Beneath a Marble Sky (42 page)

My stomach dropped. “You…you mistake me for another. I came here only to see the Emperor.”

The guard spat at my feet. “Lies!”

“No, you must be confused.”

“I’m not confused, Princess. The swine in that sty is your father. Alamgir let the old man sicken to draw you out. Only his daughter would act so concerned.”

“His daughters are in Delhi,” I said, trying frantically to think of how I could escape.

“You tire me, woman, though you could warm me well enough.”

His men laughed as they encircled me. My heart began to race and my legs shook. The captain fingered my robe. I recoiled from his touch, but he moved closer. “Be careful, sir,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Aurangzeb might hate me, but he’ll kill the man who steals his revenge.”

“True,” he said, pushing me violently into the cell, throwing me to my knees. The door slammed shut behind me, momentarily obscuring the laughter that rose from the corridor. I bit my lip, and fought to contain the panic surging up from within me. Emotions of dread and self-contempt overwhelmed me. How could I have behaved so recklessly? And how could I have been so naïve as not to have seen the trap? I’d betrayed Isa and Arjumand with my unfounded arrogance and rashness. If only I had listened to them!

“What have I done?” I cried out aloud. “No! Please, no.”

“Jahanara?”

I opened my eyes in time to see Father raise his head. “Yes?”

“What happened?” he asked feebly.

I thought of Isa awaiting me, and suddenly I was brushing away tears. “They recognized me,” I said helplessly.

“Your temper—” A cough tore at him. He moaned, abruptly slumping, his head dropping to his pillow.

For an awful instant as I hurried to him I feared that he’d succumbed to his fever. His face was fiery in my hands. His jaw quivered. “You can’t die, Father. Please, please don’t die.”

He tried to respond, but his suffering was too great. A cry of protest escaped his lips as he voided his bowels. Though the stench was overpowering, it served to focus my shattered mind. Still shaking, I dug through a pile of clothes on the floor and found a scarf to thrust into the cool water of the washbasin. I placed the wet cloth on his brow. Father tried to object as I stripped him, but few of his words were coherent. His tunic, I saw to my dismay, was infested with lice. I pushed the garment through our window’s bars and let it drop far below. Then I steadied myself before the window, drawing strength from the Taj Mahal. Needing to concentrate on Father, I gripped the iron bars and forced all other considerations aside. I stood until my trembling ceased.

I did my best to clean him. After raiding piles of goods left by nobles, I filled a copper pitcher with water and held it above candles until my arm ached and the water was warm. Then I gently emptied it over him, using a hemp cloth to scrub his lice-infested and festering skin. I washed his hair and beard with soap, rinsed him, cut his nails and sprinkled perfume about him.

After I dressed Father in the cleanest clothes I could find, I tended to the corner where he slept. The lice-covered carpets and blankets went out the window. Fortunately, I discovered a mound of fresh bedding and made a bed for him directly beneath the window. The air might do him some good, I reasoned.

Father uttered no further words as I worked. He held his eyes closed and coughed occasionally. He grimaced. He clutched at his sides. It grieved me to see him in so much pain, and even though I was disgusted with myself for getting caught, I was glad I could help him. Not long after he rested on his new bed, the door opened and a surly guard left a tray bearing a thin broth of rice and corn, a pair of blackened bananas and a piece of naan.

By the time I’d fed Father, watched him fall asleep, and forced the fruit and bread down my own throat, dusk was nearing. Akbar screeched and, spreading his wings, flew to the window. He settled on the sill for a moment before squeezing through the bars and soaring into the dying light. I watched him disappear and then crawled to my bed.

I, too, was tired, though not from exhaustion born of physical strain, but of mental anguish. I had expected to find Father in good spirits, and in better health than when I left him. My plan had been to make his life as comfortable as possible in the cell, without placing myself in too much danger. Yet here I was, imprisoned again, and without question my promise to Arjumand was in peril.

As our cell darkened I thought of Isa and Arjumand. The sketch of them was in the room I had rented, along with the rest of my belongings. Nizam, once he realized that I’d been captured, would destroy it to protect them, and then no doubt would try to plan my second escape. But I wouldn’t let him face such danger alone, for the men he would have to fight were far too numerous.

