Beneath a Marble Sky (20 page)

Nodding at him to follow, I tethered my horse to some scaffolding and walked to an empty part of the garden. Beside the marble pool and its colorful fish I told him what I needed him to do, though I withheld information concerning Aurangzeb’s plan. I required Nizam’s help, since he sampled our meals each night, ensuring the absence of poison. While we ate on special porcelain plates that cracked if they bore poison, the plates were unreliable and hence Nizam tasted each morsel after it had been served. He never cooked but often spent time in the kitchen, overseeing our dinner’s preparation. I told my friend that he was to secretly add rotten meat to Dara’s dish and flavor it heavily with spices. As always, Nizam was quietly delighted to be a participant in the plan. I stressed to him its importance and knew he’d guard the secret closely.

After pointing about the Taj Mahal and pretending to give him instructions, I left for the harem. I hadn’t been within its enshrouding walls for many days, but I suddenly felt an urge to relax, now that my plans were in place. Time’s passage had changed little in the harem, even if the women who had always surrounded me looked older and fatter. How can they sit here, day after day, I wondered, and do nothing but gossip? I greeted these women, who did little to help our sex, with feigned respect. Though their mouths told me how much they’d missed me, their eyes reeked of jealousy and irritation.

I lay on a thick blanket and tried to sleep. The sounds of the harem were unchanged—children playing instruments, birds chirping, women chatting and laughing. Incense wafted upon the air, as well as the scents of opium and musk. Having no men present was agreeable, I admitted. Perhaps I was too harsh on these women, for if the harem were the only place I could escape my husband, I’d be here every morning. And while most of the harem’s inhabitants had no husbands to escape from, they seemed happy to be free of men.

As I fell asleep I wondered if I’d done everything necessary to undertake my plan. Yes, I decided, but clearly the ruse was dangerous. Dara, Allah help me, could get sicker than I wanted. Or Aurangzeb could somehow sniff out the truth. I’d have to be an able actress, for everything depended on me.

After a long rest I moved to a different quarter of the harem to join Father, Dara and Aurangzeb. We gathered for dinner in an ample courtyard. Though we’d rarely been entertained since Mother’s death, Father asked for dancing girls to amuse us this evening. As soon as we knelt on a cashmere carpet, the girls moved opposite us and began to sway. Their torsos were clad, as usual, in transparent silk. Attached to their ankles were silver bells, which sang rhythmically as the girls twisted and shook.

Normally I’d have enjoyed the soothing presence of the dancers but was far too preoccupied with anxious thoughts. We talked about the peace treaty with the Persians and I tried to offer advice. Aurangzeb, naturally, scoffed at my words. I was pleased to receive his scorn, however, for it showed that he suspected nothing. Why my brother wanted war, I could only guess, but clearly he was a man who needed blood.

Aurangzeb and Dara were of similar build, but how different they looked. While Dara’s face was as full as a ripe melon, Aurangzeb’s countenance was lean and hard. Aurangzeb, unlike Father and Dara, only grew a mustache, and his scar stood out plainly. He wore nothing more illustrious than a white tunic, a black sash and a red turban. Attached to his sash was a battered leather scabbard sheathing his scimitar. Typically for him, but uncommon among nobles of all ranks, Aurangzeb bore no jewelry. He seemed to slide into different postures as he spoke, his movements so subtle that I thought he was sitting motionless when, in fact, he was shifting.

On either side of Aurangzeb knelt Father and Dara. Father wore a lime-colored, full-length robe, while Dara’s was black. Father’s robe was embroidered with scores of elephants, and Dara’s bore paintings of cypress trees. Both men, as was the fashion of nobles, wore long pearl necklaces. Pinned to Father’s turban was a walnut-sized ruby in a gold setting. Dara carried a sword with an emerald-studded hilt. He adjusted it often against his side, seeking comfort. I suspected its blade had never tasted blood.

Though I used to wear a profusion of jewels, I did so less and less frequently. They were troublesome when working on the Taj Mahal, and the laborers, who would never touch one such gem in their lives, had looked at me somewhat accusingly. Once I dressed plainly the workers warmed to me faster.

