Beneath a Marble Sky (18 page)

Your love I hold against my heart
.

I trembled as I gripped the paper. Though I hated to destroy such beauty, I tore the note into shreds, fearful it might find the wrong hands. My chest tightened in marvelous excitement and I pulled a mirror from my bag. The legacy of a day in the saddle was inscribed on my face. I quickly undressed and, using cotton rags dipped in cool water, cleaned myself as best as I could. I then put on a robe painted with butterflies, drawing it tighter than usual to enhance my figure. A few drops of lotus perfume rubbed into my skin; an orchid stolen from the inn’s garden to grace my hair.

As I started to tidy my belongings, I paused, aware of shuffling feet.

“Jahanara?”

I opened the door and found him there, dripping wet and quite confused. He still must have thought me upset with him, for his face contained none of its usual happiness. “I was taking…a bath in the river,” he said haltingly, “and saw Nizam.”

“Father brought me here,” I replied, wanting to invite him in, but hesitating.

His uncertainty didn’t waiver. “He sent a letter asking me to meet an architect here immediately.”

“I’m the architect!”

“You?”

“Father planned it all, Isa. He ordered us here so that we could be together.”

“He knows?”

“Only that I love you.”

“But this past week you’ve—”

“I’ve despised myself,” I interrupted. “My love for you, and my fear of what that love would betray, made me so cold. But there’s no fear here, no watchful eyes, no deceit. There is only us.”

He took a step into my room, his hand sailing out to touch my chin. “But your father, he truly condones our love?” When I nodded, Isa’s crooked smile, so long departed, returned. “A remarkable man.”

I wanted him in my arms, yearned for him with a passion that quickened my pulse. I pulled him close and his damp hands were about me, drawing aside my hair, caressing my neck. He kissed me. I felt his urgency in that kiss, yet it was almost impossibly tender. I muttered his name and his fingers dropped to my robe. His eyes sought mine and when I nodded he untethered my clothes, letting them fall. He made no move to touch me but stepped back, as if to study a mosque of his design.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “How can you be so beautiful?”

I placed his hands on my breasts. He traced their soft contours, almost in awe. I’d always been ashamed of my nakedness, as if it somehow made me weak. But now I quivered with a strange power. As Mother had often said, being a woman is nothing to be ashamed of, and this man, unlike so many others, didn’t seem to think of me as something to belittle, but to behold.

My skin responded to his touch, tingling beneath his fingers. My hands worked upon his clothes and soon he was naked as well. His body was lean and muscular. Unlike my husband, his chest and long legs were almost free of hair. Isa lifted me to the sleeping blankets. My mouth found his and our kisses grew frenzied. I wanted him inside me and, reaching down, guided him forward. I sensed a coolness at first, a breeze between my thighs that quickly warmed. Isa didn’t move with the wild haste of my husband but eased forward and back like an oar upon water. I found myself, much to my surprise, moving with him.

“My Swallow,” he said, somewhat breathlessly, “how I love you.”

My hands delighted in the hard muscles of his back. I pawed at him, and a burning surged within me that I’d never known. It soared, higher and higher, so high I could endure it no more. Suddenly I shrieked, my body convulsing. At the same time his body stiffened, and, crying out, he collapsed on me.

“So this is love,” I said finally, when he rested in my arms. He kissed me happily and I pulled him closer.

As we lay tangled as one, it seemed that only our world existed. Nothing else mattered. Not hate or fear. Not the past or future. There was only the space between us. And this space shrank as we touched again.

O
ur three days
at the inn passed like an eclipse, wondrous and fleeting. Breakfasts we spent with Nizam. His happiness for us was chiseled into his face, and Isa and I felt honored to call him a friend. He was the one person beyond Father who knew everything about our rendezvous. I think he reveled in the knowledge, though I suspected he’d die before betraying us. Understanding our needs, Nizam left us each morning after we finished our fruit and yogurt, returning only at dusk.

Isa and I rarely spoke of the Taj Mahal, or of anything concerning life in Agra. Instead, we explored the Ganges River and the surrounding countryside. We packed picnics and rode far into the horizon. We saw much wildlife and were constantly stumbling across foxes, cheetahs, tigers, gazelles, eagles and cobras.

Only a handful of settlements dotted the riverbanks. The few we spied consisted of farmers and fishermen. Unaccustomed to seeing strangers, they stared at us as they harvested crops or gutted their catch. Welcoming no gossip, we waved but seldom offered other greetings.

