Beneath a Marble Sky

by John Shors

  “Where are your wife and son?” I asked, blowing out the candle.

  “Why do you extinguish—”

  “Be quiet, Dara. The night has ears.”

  “But must we speak in darkness? Can the night also see?”

  “Keenly.”

  He sighed, knowing my presence portended nothing good. “What troubles you?” he asked, and I retold the plot to kill him, my voice urgent. He listened impassively before inquiring, “How do you know this?”

  I trusted Dara but believed I’d endanger Ladli if I revealed her. “I can’t say. But the information is good.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “Please, Dara, don’t ask me that again.”

  “But how I can judge the tale’s validity if I am ignorant of its source?”

  I resisted my temper, though my response was curt. “Do you trust me? Because if you do, you’ll heed my words: Aurangzeb shall kill you on your journey.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Did you hear of the Christians?” I asked. When he nodded, I said, “Can one who murders children be suspected of nothing less than evil?”

  “Fine! I’ll bring my own men. They won’t know of the plot but will shelter me.”

  “Your men? Or Aurangzeb’s? Who controls the army, Dara? And how can you rely on loyalty when so much is at stake?”

  “I’m to be the next emperor,” he replied testily. “They had better protect me.”

  “Why? Aurangzeb could also be the next—”

  “Enough, Jahanara! I do love you, but by Allah, you can drive me mad.” Dara set the book aside, marking his place with a peacock’s feather. “I’ll bring twenty men I trust and will be quite safe. Further theatrics are unnecessary.”

  “Theatrics? I’m trying to save you.”

  “And I thank you for that. But you needn’t say anything more.”

  I nodded, already thinking of how I could cancel the trip without either of my brothers suspecting anything. “Fine,” I agreed, my foot tapping determinedly. “Twenty men should be enough. Too many would arouse Aurangzeb’s suspicions and too few would leave you vulnerable.”

  He reached out and touched my shoulder. “Thank you, Jahanara, for relenting.”

  I didn’t move from his touch, but neither did I respond in kind. “You make a mistake,” I said quietly, “in treating him like a brother.”

  “Possibly. But he is our brother and I can’t treat him any other way. I won’t hurt him, for enough pain already exists in this world without brothers hurting brothers.” I rubbed my brow in frustration but remained silent. I had failed tonight, failed completely, for Dara should have been swayed by my arguments. “Thank you for seeking me,” he said, striving now to be gracious. “I wouldn’t barter you for any other sister in the world, rash as you may be.”

  “Perhaps a mute sister would be more to your liking.”

  “Mother was hardly mute, Jahanara. And you’re little different than she.”

  Yet I am different, I thought. She was so strong, so certain of the paths before her. My strength, if it can be called that, is born of necessity. It’s false, and therefore, I’m false. “Mother would have demanded more action,” I finally replied. “I must not possess her will.”

  “But you do. You do. I simply disagree with your philosophy.”

  “You think I covet blood? That I somehow relish it?”

  “No.”

  “Then stop talking as if I do.” I picked up the heavy book as he apologized. Leafing through its pages in the darkness, I inhaled the paper’s aged scent. Why was my brother studying when he should be plotting? And why was I plotting when I should be loving? “I miss the life of a child,” I said tiredly. “Things were…uncomplicated. Shall they ever be so again?”

  “The Hindus would say yes, for they believe we’ll play as children again.”

  “I’d like that,” I replied, but I wasn’t sure I could believe it.

  “As would I.”

  I kissed him good night, then quietly left his room. My mind embracing and discarding schemes, I struggled to free Dara from Aurangzeb’s trap.

  The day before my brothers were to depart, I crafted a plan. The previous night I had almost gone to Father but resisted the urge because I sensed that somehow it would misfire. Father would demand to know of my source, or in his rush to protect Dara, might reveal to Aurangzeb that we were privy to his plans. As much faith as I placed in Father, he was much less conniving than Mother. If he hunted, she stalked. If he listened, she devoured innuendo. And so I kept my knowledge from Father, for I feared that ultimately Ladli would die from his involvement. If Father simply killed Aurangzeb the problem would be solved, but he would never murder his son.

