Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth (18 page)

‘I don’t know. I’ve written to them, of course, but Aurangzeb has been so preoccupied he hasn’t been in Agra for a couple of years. His campaign to quell the Orchha rebellion was harder and took longer than either Father or anyone else could have anticipated. Now that he’s viceroy in the Deccan the region’s still so unsettled that he’s busy dealing with several local risings as well as incursions from beyond our borders. Shah Shuja must have his hands full in Bengal too. The Arakanese are a constant threat to our traders in the Ganges delta.’

‘I heard that Father’s just given Shah Shuja Orissa to govern as well?’

‘Yes. Shah Shuja asked and Father agreed before I knew anything. Otherwise I would have advised against it. Although he enjoys the power and status such appointments bring, I don’t think Shah Shuja yet has the capacity for such wide responsibilities or such hard work and may never do, but perhaps I misjudge him.’ Jahanara took Dara’s hands and smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re back in Agra. I’ve missed you. There are few people I can talk to about such things … Satti al-Nisa sometimes and Roshanara who I’m sure thinks I exaggerate because she doesn’t spend as much time with Father as I do. In fact she’s delighted with him at the moment – she asked him to reinstate the Royal Meena Bazaar and he’s agreed. But enough of such matters. I want to hear about you. Was your journey to Surat successful?’

‘Yes. It was a good idea of yours to take Nicholas Ballantyne. He was useful as an interpreter and helped me negotiate good terms. The English East India Company have agreed to supply ships to protect our trading vessels and our pilgrim fleets on their voyages across the Arabian Sea to Mecca. There are no better soldiers than the Moghuls but we don’t understand how to fight at sea as the English do. They’ll deal with the pirates for us.’

‘The Surat merchants must have been honoured that a Moghul prince came to negotiate in person.’

Dara grinned. ‘Surprised too, I think. I put on a mighty show – one hundred elephants caparisoned in gold and a thousand mounted retainers in green turbans and tunics. These foreigners are easy to impress – their jaws dropped to their knees as they gawped at the opulence.’

‘Father will be pleased with the outcome. The pirate raids on our ships have angered him …’ Jahanara paused. ‘But there’s something else you should know about him … Nearly every night he sends for women from the
haram
, sometimes two, even three. He’s even built a mirrored hall inlaid with gold and pearls so that he can observe his love-making.’

Dara stared. ‘How do you know all this?’

Jahanara smiled a little sadly. ‘It’s common gossip around the
haram
. I asked Satti al-Nisa to speak to the
khawajasara
who confirmed it all. Apparently he never sends for the same woman twice and scarcely utters a word to them while they are with him. She also said that he is taking dangerous quantities of aphrodisiacs – he’s especially fond of some concoction called “the Making of the Horse” … Of course, I was shocked at first. I couldn’t understand how he could act like this when he loved our mother so much … but then I felt pity. He has never recovered fully from her death and now he is seeking whatever solace he can. It’s as if he’s begun testing his potency as a man when he should be more concerned about demonstrating it as an emperor.’

Brother and sister looked at one another in silence. Then Jahanara said, ‘I’ve never told anyone this, but in Burhanpur, while our mother was lying in agony waiting for our father to come to her, she made me promise that if she died I would watch over him and keep him from harm. I wasn’t sure what she meant or what I could do. But I believe she understood his character – that without her guidance and support, and in particular her insight into human nature, for all his strength and courage, all his wealth and power, he would be rudderless – a vessel adrift from its moorings. We must rescue him from himself and anchor him back in the world, Dara … for his sake and for the empire’s. The question is how.’

Thousands of coloured lanterns hanging in the trees lit the main courtyard of the Agra fort. In the centre stood the vast tent of maroon velvet that workmen had laboured for a week to erect for the eighteen-day Nauruz – the New Year festival introduced by Akbar. Inside, every surface was covered with thick, soft silk carpets and brocade hangings embroidered with gold, pearls and precious stones. Each night since the festival’s start Shah Jahan had either held court in the tent, receiving the gifts and good wishes of his nobles, or visited their own resplendent pavilions pitched nearby. This evening, though, would be different. It was the night of the Royal Meena Bazaar, when the wives and daughters of the nobility spread stalls with trinkets and lengths of brilliant silks and played at being traders. It was one of the few occasions when the women of the court dropped their silken veils and men could gaze openly on their faces.

