Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth (40 page)

‘My guess is that he wants to remind us of his presence and warn us against sallying from the fort. He knows that if he keeps us isolated we cannot contact supporters with the truth about the rebels’ actions, nor direct our remaining loyal forces. The only version of events that will reach the provinces will be their perverted one and I can scarcely blame the officials there if they believe it, or at least take no action to question it while the outcome of our struggle is uncertain.’

‘Perhaps he also hopes to demoralise the garrison and so precipitate our surrender.’

‘Maybe, but whatever his intentions I mean to stand up to him. We have enough food and water as well as troops, powder and shot to hold out for a long time and even to inflict serious casualties on our enemy. I’ve promised our gunners five hundred rupees for every rebel cannon they silence.’

‘Perhaps Murad’s motives aren’t what you think. Perhaps he’s regretting that things have come to such a pass and is anxious not to do anything to harm you … or his sisters. Maybe he is even thinking of reconciliation …’

‘Murad must know he’s gone too far to think he could ever win my forgiveness. He and Aurangzeb have killed my soldiers on the battlefield and put my appointed heir – their own brother – to flight.’ At the mention of Dara Shah Jahan saw Jahanara’s expression falter. ‘I know how hard this is for you,’ he went on more softly. ‘These past weeks have been difficult for both of us. Every day, like you, I hope for word of Dara.’

‘Not knowing is the hardest. Shut up in this fort we’ve no way of finding out what’s happening in the world outside. And the only news we have had has been bad …’

Shah Jahan knew exactly what she meant – the letter from the Governor of Delhi brought by a messenger that Murad had allowed through his lines three weeks ago, which had reported the governor’s decision to refuse to admit Dara into the city. His justification had been that Aurangzeb had assured him that the emperor was far too ill to have issued any order to hand over the city and its treasure to Dara …

‘I hope one day Dara and I will be in a position to punish the governor for his duplicity and hypocrisy. I’d like to see him executed. That I cannot even send a reply condemning his action only brings home the harder how powerless I’ve become to impose my will on my empire.’

‘Do you think Aurangzeb is still pursuing Dara?’

‘Yes. Dara is the greatest threat to him. I doubt Aurangzeb’ll rest until he’s satisfied he’s driven Dara far away from Agra and Delhi. But he’ll want to get back here as soon as he can. He daren’t risk leaving Murad in sole command for too long. Aurangzeb must secretly fear that Murad means to seize the whole empire if he can – as doubtless he does himself. My hope is that the two of them will soon quarrel. If they do, it may give Dara a chance, especially if Suleiman brings back his army from the east. This war isn’t over yet …’

For a while he and Jahanara stood in silence. That was how it often was these days, she reflected. Cut off as they were from the outside world, what was there to talk about? Speculation was painful, raising fresh anxieties that each doubtless wished to spare the other. With every day she sensed her father retreating more and more into himself and she was doing the same. Sometimes her thoughts turned to Nicholas. The world around her – once so full of certainties – had become such a fragile place. Nicholas was one of the very few she knew she could still trust. She hadn’t forgotten his gentle touch on her scarred face. What had she felt at that moment? Not suprise, or shock, but … and it had taken her a little time to realise this … gratitude for such a human gesture at such a bleak time. If Roshanara had witnessed it, she would doubtless have interpreted it very differently.

The thought of Roshanara reminded Jahanara that she should return to the
haram
for the evening meal, which since the start of the siege she had taken to eating with her sisters. Her relationship with Roshanara was still strained and they said little to one another, but she knew that the boom of the cannon frightened Gauharara. Though she was no child but a grown woman, her youngest sister was eating little and sleeping badly. Every evening Jahanara tried to reassure her and turn her mind to happier things.

‘Father, with your permission I will return to the
haram
.’ He nodded but said nothing. Just as in the days of peace the evening torches were lit on either side of the gates leading into the main courtyard of the
haram
as Jahanara approached.