  I alone needed to deal with the matter. Though I worked as usual by Isa’s side at the Taj Mahal, my thoughts were elsewhere. I did whisper to him of my predicament, and he gave me what advice he could. But such advice was as worthwhile as my insight on building minarets might be. Isa worried, which was unusual, and I reassured him by promising that Aurangzeb would never order my death for the exact reason Ladli had mentioned. Still, Isa wanted to protect me. I loved him without pause then, for I saw in his eyes that he was unable to imagine life without me. He talked of another journey to the inn, and I swore to plan a second rendezvous after this crisis was resolved.

  For once, Isa occupied only a small portion of my mind. It was Aurangzeb who I pondered, and it was Allah who received my prayers. After much contemplation, He graced me with a solution, albeit a dangerous one. For it to unfold properly, I had first to visit the physician who was present when Mother died. I went to him wearing tattered clothes and a heavy veil over my face so that no one would recognize me. Stooping like a weathered woman might, I shuffled to his door. Once inside his mud-brick home, I pulled his curtains shut and revealed myself. His leathery face tightened in surprise.

  “How are you, old one?” I asked politely.

  “I’m so sorry, child, about your mother.”

  “Please, please, still your tongue.” Each time I saw him, whether on the street or at a bazaar, he apologized for his failure during Mother’s labor. “You did your best. We could have asked for no more.”

  “She was, quite simply, the loveliest of women.”

  “Yes, yes, she was,” I said, envisioning her face. “She always favored you, always wanted you by her side.” He tried to smile and I saw that he possessed only two front teeth. Outside, a dog howled. “My father wanted you as well. His loyalty ran deep. Are you as loyal to him?” I asked, wanting to provoke a reaction.

  His offense was real. “But of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Do you trust that I’m his instrument? Will you do as I say and never give me reason for concern?”

  The old man nodded. His head was wrapped in such a heavy-looking turban that I wondered if he could bring it up again. “You haven’t cause to ask me these questions, my lady. I’d cut my own hand off if you ordered me to.”

  “Keep your hand, my friend. And I pose no order but a favor.”

  “Which is?”

  “In the middle of the night my dear brother, Dara, shall become quite ill. This illness is for his safety and the safety of the Empire.”

  “But only Allah can predict—”

  “He’ll be served rancid meat, cooked for only a moment. The meat’s poisons will make him sick, terribly so. But he won’t die.” At this statement I looked to him for confirmation, and he nodded ponderously. “When summoned, examine him with care, and then say that he may have malaria, or perhaps a fever. Add that he could recover in a week, or could die tomorrow.” I paused, leaning closer to him. “You see, old one, he must be kept in bed for several days. If his illness isn’t acute enough, and he
tries to rise, give him something to loosen his bowels. And scare him mercilessly in the process.”

  “But—” the physician stopped, perhaps thinking it better not to question me. “I can do these things,” he finally said. “But I don’t like them.”

  “Just know that by doing them, you’ll save his life. For if he’s well tomorrow, he will surely die.”

  “Then I’ll do my best to protect him.”

  I reached into my robe and withdrew a pashmina scarf, one so fine that it could easily be pulled through a ring. “For your lady,” I said, certain that he’d refuse money, but couldn’t resist pleasing his mistress. Alas, his wife had died some years before.

  “But I’m too old for a—”

  “I know many secrets,” I interrupted, teasing him, trying to buoy his spirits and my own. “And she’ll enjoy it against her skin.”

  He bowed to me affectionately, for he had brought me into this world. “You add meaning to this tired life,” he said.

  “Nonsense. Your mistress gives you meaning, not I.”

  “She’s—”

  “Lucky,” I said. “As I’ll be with you at my side, if Allah is so kind as to bless me with a child.”

  “It would be an honor, my lady.”

