'How is your mistress?'

'Very bad.' Selima was unveiled and tears were running down her lined face. 'She still doesn't know me, her coughing racks her body, her skin feels as if it was on fire and her pulses are faint and racing.'

Nicholas remembered the wormwood leaves and bending down scooped a fistful from his hat, which he'd left on the ground outside his tent. 'Make her some tea from these. It might help,' he said gently But even as he spoke, Selima's face sagged with disappointment.

'You have found no hakims?'

'No, I'm afraid not. If her condition worsens, tell me.'

Selima gave him a look that said as clearly as words, 'Why should I? What can you do to help?' and walked stiffly away on ancient legs, the already shrivelling wormwood leaves in her cupped hands. Whatever happened to Nadira, recovery or death, let it be quick, Nicholas found himself praying. Otherwise what choice did he have but for the time being to abandon Dara?

Beneath a cloudless sky of a hard metallic blue Nicholas galloped along the great trunk road leading to Delhi, avoiding the wandering cows, the children playing barefoot in the dust and the peasants trudging to their fields with their tools on their shoulders, as well as the occasional train of ox carts or camels belonging to some merchant. It was the rural India he loved but he had little time to enjoy its eternal charms. The last earth had barely been piled on Nadira's simple grave and the last prayers recited before he had mounted up six days previously. Though a third scout he'd sent out had managed to locate a hakim, the man had been able to do nothing for Nadira, whose delirium had increased hour after hour and whose lung-bursting coughing and agonised shrieks for Dara had tormented Nicholas as he'd paced helplessly about by the screens surrounding the haram tents. Now she was at peace, and he was free to discover what had happened to Dara and Sipihr. Why had Malik Jiwan betrayed them despite the apparently great honour of the gift of the breast water, however strange that appeared to a European? Had Malik Jiwan seen the gift as disproportionate and desperate, indicating that he should join the winning side? Perhaps seeing the small number of Dara's followers had played a part too. Or had he already been committed to Aurangzeb and Murad?

Although the collapse of Shah Jahan's power and with it Dara's hopes had seemed swift, it was becoming clear that it had been long in the fermenting. By remaining in Agra and keeping Dara at his side, Shah Jahan had gradually lost touch with his provincial commanders and officials, leaving his other sons free to sow sedition, making promises and winning allies as they travelled across their provinces and to and from Agra. Unlike Dara, basking in his father's favour and taking his succession for granted, his brothers had known that to realise their ambitions they needed to act. Whatever the case, there might be little he could do to help Dara now ... As the news of his capture had spread through the camp, even those who had remained loyal to him till now had begun to leave, slipping away quietly in ones and twos at first and then more openly in larger groups. In the end so few had remained that Nicholas had chosen to make his journey to Delhi alone. At least that way he would attract less notice.

As the sandstone walls of the city finally took substance on the horizon, Nicholas reined in, contemplating what might be happening there. Would Aurangzeb and Murad really harm their brother? Before he could discover the truth, he needed to disguise himself further. He'd already exchanged his usual breeches and leather jerkin for loose-fitting dun-coloured cotton pantaloons and a long tunic with a broad purple sash into which he'd tucked his pistols and a dagger. Now he tugged on a round felt cap that Amul had given him, tucking his hair inside, and pulled his dusty cotton neckcloth higher to cover the lower part of his face.

Two hours later, having left his tired horse at a caravanserai just outside the city, Nicholas joined what seemed an unusually large crowd of people pa.s.sing through the main gate. Both the gatehouse and the adjacent walls were hung with flags of Moghul green silk in normal times a sign that the emperor was in residence, but who were they honouring today? The emperor's usurping sons? Several hundred yards beyond the gate Nicholas turned into the broad thoroughfare leading north to Delhi's new Red Fort. This seemed the direction in which nearly everyone was heading, jostling one another in their haste to get ahead, as if anxious not to miss something. Perhaps today was a festival. Nicholas allowed himself to be carried along with the throng until it finally disgorged into a great paved square in front of the fort, whose ma.s.sive sandstone walls rose up about two hundred yards away on the opposite side. Peering over a ma.s.s of heads, Nicholas saw that a large raised platform of roughly hewn wood had been erected immediately beneath an ornate carved balcony jutting from the wall of the fort the place where Shah Jahan stood to address his people when he was in the city. Soldiers surrounded the platform.

