Beneath a Marble Sky (29 page)

A series of coughs wracked him. I held his arm as he shuddered, wishing I could somehow ease his pain. “Perhaps,” he stammered, “if we should…be granted victory, I’ll send you far away. I need a skilled politician in Varanasi. If you were to go there, with Arjumand, your shadow…your shadow might follow.”

“My shadow?”

“Isn’t he your shadow? Don’t you live as one?”

“Sometimes.”

“Your mother and I…would speak without talking, love without touching.” He grunted, and I wiped more sweat from his brow. “She was my…no, I was her shadow.”

Despite my fear for him and the looming battle, I tried to smile. “Yes, you were, Father. It was never the opposite.”

“Never?”

“Get well, Father,” I said, rising. “For we’ve much to talk about.”

“Truly…never?”

I smiled and kissed his brow, bidding him farewell. The midday meal was approaching and I headed for the royal kitchen. Years had passed since Ladli labored within its walls, yet out of habit I looked for her. As I entered the warm room, spice-covered servants offered me delicacies. I filled a basket with food, for I wanted to visit the harem and have lunch with Arjumand, who was now old enough to study. About to leave the kitchen, I paused as a woman I’d known since childhood placed a burnt serving of naan in my basket. I started to ask why she’d give me ruined bread when I noticed a piece of folded paper pressed against it.

Heart sputtering, I thanked her and walked outside. When certain no one could see me, I opened the paper. “I rest with your mother,” it said. Realizing that Ladli must have news, I found a horse and hurried toward the Taj Mahal. For once, the mausoleum didn’t charm me to stillness. I resisted its majesty as I dismounted and, hoping to avoid Isa, strode to the underground passageway. Soon this corridor would be sealed off forever, but today it still offered a recessed door. I always carried keys I might need, and thus opened it swiftly. I left it slightly ajar before stepping inside. Soon a veiled woman, clad like a Persian, entered. Many women in Agra enjoyed anonymity by dressing this way, and thus Ladli could protect her identity without attracting too much attention. I shut and bolted the door behind her. Wordlessly we walked down the corridor, came to another room, entered and secured it.

Ladli pulled off her veil and hugged me tightly. “He plans to kill you!” she said frantically. “He’s going to do it soon and—”

“Slow down, my friend,” I replied, even as my chest tightened and my lungs struggled to draw air. “Is Aurangzeb—”

“He’s sent someone, the half-wit, I think, to violate then kill you!”

“My death…it isn’t enough?”

She squeezed my arm. “May Shiva geld him before I—he wants you to suffer. He wants your ears as proo
f
!”

I covered my ears instinctively. My legs shook, and I swayed unsteadily, collapsing against a dusty wall. “But I saved him,” I said weakly.

“That fornicator of lies denies it! He says you placed the cobra in his room!”

Pinching my thighs, I tried to clear my reeling mind. “But when, Ladli? When will it happen?”

“Soon! I think tonight. You must take Arjumand and—”

“Arjumand?”

“Do you think anyone’s safe, my sister?”

“I must go for her. I must protect her.”

“Then go.”

I forced myself to stand, taking in Ladli’s face with my gaze. “How blessed I am to have you!”

“Go, Jahanara!”

My instincts screamed at me to run, but I resisted. “But why aren’t you with him?”

“He sent many of us ahead to spy! He’s not a day behind!”

My thoughts were still scattered and I pinched myself again. “But then you must give him something. Tell him…no, send a messenger to him with a note saying…a note that says we won’t defend the Red Fort but will attack him to the north. Say there’s talk of our cavalry heading south to enlist the aid of the Deccans.”

“Is it true?”

“No. But Aurangzeb’s spies will think it is. And he’ll deem us weaker than we are.”

She hugged me fiercely. “Don’t let him find you, Jahanara. He hates you. He hates you so much.”

Suddenly I wanted to cry on her shoulder, for I wished that we were young again, whispering of boys and love instead of battle and hate. “I know,” I said sadly. “He has for a long time. But he hates Hindus no less. So be careful, Ladli. He could turn against you.”

“I’ve never seen a piglet turn against a tiger.”

Her words were bold, but her face said otherwise. “May Krishna protect you,” I said, for Ladli adored the Hindu god of war and love. “Pray to him, my friend, for we’ll surely need his help.”

We parted, and as I hurried to my horse I wondered if I’d see her again. Only if Aurangzeb were slain would we be together. Alas, how much of a coward I was! For surely I should have let that cobra wet its fangs with his blood!