My bedding seemed empty and I pulled a cushion close, wrapping my body about it, my tears blurring my vision. I thought of my loved ones. I felt as alone as I had that day when I’d almost drowned in the river. My grip tightening on the pillow, I tried to sleep. But Allah gave me no such reprieve. He must have already granted me enough wishes, for He ignored my prayers. And the night would worsen.

Much later, as I still wrestled with sleep, the door to our cell opened. I heard the padding of feet and saw a figure approach in the darkness. At first I thought Nizam had arrived to rescue me, but then I realized that this man was wider than my friend and didn’t move with his stealth. To my horror, the apparition materialized into Khondamir. More than five years had passed since I had suffered his presence, and time hadn’t treated him kindly. His girth had nearly doubled, and the flesh of his swollen face drooped like an elephant’s backside.

I started to rise. “My lord—”

His sandaled foot leapt into my gut and I doubled over in pain. Grabbing my neck, he yanked me upward. “So, it’s true,” he hissed. “My man was right.”

I managed to breathe. “Aurangzeb…Aurangzeb will—”

He slapped me violently. “Silence, woman!” he rasped murderously. “Speak again and I’ll cut out your forked tongue.” I tried to nod to him, but his grip on my neck only tightened. “Your brother, whore, fights the Persians in a distant land. And I don’t fear your threats. I think you bluff about the cobra and have told him so. But he believes your lie, for lying is what you do best.” His next slap stung fiercely and I whimpered. “No one will save you tonight,” he promised. “The guards drink with my coin and no one else knows you’re here.”

He looked at Father and at that instant I reached up and clawed at his eyes. My nails snapped against his cheeks as they peeled skin from his face. He yelped like a kicked dog. Then his fist descended, striking me so hard that my world spun in frenzied arcs. I groaned and weakly spat blood.

Khondamir hit me again. “Resist another time, and I’ll wet my dagger in the old man’s heart.”

Please grant me strength, I prayed, as Khondamir tore off my clothes. Please let this night end with me alive.

“Remember, whore, your last words to me?” I nodded as his hands fell to my breasts. He pinched my nipples until I couldn’t help but cry out. I wept now. “You told me of your lover, whom I’ll surely kill, and you mocked my manhood. Do you mock me now?” he asked, exposing himself. I shook my head, but it mattered little. His rage was insatiable. “You should have never returned, but how glad I am that you did! Because tonight I’ll have my revenge.” His breath, fouled with liquor, cascaded over me. “Now stand like a bitch in heat, for that’s what you surely are.”

Though I wanted to fight him, he would kill Father if I did. And so I moved to my hands and knees. This is no different than all the other nights, I thought through my tears. But, Allah help me, it was, for Khondamir forced himself inside a place not meant for his passage.

The pain was instant and terrible, a thunderous, suffocating kind of agony, and I shuddered with each thrust. I ground my teeth, striving to stay silent, even as he moved harder and faster. He tried to hurt me. And hurt me he did. He was drunk, I think, and didn’t finish quickly. When at last he convulsed, he threw himself on me and I fell to the bed. He remained atop me, and I lay gasping beneath his vast weight. I tried to subdue my sobs, as I couldn’t bear for Father to wake to such a sight.

Khondamir grunted and finally rose. “Mention this to your brother,” he whispered, “and I’ll visit you again.” My shame was so dreadful that I was unable to look at him. I closed my eyes and sought to withdraw myself to a distant place. But a fire raged within me, and the horrible pain kept me locked within this moment. “Know that your lover’s a dead man,” he said. “I’ll tell him, while I carve him into pieces, of what I just did to you.” A moan escaped my lips and Khondamir leaned closer. “Who is he, Jahanara? Give me his name and I’ll see you freed from this place.”

“He’s dead,” I whispered.

“You lie. But it doesn’t matter. For I also have spies, and his name won’t escape me forever. Nor will the whereabouts of his daughter, whom I’ll violate a hundred times, then sell to a brothel. I’m certain she’ll fetch a fair amount of coin. Much more than you.”

Despite my agony and humiliation, I turned to him. “You’ll never find them,” I promised weakly. “And when you die…when you soon die, I’ll rejoice, for your seed will be forever gone from this Earth.”

