Beneath a Marble Sky (3 page)

Trudging through the Red Fort was like being a mouse on a ship. There were endless places to venture, accessed by twisting walkways and far-reaching stairs. Sandstone walls, clad with glazed tile, were often so high that I was unable to see what lay beyond them. Occasionally I would catch glimpses of towers and ramparts which shouldered warriors and rippling red banners.

I might have become lost, if not for the footsteps of Mother. Despite her purposeful gait, she exchanged greetings with many she passed. People often acted surprised when the Empress returned their compliments. But they shouldn’t have—Mother was known throughout the land as one who dropped pearls into the tins of crippled beggars, or found homes for orphans. It seemed to me that much of Mother’s happiness stemmed from helping those whom even commoners passed with disdain. A few times in the harem I had sipped from this cup of happiness when I was able to aid someone. The smiles of those I assisted warmed me.

Nodding to a pair of imperial guards, Mother paused as they opened a teak door leading into a massive structure, a sprawling room called the Diwan-i Am, the Hall of Public Audience. This chamber was much like our harem in its comforts and décor but even more splendid. The room’s ceiling was covered with beaten silver, and its decorated walls enclosed a crowd of well-dressed nobles and warriors.

In the Diwan-i Am’s center, atop his Peacock Throne, was Father. The throne was a raised dais bearing a cashmere carpet and a sizable red cushion embroidered with golden stars. Father always knelt on the cushion. Around him, twelve pillars supported the canopy. The pillars were inlaid with perfect pearls and the canopy was topped by a golden peacock. Sapphires coated its tail.

Gathered immediately below and in front of the Peacock Throne were high-ranking nobles. These mustached or bearded men wore silk tunics and strings of pearls. Several nobles carried muskets, while others boasted swords encased in jeweled scabbards. On either side of this assembly, servants used long poles topped with tear-shaped fans to cool Father and his audience.

More removed from the Peacock Throne, separated from the nobles by a gilded balustrade, stood officers of the army. A further balustrade, this one silver, divided these figures from several score of foot soldiers and servants, relegated to positions most distant from Father. Nobles, officers and soldiers wore tunics that fell below their knees and covered loose-fitting trousers. The jamas and paijamas were of brightly colored cotton or silk tightened about the waist by a sash.

As we entered the room, heads turned to regard Mother and shoulders straightened at her sight. I smiled at the reaction. Though emeralds, rubies and diamonds graced every spot of Father’s throne, in Mother’s presence men forgot such unimaginable wealth.

Quite simply, she was an orchid placed within a bouquet of poppies. She wore her robe tight enough to boast of the slightness of her body, which lacked none of a larger woman’s curves. Rubies were pinned to her raven locks; her ears were contoured with pearls, and the lobes beneath carried emeralds set in silver. A golden hoop graced her nose. A delicate diamond necklace fell to just above her navel, and saphire bracelets adorned her wrists. Like many noblewomen, she wore a miniature mirror on her forefinger so she could keep herself in order.

Mother’s face never ceased to capture people despite its familiarity. Her bronze skin was soft and flawless, her lips sculpted. Her walnut-colored eyes were rounder than most of our people’s, and her nose seemed somehow more tapered. If compared to her I knew I’d never be beautiful. My teeth were less straight, my eyes closer together. Yet we had the same skin and the bodies of the same ancestors. My brothers mixed her traits with those of our more average-looking father. The boys were slightly small for their ages, with thick hair and wiry muscles.

“You honor us with your presence,” Father announced, rising. Broad in the shoulders as well as the waist, Father stepped down from the dais looking extremely pleased to see us. He wore a yellow tunic, a black sash and a crimson turban. His jewels were as plentiful as Mother’s, though  excepting a pearl necklace and a few rings, they were fastened to his garments.

Father said nothing of his children’s arrival but smiled at each of us. I found comfort in his bearded face, which was round and fleshy. His nose had been broken long ago, and his chin was rather expansive. “You remind me, Arjumand, that this morning’s business should end, for don’t even leopards rest every now and then?”

From our left emerged a low voice. “Forgive my impertinence, my lord, but one matter can’t idle.”

“And what is that, Lord Babur?”

“A serious subject, with serious consequences.”