Aurangzeb, refusing a goblet of wine that Father offered, read my thoughts. “Buried all your gold, sister?” I started to speak, but he motioned for my silence. “The Sacred Text says, ‘Surely God does not love the ungrateful who disbelieve.’”

Dara hurried to my defense. “The Qur’an says much. It also asks, ‘Do you see the one who repudiates religion? He is the one who rebuffs the orphan and does not encourage feeding the poor. So woe to those who pray without paying attention to their prayers.’”

Aurangzeb’s face tightened, for he was a zealot and, like all such followers, believed the Qur’an was his instrument alone. “Take care,” he warned, “that you know of what you speak.”

Father, aware of the mounting hostility between his sons, cleared his throat. “We all know the Qur’an well enough. If you both wish to recite its verses, you should stand and face Mecca.” When neither son responded, Father pretended to swat their words away. He then turned to me. “How proceeds the building, Jahanara?”

I sipped my wine, licking my lips so Aurangzeb could tell I enjoyed the forbidden drink. “We finished the—”

“Our money,” Aurangzeb interrupted, “should be spent killing Persians, Deccans, Rajputs and Christians. Not building mausoleums.”

“Money is unlike an egg,” Father retorted irritably. “It can be split many ways. Moreover, would you deny your mother a suitable resting place?”

Though Aurangzeb would feed her corpse to dogs if the mood struck, he replied, “Never. But your architect is overly ambitious.”

“Overambitious? Was Allah overly ambitious when He created Hindustan?”

“Surely you don’t compare that fool to Allah?”

Aurangzeb’s devotion to Islam was like a fever. Worried he might take a disliking to Isa because of Father’s comment, I said, “The architect, Father, is good, but trust me, quite mortal. He relies on the master builders much more than he lets you believe.”

“Truly?” Father asked.

“He’s clever, but lazy.”

Aurangzeb, who I feared would someday claim that the Taj Mahal was Father’s utmost blunder, added, “Worse, he has no vision. None.”

I bit my tongue. If Isa had no vision, Aurangzeb was blind, deaf and dumb. “The vision,” Dara countered, “of an artist can’t be compared with that of a warrior. What vision does it take to kill, to rape, to plunder?”

“Your words tire me,” Aurangzeb pronounced. “They always have.”

Father was about to respond when Nizam, followed by a long-legged servant, entered the room. Each carried two silver trays. After another servant covered the precious carpet with fresh linen, Nizam placed a tray on the floor before Father. He then served Dara. The tall servant set Aurangzeb’s meal in front of him. My tray, substantially smaller, came last. Aurangzeb recited a brief prayer before we ate, asking for strength.

Dinner consisted of raan—leg of lamb cooked in yogurt seasoned with chili powder, coconut milk, ginger and cinnamon. Cucumber slices and buttered squash complemented the meat. Father thanked Nizam, who bowed and turned away. I thought the lamb was spicier than usual, but no one else commented on it. Dara’s meat looked normal, but I’d insisted it be two days old.

“We’ll leave early,” Aurangzeb said. He spoke to Dara but didn’t look at him. “Can you rise, as a soldier does, well before dawn?”

“Roosters rise early, brother, but does a more dull-witted beast exist?”

Such insults were increasingly common between my siblings, and Father took fleeting interest in the exchange. However, my attention was gathered by their words. “We’ll ride far and hard,” Aurangzeb warned. “The poets will be left behind.”

Dara, though as naïve as a virgin bride, was no coward. Nor was he physically weak. “But not I,” he replied, turning from Aurangzeb.

We finished the meal in silence. I suspected Father would have preferred to dine alone with me, as we often did. On such nights we spoke of the Taj Mahal or rekindled memories of Mother. Tonight the tension between Dara and Aurangzeb seemed to taint the air.

After we were served desert, and the servants had left, Father looked at my brothers. “My sons, who are like a mongoose and a cobra in the same pen, put aside your differences, just once, for this journey. The Persians seek peace, and peace they shall have. But only, Aurangzeb, if you go in good faith. And Dara, on military matters, you’ll obey your younger brother.”

