Beneath a Marble Sky Page 2

  Beauty was revered within the harem, and most women competed to invent new clothing trends. The most fashionable ladies wore sections of peacock feathers or garlands of flowers in their hair. Others preferred colorful veils pinned atop their heads and falling back upon their shoulders. These veils were typically silk, though in cooler months women might wear pashmina, woven from the purest and most refined of cashmere fibers.

  Eunuchs and servants dressed in simple tunics and robes. Standing next to Mother was her slave, Nizam. Though he’d been her attendant for almost a hundred moons, I had only recently learned his tale, which belied his gentle disposition. For when Nizam was only five, a Persian warlord slew his parents and seized him. Boys taken as slaves were usually castrated, but the warlord wanted his underlings someday to fight and was unwilling to stunt their growth with the gelding knife. Nonetheless, he ensured Nizam never pursued women by removing a portion of his manhood that Mother wouldn’t describe to me.

  For several years thereafter Nizam had lived in a sprawling tent, serving the warlord’s women. When he pleased them, he was fed. When he failed to accede to their demands, he was beaten. His fate might have been forever unchanged, but praise Allah, our forces had overrun the Persians. Glimpsing Nizam’s bruised face, Father plucked him from the captured slaves. And though he became Mother’s slave, she cared for his wounds and treated him kindly.

  Nizam had seen fifteen summers. Two years his junior, I was wise enough only to realize what little I knew of the world. I understood some things, such as my love for my parents, and their adoration for each other. The latter was easy, as Mother was often at Father’s side, regardless of whether at war abroad or at court conducting the Empire’s affairs. Whenever possible, my brothers and I accompanied her, for Mother wanted us to witness our father’s kingship.

  Of my four brothers, Dara had always been kindest to me. He was just a year older and we were closer than many women in the harem thought appropriate. Setting my yogurt aside, I moved nearer to him. “Can you help me?” I asked, handing him an intricate bamboo cage the size of Father’s fist.

  He looked up, pausing from his calligraphy. “You distract me too much, Jahanara,” he said. “Father will be unhappy with my work.”

  “Unhappy with you? That I’ve never seen.”

  Dara shrugged my words aside, taking the cage. Inside perched a trio of crickets, which often sang to me at night. Some bamboo at the top of the cage had cracked, and I feared that my crickets would escape.

  “How did it break?” he asked.

  “It’s old.”

  He winked, a seemingly effortless action I wished I could duplicate. “You’d better be more careful with your pets. I wouldn’t like to step on them.” I started to speak, but Dara continued, “After all, Hindus believe we can be reincarnated into such creatures.”

  I failed to see how I might become a cricket, but stayed silent. Dara knew much more about such subjects. Mesmerized by the dexterity of his hands, I watched him wind a silk thread about the splintered bamboo. In the time it would have taken me to draft a brief letter, he finished.

  “Would you like to be a cricket?” he wondered.

  Dara took such thoughts seriously, so I didn’t comment on the boredom a cricket must endure. “Perhaps if I lived in a banyan tree, where I might explore.”

  “What about in your cage? Would the views be as interesting?”

  “You think I should free them?”

  “Do whatever you want,” he replied, and then tugged affectionately at my hair. “Which I know you will.”

  As much as I enjoyed the crickets’ music, I realized Dara was right. For I lived in a cage of sorts, and few vistas existed indeed. “Would they prefer trees to grass?” I asked.

  “Trees, I believe,” he said, returning to his studies.

  I’ll leave them on a high branch, I thought, where no cats or lizards can vex them. While I debated which tree in the harem might make the best home, I noticed Aurangzeb had been watching us. The third of my four brothers, Aurangzeb was often sullen and remote. When our eyes met, he looked away. After hanging my cage from a teak post, I walked over and knelt on the carpet next to him. “Want to play a game?” I asked, for I was weary of books.

  Aurangzeb snickered. “Games are for girls.”

  “You could teach me polo.”

  His laugh was high-pitched, reminding me of a squealing pig. “Polo?” he echoed scornfully, his delicate face tightening.

