sign that he had located the main body of Bij.a.purans. One ball hit a young Rajput a few yards to his left in the thigh and, blood pouring from his wound, the youth toppled sideways from his horse. Another rider cried out, then slumped forward in his saddle, dropping his lance. The mount of a third, hit twice in the throat, slowly collapsed, allowing its rider time to jump clear. For a moment the animal's body twitched convulsively, its blood pumping into a puddle, before becoming still.

'Keep low,' Shah Jahan yelled, kicking his horse forward. Through the spindly bushes he could see a large encampment on to which most of the Bij.a.purans seemed to have fallen back. They had overturned their few baggage carts to use as barricades, but surrounded as they were, they didn't seem to know how best to position them or on which side to take refuge. From all around came the cries of the advancing Moghul troops. The cordon had held and his men had advanced together just as he had planned, Shah Jahan thought as, determined to finish the campaign, fresh energy surged through him.

Yanking on his left rein, he swerved round a tent to slash at a Bij.a.puran musketeer struggling to reload. His blade caught the man's right arm and dropping both his musket and his ram rod he screamed and turned to run. Shah Jahan struck again, cleaving the musketman's back open to the bone. Looking round, he spotted a huge man in a yellow turban standing with his back to an overturned cart, a spear in his right hand. At that moment a Moghul cavalryman swept past and the man thrust his weapon hard into the horse's stomach. It fell, trapping the Moghul rider beneath it by his thigh. As he struggled to free himself, the yellow-turbaned Bij.a.puran leapt on him and holding his already dripping spear in both hands raised it above his head. So intent was he on despatching his victim that he didn't notice Shah Jahan until it was too late. Leaning low from his saddle, Shah Jahan cut with his sword into the nape of the man's neck, half severing the head so that it flopped forward in a froth of blood as he fell.

But suddenly the world was spinning around Shah Jahan as he found himself flying through the air to land with a thud on the squelchy ground. Dazed and winded, he looked about to see his horse on its knees in the mud. It had clearly stumbled over the shaft of the overturned cart. His sword was lying a few feet away. Dragging himself to his knees he reached for his weapon but at that moment a boot caught him in the small of his back and sent him sprawling forward into a deep puddle. His mouth and nose filled with muddy water and he spluttered for breath. He tried to get up but felt a hand pull off his helmet, grab hold of his hair and force him face down into the water again. He was starting to choke and his lungs felt as if they were on fire. Gathering his remaining strength he tried to dislodge his attacker but the man was too strong, while every attempt to breathe just brought another mouth and noseful of muddy viscous liquid. With a last desperate effort he felt in his sash for his second dagger and managed to grip its hilt. Pulling it from its scabbard he lunged blindly upwards. The weapon cut through empty air. Blood pounding in his ears as if the drums were about to rupture, he tried again. This time the blade penetrated muscle. A startled, high-pitched scream followed and the hold on his hair relaxed.

Pushing his opponent from him and rolling sideways, he gulped in air. His enemy tall and heavily built was writhing doubled up on the ground, clutching at a wound in his left side. Taking a few more deep breaths Shah Jahan got up and staggered across to him, pulled him over onto his stomach and thrust his head into the same puddle where just a moment ago he had been struggling for his own life. Straddling the man, he pushed his head down as hard as he could into the liquid mud. The Bij.a.puran threshed and bucked, trying to dislodge him, but he held on. For some moments the man's feet kicked furiously but then his body grew limp. Standing, Shah Jahan retrieved his sword. Then he stood for a moment, back against the overturned cart, trying to gauge the progress of the battle.

'Majesty, are you all right? I lost sight of you in the fighting.' It was Ashok Singh, leaning from his saddle.

'That new horse of mine tripped and fell.'

'Give me your hand, Majesty. Pull yourself up behind me. Even if the fighting's nearly over it's still safer on horseback than on the ground.' Ashok Singh was right, Shah Jahan thought, though most of the bodies sprawled on the earth were Bij.a.puran and resistance seemed to be over. As he watched, four yellow-clad soldiers emerged from a tent and threw down their weapons while a few yards away a Moghul cavalryman pinioned a Bij.a.puran whose sword was still drawn to the side of a baggage cart with the tip of his lance.