As the Turkish female guards swung the gates open to admit her, she heard laughter. Three young women were sitting together on the marble edge of a splashing fountain in the centre of the courtyard. For a moment, listening to them, she could pretend that nothing was amiss with the world. Soon she would order the evening meal for herself and her sisters, but first she would go and tell Roshanara what their father had said about defending the fort.

But when she entered Roshanara’s apartments on the far side of the courtyard she saw that her sister wasn’t there. Neither were her attendants. Perhaps she had gone to the bath house? She was turning to leave when she noticed a piece of folded paper lying on top of her sister’s gilded jewellery box. Curious, she picked it up and saw that it was a letter addressed to their father in Roshanara’s neat hand and sealed with her sister’s emblem of a displaying peacock. How odd that Roshanara should write to their father when she could see him whenever she wished … Jahanara was about to put the letter back when she noticed something else – the box’s silver clasps were unfastened despite the fact that Roshanara kept her finest rubies and carved emeralds, including a necklace that had belonged to their great-great-grandmother Hamida, in it. How could her attendants have been so careless? She raised the lid and looked inside. The box was empty except for a few silver bangles.

Letting the heavy lid drop back, Jahanara scanned the room. It was not as tidy as usual. A Kashmir shawl was hanging out of a chest and a gold-tasselled silk skirt was crumpled on the floor. Could there have been a robbery? Surely not in the well-guarded
haram
. But then a thought struck her … She was being ridiculous and yet … Almost before she knew what she was doing she broke the seal of the letter she was still holding and as fragments of green wax showered the carpet, read what her sister had written.

For a moment Jahanara stood there, scarcely able to take in the meaning of those few lines. Then, refolding the letter, she went to the door and called to an attendant.

‘Ask the
khawajasara
to come at once. Tell her it’s urgent.’

Barely two minutes later the
haram
superintendent appeared, carved ivory staff of office in hand, and anxiety on her normally calm and dignified face. ‘Highness?’

‘When I came to visit my sister she wasn’t here. Instead I found this letter saying she’s left the fort.’

‘But that’s impossible … quite, quite impossible.’

‘I think you’re wrong. When did you last see her?’

The
khawajasara
hesitated. ‘Probably when I spoke to her early this morning … about an incident in the
haram
…’

‘What incident?’

‘I didn’t think I needed to trouble you with it, Highness. Yesterday evening one of the
haram
servants, an elderly latrine cleaner, died. She was a Hindu from the town and her last wish was that her body be taken from the fort and returned to her people for cremation. The poor creature was very agitated at the last and I promised to do my best, though to be honest I doubted it would be possible. Somehow Princess Roshanara learned of the death and summoned me. I was surprised. It was unlike her to take such an interest in a humble member of my staff. She questioned me closely, then said that it was our duty to do our very best to fulfil the woman’s dying request. At first light this morning she sent a note to the garrison commander asking him to send a messenger to Prince Murad’s camp under flag of truce before the day’s bombardment began, carrying a letter she’d already written and sealed appealing for permission for the corpse to be carried from the fort … at least that’s what she claimed was in the letter …’ The
khawajasara’s
voice tailed off. ‘Madam, I …’

‘Go on.’

‘Our messenger brought back word that at dusk we would be permitted to send the woman’s body from the fort in safety. We had everything in readiness and shortly after you had gone to join His Majesty on the battlements four white-clad
haram
attendants carried the corpse from the fort …’ The
khawajasara
clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘That must be how she managed it. One of the women must have been your sister in disguise. They were all heavily veiled and it never occurred to me to check their identities …’

‘Which gate did they use?’

‘The same side gate as our messenger had earlier – a small one facing the town.’

So that was why she and her father, looking out across the Jumna, had seen nothing, Jahanara thought. When they had been standing talking Roshanara had slipped away … How could she have done such a thing? And how dare she write about conscience when she plainly didn’t have one? But then a fresh worry struck Jahanara.