As I stepped into the harem I tried to appear calm. But when I couldn’t find Arjumand, my worry turned into something much worse, a fear that stabbed deeply into my gut. I stumbled outside, and, kicking off my sandals, ran toward her room in the royal chambers. Staircases fled beneath me. Hallways twisted backward. When I threw open her door, her room was empty.

“Arjumand!” I cried, hurrying to my quarters, frantic with urgency. I fumbled at the doorknob and flung open the heavy teak door. Arjumand whirled when I entered. She had my secret closet open and wore my nicest robe. Slamming the door shut, I rushed to grab her.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I only wanted to—”

“Sssh!” I said, sweeping her up in my arms. I couldn’t contain my tears and my child looked at me with confusion. “I could never lose you,” I muttered. “Please, Allah, please let it never happen.”

“Why are you crying?” she asked.

How I wanted that innocence to remain on her face forever. “We must go,” I said. Nearby, a jeweled dagger used for unsealing letters rested on my desk. Snatching it, I headed back to the hallway. “Follow me closely, Arjumand,” I said, opening the door and then screaming with fright when I saw Balkhi before me. He grinned wickedly, reaching for me. Without hesitating, without a thought, I brought the dagger up and across, slashing at his face. I was quick, and my blade opened up the skin of his cheek, cutting so deeply that it struck bone. He howled in pain. As he threw up his arms I managed to slam the door shut, bolting it in place.

“The closet, Arjumand!” I shouted. “Run through the closet!”

My priceless daughter rarely disobeyed me, and she didn’t now. I grabbed a candle, but realizing the darkness would trouble him more than me, I threw the candle against a wall. Arjumand was already within the robes.

“Where do I go?” she wailed.

“Ahead! Ahead and down the stairs! It will be dark, child, but go forward! Go!” We hurried through the garments and came to the stairs. Behind us, I heard Balkhi hurl himself against the door, which groaned and splintered beneath his onslaught. “Hurry, Arjumand!”

The stairs were dimly lit at first, then we entered a tomb of total blackness. We twisted downward, stumbling on our long robes. A distant crash reverberated, and Balkhi roared as he broke into the room. He’d soon be upon us. I stumbled going down the last few stairs and fell hard on my shoulder. Wind was knocked from my chest and I struggled to breathe. “Run…forward,” I stammered. “But when you come to a stone…don’t touch it. Step over it.” I felt for my dagger but, to my dismay, couldn’t find it.

“Come, Mother! Take my hand! Please take my hand!”

Balkhi was on the steps above me. Groaning, I rose unsteadily to my feet. The passageway was unmercifully black, and I reached out blindly until I found her grasp. “Follow me,” I said, feeling the walls with my free hand. “And be silent.” We did our best to hurry, even wading through the impenetrable darkness. We’d taken less than thirty stumbling paces when a shout erupted behind us.

“Know what I’ll do to you?” he bellowed.

“Hurry,” I whispered, dragging her. She stepped on my robe and we fell as one.

“I’ll cut your—”

“Run!” I yelled, hating his words, wanting to save her from them.

“And you’ll watch as I—”

“Run, Arjumand!”

“—your daughter.”

His voice was stronger now, and I sensed him right behind me. If I still had the dagger, I’d have thrown myself against him. But I had no such weapon and all I could think to do was scream for Isa. I screamed his name again and again, screamed until pain exploded within my knees as I ran headlong into the stone block. My instinct was to double over, but then, magically, my mind cleared. Wailing in effort, I reached behind me, grabbed Arjumand, and with Nizam’s strength heaved her over the stone. She cried out, but I had no ears for her, because I felt him then, right behind me.

His fingers clutched at my robe.

I threw myself over the block, and Balkhi grunted as he smashed into it. My legs hurt too much to stand and so I dragged myself away from him. Arjumand sobbed, pulling me forward. “Leave me!” I cried, yet she continued to pull.

“Who should I cut first, woman?” Balkhi hissed. “You or my plaything?”

I saw a strike of flint, a spark, a flicker of light, then a flaming cloth. He burned his shirt, holding it alight with a curved dagger. “Close your eyes, Arjumand,” I warned, for surely she shouldn’t see this devil. He was monstrous, and his face, cleaved open by my blade, was a mask of blood and fury. He stood on the opposite side of the stone, no more than ten paces away. “Pray, my child,” I whispered.

“For what?” he mocked, moving forward, his shoulders brushing the walls. “A quick death, a—”

“Pray that it works,” I said, as he stepped on the stone.

Balkhi paused, looking down. His eyes bulged. His mouth opened. But time existed for nothing else. The block of granite, with him perched atop it, dropped through the floor like a needle through silk. The corridor buckled. It groaned. Balkhi shrieked from somewhere below as the floor and ceiling cascaded upon him.

