Beneath a Marble Sky (38 page)

Men chuckled, though I noticed that the figure I presumed to be Shivaji studied me intently. “I’ve come a long way, my lord,” I replied, hoping my voice didn’t quail too much. “All the way from Agra.”

At these words the Sultan frowned. Nobles muttered among themselves and warriors glanced beyond the mountains to the north. “Do Mughal whores travel so far?”

“No,” I said, growing angry with this fool. “But Mughal princesses do.”

“The only such whore is in prison with her bastard father. There they fornicate and breed new bastards.”

At this insult Nizam drew his blade, stepping in front of me. “No!” I shouted, grabbing his sword arm. “I said, no!” I watched fearfully as other swords leapt forth. Warriors growled yet did not attack. If we further insulted the Sultan, or if he commanded them to kill us, we’d die quickly. Nizam might be a tiger, but even he couldn’t fight twenty men. “Forgive us, my lord,” I beseeched him, guiding Nizam’s blade back into its scabbard. “But we’re tired and our manners aren’t what they should be.”

“Are you truly Princess Jahanara?” the diminutive man asked, his voice belying his stature.

“Yes, Shivaji.”

If surprised that I knew his name, he didn’t show it. “But why come to this den?”

“Can we speak alone?” I queried, impatient with these proceedings and desperate to see Isa and Arjumand. “My words aren’t for everyone.”

The two leaders conferred for a moment, whispering. “If your dog leaves as well,” the Sultan said.

“Nizam shall stay,” I countered evenly, “but will give his weapons to your men.”

The Sultan grunted, motioning for Nizam to set his sword and dagger on the ground. A one-eyed warrior picked up his weapons, then the balcony emptied save us four. The Sultan and Shivaji stepped down from the dais and we stood face to face.

“Why foul my land with your presence?” the Sultan asked. “And why shouldn’t I have you strung from the nearest tree?”

“We come in peace.”

“Fools seek peace.”

“Fools?” I repeated, giving myself time to decipher this man, praying that some sense lived within him. “Did you know, my lord, that my brother, Alamgir, tried to kill me? And that he murdered our brothers?”

Shivaji nodded. “We have heard rumors.”

“Have you heard that my oldest brother, Dara, died because he supported our Hindus and was against the war here?”

“The weak always die,” the Sultan spat.

An image of Dara’s execution flashed before me and I washed it away. “Alamgir’s as weak as granite,” I said. “And you can’t fight him forever.”

“Perhaps we can,” Shivaji remarked, for he commanded a formidable force, as did the Sultan.

“Perhaps.” I took a slow breath, aware that this moment was my only chance. “But say he was assassinated. Wouldn’t you prefer that to spending precious gold and the lives of your men in this endless war? I could give you that ending, and with his death you’d finally be free.”

“We’ve already tried to assassinate him,” Shivaji countered. “A dozen times by a dozen methods. It’s impossible.”

“Not if you knew what I do. Then it would be easy.”

“Easy!” the Sultan exclaimed. “You think we’re fools?”

Shivaji silenced him with a disgusted wave. “Better to hear her out, Ahmed.”

The Sultan opened his rotting mouth, but I said hurriedly, “There’s a secret passageway into the Red Fort—”

“She lies—”

“—leading directly to the royal chambers. An assassin could enter it and kill Alamgir. No one would ever know who did it, or how they did it.”

“You’d believe her?” the Sultan asked incredulously. “The whore sister of our enemy?”

“Better a whore sister than a halfwit,” I stammered, no longer able to restrain myself. I was drained from my journey, both physically and mentally. And now that I stood in the same city as Isa and Arjumand, I could hardly breathe. “I come, bearing the greatest gift your worthless kingdom has ever been offered, and all you can do is insult me! Do you think I’d betray Alamgir unless I wanted something in return? Something only you can give!”

Shivaji laughed at this outburst—a deep belching of his lungs that surprised us all. “And what would that be?”

“For him to free my man and my daughter, who were captured five years ago, and now, as his slaves, build a mosque somewhere in this putrid city. Give me them, and I’ll give you Alamgir!”

Continuing to chuckle, Shivaji looked at the Sultan. “It seems, Ahmed, that she’s got more tongue than you’re accustomed to.”

“She needs a good whipping.”

“Nonsense, man,” Shivaji advised. “A bath and new clothes, yes, but a whipping, most definitely not. I suspect she’d throttle you someday with that same whip.”