  “For me,” I replied, grasping his soft hands. “Until then, old one. And please, don’t speak of this again.”

  “Allah Himself couldn’t pry the secret from me.”

  I winked at him and pulled my veil back over my face. Once on the flagstones outside his home I hurried into a narrow alley, where I peeled off my worn robe and veil, revealing my true clothes. I then mounted one of father’s stallions and hunted for Nizam. I found him at the Taj Mahal supervising a score of men who pushed a stone block into place. Like all the workers, Nizam was dressed in a cotton shirt and short leggings. His hands were bloody, yet his face was untroubled.

  Nodding at him to follow, I tethered my horse to some scaffolding and walked to an empty part of the garden. Beside the marble pool and its colorful fish I told him what I needed him to do, though I withheld information concerning Aurangzeb’s plan. I required Nizam’s help, since he sampled our meals each night, ensuring the absence of poison. While we ate on special porcelain plates that cracked if they bore poison, the plates were unreliable and hence Nizam tasted each morsel after it had been served. He never cooked but often spent time in the kitchen, overseeing our dinner’s preparation. I told my friend that he was to secretly add rotten meat to Dara’s dish and flavor it heavily with spices. As always, Nizam was quietly delighted to be a participant in the plan. I stressed to him its importance and knew he’d guard the secret closely.

  After pointing about the Taj Mahal and pretending to give him instructions, I left for the harem. I hadn’t been within its enshrouding walls for many days, but I suddenly felt an urge to relax, now that my plans were in place. Time’s passage had changed little in the harem, even if the women who had always surrounded me looked older and fatter. How can they sit here, day after day, I wondered, and do nothing but gossip? I greeted these women, who did little to help our sex, with feigned respect. Though their mouths told me how much they’d missed me, their eyes reeked of jealousy and irritation.

  I lay on a thick blanket and tried to sleep. The sounds of the harem were unchanged—children playing instruments, birds chirping, women chatting and laughing. Incense wafted upon the air, as well as the scents of opium and musk. Having no men present was agreeable, I admitted. Perhaps I was too harsh on these women, for if the harem were the only place I could escape my husband, I’d be here every morning. And while most of the harem’s inhabitants had no husbands to escape from, they seemed happy to be free of men.

  As I fell asleep I wondered if I’d done everything necessary to undertake my plan. Yes, I decided, but clearly the ruse was dangerous. Dara, Allah help me, could get sicker than I wanted. Or Aurangzeb could somehow sniff out the truth. I’d have to be an able actress, for everything depended on me.

  After a long rest I moved to a different quarter of the harem to join Father, Dara and Aurangzeb. We gathered for dinner in an ample courtyard. Though we’d rarely been entertained since Mother’s death, Father asked for dancing girls to amuse us this evening. As soon as we knelt on a cashmere carpet, the girls moved opposite us and began to sway. Their torsos were clad, as usual, in transparent silk. Attached to their ankles were silver bells, which sang rhythmically as the girls twisted and shook.

  Normally I’d have enjoyed the soothing presence of the dancers but was far too preoccupied with anxious thoughts. We talked about the peace treaty with the Persians and I tried to offer advice. Aurangzeb, naturally, scoffed at my words. I was pleased to receive his scorn, however, for it showed that he suspected nothing. Why my brother wanted war, I could only guess, but clearly he was a man who needed blood.

  Aurangzeb and Dara were of similar build, but how different they looked. While Dara’s face was as full as a ripe melon, Aurangzeb’s countenance was lean and hard. Aurangzeb, unlike Father and Dara, only grew a mustache, and his scar stood out plainly. He wore nothing more illustrious than a white tunic, a black sash and a red turban. Attached to his sash was a battered leather scabbard sheathing his scimitar. Typically for him, but uncommon among nobles of all ranks, Aurangzeb bore no jewelry. He seemed to slide into different postures as he spoke, his movements so subtle that I thought he was sitting motionless when, in fact, he was shifting.