‘What about Princess Gauharara? When did you last see her?’

‘She has been in her apartments all day with a bad headache. At least, that’s what her attendants said and I’d no reason to disbelieve them … I promise you I’ve always taken my responsibilities very seriously.’

But Jahanara wasn’t listening. With the
khawajasara
close behind, Jahanara rushed to her youngest sister’s rooms across the courtyard. Gauharara hadn’t deserted their father as well, had she? The ivory-clad doors were closed, just as they’d been to Roshanara’s quarters. Jahanara’s heart was thumping as she pushed them open. The blinds were lowered over the casements and only a few lamps were burning. Some herbal smell – camomile perhaps – filled the air. Squinting into the gloom Jahanara made out a form lying on a divan, then heard a querulous voice. ‘Who is it? My head is splitting.’

The voice sounded like Gauharara’s but she must be certain this wasn’t yet another trick. Taking an oil lamp from a niche Jahanara went closer. By its flickering light she saw her sister’s thin face … thank goodness.

‘Oh, it’s you, Jahanara. I thought it might be Satti al-Nisa. I’ve been asking for her all day. She’s the only one who knows how to get rid of these headaches of mine but she hasn’t been near me.’

‘Madam, I haven’t seen Satti al-Nisa since this morning,’ said the
khawajasara
, who had followed Jahanara into the room.

Looking over her shoulder Jahanara signalled to the woman to say nothing further. There was no point in telling Gauharara about Roshanara’s flight yet. She turned back to her sister. ‘I’m sorry you’re not well. I’ll see if I can find Satti al-Nisa for you.’ Still accompanied by the
khawajasara
, Jahanara turned into the thickly carpeted, silk-hung corridor at the far end of which was the room Satti al-Nisa had occupied for nearly three decades – ever since she had become Mumtaz’s confidante. Satti al-Nisa was the one person she could rely on to tell her what was happening, yet she didn’t seem to have detected anything of Roshanara’s plans. Had her sister simply taken an opportunity when it appeared or had she been planning this for a long time?

As soon as Jahanara pushed aside the curtains and entered her friend’s room she saw that something was wrong. Satti al-Nisa was slumped on a silk bolster on the floor, her long silvery-grey hair loose around her. Had she had a seizure? She was still so vigorous it was easy to forget how old she was. Kneeling beside her, Jahanara took Satti al-Nisa’s hand in hers. It felt chill, and as she chafed it there was no response … neither was there any sign of the rise and fall of her breast. No, it couldn’t be … Jahanara’s eyes filled with tears as she put her face closer to Satti al-Nisa’s. Then she felt – or thought she did – a faint exhalation of breath against her own skin. Gently releasing Satti al-Nisa’s hand, she rose to her feet. ‘She’s very ill but I think she’s still alive … Fetch help quickly,’ she shouted to the
khawajasara
standing in the doorway.

The woman returned a few minutes later with a purple-robed companion whose forehead was curiously tattooed. ‘This is Yasmin. She is from Arabia, where she learned some of the skills of the
hakim
from her doctor father.’

As Jahanara moved aside to give her room, Yasmin leant over Satti al-Nisa, felt for her pulse and then raised one of her eyelids to reveal a dark, dilated pupil.

‘What’s wrong with her? Has she had a fit?’ Jahanara asked.

‘No, Highness. I think she has swallowed opium and is in a very deep drugged sleep.’

‘Opium? Are you certain? I have never known her take it.’

Turning, Yasmin picked up a silver cup standing on a low white marble table, dipped in her right forefinger and then licked it. ‘The bitter taste of the poppy is unmistakeable, even when mixed, as it has been here, with rose-flavoured sherbet.’

‘Someone must have deliberately drugged her. That’s the only explanation.’ Jahanara could guess who. Roshanara had left as little as possible to chance and given opium to an old woman who had looked after her nearly all her life. ‘You’re absolutely certain she’s in no danger?’