The Twentieth Wife (21 page)

When they reached the house, Mehrunnisa saw most of the servants gathered in a crowd in the front courtyard, their faces hostile. Some of these women were mothers themselves. Surely they would have more knowledge of childbirth and birthing than she did? Why did they not go to help Yasmin? It was nothing but prejudice and sloth
and a small kind of meanness. Yasmin was an orphan with no protector, pregnant without being married. They had ostracized her for the last six months. And Mehrunnisa had allowed them to, angry herself, in a deep deep pain that this woman should carry her husband’s child, while she could not keep one within her for more than a few months.

She pulled off her veil and glared at the huddled servants. Commands came out like musket shots. “Get hot water! Go look for a
hakim
or a midwife! No, no argument, tell them I have commanded their presence. Some clean bedclothes, sheets, towels, everything. Milk the goat for the child if it will not take to its mother’s breast. Now!”

“It is of no use,
Sahiba,”
one old servant spoke up. “She has screamed for too long; the child is surely dead by now inside her. And she—she will not last long either. Better not to waste time.”

“Why was I not informed before?”

They all shrugged and looked away at the walls, at the cloudy sky, at the floor, not wanting to meet the blue fire in Mehrunnisa’s eyes. Just then, from behind the servants’ quarters, Yasmin screamed again. Mehrunnisa shivered. It was a low feral wail, unreal, inhuman. The sound stretched thinly through the house and wrapped itself around them before dying out.

Snapping her fingers at the servants, Mehrunnisa picked up the skirts of her
ghagara
and ran to the quarters behind the house. They had put Yasmin in a shed where the hens were kept when her pains first started. Mehrunnisa entered the shed and almost gagged as the stench of stale blood rose to her nostrils. A red stain blossomed on the straw under the girl, seeping into the mud floor, the hens squawking and pecking curiously nearby. Bile shot up from her stomach, and Mehrunnisa ran back outside, throwing up the
chai
she had drunk. Still heaving, she wiped her mouth, covered her face with her veil, and went back inside.

Yasmin lay motionless on the hay, her lower body uncovered, her
stomach distended toward the thatched roof. Her arms flopped at her side, and her head was turned to Mehrunnisa, eyes huge and frightened. Sweat soaked through her hair and pooled in a dark circle on the pillow.

Mehrunnisa put a hand on her forehead. “It will be all right, Yasmin.”

A flicker of recognition flashed in the girl’s eyes. “Sorry . . .”

Mehrunnisa shook her head. For what? She had had no choice. They were all—this slave girl, the servants, Mehrunnisa herself— the property of her husband. How could this girl have denied him anything?

“Leela,” she said to the child, who had followed her inside and now stood near the door. “Take the hens out and clean out this shed. Open the windows a little to let the air in.”

Just then another contraction racked Yasmin’s body, and the shed filled with her low howl. Her stomach shuddered and quivered, the child inside straining to come out, her body trying to expel it, neither effort successful. Mehrunnisa washed her hands in the pail of cold water used for the hens and knelt in front of Yasmin’s splayed legs. Something was wrong. Why did the child not come? Even if it were dead, it had to be removed or Yasmin would surely die. Mehrunnisa had watched enough births at home and in the imperial
zenana
to know what happened. She had seen the
hakims
and midwives battle to bring life back to the child, to the mother. With the fingers of one hand, she probed between Yasmin’s thighs, watching her face for signs of pain. But Yasmin was beyond pain.

Mehrunnisa touched a rounded curve and drew back, her fingers coated in blood. The baby was already half out, but she had not been able to see it in the semidarkness of the hen shed. Almost dreading what she was to discover, she reached down again. Her hands slipped over a tiny smooth round bottom. Still kneeling there, Mehrunnisa closed her eyes. Sweat beaded her forehead even in the chill of the
shed. The child was coming out bottom first. What could she do? Was there any way to turn the baby?
Allah, come to our aid.
Another contraction started, and Yasmin cried out again.

Mehrunnisa felt the baby force itself against her hands.

“Leela!” she called to the wide-eyed child who had just shooed the hens out of the shed. “Go and hold up Yasmin. Make her sit up. Don’t argue; do as I say.”

Then, when a nearly fainting Yasmin sat looking at her, Mehrunnisa said, “The next time a pain comes, I want you to push hard. As hard as you can. Do you understand?”

