Beneath a Marble Sky (7 page)

Dara nodded weakly, but said nothing. I realized then that he was too decent for such thoughts and that I’d have to protect him. But how could I, a girl of barely fifteen summers, protect one brother from another? How could I protect myself ?

Chapter 4

Darkness

F
ate soon showed me just how hard it is to look after anyone, especially myself, for I was wed during Nauroz, right before the dry season of my sixteenth year. Wed to a man I would come to despise.

The dry season in Agra is a time when the land itself appears to die. Grass withers and yellows from the heat and shortage of rain. Herds of cattle rest unmoving for days without end. Prior to our dreaded summer, praise Allah, Agra hosts a brief bout of springlike weather. We celebrate this respite as the Persian New Year.

Normally, my mood would have been buoyant, for Nauroz lasts two-weeks and is embraced by all of our people, regardless of their religion. Moreover, Navroz features extravagant and massive parties, Chinese rockets and exchanges of gifts. Yet entertaining feelings of joy was impossible with the rapid approach of my nuptials. Indeed, I watched fireworks and ate sweets without really seeing or tasting anything but the bitterness of my thoughts.

On the day of my wedding I rose early, though reluctantly. After a breakfast of melon, I bathed in waters laden with lavender and eucalyptus oils. Then servants rubbed lotus perfume into my skin as my hair was dried above a diminutive fire of rosewood. I was handed cloves, which I sucked until my breath smelled like cinnamon. Artists skilled in composition then addressed my flesh, wiping betel leaf against my lips, numbing and coloring them crimson simultaneously. A russet paste of henna, lemon juice and oil was used to decorate my hands and feet with ornate patterns. Finally, attendants sewed strands of diamonds into my hair.

My wedding unfolded in the Red Fort’s grandest courtyard, a square more than three hundred paces from side to side. Its sandstone walls each boasted forty archways, through which one could walk to adjacent gardens, bazaars and residences. Atop the walls, red banners fluttered restlessly.

Hundreds of witnesses were gathered within the courtyard, mostly nobles who had arrived early to secure the most favorable positions. Surrounding the proceedings was a score of war elephants, some draped in English velvet, others in Chinese silk or Turkish gold cloth. The elephants’ tusks were swathed in black fabric that made the tusks’ tips even whiter. At the courtyard’s corners, gilded pens contained cheetahs. These fleetest of creatures had silver collars and vests of embroidered linen.

Father had given me many jewels for the affair, and I glittered in rubies and emeralds. My clothes had never been worn before. An outer layer of silk was nearly invisible, except for a painter’s renderings of indigo irises. Beneath this robe lay a turquoise dress. Its fabric moved with the skin of my torso, tight enough that one might see the rhythm of my stomach as I breathed. The dress was much looser about my legs.

The shell of my being must have looked grand, but inside I was suffering. Though Dara and I often spoke of duty, it seemed that duty now sought to smother me. All the dreams I’d harbored as a child were so distant. They were the dreams of another life, of a person I hardly recalled. She had yearned to find a lover, someone whose presence would quicken her pulse.

The man I desired, whoever he was, remained far from me today. In his place, grinning at my side, was Khondamir. A stout man, he hardly rose to my height and was more than twice my age. But he was a powerful silver merchant and had long opposed many of my father’s policies. Our marriage, Father hoped, would help to change his views. Father also greatly wanted to use Khondamir’s trading contacts in Persia to find friends north of our border. Father needed such friends to make peace with the Persians, which he had to make for the sake of the empire. Though he seemed to take little interest in me, Khondamir was eager for our coupling, as the arrangement brought him within touching distance of the Peacock Throne.

During the ceremony Khondamir’s eyes often wandered to my chest, which had swollen during the past months. I was painfully aware of his gaze and tried not to ponder my fate later that evening. Instead, I absently stared at my parents and siblings, who stood a step below me on a gilded platform. My two baby sisters, whom I last saw a moon ago, were swathed in gossamer silk and held by servants. Father wore his military casings, and the emerald-studded hilt of an ancient sword jutted from his hip. Mother might have been a rose. Draped in a thin green robe and a scarlet dress, she radiated beauty, somehow spreading it beyond my brothers, who filled indigo tunics and stood shoulder to shoulder between our parents. Dara seemed saddened by the day, whereas Aurangzeb grinned maliciously. Shah and Murad could have been asleep.