'Majesty. We have taken a number of prisoners. Are your orders still the same?'

'Yes. Execute them. But do it quickly and cleanly.'

Their death agony would be short, Shah Jahan thought, gazing at the carnage around him, unlike the death of Mumtaz and the long agony of his own grief. He felt no joy in the death of his foes, just an overwhelming weariness and grat.i.tude that the fighting was over and he was victorious. At last he could return to Agra to raise his monument to love his love of Mumtaz.

Chapter 7.

As he topped the crest of the low ridge, Shah Jahan signalled the column to halt and, shading his eyes, looked north towards Agra. The familiar sandstone walls of the fort glowed red in the noonday heat. In the centre of the plain extending from the bottom of the ridge to the outskirts of the city he could make out a long line of troops some on horseback, others on elephants coming to escort the Moghul emperor and his victorious army on the final mile of their journey home.

He would re-enter his fortress with fitting ceremony drums would beat in the gatehouse and green banners flutter on the battlements but he had ordered that there should be no throwing of flowers or showering of silver and gold coin, no processions of dancers and musicians, as there would have been if Mumtaz had still been at his side. Ever since Dara and Jahanara had accompanied her coffin back to Agra he had longed for the moment when he could follow. Now, the thought of riding alone up the fort's familiar winding ramp to the imperial apartments, refurbished during his absence for an empress who would never see them, was inexpressibly painful.

Yet he must, it was his duty. His astrologers had named today as the most auspicious for his return for many weeks to come. Such things mattered to the people if not to him. Though he had lost his empress he must make it appear that an aura of good fortune still surrounded him and his dynasty. To reinforce the message he would ride slowly through the streets of the city to the fort accompanied by his sons. Dara Shukoh would arrive with the escort while Shah Shuja, Aurangzeb and Murad, dressed in the white of mourning as he still was and riding matched white horses with green trappings, were waiting just a few yards behind him, ready to take their place in the procession.

As soon as the ceremonials were over he would go by barge along the Jumna to inspect the progress on Mumtaz's tomb. Ustad Ahmad's reports had been buoyant. Narrowing his eyes, Shah Jahan looked beyond the fort and across the bend of the river, trying to identify the site, but it was masked by the dull apricot shimmer on the horizon.

'Father, look, there's Dara ...' Shah Shuja broke into his thoughts.

Peering down towards the bottom of the ridge, Shah Jahan saw a figure urging his horse up the path. The sight cheered him. G.o.d had taken Mumtaz but with four fine sons his dynasty would live on. He had much he should be grateful for.

The next morning Shah Jahan glanced up into the pale, almost colourless sky. According to the scientific instrument an Italian trader had brought to his court, today was the hottest of the year so far. The curious-looking device consisted of a gla.s.s bulb filled with water attached to a long tube, also of gla.s.s, on which a series of lines had been etched. According to the Italian, a man named Galileo had invented it and it was in common use in Europe. The trader had shown Aslan Beg how to use it. The complicated process fascinated Dara Shukoh, though he himself doubted the instrument's utility. Wasn't nearly every day on the plains of Hindustan hot?

Approaching the place where the brick core of the sandstone platform was taking shape and Ustad Ahmad was waiting for him, Shah Jahan coughed as the coa.r.s.e dust hanging in the air caught at his throat. 'Majesty, if you accompany me to that mound over there you will see better and the air will be clearer.' Shah Jahan followed Ustad Ahmad across the hard-baked ground to a small hillock. His architect was right the view was better from here. He could clearly distinguish the perimeter of the vast platform 970 feet long and 364 feet wide according to Ustad Ahmad on which the mausoleum would stand.

'It still seems to me incredible that ground so close to the river can support the weight.'