Yasmin stared at her blankly. Leela said, “I will help her,
Sahiba.”

Mehrunnisa turned back to the child. When Yasmin’s body shuddered again and she opened her mouth to let out an unearthly wail, Leela leaned into her and said urgently, “Push, Yasmin, push.”

As the girl strained, Mehrunnisa reached inside, grabbed hold of one slippery leg, and gently pulled it out. The other leg was still folded near the head. Feeling inside Yasmin’s body, Mehrunnisa caught the other leg. A few minutes later, it too came out. Almost too easily, Mehrunnisa thought, for now the head, the hardest and largest part of the child, was yet to be delivered. A servant came in with a copper vessel of warm water and some cloths. She dipped a few towels in the water and wiped the little body. It was too cold and bluish gray; the umbilical cord was shriveled. Mehrunnisa kept the baby wrapped in warm towels, waiting for the contractions, praying it would come out safely. She, who had seen difficult births only from afar, seemed to know instinctively what to do. Where that strength or that knowledge came from she did not know.

Thirty minutes went by before the child slipped out into Mehrunnisa’s exhausted hands. Yasmin lay back on her bed of straw, a pulse barely beating on her thin wrists, blood drained from her face. Surprisingly, the bleeding seemed to have almost stopped.

Mehrunnisa looked down at the slippery, bloody, bawling infant
cradled in her arms. It was a boy. Her husband had his heir . . . through another woman. It was a child he would never acknowledge.

By this time, the rest of the servants had crowded outside the door of the shed, peering in curiously. The midwife came too, led by one of the grooms. Mehrunnisa nodded toward Yasmin. “Clean her up, and clean up the child too. There will be a reward for you.”

Then she crawled to one corner of the shed and leaned against the wall, watching as the midwife wiped and swabbed at Yasmin, massaging her uterus back into shape, applying poultices to heal her skin. The baby too was cleaned and brought to Mehrunnisa. She sat there, holding the child, watching him sleep. Her hands were still caked with dried blood, his blood, his mother’s blood. She traced his hairline with one finger, dabbed at the little nose, put his tiny curled fist against her lips. A huge pain came sweeping through her as she held the baby. When would she have one of her own?

The midwife fed Yasmin some chicken and beef broth, took her payment, and left. Still Mehrunnisa sat there holding the child. Would Yasmin live?

She put her head against the baby’s tiny one and closed her eyes. Among all the filth and blood of the shed, the smooth smell of newborn life rose and surrounded her. The baby slept in the crook of her arm, so tiny, so content, so unaware of his fate. What if she never had children? At the heel of that terrible thought came another, stronger idea. If Empress Ruqayya could command a child away from a royal princess, why shouldn’t she from a penniless, orphan maidservant? She could always pension Yasmin off and send her to some remote village. She would never talk. Mehrunnisa had brought the child into this world. He must belong to her.

•   •   •

P
RINCE
S
ALIM REINED
in his horse, turned, and held up a hand for silence. Behind him, the sun glanced off the spires and minarets of the city of Agra.

“We will rest tonight,” Salim announced, raising his voice. “Tomorrow, we shall storm the fort. Set up camp here.”

Mahabat Khan came riding up, his lean, brown face taut with worry. “We must proceed to the fort immediately, your Highness. No time must be lost.”

“Look at the men.” Salim gestured. “They are in no condition to go into battle.”

Both men turned to look at the soldiers with their dust-grimed faces and dark circles under their eyes, their horses foaming at the mouth from the long, hard march. No one had slept much in the past few weeks. They had left in the middle of the night from Udaipur. Salim’s servants had been told to inform the army that he was ill and in bed, but that excuse would have worked for only a short time. Sooner or later, some commander would want to see him personally, and the pretense would be revealed. As they traversed the breadth of the empire toward Agra, Salim prayed that the news of his flight would not reach the Emperor until it was too late. Then all this—the hard riding through scorching days when the sun burned harsh on their skins; the brief rest stops to eat, rub down the horses, and feed them; the few precious hours of sleep—would come to naught.

“We shall lose the element of surprise if we stay here tonight, your Highness. The governor, Qulich Khan, will have time to prepare for a siege. We must proceed,” Mahabat said firmly.