Our wedding, like all such tableaux, was long and dull. Prayers were offered to Allah and pleasantries exchanged. I’d wept after last night’s festivities and today sprang no tears. I smiled and bowed. I stood beside my husband.

When the ceremony ended, servants assembled an enormous feast. A dozen lambs were roasted over open flames. On gold and silver platters skewers of beef and vegetables steamed. Vast piles of rice, nuts and fruits were everywhere, and mounds of kulfi—a dessert fashioned with sugar, mango, lemon juice, cream and roasted pistachios—were served in marble bowls. Before eating, we reassembled under the shade of hastily erected red tents. After servants placed fresh linen atop Persian carpets, we sat and sampled morsels endlessly. Throughout the meal, attendants fanned my family, the breezes drying sweat and keeping flies at bay.

Imperial dancing girls entertained us while we ate. Their torsos were covered with the thinnest of fabrics, leaving little to one’s imagination. The girls moved like saplings amid wind and were accompanied by the trumpets, drums and stringed instruments. Beyond our tent, jugglers and acrobats competed to further amuse us.

When the feasting concluded we left the courtyard and proceeded outside the Red Fort. Father had suggested that a polo match be held to entertain the nobles and the general population. Polo had been invented by tribal horsemen inhabiting the plains to the east of Agra, and was one of our favorite spectacles. For my wedding day an immense stretch of open ground near the river had been groomed of weeds, and goals were erected at either end of the playing field. Surrounding it rose tents of the nobles, filled with more food, as well as wives and concubines. The largest tent shielded my family from the sun. We sat on wool carpets and watched the players prepare their mounts.

My brothers took to the field. Dara and Shah had changed into tunics and turbans of black, whereas Aurangzeb and Murad wore white. Father raised a water buffalo’s horn to his lips and blew. A guttural cry emerged from the instrument and the teams gathered on their respective sides. Horses, their manes combed and tails braided, pranced and neighed. Gold and silver bells about the stallions’ necks rung vigorously as the riders practiced swinging long poles. These were straight and true for more than the height of a man but curved at their bottom ends.

A rosewood ball was dropped upon the field and the game began. Khondamir, his bride suddenly forgotten, roared with the crowd. Mother tried to get my attention, but for the first time in my life I ignored her. Though my parents believed Khondamir would make a decent husband, and I believed I was performing my duty, I felt betrayed nonetheless.

I prayed to Allah that Khondamir was honorable, and I watched the match with fleeting interest. However, I could hardly fail to notice that Aurangzeb was by far the best rider of my brothers. The ball seemed to always be against his stick. Once, when only Dara was between him and his goal, Aurangzeb sent his mount careening into Dara’s stallion. Dara was flung from his saddle and Aurangzeb scored easily. When he raised his arm in triumph, many in the crowd cheered. Dara nodded to Aurangzeb before limping back to his horse.

Though Islam forbade alcohol, and many devout Muslims refrained from this vice, on my wedding day an abundance of wine flowed. I had my first taste of its sweetness sitting next to my husband, the only pleasant experience I was to know that afternoon. We drank from jewel-studded goblets and much liquor was consumed. Men and women normally bound by the strict rules of our society began to unravel. Khondamir actually smiled at me, a grin revealing yellowed teeth and swollen gums. I started to feel somewhat clumsy. My head seemed inordinately heavy, and my mind, usually so sharp, dulled. Yet I drank more, for I’d heard of men escaping in drink, and thoughts of escape occupied my mind. If wine could somehow save me, I’d sip it until no grapes remained in all of Hindustan.

I didn’t even realize when the polo game had ended, but dusk was falling when strong arms lifted me atop a palki, a short couch mounted on twin poles. Four men then carried my litter toward Khondamir’s home. A palace of sorts, the rambling structure stood far from the river. I’d only seen it from a distance and dimly recalled it to be a sandstone edifice encircled by palm trees.