He had first seen Mumtaz at a Royal Meena Bazaar on a warm night just like this … Standing beneath the gold awning of the imperial tent he began to regret allowing Roshanara to persuade him to allow the bazaar to take place once more, arguing that it was the most important event of the year for the women of the royal household. The Meena Bazaar recalled too many bitter-sweet memories perhaps best forgotten … how the fourteen-year-old Mumtaz had looked standing behind her stall, pearls and diamonds shining in her hair … the sweet smell of the white jasmine growing on the wall behind her … the bright golden
mohurs
he had tipped into her hand in payment for a small vase.

But he must do his duty. The emperor’s tour of inspection was the official start of the Royal Meena Bazaar. He climbed into the gilded palanquin waiting for him and it rose shudderingly into the air as eight muscular female Tartar
haram
attendants raised it to their shoulders. Then, preceded by the
khawajasara
bearing her carved ivory staff of office, and escorted by smooth-faced eunuchs, he began his tour, smelling the attar of roses made by Jahanara to a recipe invented by her Persian great-grandmother and tasting sweetmeats of sugar and butter prepared by elderly royal matrons.

As he reached the less prominent parts of the courtyard where the wives and daughters of his courtiers and officials had their stalls and went through the motions of praising the wares and pretending to bargain, it was the women not their goods who increasingly caught his attention. He recognised some but others he’d never seen, like a tall woman in a purple silk robe whose plaited hair was interwoven with marigolds. She was broad-shouldered for a woman but had a slender waist. Her black eyes looked boldly into his as, play-acting the role of stallholder, she beckoned to him, urging the claims of her wares over the other women’s.

‘Who is that?’ he asked the
khawajasara
.

‘Kalima Begum, wife of your governor in Lahore. He married her while you were in the Deccan but she is not his favourite. He has another wife he wed five years earlier whom he has taken with him to Lahore, leaving Kalima behind. Do you wish to inspect her stall, Majesty?’

‘No. But I want you to send her to me tonight.’

‘She is a married woman, Majesty …’

‘That isn’t your concern. So long as she herself is willing, do as I have ordered.’

Why had he done it, Shah Jahan asked himself an hour or two later. It was one thing ordering the
khawajasara
to select him suitable women from among the occupants of a
haram
he’d taken no interest in for over twenty years, quite another to ask her to procure him the wife of one of his governors. What could have possessed him? The hope of assuaging his grief by a coupling as meaningless and crude as a dog mounting a bitch in the street? … No … He would tell the
khawajasara
that he had changed his mind.

He reached for the enamelled bell to summon an attendant, then paused. No one could ever replace Mumtaz in his heart … every time he bedded a woman it only left him feeling more bereft. Yet the feel of a woman’s body beneath his brought a fleeting comfort. Also, making love to other women demonstrated their imperfections in mind as well as body compared with Mumtaz, proving yet again the perfection and uniqueness of their love.

What would be in Kalima’s mind now as the
khawajasara
prepared her for his bed, he wondered. That assumed, of course, that she was willing, but recalling the look in her eyes he didn’t doubt it. Would she be nervous or perhaps already planning how to turn the situation to her advantage? And what about himself? He was intending to use his power to take another man’s wife, just as David had stolen Bathsheba. Was that the act of an honourable man? Probably not, though if Kalima were willing to make love with him it would prove she didn’t deserve whatever love her husband had for her. He would be robbing neither husband nor wife of anything that mattered, like the love that Mumtaz’s death had robbed him of.

Shortly before midnight he heard a gentle tapping at the door and the
khawajasara
entered, the taller figure of Kalima close behind enveloped in a cream robe, its deep hood concealing her face. ‘I have brought Kalima Begum, Majesty,’ said the
khawajasara
. ‘Should I return to the
haram
until you send for me again?’