Nicholas pushed his way forward, trying to get a better view. Above the noise of the crowd he thought he could hear solemn steady drum beats. Others heard them too and he caught fragments of conversation. 'They're coming ...' an old man said, craning his skinny neck, 'it won't be long now.' Who was coming? And why? Aurangzeb and Murad, perhaps, making a triumphal tour of the city their troops had occupied? That would explain the flags on the gatehouse. The drumbeats were growing louder and then he saw a column of foot soldiers, long staves in their hands, enter the square from a street to the left of the fort. Wielding their staves, they began forcing a way through the crowds to clear a pa.s.sage across the square to the platform. They acted so roughly that a few scuffles broke out, but soon they had made a path five or six yards wide and then stationed themselves, arms linked, on either side of it.

People were now looking expectantly towards the entrance to the street from which the soldiers had just emerged, and a great hubbub rose as a squadron of mounted troops riding two abreast entered the square. The two leading riders had drums tied to either side of their saddles and were striking them in turn: first one, then the other, and then both together. The antic.i.p.ation of whatever was about to happen seemed too much for the crowds. Nicholas found himself being pushed forward again. He heard a scream as someone fell, and was trampled on by those behind as the great wave of people continued to press onwards, unstoppable as the tide.

Then, as suddenly as the rush had started, it ceased. A hush descended, to be followed by a strange sound like a great, collective sigh. Then Nicholas saw the cause ... A single elephant was making its way into the square no gorgeously caparisoned beast from the imperial hati mahal with jewelled headplate and gilded tusks but a broken-down, scarred old animal with a ripped ear led by a s.h.a.ggy-headed man wearing a simple dhoti. But like everyone else, Nicholas was looking not at the elephant but at the two wretched figures riding in a rough wooden howdah on its back Dara and Sipihr, dressed in rags, with garlands of what looked like rotting flowers round their necks. Dara was sitting very straight, looking to neither right nor left, but his son was slumped forward. Nicholas gazed in horror and instinctively tried to push forward towards the captives, but people were thirty deep at least ahead of him and a tall, red-turbaned man directly in front turned round and swore into his face. Nicholas ignored the stream of spittle-flecked abuse. All he could think of was that Aurangzeb and Murad were parading their brother and nephew through the streets of Delhi as if they were common criminals. But then Nicholas realised something else. If the traitors had hoped the populace would welcome such a spectacle they had misjudged. Cries of disgust were rising from all around him and some people were picking up stones and lumps of animal dung and hurling them at the soldiers, who stood their ground as the elephant continued its slow progress towards the wooden platform where it finally halted.

At that moment, the drumming ceased and a tall, broad-shouldered figure appeared on the balcony above. Nicholas saw at once that it was Aurangzeb. The shouting ceased as suddenly everyone turned their attention to him. What was he about to do? Make a speech? Denounce Dara? But it seemed that Aurangzeb had no such intention. As he raised a hand, trumpets on the battlements above him sounded three shrill blasts. At the sign, two of the soldiers who had been standing around the platform stepped forward and pulled Dara roughly down from the elephant's howdah. The crowd gasped as Dara fell to the ground. Nicholas lost sight of him for a moment then saw him as he struggled, hands bound, to his feet. The two soldiers took hold of him again, this time pushing him up the three steps of a wooden ladder on to the platform.

Dara turned to face the crowds as they pressed against the barrier of the soldiers' staves. At this distance he appeared haggard and his unkempt hair straggled in rat's tails over his shoulders. Yet there was still pride and defiance in his posture, in the carriage of his head. His brothers had stripped away every external trapping of an imperial prince but they hadn't managed to rob him of his dignity, thought Nicholas. Slowly Dara turned and looked directly up at Aurangzeb, standing motionless on the balcony above. Nicholas heard Dara call out something but couldn't catch the words. Aurangzeb, though, clearly had. Immediately he signalled to the two soldiers standing next to Dara, who seized hold of him and, turning him back to face the crowd, pushed him to his knees.