Ustad Ahmad smiled. 'Majesty, I've checked my calculations again and again and I am entirely certain, provided we strengthen the bank in the right way, that it will. I've already ordered the workers to dig shafts close to the riverbank, varying their depths to compensate for the slope, and then line them with bricks and a cement made of lime and sand and fill them with rubble and more cement. I've also ordered them to position piers on top of the shafts to support the platform.'

'But aren't labourers digging down on the riverbank too?'

'Yes, Majesty. They're excavating large holes in which they're burying cement-filled ebony boxes to provide added reinforcement against the rise and fall of the Jumna.'

Shah Jahan nodded. Ustad Ahmad had thought of everything.

'We now have twenty thousand workers. Those are their living quarters.' The architect pointed to the south of the building site. 'As well as their huts there are four caravanserais for the merchants whose camel and mule trains arrive daily and for the boatmen bringing materials by barge along the Jumna. They have named their city Mumtazabad in honour of the late empress. I hope that doesn't offend you, Majesty.'

'No, it's fitting. But tell me, have you everything you need? Is enough sandstone arriving?'

'Yes, we already have a good supply. While you were still in the south, I obtained Prince Dara's permission to construct a road of packed earth ten miles long so that the teams of oxen can haul their carts laden with stone from the local quarries here more easily. Would you like to see the masons at work, Majesty? A group are over there beneath that cotton awning.'

A middle-aged man in a white dhoti with a red Hindu tilak mark on his forehead was bending over a large, square block of sandstone, watched by two youths who by their looks were clearly his sons. As Shah Jahan drew closer he saw that the mason was hammering a straight row of small nail-like wedges into the block. Suddenly aware of the emperor and his architect, the man jerked upright.

'We didn't mean to disturb you. Please continue,' said Shah Jahan.

With a nervous look at his visitors the mason resumed his work, sweat beading on his muscular arms as he drove the line of wedges deeper into the stone. After several minutes he pa.s.sed the hammer to one of his sons, who continued hitting the wedges until suddenly the sandstone split cleanly. Using a large length of wood, the younger man levered one of the pieces aside. The mason ran his fingers over the newly cut surface with a grunt of satisfaction, then took a fine chisel and began almost tenderly to smooth the edges.

'The masons work the stone with their chisels and polish it with grit until the surface becomes as smooth as alabaster,' explained Ustad Ahmad. 'When each block is ready they will lift it into place and secure it with cement, iron dowels and clamps. You'll not detect a crack between them.'

But Shah Jahan's attention was on the mason, who was incising a triangle into the stone. 'What are you doing?'

'Making my mark. This is the greatest project of my life and I want to leave some sign that it was my work.'

'Other masons have been doing the same, Majesty. I saw no reason to forbid it.'

'And I don't either. I'm pleased the craftsmen have such pride in their work. Here, take this.' Shah Jahan handed some coins to the mason. 'Thank you for your dedication and your skill.' Then he turned away. 'Ustad Ahmad, you've created a design of great beauty, but something is still lacking.'

'Majesty?' Ustad Ahmad looked more surprised than disturbed.

Ever since his dream of a bejewelled Mumtaz standing in the doorway of her tomb, Shah Jahan had been thinking how best to put his vision into effect. 'I want more ornament for the tomb. I want gems inlaid into the marble. Few people know more about jewels than myself. I will select the best from my treasure houses. If there isn't enough of any stone green jade, perhaps, or dark blue lapis lazuli I'll import it from beyond my borders. When I have chosen the materials I will have some of my Hindu subjects who are, I know, skilled in the art they call panchi kura the inlaying of stone do the work. I may also employ European craftsmen I remember two Italians who visited my father's court when I was a boy. They brought pictures of the city of their birth Florence, they called it which looked like paintings but in fact were composed of tiny pieces of semi-precious stones.'

'What patterns do you want inlaid into the marble, Majesty? Geometric designs, perhaps?'

'No. Flowers, green leaves and curling tendrils that look as real as if they were truly growing over the mausoleum, so that my wife's tomb becomes a living thing. I want some further decoration too. I wish other craftsmen to breathe life into the cold marble walls with relief carvings of tall irises and slender-stemmed tulips bending in the breeze as they do in Kashmir. I know it can be done.'