‘No, wait outside.’ Now that the woman was before him, Shah Jahan’s doubts had returned and he wondered afresh why he was doing this. As soon as he was alone with her, he stepped towards her and gently pushed back her hood. This time, instead of being tightly plaited, her hair was loose about her shoulders, shining and luxuriant. She smiled at him as confidently as she had at the Meena Bazaar. Her right hand went to her throat and she started to undo the silver clasp securing her cloak.

‘No, not yet.’

‘Majesty?’ Her hand dropped.

‘Why do you think I sent for you tonight?’

‘Because I please you. I saw you watching me at the bazaar.’

‘What about your own feelings? Will you willingly give yourself to me?’

‘Of course, Majesty.’

‘But you’re married. What about your husband?’

‘I haven’t seen him for many months. Anyway, I mean as little to him as he does to me. He married me for my dowry – my father’s lands adjoin his in the Punjab – and he has another wife whom he prefers to me.’

‘Isn’t it your duty to be faithful to him?’

‘Isn’t it also my duty to obey my emperor when he calls for me?’

Smooth words came easily to her, thought Shah Jahan. She was no better than the courtesans of the imperial
haram
who had instructed him in the arts of love when he had been a young prince, ignorant of women and fumblingly eager to learn.

‘Take off your robe.’ Shah Jahan watched her undo the clasp and let the cream robe slide to the floor. She was naked, her skin shining with scented oil, save for a gold chain hung with tiny golden leaves about her waist. ‘Turn around for me.’ She revolved slowly, the golden leaves shivering as she moved. Her square shoulders were more like a boy’s than a woman’s; so were her tapering back, high, rounded buttocks and long, muscular legs. She was striking enough but far from beautiful – at least not to him. As she turned to face him once more, he was about to order her to pick up her robe and cover herself. Then, unbidden, she raised her hands and throwing back her head ran them through her glorious hair. The gesture was achingly familiar. How often had he watched Mumtaz do the same? An urgent, unexpected desire possessed him.

‘Lie down over there.’ As she walked across to the low brocade-covered divan he undid the coral buttons of his own robe. Lowering his body on to hers, he sought her nipples with his lips. Moments later, as with his right hand he parted her lean thighs – so different from Mumtaz’s soft, yielding flesh – and began to caress her, Kalima began to whimper with pleasure – simulated or real, he couldn’t tell – and then to cry out, sharp-nailed hands clinging to his back. Yet it wasn’t her voice he heard but Mumtaz’s gentler one, urging him on and whispering her eternal love for him.

Two hours later, Shah Jahan sat up, body soaked with sweat. He put his head in his hands, grateful for the comforting darkness, though through the casement the paling sky told him dawn wasn’t so far off. He had dismissed Kalima as soon as he had slaked his desire but her scent still clung to the bedding. He reached for a silver ewer on the marble table beside him and poured a cup of water, emptying it with a single gulp. His body was still shaking with the horror of the dream from which he had just awoken, and which had nothing to do with Kalima. He had seen Mumtaz’s tomb rising up ghost-like on the banks of the Jumna, perfect in its marble purity. He’d stood at the gateway marvelling at the beauty of his creation but then the sharp, rigid outline of the white dome had begun to soften and tremble – no longer a piece of cold inanimate stone but the warm mound of a woman’s breast, Mumtaz’s breast. Suddenly, before his horrified eyes, bright red blood had begun spurting from the tip of the dome, running down in scarlet rivulets …

The tomb had faded to be replaced by other visions – Mumtaz in the agonies of labour, soaked in blood and sweat, screaming for the baby to come and for relief from her pain … then more blood, this time dripping from the executioner’s blade as the head of his half-brother Shahriyar rolled across the floor … then a different scene: Jani, stricken with grief at her husband Khusrau’s death, approaching a brazier of burning coals with tongs … gazing into its red-gold glowing heart … carefully selecting a small, single coal … lifting it out … feeling its scorching heat on her face as she brought the tongs closer … closing her eyes and opening her mouth to receive it … her screams as she swallowed it. Then, certain he could smell Jani’s singeing flesh, he had woken, shaking and confused.