For much of the time we acted like children. We ran our horses, and skipped stones across the river. We chased each other through fields of wheat. Sometimes, when certain that no one was near, we spread our blankets at a hidden spot and made love. At first, such blatant carousing troubled me, for I was a princess, after all, not a courtesan. But in the wilderness, with Isa to encourage me, I learned to trust my body, not the nagging of my conscience. Our lovemaking was as varied as the environs in which we enjoyed it, sometimes defined by urgency, other times by serenity. We followed no pattern but always found solace in each other’s flesh. Afterward Isa often swam naked in the river while I bathed in the shallows.

At dusk we drank wine with Nizam and the old innkeeper. Her husband, it became known, had served Father faithfully for many years. After he perished fighting the Persians, Father gave his wife money to buy the inn. She was a sweet, toothless woman who cooked us splendid meals and was always eager to sit beside us.

Our time at the river provided me with unsurpassed moments. Isa and I never spoke about our approaching separation, however much it simmered within our minds. Even during our last day at the Ganges, we failed to mention it. Instead, we traveled farther northwest than we’d ever been.

Early in the afternoon we came across a man burning his wife’s body next to the river. Hindus often burnt loved ones’ corpses in this manner, since they believed that only once the body was ashes did the soul no longer feel an attachment to the body. Such an uncoupling was necessary for the soul’s progress to be unhindered, a passage which began when the ashes were cast into the Ganges. Within its sacred waters the journey toward reincarnation continued—unless the deceased had amassed enough positive karma over numerous lifetimes so that the soul was finally released from the wheel of rebirth.

The man appeared to have no children and, as he added wood to the fire, I wondered how he could bear life on this lonely stretch of river with his wife gone. My mood turned melancholy as we rode through prairie grass back to the inn. When Isa asked what troubled me, I turned to him. “Our time here is done. Need I say more?”

“I know you shall,” he replied, trying to smile.

Despite my sour thoughts, I was pleased his understanding of me continued to expand. “How, Isa, can I stand beside you day after day and pretend as if nothing exists between us?” I sought the answer as he contemplated, but it shunned me, for I was made of blood, and only one of stone could stand so resolute.

Isa spurred his horse closer to mine. “This was a gift, Swallow,” he said softly. “Thank Allah when you pray next, and thank your father. We’re blessed, truly blessed, to have had these days.”

“But I want more.”

He pushed his turban higher on his brow. “Of course you do. As do I. But until that wish is granted, console yourself with the knowledge that our love is a rare thing. For I’ve seen many kinds of love, and most are hollow, passionless. They’re a matter of convenience, nothing more. We might not share the same house or sleep together each night, but we have something that most do not. And we must be content.”

“Content? How can I be content only as your assistant? Am I expected to subdue all my emotions?”

He chuckled at my frustration, which he did on occasion, for his teasings usually brightened my mood. Normally, I welcomed his banter, as my world was often such a serious place that his smile reminded me how it felt to be young. Right now, however, I was suddenly irritated by his bottomless optimism.

“I wouldn’t expect you, Swallow, to subdue anything,” he added. “As your father might say, it would be like asking clouds not to rain.” He slapped at a fly, then added, “No, don’t subdue your love. And don’t worry. We’re young, and many, many years stretch before us. Only Allah knows what will happen.”

“Yes,” I replied uneasily. “But now I catch your eye. Shall you still love me when I’m old? Or will you seek someone younger and lovelier?”

He pretended to think. “Well, now that you suggest it, I’ll probably—”

Though he only jested, I spurred my horse ahead and left him coughing in a swirling cloud of dust. I didn’t see how he could make light of our situation, and it maddened me that he would do so. Ignoring his calls to stop, I galloped ahead. My horse was fleeter than his, and I arrived at the inn well before him. I hurried inside and removed my sweaty robe. I was about to wash myself when he entered.

“Jahanara,” he said breathlessly, “surely you realize I only jest. I’ll never leave you for another. It would be like abandoning my work on the Taj Mahal to go build a—”

“Latrine?”

He grinned. “Exactly. And why would I leave you for a latrine?”

“Perhaps you have loose stools. Or a fondness for flies. How should I know why men act as they do?”

His face finally turned serious. Though he enjoyed vexing me to a degree, he was prudent enough to understand that he’d crawled beneath an agitated elephant. “I love you, Jahanara. And that love won’t vanish with time, but will strengthen.”

“Shall it?”

“You know little, truly, of how much I think about you. When I work, you’re always in my mind. I see your eyes in a pair of gems, or hear your laugh when you aren’t near.”

“But how then,” I asked, exasperated, “are you able to ride so composed, when tomorrow I’ll leave? Perhaps you can live within memories, but I’m not ready for their imprisonment.”