  “I’d like to learn—”

  “Only men play polo.”

  Though Aurangzeb was merely eleven, I held my tongue. For a moment, at least. “Then why do you play?” I asked innocently.

  His lips clamped shut and he pounced on me, digging his knees into my chest. I knew he wanted me to whimper and plead, so I struggled to remain silent, scratching at his legs. Barely stronger than he, I succeeded in knocking him backward. Aurangzeb flung himself at me again.

  “Dara!” I cried, suddenly fearful of Aurangzeb’s temper.

  My older brother moved swiftly to intervene, but before he could reach us, Nizam, who despite his youth seemed infinitely stronger, grabbed us each by the neck.

  “Cease your foolishness!” Mother commanded tersely. She stood behind Nizam, arms clasped. “The harem is a place for study and relaxation, and is hardly fit for a brawl. If fighting is what you crave, find yourself a pile of mud outside.”

  “But she—”

  Mother’s glare silenced Aurangzeb. “Obviously, you both need a little sun. Shall we surprise your father?”

  Before we could utter a word, she motioned for Nizam to free us. As he did so, she exchanged her shawl for a copper-colored robe, gathering it about her shirt and skirt with a purple sash. Bidding farewell to her friends, Mother led us from the room and proceeded down an adjacent alley. Her anger with me was apparent, for I had let Aurangzeb untether my emotions, a break of etiquette. To be truthful, Mother scorned such rules more than I did, but by wrestling Aurangzeb I’d flaunted them openly, giving no thought to my actions. Mother, on the contrary, disregarded rules only to serve a higher purpose.

  A pair of guards opened the harem gates as we approached. Behind Mother and Nizam were my other brothers, Shah and Murad; Dara, Aurangzeb and I followed separately. Beyond the harem, the Red Fort fell into a riot of activity. We shared the cobbled streets with hordes of traders, administrators, warriors and priests. Almost everyone seemed in a hurry, darting into shops and mosques, stables and barracks. Far above us on the upper level, pavilions teemed with nobles and their servants.

  The Red Fort nestles on the Yamuna. Encircled by sandstone walls fifty paces high and six paces thick, the fortress was the seat of my father’s empire. Upon its flagstones strode nobles and slaves alike. Formations of soldiers drilled incessantly in its courtyards, while several hundred warriors stood atop the citadel’s parapets. Cannons projected from the crenelated walls.

  Hindus and Muslims bustled about, for under Father’s rule the Red Fort sheltered both sets of people. Though we Muslims ruled Hindustan, we comprised a minority of the populace. Our position was thus somewhat precarious. As Father often maintained, only by treating Hindus with respect could we retain control.

  I observed those of the other faith as we hurried past. Their women wore saris—single lengths of cotton or silk wrapped about the body until only hands and face remained unconcealed. Muslim women’s robes were stitched and our outfits consisted of multiple pieces.

  All of us wore sandals, and mine clopped my heels ceaselessly as I followed Mother. Piles of elephant and camel dung littered the way, and I had to eye the flagstones carefully. Normally, Nizam walked near me, but today, probably because of my fight, he remained by Mother. Though Nizam was often the victim of Aurangzeb’s cruel tricks and might secretly agree with me about my brother’s skills in polo,
he was wise enough to guard his feelings.

  Trudging through the Red Fort was like being a mouse on a ship. There were endless places to venture, accessed by twisting walkways and far-reaching stairs. Sandstone walls, clad with glazed tile, were often so high that I was unable to see what lay beyond them. Occasionally I would catch glimpses of towers and ramparts which shouldered warriors and rippling red banners.

  I might have become lost, if not for the footsteps of Mother. Despite her purposeful gait, she exchanged greetings with many she passed. People often acted surprised when the Empress returned their compliments. But they shouldn’t have—Mother was known throughout the land as one who dropped pearls into the tins of crippled beggars, or found homes for orphans. It seemed to me that much of Mother’s happiness stemmed from helping those whom even commoners passed with disdain. A few times in the harem I had sipped from this cup of happiness when I was able to aid someone. The smiles of those I assisted warmed me.