Then a gate in the fort wall to the platform's right opened and a heavily built man appeared. He was wearing a leather ap.r.o.n that reached almost to the ground and in his hand gleamed a broad-bladed scimitar. Nicholas heard himself shout 'No! ... No!' As the man mounted the platform, Dara began frantically struggling. Breaking free, he jumped from the platform and ran to the side of the elephant on which Sipihr was still sitting. He tried to reach up to his son but Aurangzeb's soldiers seized him and threw him back on to the platform where the other two soldiers grabbed hold of him again. They pulled Dara on to his knees, then each took one of his arms and stretched it behind him so that his head was pushed forward. The executioner looked up at Aurangzeb, who gave him a nod. A terrible sound between a gasp and a groan rose from the crowd as the man swung his scimitar high in the air and brought it down in a single sweeping slash. Dara's body slumped bloodily forward, but his head rolled across the platform and fell to the ground where a soldier quickly retrieved it.

As people shoved and pushed for a better view, Nicholas looked up at the balcony. Aurangzeb had gone. Sipihr was now bent almost double and seemed to be weeping as his elephant was led onward into the fort, carrying him to whatever future his murderous uncles had in store for him.

Chapter 21.

'Has there been any serious damage yet Father?' As Jahanara was still speaking there was a distant boom. The daily bombardment of the fort usually ceased about now as night began to fall and the first cooking fires to glow in the rebel encampment just visible through the trees half a mile away across the Jumna. As had become his habit since the siege began, Shah Jahan spent much of the late afternoon on the battlements watching the exchange of cannon fire as the rebel gunners attacked the fort's outer defences and his own artillery responded. Guessing she would find him here, Jahanara had just come from the haram to join him.

Shah Jahan shook his head. 'No. They're still only using small cannon and targeting points along our defences at random. Only a concerted and prolonged attack by their biggest guns centred on a single point would breach these double walls. I remember my grandfather showing me the plans when he was rebuilding the fort how proud he was of the walls' solid construction and their height. I don't suppose he ever imagined that one day a member of his own family would be a.s.saulting them, any more than I ever thought to be under attack from my own sons ...'

'Why doesn't Murad bring up his heavy guns? This siege has already lasted a month and what progress has he made? None!'

'I agree. If Murad were serious he'd deploy all his firepower. But perhaps he isn't. Maybe he's no real intention of trying to batter his way into the fort.'

'In that case why bombard us at all?'

'My guess is that he wants to remind us of his presence and warn us against sallying from the fort. He knows that if he keeps us isolated we cannot contact supporters with the truth about the rebels' actions, nor direct our remaining loyal forces. The only version of events that will reach the provinces will be their perverted one and I can scarcely blame the officials there if they believe it, or at least take no action to question it while the outcome of our struggle is uncertain.'

'Perhaps he also hopes to demoralise the garrison and so precipitate our surrender.'

'Maybe, but whatever his intentions I mean to stand up to him. We have enough food and water as well as troops, powder and shot to hold out for a long time and even to inflict serious casualties on our enemy. I've promised our gunners five hundred rupees for every rebel cannon they silence.'

'Perhaps Murad's motives aren't what you think. Perhaps he's regretting that things have come to such a pa.s.s and is anxious not to do anything to harm you ... or his sisters. Maybe he is even thinking of reconciliation ...'

'Murad must know he's gone too far to think he could ever win my forgiveness. He and Aurangzeb have killed my soldiers on the battlefield and put my appointed heir their own brother to flight.' At the mention of Dara Shah Jahan saw Jahanara's expression falter. 'I know how hard this is for you,' he went on more softly. 'These past weeks have been difficult for both of us. Every day, like you, I hope for word of Dara.'

'Not knowing is the hardest. Shut up in this fort we've no way of finding out what's happening in the world outside. And the only news we have had has been bad ...'

Shah Jahan knew exactly what she meant the letter from the Governor of Delhi brought by a messenger that Murad had allowed through his lines three weeks ago, which had reported the governor's decision to refuse to admit Dara into the city. His justification had been that Aurangzeb had a.s.sured him that the emperor was far too ill to have issued any order to hand over the city and its treasure to Dara ...

Prince Aurangzeb tells me that Prince Dara is acting on his own account in a bid to seize the throne and that the instruction he claims to be from your Imperial Majesty is his forgery. By denying him I believe I am acting in the best interests of both my emperor and the empire. Instead I have given Delhi into the stewardship of Prince Aurangzeb who, I am convinced, is your loving and obedient son, seeking only to safeguard your Imperial Majesty's position. May G.o.d in his great goodness grant you a swift return to health.