I dragged Arjumand away from the howling rock. The corridor, black again, was a tempest of noise, so violent that I thought my ears might burst. Dust poured into my throat and lungs. We were both choking, dying perhaps. I felt only pain and horror.

Then appeared a light, or perhaps a halo that the Christians spoke of. For a turbaned head materialized between my blinks. The apparition beneath this halo threw itself above us, protecting us. And a hand, a fierce hand that might have been stone, grabbed my robe and pulled me back. It was the same hand that had shaped the Taj Mahal, the same hand that had so loved my body.

For Isa, finally, had arrived.

“T
here, Jahanara
,” he whispered, wiping the blood from my knees with a wet rag. I winced at the sting, squeezing Arjumand tighter. Our daughter, still shuddering and crying, sat beside me. Praise Allah, she was physically unhurt, though I feared that memories of Balkhi would haunt her forever.

“He’s gone, Arjumand,” I said softly, “and shall never return.”

“He was going to do those things,” she sobbed.

I saw Isa’s face tighten, and felt his silent rage. “Yes, my child,” I replied. “But that wasn’t our fate. Nor will it ever be.”

“Why not?”

“I’m proud of you,” I said, pulling her closer. “You were quite a brave young woman.”

“No, no, no.”

“But it’s true. He might have been stronger, but we were braver.” Our daughter shook her head, sobbing. It pained me to see her so upset. Her distress was unjust, for life was long and ample time lay ahead for woe. I had always tried to protect her from the pains that I’d endured. But how utterly I had failed. Desperate to ease her suffering, I hugged her tightly. My body trembled no less than hers. I cried with her.

Isa’s eyes also glistened as he held us. His scalp still bled from where a stone had cut him, bandaged crudely beneath his turban. He seemed to feel no pain, gripping us for so long that my arms tingled. There was warmth and security and love in his embrace.

As the night ebbed, we did our best to soothe Arjumand. We whispered reassurances. We spoke of her future. And finally, praise Allah, her tears subsided. While watching her emotions settle, I noticed how she reacted to Isa’s embrace. She studied his hand as he stroked her arm. She eased closer to him. And she realized, I think, that his tears were on her behalf. It occurred to me then that our daughter had never been so comforted by a man. Certainly, Father had hugged her. But his affections, as important and heartfelt as they were, lacked the paternal connection that Isa now displayed. Somehow, it seemed, she sensed his love.

I edged from his grip until only he held her. Should we tell her the truth? I wondered. Is now the time? Though such knowledge might add to her confusion, she appeared so much in need of him that I was tempted to whisper of her lineage. Indeed, she was of age to be trusted with this secret. And I believed that after tonight’s horror she deserved to know everything.

When Isa slowly nodded to me, whatever doubt I possessed yielded at that moment. “Arjumand,” I said earnestly, “there is something you should be told. Something I’ve kept secret for far too long, something you must tell no one.”

“Kept secret?” she asked, her voice strained from earlier sobbing.

I kissed her forehead, smelling dust and lavender oil. “I was asked to marry your…asked to marry Khondamir because of politics. I didn’t love him, nor did I ever learn to love him.”

“But I know this.”

“But what you don’t know, my child, is that I fell in love with another man. With a wonderful man who is truly—”

“Your father,” Isa finished.

“My father?”

“Look at his face, Arjumand. Do you see yourself in him?” My daughter, I knew, wanted to believe these words, for Khondamir had always treated her with indifference. And so she stared. “Isa’s your father,” I said. “And he loves you as much as I.”

“How couldn’t I?” he asked, holding her tighter, and crying freely.

“Truly?”

“I love you, Arjumand. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to say that. How painfully long.”

To me, the smallness of his home seemed more apparent than ever, for at that moment, the outside world vanished. There only existed my lover and our daughter, the warmth of their flesh against my hands. To my delight, Arjumand wrapped her arms about his neck. She started to weep again, but these were different tears, for she no longer shuddered and trembled but pressed herself against him. He held her as if she were still an infant, cradling her head against his shoulder, kissing her brow gently.

My eyes stayed upon them as candles burnt themselves out. Only when exhaustion had overcome her and she’d drifted to sleep, did Isa lay her on his bed. Moving to the other side of the room, we whispered of our daughter. Then I told him what had happened in the tunnel. I spoke of the coming war and of Nizam’s strategy. Isa listened without rest, never questioning me. Only when I was finished did he kiss me.

“Had he hurt either of you, I’d have died,” he said quietly.

“I know.”