He reached for me and I stepped back. “Do you believe in fate?” he asked, approaching until we touched. I stayed silent, and so he continued. “For if you do, you must know that we’ll be brought together again.” My lover ran his hand through my hair, skewing my veil. “Not long ago, I thought fate was only a word poets invented to give their prose meaning. But then your father sought me. And while it might seem that he sought me for the Taj Mahal, I think that somehow I was meant not only to build it, but to find you. And now that I’ve discovered you, Jahanara, would I so freely let you go?” He paused as I unwound his turban. “An impossibility, I think. For I’m most at peace with you. I’m most complete with you.”

“Truly?”

He put a finger to my lips. “Truly.”

I wanted him then and stepped into his embrace. He tried to be gentle, but I made love to him with a haste born of fear, for despite his words, I wondered if our love would endure. Even love has its limits, and fate can be a foe as much as a friend. Yes, fate had brought me him, but fate stole my mother. Would it steal Isa next?

When our lovemaking ended, I fixed my gaze at the ceiling. I didn’t rest in bliss. Instead, I plotted, pondering how and why and where we could be together. And though no answers came, I prayed that a day would arrive when we might live as man and wife.

Chapter 10

Brothers as Princes

S
oon after my return to Agra a major crisis sprang itself upon me. A note bearing no signature was secretly passed to Nizam, who placed it in my hands. Though only a rough toad was drawn on the paper, I knew who had sent it and, late that night, hurried to a prearranged meeting place within one of the many passageways under the Taj Mahal.

I arrived early, unlocked the iron door leading beneath the structure, and left it ajar for Ladli. When she arrived, I secured the door behind us. We shuffled down a black corridor until I felt comfortable enough to light a lantern. Still we didn’t speak, but twisted through the mausoleum’s bowels until at last we came to a door. Once within that storage room I bolted the door shut. I gave Ladli a robust hug. Since her feigned betrayal, she had ceased working on the Taj Mahal. Thus, it had been more than a year since I held her, and I now found it hard to let go. We exchanged kisses, then embraced again.

“You look magnificent,” I said in Hindi, for womanhood had treated her kindly.

“As do you, my little friend.”

“Are you well?”

“As well as a mouse could be in a bed of vipers.” Ladli coughed, for dust speckled the air. Then she said hurriedly, “Sorry, but we haven’t time for pleasantries. If I’m gone too long the dung eater will start to suspect.”

“Who?”

“Aurangzeb, of course.” I started to speak but her frown stilled my voice. “Jahanara, listen for once. Aurangzeb plans to kill Dara in three days.”

My flesh tingled. Though we were safe here, I glanced about nervously. “How?”

“Aurangzeb and Dara will ride north, at your father’s insistence, to negotiate a truce with the Persians. Aurangzeb has arranged for outlaws, dressed as Persians, to attack his force. They’ll kill Dara and a few others before retreating. With Dara gone, Aurangzeb sees a clear path to the throne. And in the meantime, the traitor can fight the Persians, as he wants, instead of signing treaties with them.”

Though my skin continued to crawl, and my heart surged, I was surprisingly clear of mind as I pondered her words. I’d expected such treachery; I just hadn’t thought it would come this soon. “But if he yearns for the throne so dearly, why not kill Father instead?”

Ladli spat. “He’s no dullard, Jahanara, even if less clever than you. He knows he isn’t strong enough yet to rule the kingdom. The nobles follow the Emperor and Dara. If your father died, they’d support Dara. Aurangzeb would have the army behind him, and it might secure him the throne. But he’s not one to take chances. He’ll wait for your father to die, and with Dara gone, will become the next emperor.”

“What of my other brothers, Shah and Murad?”

“As timid as kittens. Stationed at outposts on our frontier, they boast neither the favor of the nobles, nor the power of the army.” Ladli reached down to pick up a cricket, which she placed on a crate safely away from our feet. “Aurangzeb scoffs at their strength, Jahanara. He knows the only man standing in his path is Dara.”

“Two days after tomorrow?”

“As I said.”

I sat on a grimy barrel, for despite my clarity, my legs felt weak. “Then I must convince Dara…I must convince him not to leave, and arrange his excuse so that Aurangzeb doesn’t suspect you.” I paused, for something here seemed amiss. “But why, Ladli, why would Aurangzeb tell you such things? Surely he can’t trust you so?”

My friend, whose tongue was like an unbridled stallion, fidgeted slightly. “Because…because I realized that if I were to give him…if I gave him my body, in time I’d pry all his secrets loose.”