'I hope one day Dara and I will be in a position to punish the governor for his duplicity and hypocrisy. I'd like to see him executed. That I cannot even send a reply condemning his action only brings home the harder how powerless I've become to impose my will on my empire.'

'Do you think Aurangzeb is still pursuing Dara?'

'Yes. Dara is the greatest threat to him. I doubt Aurangzeb'll rest until he's satisfied he's driven Dara far away from Agra and Delhi. But he'll want to get back here as soon as he can. He daren't risk leaving Murad in sole command for too long. Aurangzeb must secretly fear that Murad means to seize the whole empire if he can as doubtless he does himself. My hope is that the two of them will soon quarrel. If they do, it may give Dara a chance, especially if Suleiman brings back his army from the east. This war isn't over yet ...'

For a while he and Jahanara stood in silence. That was how it often was these days, she reflected. Cut off as they were from the outside world, what was there to talk about? Speculation was painful, raising fresh anxieties that each doubtless wished to spare the other. With every day she sensed her father retreating more and more into himself and she was doing the same. Sometimes her thoughts turned to Nicholas. The world around her once so full of certainties had become such a fragile place. Nicholas was one of the very few she knew she could still trust. She hadn't forgotten his gentle touch on her scarred face. What had she felt at that moment? Not suprise, or shock, but ... and it had taken her a little time to realise this ... grat.i.tude for such a human gesture at such a bleak time. If Roshanara had witnessed it, she would doubtless have interpreted it very differently.

The thought of Roshanara reminded Jahanara that she should return to the haram for the evening meal, which since the start of the siege she had taken to eating with her sisters. Her relationship with Roshanara was still strained and they said little to one another, but she knew that the boom of the cannon frightened Gauharara. Though she was no child but a grown woman, her youngest sister was eating little and sleeping badly. Every evening Jahanara tried to rea.s.sure her and turn her mind to happier things.

'Father, with your permission I will return to the haram.' He nodded but said nothing. Just as in the days of peace the evening torches were lit on either side of the gates leading into the main courtyard of the haram as Jahanara approached.

As the Turkish female guards swung the gates open to admit her, she heard laughter. Three young women were sitting together on the marble edge of a splashing fountain in the centre of the courtyard. For a moment, listening to them, she could pretend that nothing was amiss with the world. Soon she would order the evening meal for herself and her sisters, but first she would go and tell Roshanara what their father had said about defending the fort.

But when she entered Roshanara's apartments on the far side of the courtyard she saw that her sister wasn't there. Neither were her attendants. Perhaps she had gone to the bath house? She was turning to leave when she noticed a piece of folded paper lying on top of her sister's gilded jewellery box. Curious, she picked it up and saw that it was a letter addressed to their father in Roshanara's neat hand and sealed with her sister's emblem of a displaying peac.o.c.k. How odd that Roshanara should write to their father when she could see him whenever she wished ... Jahanara was about to put the letter back when she noticed something else the box's silver clasps were unfastened despite the fact that Roshanara kept her finest rubies and carved emeralds, including a necklace that had belonged to their great-great-grandmother Hamida, in it. How could her attendants have been so careless? She raised the lid and looked inside. The box was empty except for a few silver bangles.

Letting the heavy lid drop back, Jahanara scanned the room. It was not as tidy as usual. A Kashmir shawl was hanging out of a chest and a gold-ta.s.selled silk skirt was crumpled on the floor. Could there have been a robbery? Surely not in the well-guarded haram. But then a thought struck her ... She was being ridiculous and yet ... Almost before she knew what she was doing she broke the seal of the letter she was still holding and as fragments of green wax showered the carpet, read what her sister had written.

My dear father, By the time you read this I will have left the fort to go to my brothers. Please forgive me but I owe my loyalty to those you have wronged and who have the best interests of the empire at heart. I must obey my conscience. May we meet again in happier times.

For a moment Jahanara stood there, scarcely able to take in the meaning of those few lines. Then, refolding the letter, she went to the door and called to an attendant.

'Ask the khawajasara to come at once. Tell her it's urgent.'

Barely two minutes later the haram superintendent appeared, carved ivory staff of office in hand, and anxiety on her normally calm and dignified face. 'Highness?'

'When I came to visit my sister she wasn't here. Instead I found this letter saying she's left the fort.'

'But that's impossible ... quite, quite impossible.'