But O thou soul at peace, Return thou unto thy Lord, well pleased, and well pleasing unto Him, Enter thou among My servants, And enter thou My Paradise.

'What do you think, Father? Have Dara and I chosen well from the Koran? It wasn't easy.' Jahanara spoke softly.

Shah Jahan nodded. Soon after returning to Agra he'd asked his two eldest children to suggest some wording. The verse was exactly right to inlay around the frame of the gateway, reminding visitors that they were entering both a spiritual place and an earthly heaven. 'I'll order Amanat Khan to lay out the words for the stonecutters to chisel out.'

'He is a true artist. His calligraphy is so fluid.'

'That's why I summoned him from Shiraz.' Shah Jahan looked down at the table on which stood a wooden model of the entire complex. The four white minarets one at each corner of the marble plinth were an inspired touch. In his excitement to convince him they would enhance the design, Ustad Ahmad had called them 'ladders to heaven'. Just to look at the model gave Shah Jahan pleasure, but then his smile faded. 'It will be many years, of course, before the tomb is ready to receive your mother's body. Meanwhile I can do little except inspect progress and authorise the payment of the bills my treasurer keeps presenting.'

'Would you like me to see to the bills? As First Lady of the Empire I should have some responsibilities.'

'I gave you that t.i.tle because it was your mother's, not to make a drudge of you.'

'It wouldn't be any more onerous than dealing with the correspondence and pet.i.tions your steward sent me on your behalf while you were still in the Deccan. Anyway, it would provide me with an occupation. You've been giving Dara more tasks why shouldn't I do more too?'

It was true. He had begun entrusting Dara with increasing responsibility, like a review of the army's equipment. Jahanara's role must of necessity be more prosaic things a woman could do from the haram, as Mumtaz had done before her but she was intelligent enough to know that. 'Very well. I will have the bills sent to you and I'll find you other duties if you want. I'll also give you your mother's ivory seal to authorise imperial firmans on my behalf.'

Shah Jahan saw Jahanara's delight. If he was honest, he'd be as glad of her help as he was of Dara's. With their open natures and quick minds the two of them were so similar. Small wonder they were close. But what would his eldest daughter's future be? Akbar had established the rule that an emperor's daughters should not marry, to reduce the potential for the b.l.o.o.d.y disputes between rival family claimants to the throne that had tainted the Moghuls' early years in Hindustan. Yet why should royal daughters be denied the happiness their brothers enjoyed?

Mumtaz would have known instinctively what was both prudent and fair ... but maybe fairness didn't come into it. What mattered most was ensuring the dynasty's survival, as Akbar wise and humane though he was had understood. Shah Jahan glanced at Jahanara, absorbed in the model. He would find other ways of making his daughters happy.

'Jahanara, what you've said reminds me that you're a grown woman. If you'd like an independent household I will give you your own mansion. There's that handsome one that used to belong to your great-grandfather Ghiyas Beg. Would you like that?'

She considered but only for a moment. 'Yes, thank you, Father. But I forgot ... I've some news. Satti al-Nisa tells me Nicholas Ballantyne has returned to Agra. He's living in the bazaar.'

'Nicholas?' The last time Shah Jahan had seen the young Englishman had been soon after he'd come to the throne. Hadn't he departed on some trading venture ... to Kabul or perhaps Herat? Nicholas had remained faithful to him during his family's dangerous years as outcasts and exiles. He had even been his emissary to his father Jahangir, helping them to make their peace. 'I would like to see him again. He was our friend when we had few.'

Next day, as Nicholas Ballantyne bowed before him, Shah Jahan thought he had broadened over the years since he had last seen him. His shoulders strained against his tight-fitting leather tunic and his calves beneath the outlandish slashed pantaloons these foreigners wore were knotted with muscle. But when he raised his head Nicholas's eyes were the same piercing blue beneath his unruly b.u.t.ter-coloured hair, streaked almost white by the hot Indian sun.