“But when Qulich Khan sees us approaching with an army, he is sure to be suspicious,” Salim replied, running a hand through his hair. It was dusty. He had not bathed in a week; there had been no time. “We are all tired from the march. How can we defend ourselves if Qulich attacks?”

“Not so, your Highness,” Mahabat said. “What is more natural than a royal prince entering the fort with his army? He will not suspect anything.”

Salim looked at Mahabat and then back at his army, struggling to
make the decision required. Finally he said, “Let us march on, then.” The soldiers wearily lifted their shields and spears and mounted their lagging horses.

The sun was setting in the western sky as they neared the fort. The Agra fort, built in red sandstone, was ablaze in crimson. It seemed quiet. There were no signs of undue activity. Salim relaxed in his saddle and allowed his shoulders to fall back. Mahabat was right. Qulich had not heard of their arrival. He would simply march into the fort and take over the treasury. Nothing could be simpler.

They reached the Delhi gateway, the western approach to the fort. Salim’s fatigue began to disappear, and his spirits lifted. He knew that there was no turning back now; he would either capture the treasury or spend his life fleeing from the imperial army. The trip had been made in the greatest secrecy, but Salim knew that there were no secrets from the Emperor. Akbar had built a mighty empire, and one of the bastions of that empire was his superb spy system. Their only hope was to reach Agra before the Emperor could inform Qulich Khan of their intentions.

Now it seemed his wishes had been fulfilled. Everything appeared to be quiet and normal. The huge wooden gates were shut and the drawbridge drawn up, but that was not unusual. He held up his hand and reined in his horse at the moat.

Salim turned to Mahabat and nodded.

“Open the gateway. His Highness, Prince Salim has arrived!” Mahabat yelled out to the guard at the tower.

The huge gates swung open in silence, and the drawbridge was let down on well-oiled wheels. Salim spurred his horse forward eagerly.

Just then, a small entourage came out, led by the governor.

“Welcome to Agra, your Highness.” Qulich Khan bowed to the prince. “Please accept these gifts on behalf of the city.” He gestured toward the attendants behind him, who carried large silver trays piled with satins and silks. “It is indeed a great honor for us . . .”

A sudden noise distracted Salim. He looked up. Cannons had been silently wheeled to the ramparts. They lined the battlements, their black, ugly mouths pointed at his army. The bulwark of the fort, which had looked benign a few minutes ago, was filled with soldiers bearing muskets. Qulich Khan’s intentions were clear.

“Your Highness, we can easily take the fort. There are not many soldiers,” Mahabat said in an undertone.

Salim shook his head. The time had not yet come to clash with the imperial forces. His men were tired and could hardly keep upright in the saddle. By contrast, Qulich’s army looked well rested and ready for battle. Koka and Abdullah came up to add to Mahabat Khan’s pleas. Qulich Khan was finishing his speech, and Salim was struck by his last sentence.

“What did you say?” he asked the old man.

“Her Majesty, the Dowager Empress Maryam Makani, wishes to welcome you, your Highness,” Qulich Khan repeated.

His grandmother! Salim felt his face go hot. He could not go in front of Maryam Makani while he was in revolt against his father. Suddenly, he felt like a child again; he could remember Maryam Makani’s imperious voice as she scolded him for mischief. That decided it. If his grandmother wanted to see him, he had best leave before she turned a thirty-one-year-old man into a child with her quelling stare. Salim thought quickly. He had to get out of this situation with as much grace as possible.

“I have just arrived at Agra to make sure that you are taking good care of the imperial treasury, Qulich Khan.”

“Your Highness’s concern is understandable.”

Was that sarcasm in his voice? Salim dismissed the thought and went on. “I leave Agra in your hands, and I am sure that you will guard the fort in a responsible manner. Tell my grandmother I regret I cannot wait upon her at this time.”

Qulich Khan bowed. “You can rely on me, your Highness. I will serve the Emperor with my life if necessary.”

“Good. Good.” Salim turned to his men. “Let us continue on our way.”

The army retreated. As he was leaving, Salim looked back at the fort. Within its walls lay the imperial treasury filled with riches that would have given him his dream. Qulich Khan stood at the gates, his arms folded across his chest, a grim look on his face. He bowed again to the prince. Salim nodded and turned back.