Khondamir’s servants lit torches as they walked, surrounding my litter. My husband rode beside me on a gray stallion with black spots. When he saw me looking at him, he grinned, then removed something from a saddlebag and began to eat. My thoughts moved like slugs and I moaned quietly, pulling flowers from my hair and pocketing uncomfortable jewelry. The world seemed to spin in frenzied arcs that threatened to make me ill.

I dared to close my eyes. When I finally opened them I was being carried down a candle-lit corridor. A door opened and I was laid atop a sleeping carpet. I mumbled graciously to my bearers, staring at the revolving ceiling. Horns jutted from every wall, and somehow in my wicked state I deduced that Khondamir must have been a hunter.

When I saw him stagger drunkenly into the room, I pretended to sleep. At first I thought he might rest beside me, but then I felt his hands on my clothes. His fingers were greedy and ripped my precious robe. He peeled it from me with such strength that I was rolled to my side. Terrified, I continued to feign sleep, desperately hoping he would lose interest.

But when I sensed his breath on my bared chest I knew he wouldn’t. Suddenly his mouth was upon a nipple and I fought the urge to gag. Mumbling to himself, he attacked it like a piglet might suckle a sow. Though repulsed, I felt it harden, which seemed to fuel his passion even more. My heart raced as he licked and tasted my flesh. I trembled at his teeth, for they weren’t gentle. Nor were his fingers, which clawed and poked at my secret places.

I heard him spit, then sensed wetness between my legs. There came an unbearable weight as he pressed down upon me, his breath fouling my lungs, his belly slapping against mine. A sharp pain erupted when he thrust himself inside me. He was moving next, rising and falling, and suddenly I could no longer make any pretense of sleep and cried out. I thought my hurt might make him pause, but instead it served to motivate him further. His gyrations became more frenzied. His hands pinned my arms to the carpet, pushing down, holding me in place.

My body seemed to split apart. Mother had warned me of pain, but not such fire as this. I gritted my teeth as my husband licked my neck, cried as I tried to break free of his grasp. Though I knew nothing of lovemaking, I doubted it was meant to be so full of woe. I’d heard other women speak of it fondly, and believed Mother even enjoyed it. Yet here I lay, biting my lip until it bled, weeping as my husband battered away at me.

When I thought I’d surely die, he suddenly howled like a wild beast. I felt him grow even larger, drive himself deeper. He convulsed, then abruptly collapsed atop me. I inhaled his stench as he lay unmoving. Silence reigned now. Though my world still spun, I thanked Allah for the alcohol, because I sensed that without it, my suffering would have been even more horrific.

Soon Khondamir snored. Putting my forearms against his chest, I rolled him from me. Shedding silent tears, I hobbled to a corner, where I sat with my back against the wall. When I saw blood seeping from between my legs and a cut on my nipple, I cried harder. My tears seemed endless as I thought of all that had gone wrong, of the love I was sure to never find.

The night and I aged together.

T
he first days
with Khondamir were dreadful. In light of my duty, I did my best to forget my wedding night. I moved forward, as Mother had always taught me. The wine must have clouded his senses, I reasoned. Surely he didn’t know he was hurting me.

Such thoughts consumed me as I sought to make Khondamir happy, sought to earn his affection. Alas, I quickly realized that he cared nothing for my feelings. I didn’t seem to exist in his presence and might have been a gnat in the corner for all the attention he gave me. However much I tried to be helpful, he was disinterested, at best, in my efforts. His indifference was upsetting, as I was accustomed to being taken seriously. Even my father, the most important man in the Empire, often paused as I tried to offer advice. Yet Khondamir, a fool if ever one lived, thought he’d married a dull-witted camel.

It became obvious that he’d wed me hoping that I might bear him a son. Despite his reputation as a hornet that sipped nectar from many flowers, he had never sired a child. Why he believed I’d produce one when so many others had failed was unfathomable to me. And frankly, even though I hoped to have children, I couldn’t imagine Khondamir as their father. I wanted no seed of his to take root within me, especially since I experienced too many nights like the first, nights when he stumbled home drunk and used me until he fell unconscious.