He kicked me once more, then clothed himself and disappeared. Mustering all my will, I wrapped myself in fresh clothes and tidied the bed. Overwhelmed with pain and misery, I leaned against a wall and wept. Though my insides were still aflame, I knew, in truth, that my spirit had been raped more violently than my body. The physical pain would soon leave, but I would never forget tonight.

I stood until I had no more tears to cleanse my face. In the amber light of dawn I crept toward Father, and lay down beside him. I edged to him until our bodies met. His breaths were shallow, yet he was still asleep.

That morning I didn’t pray. For the first time in my life I felt that Allah had truly abandoned me. He no longer resided in my world. Instead, where He had once dwelt, I found only darkness. In this place of nothingness I felt neither the warmth of Father nor the pain within me.

In this place not even my love existed.

Chapter 23

Retribution

I
n the following year, my world went from black to gray.

I did my best to deny what had happened, instead concentrating on helping Father recover. His fever departed begrudgingly, like heat from coals. Though he never regained even close to his full strength, a time came when he could stand unaided by the window. His mind, mercifully, again grew sharp, and he asked probing questions about the outside world. If he ever guessed what had happened to me, he kept this knowledge to himself. Sometimes he asked about the sadness that had befallen me, but I always replied that it was my longing for Isa and Arjumand that made me so cheerless.

I whispered only to myself of what had happened. If anyone ever suspected that something heinous had occurred, it was Nizam. My old friend visited often, and even if he said little, I sensed in the silences between his words that he understood my pain. As the days passed, I became increasingly convinced that Nizam had discovered the nature of my grief. Perhaps a guard had talked. Perhaps Khondamir had boasted to the wrong man. Either way, Nizam aimed to hide his knowledge from me, but wore his emotions so openly that I knew what troubled him.

I debated asking Nizam to kill Khondamir, but before I could gather the nerve, my husband traveled north to Persia. Khondamir was rumored to be meeting Aurangzeb in the north, but our informants were uncertain why. If I had been concerned about his threats to my loved ones, I’d have asked Nizam to follow my husband on his long journey, and to seek his death. But to be truthful, I didn’t worry that he might discover their whereabouts. Khondamir knew surprisingly little of the Deccan. And, more important, Nizam used Father’s caches of gold to give Khondamir’s spies—whose names Father had unearthed long ago—twice the coin that my husband paid them. These men were promised more gold at the end of the year if they continued to provide Khondamir with false information.

It goes without saying that Nizam wanted to free me. But freedom represented a risk that I wasn’t ready to take. If I left, Father would surely suffer, and perhaps even be punished by Aurangzeb for my escape. Beyond that, I was still tormented with guilt that my last escape had reduced him to the state I found him in. I knew that if I abandoned him again he’d deteriorate quickly, dying alone and without dignity. And so I told Nizam that instead of worrying about me he should focus his energy and attention on the Taj Mahal. For while Father was right about Aurangzeb’s fear of destroying it, stories of the mausoleum’s untidiness abounded. My brother had always despised Father’s creation and thus spent nothing on its upkeep. The structure itself remained in good order, but the gardens were in disarray. Nobles spoke of algae-infested waterways, devastated flower beds and dead trees.

The gardens symbolized the Empire’s health, for by all accounts Hindustan was gravely ill. Aurangzeb had so depleted the treasury warring against our neighbors that few rupees remained for basic needs. Roads and bridges were in disrepair. The poor starved to death by the thousands. And our armies continued to weaken—our weapons growing older, our warriors much younger.

Aurangzeb blamed everyone but himself for the plight of our land. He disparaged Hindus with increasing belligerence. Muslims he held to impossible standards. My brother scorned the advice of the brightest minds in Agra, deriding their overtures for peace. He mocked the advocates of such plans, though they increased in number with each battlefield defeat. Nobles who once flocked to Aurangzeb’s standard now conspired against him. There were treasonous whispers. There were betrayals.

The Empire’s fate, I must admit, meant less to me than it once had, though Father and I were saddened to hear of these tidings. The thought of our people suffering was a crushing reminder of our failures. So many Hindustanis had depended on us, and by our shortcomings many of these brave citizens were dead.