  Nodding to a pair of imperial guards, Mother paused as they opened a teak door leading into a massive structure, a sprawling room called the Diwan-i Am, the Hall of Public Audience. This chamber was much like our harem in its comforts and décor but even more splendid. The room’s ceiling was covered with beaten silver, and its decorated walls enclosed a crowd of well-dressed nobles and warriors.

  In the Diwan-i Am’s center, atop his Peacock Throne, was Father. The throne was a raised dais bearing a cashmere carpet and a sizable red cushion embroidered with golden stars. Father always knelt on the cushion. Around him, twelve pillars supported the canopy. The pillars were inlaid with perfect pearls and the canopy was topped by a golden peacock. Sapphires coated its tail.

  Gathered immediately below and in front of the Peacock Throne were high-ranking nobles. These mustached or bearded men wore silk tunics and strings of pearls. Several nobles carried muskets, while others boasted swords encased in jeweled scabbards. On either side of this assembly, servants used long poles topped with tear-shaped fans to cool Father and his audience.

  More removed from the Peacock Throne, separated from the nobles by a gilded balustrade, stood officers of the army. A further balustrade, this one silver, divided these figures from several score of foot soldiers and servants, relegated to positions most distant from Father. Nobles, officers and soldiers wore tunics that fell below their knees and covered loose-fitting trousers. The jamas and paijamas were of brightly colored cotton or silk tightened about the waist by a sash.

  As we entered the room, heads turned to regard Mother and shoulders straightened at her sight. I smiled at the reaction. Though emeralds, rubies and diamonds graced every spot of Father’s throne, in Mother’s presence men forgot such unimaginable wealth.

  Quite simply, she was an orchid placed within a bouquet of poppies. She wore her robe tight enough to boast of the slightness of her body, which lacked none of a larger woman’s curves. Rubies were pinned to her raven locks; her ears were contoured with pearls, and the lobes beneath carried emeralds set in silver. A golden hoop graced her nose. A delicate diamond necklace fell to just above her navel, and saphire bracelets adorned her wrists. Like many noblewomen, she wore a miniature mirror on her forefinger so she could keep herself in order.

  Mother’s face never ceased to capture people despite its familiarity. Her bronze skin was soft and flawless, her lips sculpted. Her walnut-colored eyes were rounder than most of our people’s, and her nose seemed somehow more tapered. If compared to her I knew I’d never be beautiful. My teeth were less straight, my eyes closer together. Yet we had the same skin and the bodies of the same ancestors. My brothers mixed her traits with those of our more average-looking father. The boys were slightly small for their ages, with thick hair and wiry muscles.

  “You honor us with your presence,” Father announced, rising. Broad in the shoulders as well as the waist, Father stepped down from the dais looking extremely pleased to see us. He wore a yellow tunic, a black sash and a crimson turban. His jewels were as plentiful as Mother’s, though excepting a pearl necklace and a few rings, they were fastened to his garments.

  Father said nothing of his children’s arrival but smiled at each of us. I found comfort in his bearded face, which was round and fleshy. His nose had been broken long ago, and his chin was rather expansive. “You remind me, Arjumand, that this morning’s business should end, for don’t even leopards rest every now and then?”

  From our left emerged a low voice. “Forgive my impertinence, my lord, but one matter can’t idle.”

  “And what is that, Lord Babur?”

  “A serious subject, with serious consequences.”

  I’d heard of Lord Babur from Mother and recalled him to be a powerful noble, though held in little esteem by my parents. A squat man, Babur was dressed in a silk tunic with lime and ivory stripes. A sword hung from his side. As was customary when seeking an audience with the Emperor, Babur touched his right hand to the ground. He then produced a gift that was proportional in value to his rank, as protocol dictated. I was close enough to Babur to see him hand one of Father’s servants a decorative quill designed to compliment a turban. Jade and lapis beset the piece. The ritual complete, Babur nodded to his servants, who then pulled an old man to his feet. He was bound in chains, and his face was a mask of dried blood.