I’d heard of Lord Babur from Mother and recalled him to be a powerful noble, though held in little esteem by my parents. A squat man, Babur was dressed in a silk tunic with lime and ivory stripes. A sword hung from his side. As was customary when seeking an audience with the Emperor, Babur touched his right hand to the ground. He then produced a gift that was proportional in value to his rank, as protocol dictated. I was close enough to Babur to see him hand one of Father’s servants a decorative quill designed to compliment a turban. Jade and lapis beset the piece. The ritual complete, Babur nodded to his servants, who then pulled an old man to his feet. He was bound in chains, and his face was a mask of dried blood.

“What has been done to this man?” Father demanded.

“It’s not what has been done to him, my lord, but what has been done to me.” When Father kept silent, Babur continued, “This criminal owns a petty piece of land next to my fields. As petty as a fly on a wall. When his crops failed, he turned to what came most naturally to him. Thievery, that is. My guards caught him pilfering our storehouse, a capital crime.”

I glanced toward the corner of the room, where two muscle-bound executioners stood motionlessly. A pair of waist-high wood blocks rested between them on a colossal slab of granite. The stone was grooved so that blood would drain into awaiting ewers. The blocks were stained and gouged from numerous sword strokes. Though Father was always reluctant to order a man’s death, sometimes he had no recourse. Today he must have been fortunate, for the executioners’ blades were bright and clean.

Father moved toward the accused, regarding him for a moment before asking, “Your name?”

The man, who must have seen many, many seasons in his field, lowered his head. “Ismail, my lord.”

“A Persian name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, Ismail, what do you have to say for your crime, if indeed, you committed one?”

The man swayed, licking his lips nervously. “My lord, my sons had the honor of warring for you. My boys were proud to fight under your banner. They served you well, and they…my lord, I hear they died as men.”

“Then the honor is mine.”

“Thank you, my lord, thank you.”

“But now, Ismail, you must speak against the charge.”

“My lord, they were my only sons.” The farmer waved a fly from his bloody nose. Sweat or perhaps tears glistened upon his cheeks. “Without them, I couldn’t harvest my crops. My rice rotted to pulp. It still stands in my fields—”

“Laziness doesn’t justify thievery.”

“Be patient, Lord Babur,” Father said. “Our laws entitle him to speak.”

When the Emperor pointed at him, the old man cleared his throat. “My wife and I were starving, my lord. Starving night and day. I asked Lord Babur for food, but when he refused, I stole a sack of rice.”

“So his words are true?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Father returned to his Peacock Throne. He seemed to wander in thought as he stared at the underside of its canopy, which was inlaid with jewels arranged to resemble orchids. “The law calls for your death,” he finally said. “But I’ve no desire to see a man executed who gave fine sons to the Empire. How can such a man be killed for a sack of rice?”

“He broke—”

“I’d rather, Lord Babur, pose the question to my wife, than to one so involved with the matter.”

Around the room, nobles whispered excitedly. Though almost all believed women had no minds for such issues, each was aware that the Emperor often asked his wife for advice. Despite being unversed in politics, I understood that Mother stood in a difficult position. She’d never seek the farmer’s execution but could hardly offend a noble such as Babur.

Mother walked over to the farmer, beckoning me to follow, surprising me with her request. He bowed deeply to us. “Take his hands, Jahanara,” she said. “What do they feel like?”

The nobles’ whispers increased at her question. Yet I didn’t look to our audience, but to the old man. When he raised his hands before me, I held them in my own, tracing his palms with my jeweled fingers. “They’re hard, Mother,” I replied, my heart pounding mightily. “As hard as teak.”

“The hands of a thief or a laborer?”

“A farmer, surely.”

Babur bristled but didn’t dare interfere. Mother smiled at me before turning to her husband. “My recommendation is simple, my lord. Ismail shall forfeit his land but not his life. He’ll sign a deed ceding his farm to Lord Babur.” The accused slumped, for by relinquishing his farm he’d ensure himself a life of destitution and beggary. However, Mother was not finished. “But, my gardens wilt these days, and I need someone with experience in such matters to rescue them. Could you be that someone, Ismail?”

The farmer fell to his knees. “Truly I am, my lady. Truly.”

“Then I’ve found my gardener.”

“And my wife?”