'I think you're wrong. When did you last see her?'

The khawajasara hesitated. 'Probably when I spoke to her early this morning ... about an incident in the haram ...'

'What incident?'

'I didn't think I needed to trouble you with it, Highness. Yesterday evening one of the haram servants, an elderly latrine cleaner, died. She was a Hindu from the town and her last wish was that her body be taken from the fort and returned to her people for cremation. The poor creature was very agitated at the last and I promised to do my best, though to be honest I doubted it would be possible. Somehow Princess Roshanara learned of the death and summoned me. I was surprised. It was unlike her to take such an interest in a humble member of my staff. She questioned me closely, then said that it was our duty to do our very best to fulfil the woman's dying request. At first light this morning she sent a note to the garrison commander asking him to send a messenger to Prince Murad's camp under flag of truce before the day's bombardment began, carrying a letter she'd already written and sealed appealing for permission for the corpse to be carried from the fort ... at least that's what she claimed was in the letter ...' The khawajasara's voice tailed off. 'Madam, I ...'

'Go on.'

'Our messenger brought back word that at dusk we would be permitted to send the woman's body from the fort in safety. We had everything in readiness and shortly after you had gone to join His Majesty on the battlements four white-clad haram attendants carried the corpse from the fort ...' The khawajasara clapped a hand to her mouth. 'That must be how she managed it. One of the women must have been your sister in disguise. They were all heavily veiled and it never occurred to me to check their ident.i.ties ...'

'Which gate did they use?'

'The same side gate as our messenger had earlier a small one facing the town.'

So that was why she and her father, looking out across the Jumna, had seen nothing, Jahanara thought. When they had been standing talking Roshanara had slipped away ... How could she have done such a thing? And how dare she write about conscience when she plainly didn't have one? But then a fresh worry struck Jahanara.

'What about Princess Gauharara? When did you last see her?'

'She has been in her apartments all day with a bad headache. At least, that's what her attendants said and I'd no reason to disbelieve them ... I promise you I've always taken my responsibilities very seriously.'

But Jahanara wasn't listening. With the khawajasara close behind, Jahanara rushed to her youngest sister's rooms across the courtyard. Gauharara hadn't deserted their father as well, had she? The ivory-clad doors were closed, just as they'd been to Roshanara's quarters. Jahanara's heart was thumping as she pushed them open. The blinds were lowered over the cas.e.m.e.nts and only a few lamps were burning. Some herbal smell camomile perhaps filled the air. Squinting into the gloom Jahanara made out a form lying on a divan, then heard a querulous voice. 'Who is it? My head is splitting.'

The voice sounded like Gauharara's but she must be certain this wasn't yet another trick. Taking an oil lamp from a niche Jahanara went closer. By its flickering light she saw her sister's thin face ... thank goodness.

'Oh, it's you, Jahanara. I thought it might be Satti al-Nisa. I've been asking for her all day. She's the only one who knows how to get rid of these headaches of mine but she hasn't been near me.'

'Madam, I haven't seen Satti al-Nisa since this morning,' said the khawajasara, who had followed Jahanara into the room.

Looking over her shoulder Jahanara signalled to the woman to say nothing further. There was no point in telling Gauharara about Roshanara's flight yet. She turned back to her sister. 'I'm sorry you're not well. I'll see if I can find Satti al-Nisa for you.' Still accompanied by the khawajasara, Jahanara turned into the thickly carpeted, silk-hung corridor at the far end of which was the room Satti al-Nisa had occupied for nearly three decades ever since she had become Mumtaz's confidante. Satti al-Nisa was the one person she could rely on to tell her what was happening, yet she didn't seem to have detected anything of Roshanara's plans. Had her sister simply taken an opportunity when it appeared or had she been planning this for a long time?

As soon as Jahanara pushed aside the curtains and entered her friend's room she saw that something was wrong. Satti al-Nisa was slumped on a silk bolster on the floor, her long silvery-grey hair loose around her. Had she had a seizure? She was still so vigorous it was easy to forget how old she was. Kneeling beside her, Jahanara took Satti al-Nisa's hand in hers. It felt chill, and as she chafed it there was no response ... neither was there any sign of the rise and fall of her breast. No, it couldn't be ... Jahanara's eyes filled with tears as she put her face closer to Satti al-Nisa's. Then she felt or thought she did a faint exhalation of breath against her own skin. Gently releasing Satti al-Nisa's hand, she rose to her feet. 'She's very ill but I think she's still alive ... Fetch help quickly,' she shouted to the khawajasara standing in the doorway.