The Sultan ignored his words, looking directly at me. When he spoke next his voice was rough, but less threatening. “The man you speak of lives, as does the girl.”

My knees weakened at the news, and Nizam reached out to steady me. “Thank you, thank you, Allah,” I whispered.

“You should thank me,” the Sultan declared.

I tried to compose myself, though I was consumed with such joy that I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to run to them, run as I never had before. “I am sorry, my lord, for my…earlier words. And I do thank you. Thank you so very much.”

“I don’t despise this man,” he said, somewhat reluctantly, “for he’s honorable and does what I ask. And his skills are God-given.”

“Will you free him, my lord, if I tell you of the passageway?”

“Perhaps.”

“The war might end if Alamgir died,” Shivaji interjected.

The Sultan glared at his smaller companion, who seemed completely unintimidated. “He could go free,” the Sultan said, “once my mosque is complete. But it is to be the finest mosque in all the Deccan and I’ll not part with him, by Allah, until the last stone’s set in place.”

“But how long, my lord, might that be?” I asked fearfully.

“A short time. Five years. Maybe three.”

“Five years? I can’t—”

“Would you rather,” he interrupted, “I sold him to the highest bidder? For he’s a slave and the fate of slaves is such.”

“Then I shall stay with them.”

Shivaji stepped forward. “Impossible. Too many of us saw you and heard who you are. If you stayed, you’d be in grave danger, as would your man and child.”

“But what am I to do?”

“My friend,” Shivaji said, “isn’t as unreasonable as he seems. But I fear his mind is set. I’ve seen this mosque and know what it means to him. It means almost as much to his people, who’ve lost so many in the fighting. Everyone wants to see it finished.” Shivaji looked at me carefully, as if judging my mettle. “Why not give them a few days, Ahmed? Send them somewhere quiet, under guard, and when they return she’ll leave for…” he paused, shrugging, “for wherever the gods might take her.”

“What of my daughter?”

“She stays,” the Sultan replied. “She knows more of building than anyone but her father.”

How confused I was then. A part of me rejoiced at finding them alive and bartering for their freedom, whereas another part lamented our inevitable separation. How could I endure another five years in their absence? “What do you think?” I asked Nizam, knowing that he had missed nothing.

“I think that time is fleeting. Far better to have them in a few years than not at all.”

“Would you, my old friend, be so patient?”

“I have, my lady. I always have.”

I thanked him before turning to the Sultan and Shivaji. “I’ll tell you of the passageway,” I said, “but its end shall remain locked until my loved ones return. And its entrance will remain hidden as well.”

“But you promised me his head!” the Sultan exclaimed.

“And you’ll have it. But if I am to wait, then so will you. Or else give them to me now.”

Again Shivaji laughed. “A fair demand, Ahmed.”

“The mosque must be finished! It’s the only decent thing to come from this war.”

“The fighting might stop if—”

“They’ll stay!”

“And so will your war,” I said, wondering if Nizam had been right all along. Perhaps we should have simply killed their guards and escaped with Isa and Arjumand. Then I wouldn’t be here, wasting words with a stubborn fool, wasting moments with my loved ones so nearby. “The passageway,” I said, “begins at a house near an old cypress tree. But you won’t know which house until my loved ones return. When they do, I’ll mark the house for you by arranging for a black stallion to be tethered to the tree.” I proceeded to tell the Sultan how an assassin might enter the passageway, and how he would need help to circumvent the ruined trap. The Sultan’s questions were offered eagerly and my responses driven by desire.

“Two days,” the Sultan said. “Spend two days with them. Then you’ll leave. And when they’re finished, they’ll be sent to you. And when your brother’s gutted, consider our truce a thing of the past.”

“So be it.”

The Sultan walked away. Though I had feared him a moment ago, I knew he wouldn’t harm me, or Isa or Arjumand. He had too little to gain and too much to lose by doing so.

Shivaji chuckled, shaking his head. “Are all Mughal women such as you?”

“If Allah had wanted me useless he wouldn’t have given me a brain.”

“I’m glad we fight your men. A battle with such women would surely break us.”

“I’m only obstinate because I have to be,” I said. “Do you think I want to deal with imps like him? That it gives me joy?” I shook my head, thinking that joy was something I found with those I loved. “Aren’t many of your gods female? I’ve heard of Parvati, Saraswati and Lakshmi. How can one believe so profoundly in these wonderful goddesses, but be surprised when a woman speaks her mind?”

