Returning home after the Chatgaon jaunt, quelling the Magh-Company uprising, fighting off the Marathas and discovering that his daughter was still alive, Shayista felt dishevelled. He hoped to stretch out on a silk cushion with a pipe to reflect on the events but such luxury was not his. The fortress was bustling with guests. A cluster of elephants, saddled horses and turbaned soldiers idled by the gates. His guards explained there was a celebration underway.
The courtyard was lavishly dressed for a party. An elegant pavilion had been constructed. The evening’s theme was red roses. A shamiana 0f brocaded silk canopied a structure of bamboo wrapped in golden thread. Along the edges, cane trellises supported vines of roses. Strands of rose buds fell from silk clutches pinned on top. Candles in clay bowls dotted the walkways. A zephyr carried the pleasing fragrance of hasna henas and incense.
‘What’s this about?’ Shayista asked.
‘Sire,’ said Dhand. ‘Her Ladyship has invited guests.’
A mammoth eunuch dressed in a starched white kurta and red cummerbund offered Shayista and Dhand a drink. Shayista accepted. Dhand declined. A bearer with spiced kebabs and fried pakoras had his interest. A tray of figs and dried apricots made its way around. Shayista could smell mutton on the grill. The sharab quenched his thirst. He needed another glass to subdue the battled body aches.
‘There you are, Jahanapana,’ said Nasim, peeking out from behind a brocaded purdah. Her heavily embroidered golden churidaar murmured on the grass. Her ankle bells jingled. Her earrings tinkled. Her bangles jangled. Her nose ring glittered.
‘My Lord, please wear this,’ she said, thrusting a white turban into his hands. A huge heron feather secured with a sapphire jewel flapped in his face, its height symbolic of his status in the Mughal hierarchy.
‘No, thanks,’ said Shayista.
Nasim pouted. ‘You haven’t worn it in forty years. I gave it to you when Abul Fateh was born.’
‘How kind you are,’ said Shayista, compelled to don the headgear.
‘Try this.’ She shoved a halva towards him.
He tried to say ‘no thanks’ but she took the parting of his lips as an opportunity to stuff the sweet into his mouth. It tasted sickeningly syrupy.
After swanning about for a while, Nasim fluttered off.
Shayista lifted his chin high and greeted his guests. Sycophantic noblemen scrambled to taslim when they saw him. After a round of obligatory mingling, Shayista asked the Mir-e-Tazuk to commence the festivities.
The musicians climbed onto the dais and sat upon Persian carpets, each with an instrument mastered to perfection: a bashi, a tabla, a sitar and a voice. Behind them, the dancers came on stage. Shayista settled down to enjoy the performance when Dhand called him aside.
‘Sire, I must warn you,’ he said. ‘There is a traitor among us.’
‘You told me.’
‘No, I mean, now. Right here, at this lively gathering. Zamindar Shobha Singh.’
Shayista raised his eyebrow.
‘He sells saltpetre to the English.’
Shayista glowered. Selling his gunpowder to arm his enemies? Rage fired through his veins.
‘Her Ladyship invited him,’ said Dhand.
Shayista ground his teeth, ready to rip the zamindar apart.
Dhand placed a restraining hand on his chest. ‘Sire, he has eaten your salt.’
Shayista snarled but he could not disregard the rules of hospitality. He would not kill a guest in his own home. Instead, he marched over to the loathsome renegade and demanded, ‘Shobha Singh, why are you here?’
The dirty double-crosser lay reclined on a cushion, sipping tamarind serbet. ‘Subedar, salaam. How lovely to see you,’ he said languidly, no intention to bow.
‘You are not welcome here,’ said Shayista. ‘Leave.’
Nasim Banu fluttered to the scene to interfere but Shayista would have none of it.
Shobha bristled. ‘Would you slight me twice?’
‘Leave!’ Shayista thundered.
Shobha rose to his feat, a frosty coat of indignity wrapped around his anger, and walked out, much to Nasim Banu’s dismay. Outside, his retinue of mercenaries waited.
As soon as they left, Shayista excused himself from the party. He donned chain mail, armed himself and summoned fifty of his elite guards. They gathered around a mound of earth next to the South Gate of the fortress.
When the mound was shovelled aside, a rusty door was revealed. The guards gasped and cleared the entrance of debris. The door was pried open to unveil a deep tunnel.