The woman returned a few minutes later with a purple-robed companion whose forehead was curiously tattooed. 'This is Yasmin. She is from Arabia, where she learned some of the skills of the hakim from her doctor father.'

As Jahanara moved aside to give her room, Yasmin leant over Satti al-Nisa, felt for her pulse and then raised one of her eyelids to reveal a dark, dilated pupil.

'What's wrong with her? Has she had a fit?' Jahanara asked.

'No, Highness. I think she has swallowed opium and is in a very deep drugged sleep.'

'Opium? Are you certain? I have never known her take it.'

Turning, Yasmin picked up a silver cup standing on a low white marble table, dipped in her right forefinger and then licked it. 'The bitter taste of the poppy is unmistakeable, even when mixed, as it has been here, with rose-flavoured sherbet.'

'Someone must have deliberately drugged her. That's the only explanation.' Jahanara could guess who. Roshanara had left as little as possible to chance and given opium to an old woman who had looked after her nearly all her life. 'You're absolutely certain she's in no danger?'

'There should be no lasting harm. She'll be herself again in a few hours, though her head will ache and she will feel weak and sick.'

'Stay with her and let me know at once when she wakes.' With that, Jahanara turned and left the room. How would she break the news of all this to her father? Yet tell him she must and as quickly as possible ... Just a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, she re-joined him.

'What is it? Why have you returned so soon?'

She hesitated, but there was no way to disguise the truth that yet again her father had been betrayed by his own flesh and blood. 'It's Roshanara. She's left the fort and gone to Murad. She wrote you this ... Forgive me. In my haste to find out what had happened I opened it.'

Shah Jahan took Roshanara's note from her and scanned the short message. Then he crumpled the paper and let it fall to the ground.

'It seems she disguised herself as one of a party of mourners carrying the body of a dead Hindu woman out of the fort. She ...'

Shah Jahan held up a hand. 'How she did it is of no consequence,' he said quietly. 'What about Gauharara?'

'She is still here, Father.'

'I am glad.' Shah Jahan said no more but turned away from her so that she couldn't see his face. She had expected him to be very angry but she sensed only a deep sadness in him. She understood it very well, because she felt exactly the same. How had their family become so divided? Could scars like this within any family let alone an imperial one ever truly heal? Probably not.

'Welcome to my camp. It's time you and I celebrated properly now that I've returned to Agra.' Aurangzeb clapped Murad on the back. 'I've arranged for food to be served separately to your escort but we two will eat in my tent.'

'I came as soon as I received your invitation. Roshanara sends greetings. Wasn't it good she found a way of escaping from the fort and joining me?'

'I only wish Jahanara would see sense, but you know what she's like. She sets loyalty to our father above the good of the dynasty ...' Aurangzeb led the way to his command tent, where silk cushions had been spread on the rug-covered floor and a cloth already laid on a low table for the meal to come.

As Murad lay back on some of the cushions, an attendant poured water into a bra.s.s bowl for him to wash his hands. Then another offered wine. 'I thought you'd renounced alcohol, Aurangzeb?'

Aurangzeb smiled. 'I have, in accord with what I believe are the tenets of our religion, but I know you haven't. And as I said, this is a moment to savour and be generous, not to be too strict ... I will not drink, but you should take as much as you wish in celebration.'

'You really believe we've won?'

'Yes. Think about it for a moment. Dara's dead. Who else is there to challenge us? That's certainly what most of the important n.o.bles and va.s.sals seem to think ... even those who fought for Dara are rushing to abase themselves and declare allegiance to us. I've been receiving such messages almost daily and you must have been as well.'

Murad nodded and then said, 'But what about Father and the forces in the fort? He's showing no sign of giving in.'

'He's not the man he was. It can't be long before even he sees reason especially when he hears that I've returned to Agra with my army to reinforce you. And if he doesn't, we'll find a way to compel him to capitulate.'

Murad took a long swallow of wine from the cup and leaned back, beaming. 'You were right all along ... You always said we'd win even when I had doubts even after Samugarh. After all, Dara had our father and most of the imperial armies behind him ...'

'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 a.s.sumed 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.'