Mother laughed unreservedly, as if only I were present. “She’ll join you in the Red Fort, of course, for what man could think straight without his wife’s advice?” When she winked at the Emperor, a few nobles, despite their feelings, smiled.

Father chuckled, for an instant looking like an ordinary husband and not the Emperor of Hindustan. “Is this decision acceptable to everyone involved?” he asked, spreading out his hands.

Babur, who must have been thrilled by the prospect of obtaining more land, nodded. “Indeed, my lord. As always, the Empress finds the best solution.”

“Then the matter is put to rest, as are these tedious affairs.”

At his announcement the room emptied of nobles, servants and warriors. Ismail was released by Babur’s men and hurried forward to kneel before Mother. Beaming, she grasped his raised hands, then asked Nizam to find the man quarters near her gardens. After they departed, she whispered to Father, “Babur may be a worm, but I could think of no other way to quench his anger.”

Father slipped on his jeweled sandals. “Thank you, my love. You’ve saved me once again.” His eyes dropped to me. “And you were perfect, my flower! Perfect! Were you nervous, like a horse standing above a cobra?”

“Yes, Father. Though I’m but a mouse.”

He laughed, turning to his sons. “A pity your mother wasn’t born a boy. She’d be a splendid emperor. Better, by far, than I.”

Three of my four brothers grinned. Aurangzeb, however, tugged on Father’s tunic. “But the law says to execute criminals. Now he may steal from us.” Aurangzeb, as usual, spoke loudly. To me, it seemed he was afraid of not being heard.

Father’s smile vanished, as it often did when Aurangzeb said something he didn’t approve of. “Perhaps, but he has earned the right to prove his worth.”

“How?”

“He sacrificed his sons to the Empire. Had I done the same, I might expect my emperor to show me gratitude, not the executioner’s sword.”

“But he broke the law.”

“Is a sack of rice worth a man’s life?” Dara probed, for he almost always held the opposite view to Aurangzeb’s.

“The law is the law.”

“And it spoke,” Father said, fondly patting Dara’s shoulder. “He lost his farm, which went to his accuser, thanks to my brilliant girls.” Father took Mother’s hand and stepped away from his throne. “Come, we’ve talked enough of this. And as we’ve talked, my stomach’s done nothing but growl like a wounded lion.”

When I turned to follow them, I noticed Aurangzeb glaring at me. His eyes made me feel uneasy, and I wondered what I had done wrong.

L
ater that evening
, I rested on a tiger’s pelt and gazed at the Yamuna. Above me rustled the heavy flaps of the canvas pavilion our servants had pitched near the riverbank. The scarlet structure possessed no sides, though stout bamboo poles supported its roof. An immensely broad and thick carpet, depicting marvelous arrays of roses, ensured the comfort of whoever lounged within the pavilion. Furs, cushions and gossamer silk blankets covered parts of the carpet.

As I rubbed my hand on the tiger’s intricate fur, I wondered how a beast could be so beautiful and so frightening. Beside me sat Mother and Father, each clad in dusky garments. My baby sisters slept next to them under pashmina blankets. Much as I loved my sisters, I could rarely enjoy their company, for their nursemaids saw to every need. These women were quite protective of their duties and certainly did not want my help.

On the opposite side of the pavilion, a troop of dancers and musicians amused us. Versed in the Kathak art of storytelling, these entertainers recreated the famous account of my great-great-grandfather, Humayun, escaping from hordes of Afghan warriors. The tale was harrowing, for after defeating our forces the Afghans began slaughtering all our people—be they child, woman or man. Legend said that as the enemy overran our imperial guards, an attendant gave the Emperor a water sack. Inflated, the animal gut allowed him to swim safely across the Ganges. Thus, my great-great-grandfather was able to return years later and drive out the invaders.

Five men—with blood-spattered faces and naked chests—represented the Afghans. Another performer wore a pearl necklace, and clutched the inflated and leather-bound stomach of a horse to his chest. While musicians plucked upon sitars and beat against drums, the Afghan warriors chased the Emperor onto a wide bolt of blue velvet.

As the music quickened the dancers became caught in the river’s currents and spun madly, flailing their arms about, while Humayun swam toward the opposite shore. When he finally stepped upon land, his pursuers fell, writhing atop the velvet, pulling it over themselves, disappearing beneath the river’s blue waves.