  On either side of Aurangzeb knelt Father and Dara. Father wore a lime-colored, full-length robe, while Dara’s was black. Father’s robe was embroidered with scores of elephants, and Dara’s bore paintings of cypress trees. Both men, as was the fashion of nobles, wore long pearl necklaces. Pinned to Father’s turban was a walnut-sized ruby in a gold setting. Dara carried a sword with an emerald-studded hilt. He adjusted it often against his side, seeking comfort. I suspected its blade had never tasted blood.

  Though I used to wear a profusion of jewels, I did so less and less frequently. They were troublesome when working on the Taj Mahal, and the laborers, who would never touch one such gem in their lives, had looked at me somewhat accusingly. Once I dressed plainly the workers warmed to me faster.

  Aurangzeb, refusing a goblet of wine that Father offered, read my thoughts. “Buried all your gold, sister?” I started to speak, but he motioned for my silence. “The Sacred Text says, ‘Surely God does not love the ungrateful who disbelieve.’”

  Dara hurried to my defense. “The Qur’an says much. It also asks, ‘Do you see the one who repudiates religion? He is the one who rebuffs the orphan and does not encourage feeding the poor. So woe to those who pray without paying attention to their prayers.’”

  Aurangzeb’s face tightened, for he was a zealot and, like all such followers, believed the Qur’an was his instrument alone. “Take care,” he warned, “that you know of what you speak.”

  Father, aware of the mounting hostility between his sons, cleared his throat. “We all know the Qur’an well enough. If you both wish to recite its verses, you should stand and face Mecca.” When neither son responded, Father pretended to swat their words away. He then turned to me. “How proceeds the building, Jahanara?”

  I sipped my wine, licking my lips so Aurangzeb could tell I enjoyed the forbidden drink. “We finished the—”

  “Our money,” Aurangzeb interrupted, “should be spent killing Persians, Deccans, Rajputs and Christians. Not building mausoleums.”

  “Money is unlike an egg,” Father retorted irritably. “It can be split many ways. Moreover, would you deny your mother a suitable resting place?”

  Though Aurangzeb would feed her corpse to dogs if the mood struck, he replied, “Never. But your architect is overly ambitious.”

  “Overambitious? Was Allah overly ambitious when He created Hindustan?”

  “Surely you don’t compare tha
t fool to Allah?”

  Aurangzeb’s devotion to Islam was like a fever. Worried he might take a disliking to Isa because of Father’s comment, I said, “The architect, Father, is good, but trust me, quite mortal. He relies on the master builders much more than he lets you believe.”

  “Truly?” Father asked.

  “He’s clever, but lazy.”

  Aurangzeb, who I feared would someday claim that the Taj Mahal was Father’s utmost blunder, added, “Worse, he has no vision. None.”

  I bit my tongue. If Isa had no vision, Aurangzeb was blind, deaf and dumb. “The vision,” Dara countered, “of an artist can’t be compared with that of a warrior. What vision does it take to kill, to rape, to plunder?”

  “Your words tire me,” Aurangzeb pronounced. “They always have.”

  Father was about to respond when Nizam, followed by a long-legged servant, entered the room. Each carried two silver trays. After another servant covered the precious carpet with fresh linen, Nizam placed a tray on the floor before Father. He then served Dara. The tall servant set Aurangzeb’s meal in front of him. My tray, substantially smaller, came last. Aurangzeb recited a brief prayer before we ate, asking for strength.

  Dinner consisted of raan—leg of lamb cooked in yogurt seasoned with chili powder, coconut milk, ginger and cinnamon. Cucumber slices and buttered squash complemented the meat. Father thanked Nizam, who bowed and turned away. I thought the lamb was spicier than usual, but no one else commented on it. Dara’s meat looked normal, but I’d insisted it be two days old.

  “We’ll leave early,” Aurangzeb said. He spoke to Dara but didn’t look at him. “Can you rise, as a soldier does, well before dawn?”

  “Roosters rise early, brother, but does a more dull-witted beast exist?”