Shivaji listened carefully. “It would please me,” he finally said, “to one day see you again. Perhaps when this foolishness is over.”

“You’ll always be welcome in Agra. Come and let us show you the Taj Mahal—a sight that will never leave you.”

“Perhaps in my next life.”

“Please let it be this one.”

He bowed to me and then, quite surprisingly, bowed to Nizam. “Let’s find your loved ones,” he said. “I’d like nothing more than to see you reunited.”

At these words I smiled. I had found a friend among enemies, and I was again to touch Isa.

Chapter 21

Rebirth

I
had to force myself not to run as Nizam and I followed Shivaji through Bijapur’s narrow streets. I cared nothing for the city’s sights, only for the tempest of my feelings. After five dreadful years of separation from my loved ones, my emotions, so long repressed, were overwhelming. My heart quickened with each step. My feet seemed to barely touch ground. I could have sprouted wings and flown to them, as Akbar might, and still not have arrived fast enough!

“Where’s this mosque?” I asked hungrily.

Shivaji chuckled. “I’m not taking you there, but to my quarters.”

“But why?”

“So no one will see your reunion.” When I started to protest he quickly added, “I’ll bring them to you soon enough.” The Hindu warlord turned down an alley, walking briskly toward a sandstone block of a house, which bore four stone lattice windows but little else. Its interior was rich with furnishings, however, and looked comfortable. “I’ll return with them,” Shivaji promised.

I had barely slept the past few nights but couldn’t rest against a cushion alongside Nizam. “I wouldn’t have made it here without you,” I said, pacing.

“That’s not true. But I’m glad I helped.”

I clapped like a girl. Running to the nearest window, I peered outside. Dusk was approaching and soldiers traversed the streets. Women, seeming to far outnumber the city’s men, returned from unseen bazaars carrying goods or pushing carts. Their clothes were tattered and I saw few jewels. “Will they never get here?” I asked, attacking my hair with an ivory comb I discovered on the windowsill.

“Patience, my lady, was never your gift.”

“I’ve no time for patience!”

He laughed gently. “Perhaps when you’re old.”

“No, because I’ll have less time left and just as much to do.”

We shared a grin and I leaned down impulsively to kiss his forehead. My companion stiffened, and I wondered if he had ever felt a woman’s lips. I hoped so. “Someday, Nizam, I shall repay you. I know I always say that, and I never do, but as Allah’s my witness, I’ll reward—”

“You have repaid me.”

“No, not yet.”

“You gave me the Taj Mahal, my lady. You let me advise the Emperor. I need nothing more.”

I warmed at these words, for they were gifts. “Thank you, my friend.”

“But it’s I, my lady, who thanks you.”

Outside came the pulse of a blacksmith’s hammer. The blows were relentless, an unnerving sound of iron against iron. “Oh, Nizam, are their feet made of stone?”

“It might be far.”

I was about to respond when someone knocked. Without hesitating, I yanked open the door. Shivaji quickly entered, followed, praise Allah, by Isa and Arjumand. When Isa saw me, he stopped in wonder. He tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips.

“Mother?” Arjumand stuttered, equally surprised. “Is it truly you?”

I ran to them, throwing an arm around each and hugging them together. I kissed their faces from all angles, my tears unfettered. Isa yelped in glee and, leaning backward, lifted both his women off the ground. “I feared you were dead!” he cried in joyous disbelief.

“No, no, no! Only imprisoned!”

Isa finally dropped us, yet still we embraced. Everything felt so unreal. Here I was, reunited with Arjumand and Isa! Recent memories were suddenly insignificant; what mattered was that we were together. We had survived so much and seemed no worse for it.

“How I love you both!” I shouted, pulling them even closer.

Isa whooped again. He’d always been a merry man, and now it appeared that his bliss might overwhelm him. It was a contagious bliss, for Shivaji and Nizam laughed as we danced about, still clinging to each other.

“Let me look at you!” I finally stammered, pulling away. I put my hands on Isa’s face and gazed at him ferociously. His hair and beard, once as black as my locks, were streaked with strands of silver. His face was as finely sculpted as ever, though wrinkles bordered his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

Arjumand truly mesmerized me, for when I saw her last she was but a girl. Now she stood as a young woman—taller than me, and with more striking features. She had lost the baby fat in her cheeks, and her face was sleek and narrow like Isa’s. Her lips, however, had the fullness of mine. As did her eyes.