  “What has been done to this man?” Father demanded.

  “It’s not what has been done to him, my lord, but what has been done to me.” When Father kept silent, Babur continued, “This criminal owns a petty piece of land next to my fields. As petty as a fly on a wall. When his crops failed, he turned to what came most naturally to him. Thievery, that is. My guards caught him pilfering our storehouse, a capital crime.”

  I glanced toward the corner of the room, where two muscle-bound executioners stood motionlessly. A pair of waist-high wood blocks rested between them on a colossal slab of granite. The stone was grooved so that blood would drain into awaiting ewers. The blocks were stained and gouged from numerous sword strokes. Though Father was always reluctant to order a man’s death, sometimes he had no recourse. Today he must have been fortunate, for the executioners’ blades were bright and clean.

  Father moved toward the accused, regarding him for a moment before asking, “Your name?”

  The man, who must have seen many, many seasons in his field, lowered his head. “Ismail, my lord.”

  “A Persian name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Well, Ismail, what do you have to say for your crime, if indeed, you committed one?”

  The man swayed, licking his lips nervously. “My lord, my sons had the honor of warring for you. My boys were proud to fight under your banner. They served you well, and they…my lord, I hear they died as men.”

  “Then the honor is mine.”

  “Thank you, my lord, thank you.”

  “But now, Ismail, you must speak against the charge.”

  “My lord, they were my only sons.” The farmer waved a fly from his bloody nose. Sweat or perhaps tears glistened upon his cheeks. “Without them, I couldn’t harvest my crops. My rice rotted to pulp. It still stands in my fields—”

  “Laziness doesn’t justify thievery.”

  “Be patient, Lord Babur,” Father said. “Our laws entitle him to speak.”

  When the Emperor pointed at him, the old man cleared his throat. “My wife and I were starving, my lord. Starving night and day. I asked Lord Babur for food, but when he refused, I stole a sack of rice.”

  “So his words are true?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Father returned to his Peacock Throne. He seemed to wander in thought as he stared at the underside of its canopy, which was inlaid with jewels arranged to resemble orchids. “The law calls for your death,” he finally said. “But I’ve no desire to see a man executed who gave fine sons to the Empire. How
can such a man be killed for a sack of rice?”

  “He broke—”

  “I’d rather, Lord Babur, pose the question to my wife, than to one so involved with the matter.”

  Around the room, nobles whispered excitedly. Though almost all believed women had no minds for such issues, each was aware that the Emperor often asked his wife for advice. Despite being unversed in politics, I understood that Mother stood in a difficult position. She’d never seek the farmer’s execution but could hardly offend a noble such as Babur.

  Mother walked over to the farmer, beckoning me to follow, surprising me with her request. He bowed deeply to us. “Take his hands, Jahanara,” she said. “What do they feel like?”

  The nobles’ whispers increased at her question. Yet I didn’t look to our audience, but to the old man. When he raised his hands before me, I held them in my own, tracing his palms with my jeweled fingers. “They’re hard, Mother,” I replied, my heart pounding mightily. “As hard as teak.”

  “The hands of a thief or a laborer?”

  “A farmer, surely.”

  Babur bristled but didn’t dare interfere. Mother smiled at me before turning to her husband. “My recommendation is simple, my lord. Ismail shall forfeit his land but not his life. He’ll sign a deed ceding his farm to Lord Babur.” The accused slumped, for by relinquishing his farm he’d ensure himself a life of destitution and beggary. However, Mother was not finished. “But, my gardens wilt these days, and I need someone with experience in such matters to rescue them. Could you be that someone, Ismail?”

  The farmer fell to his knees. “Truly I am, my lady. Truly.”

  “Then I’ve found my gardener.”

  “And my wife?”

  Mother laughed unreservedly, as if only I were present. “She’ll join you in the Red Fort, of course, for what man could think straight without his wife’s advice?” When she winked at the Emperor, a few nobles, despite their feelings, smiled.