Father proceeded to advise them on negotiations, and then they left silently. I noticed that both their plates were empty. I was about to ask Father of his day when he said, “I don’t know what to do with them, my child. I fear there shall be more than words between them.”

I eased closer to him, leaning against the circular cushion bordering the carpet. “But you’re still young and healthy. We won’t have to deal with that problem for many years.”

“Let it be so, please Allah. For what does a father do with two such sons?” He took off his spectacles and, after sipping his wine, whispered, “I love Dara, but is he strong enough to be the Emperor? I have always trained him to take my place, but perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps Aurangzeb, as…vexing as he may be, would prove to be a stronger leader. And with enemies pressing on all sides, we might need a warrior, not a scholar, as our next emperor.”

Dimly aware of the dancing girls and the ringing bells about their feet, I wondered if Father was right. “Who did Mother think would be best?”

He toyed with a heavy ring of silver. “Dara.”

“Then you weren’t mistaken.” I kissed him and said good night, heading for my room. Though I’d soon be awake, I changed into my sleeping gown and sought rest. To ease my mind, which raced and twisted my stomach, I recited my favorite verses of the Qur’an, whispering them until my pulse slowed.

Much later—for the candles in my room had burnt themselves out —an urgent knocking caused me to bolt upright. I hurried to the door. Outside stood Nizam, his eyes bright with fear. “Your brother, my lady! He’s very sick!”

I didn’t bother to dress, nor put on my sandals, but hurried to Dara’s room. His wife, whom I had last seen a moon before, knelt at his bed. So did Father. A chamber pot beside Dara reeked of decay and vomit. Drenched in sweat, he moaned incoherently, gripping his sides.

“What ails him?” I asked worriedly, just as Aurangzeb entered the room.

“I’ve sent for the physician,” Father said, glancing toward the door. “May Allah give his legs strength.”

Dara moaned again and promptly retched. He lacked the will to turn to the chamber pot and hence vomited upon himself. His wife shrieked as I fell to my knees beside him. “What hurts?” I questioned, my heart raging so fiercely that I was certain others could hear it. “Tell me!”

“My…stomach,” he stammered, barely coherent. “It feels afire!”

Hurriedly the old man shuffled into the room, carrying a wool bag and wearing the same oversized turban as before. I moved aside and he wordlessly took my place. “Where…where, my prince, does it ache?” he asked, winded enough that he could hardly string together two words.

“My…my gut.”

The physician looked carefully into the chamber pot. “Your fever, my prince, is it cold or hot?”

“Cold.”

Nodding, the physician inspected his patient. He felt for the strength of his pulse, studied the movements of his eyes. He then pinched Dara’s tongue. “Too dry,” he muttered.

“What’s happening?” Father asked, turning from Mecca to the physician.

The old man considered his prognosis. “Too early to tell, my lord. Perhaps malaria. Perhaps some other wretched fever.” He paused, leaning to withdraw some herbs from his bag. “I require tea,” he said to no one in particular.

Nizam left instantly. Aurangzeb stepped closer to his brother, his face seemingly compassionate. “What can be done?”

“The herbs will help with the fever, my prince. He may be fine in a few days. It may take a week.” The physician wiped his brow in apparent concern. “But if the fever doesn’t abate, he could…he may leave us.”

Father groaned at this news and Dara’s wife sobbed. I draped a blanket over my brother’s writhing form. “Should he eat or drink?” I asked, genuinely concerned, guilt rising in my blood.

“No food, my lady. But much of my tea. He’ll drink it all night, no matter if he throws it up or gulps it down.” The old man rose. “But you should all leave. If it’s a fever, the infected air could steal into your lungs. I’ll stay with him.”

“Please,” I begged, “please let me help.”

“Not tonight,” Father replied, taking charge of the situation. “The physician shall stay. The rest of us will return to our rooms.”

“I want to—”

“Go, child!”

“Please.”

“Go!”

We cleared the room as one, and I promptly slammed my door shut. My plan, even if unfolding as it should, was all too real. I wanted Dara’s pain, which far surpassed my intentions, to stop. Perhaps Nizam had given him too much meat! How could I, who knew nothing of medicine, have expected to poison him just right?