The tunnel was a carefully guarded secret that ran for nearly a mile below the Buriganga and emerged on the other side of the river. It was built as an escape route.
With lanterns, walking single file, Shayista marched his men into the the gaping mouth of uncertainty. It was damp but well dug out. There was room to stand and walk. They could hear the mighty river above. They were grateful for the darkness which concealed the primordial creatures slithering in the subterranean earth around them.
The soldiers reached the opening at the far end of the river an hour later and waited to waylay the zamindar.
‘Not before my signal!’ whispered Shayista. He was eager to attack. The warning was as much for his men as himself. A methodical exercise of draconian force was necessary to run an empire. Shobha had gone too far and Shayista was keen to make an example of him. ‘Leave the zamindar to me!’
The mansabdars stilled their hearts in preparation for battle. Shobha and his men approached noisily in the distance, careless, unaware of the danger.
Shayista waited, patiently manipulating his breath to prime his body. He felt the combustible energy escalating within him. When he could see Shobha’s eyes, he gave the command. ‘Attack!’
Hacking, slicing, smashing like a madman, Shayista ploughed into the zamindar’s force. The insurgents were trained Afghani mercenaries, armed with spears, pikes, karuds and chaqus. They fought with ferocious desperation but they were caught by surprise. The charging demon that bore into them, caring little about whether they lived or died, had killed half of them before they even registered the trouble.
Within minutes, the mercenaries’ ranks broke and the Mughals were among them, a solid phalanx of deadly soldiers disciplined with thousands of hours of battle training. The carnage that followed did not last long.
The zamindar was left sprawled in the middle of the fallen mercenaries. His horse had bolted throwing him on the ground. He stood up groaning under the weight of the weapons he was armed with as Shayista approached.
‘Sire, don’t kill me! It is not my fault. I was born to this Destiny,’ he said. He watched Shayista to see his reaction.
‘Give me one reason why I should let you live?’ thundered Shayista.
‘Because you have a heart that is not made of steel?’ said Shobha. His lips stretched in cunning exultation.
The words stung. Shayista recalled his promise to Champa. He set aside his urge to take the zamindar’s head off with one swing of Azdahar. ‘I will let you fight for your life,’ he said. ‘A duel to death.’
A malicious grin lit Shobha’s face. He felt sure he could take his opponent. He had been training hard.
Shobha launched his garhiya javelin for an early kill. It sliced through the air expertly but Shayista deflected it with his shield. Shobha yanked the gurz from his belt and swung it over his head in a circle three times before throwing the spiked-ball at Shayista. Launched with such force, if this struck it would be sure to kill.
Shayista ducked the ball and entwined its chain around his katara. The gurz was heavy and though Shobha was strong, Shayista managed to use its impetus to fling him to the ground, wrenching it out of his grip.
Two weapons down, Shobha did not waste a second. Slung over his back was a vicious battle axe. Double headed, on one side a broad blade, on the other, a lethal point: a classic Tabar Zaghnol. With a battle cry, Shobha swung it at Shayista.
Shayista leapt out of the way and thrust his katara into Shobha’s arm. He screamed and dropped the zaghnol. He recoiled and drew a seven-bladed sword with a thick center blade, six jagged blades branching off it.
Shayista deflected the savage potential of its first swipe and circled in towards Shobha. When close enough, Shayista lunged, thrusting Azdahar at Shobha’s midsection. The lunging foot landed on warm horse dung and Shayista slipped. He landed on his right knee to stop from losing balance. The zamindar stepped back with alacrity. Shayista’s blade grazed his chain mail without injuring him and arced away.
This was an opportunity for the zamindar to deal a killing blow. Gripping the seven-bladed sword with both hands, he swung as far back as he could and lashed out. The extra second he took to gain momentum gave Shayista time to position himself.
Shayista felt the clanging blow on his shield. His left arm went numb but the shield did not break in half. Held at an angle, balanced on his knee, the shield warded off the blow and sent the heavy sword sliding away across it.
Shayista jumped to his feet and struck with Azdahar, a slashing blow that cut across the zamindar’s chest.
‘I surrender!’ the zamindar squealed, gripping his wound, falling to the ground.
Shayista stepped close. ‘If I ever see you again, I will kill you. Now run.’