Beneath a Marble Sky

by John Shors

  When I reached the site’s periphery, I tethered my mount to a cypress tree. Isa was already in the field. He stood before an easel bearing a large piece of canvas that had been painted black. Isa had his back to me and didn’t witness my approach. His hand gripped a piece of white chalk that appeared to dance over the canvas. I had assumed Isa would have artists render his visions, and what I saw now nearly stole my breath. For his hand was truly like a dancer. It glided and it soared. It spun in tight arcs. It gave life to something wondrous, something he’d called a tear of Allah. To me, the mausoleum became a jewel surpassing even Mother’s beauty. Its arches and towers and façades were not of this world.

  Isa stopped drawing and thrust his fist in the air. He let out a sudden bellow then, a cry of joy so profound that I trembled. I’d never heard such ecstasy and doubted that I would listen to such a shout again. His cry echoed off palaces; it traveled across the river and died in faraway places.

  “Thank you, Allah,” he said. “Thank you for this gift.” He looked skyward. “You’ll enjoy it, Mother. And Father, please…please help me raise it.”

  I didn’t dare go forward. I started to turn, but he must have somehow sensed me. When his gaze swung around and fell on my face, I shuddered, expecting him to be angry. Quite the opposite, however, was true. He merely set down his chalk and smiled. “What do you think, Swallow, of what we’ll create?”

  My tongue twisted awkwardly. “Better to ask a poet.”

  “But I ask you.”

  His gaze was so piercing that I almost turned away. Gathering my strength, I questioned, “Can you build such a thing? I’ve never, never seen—”

  “It can be built,” he interrupted quietly. “But I might be an old man when it’s finished.”

  “But you would die content.”

  I thought he might hug me then, for his face was eclipsed by nothing save ecstasy. “You understand, Jahanara. You know me so little, yet you see me so well.” He stepped closer. “Will you help me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, because I’ll need your help. Enemies will attack my plans, my methods and my costs. Nothing will happen without a friend I can trust.”

  “I can be that friend.”

  He bowed to me then, a bow of humbleness and gratitude. “Do you see the moon, Jahanara? Imagine how it will illuminate your mother’s tomb. It shall never, truly, be night here when the moon is full. No, it will be something amid night and day. And if a place exists on Earth that Paradise does touch, surely this will be it.”

  When I saw him next he was crying. I’d never seen another man, except my father, cry. Yet Isa was unashamed and made no effort to hide his tears. He wasn’t unmanly but seemed more a man than any I’d encountered, for his embrace of emotions made him appear quite powerful.

  I thought of my mother, of my father, of what we were to build. Suddenly I bellowed into the night, as loud as my lungs could empty. And even if my bellow was a sapling next to his tree, the cry emboldened me and I no longer felt alone.

  Chapter 7

  Pain and Longing

  The next few years were peaceful, quiet in the way Allah intended. Infants learned to crawl while our elderly journeyed to Paradise. Crops were sown and reaped, then sown again. Certainly battles were fought, but battles had always been a constant in our lives. At least we suffered through no famine, plague or shaking of the ground. Our homes rarely caught fire, and our prayers mostly seemed answered.

  Once Isa perfected the dimensions of the mausoleum, work on the foundation began. Thousands of men labored that first summer to dig a vast pit that reached down until it struck water at the same level as the nearby river. Massive slabs of sandstone and granite were laid upon this muddy soil. The gaps between them were sealed with limestone plaster. After these behemoth stones filled the pit, smaller bricks were used to add another layer of strength at ground level. Isa also designed wells that ran down through the foundation, far, far into the earth. These were packed with granite to act as pilings on which the foundation rested.

  Barges carried stones to Agra from quarries all over the Empire. Elephants then hauled the rocks to their final positions. The oldest men in the city told us the height of the fiercest flood and we raised our foundation a good two paces above that mark. The blocks that fell and shattered we used to line the river bank. We packed it deep with granite and sandstone, for Isa worried about time’s ability to erode and make mayhem.

  The field surrounding the foundation became a quagmire of men and mud. The men were of all races, sizes and ages. The mud was knee-deep after a rain and was often used to staunch bleeding wounds. A simple bazaar sprang up beyond the site’s western edge, and merchants hawked endless varieties of food and drink, as well as tools, clothes, medicine, crafts and animals.

  In those days—and for years that followed—Isa worked tirelessly from dawn to dusk. While others rested on their elephants or by the river, he built models and oversaw masons. I was almost always at his side and quickly we became companions, then confidants, then something more.

  I don’t know why we were initially drawn together. Perhaps it was a simple need for companionship. After all, we’d both lost loved ones. Though Isa was accepting of his fate, I sensed that his desire to create beauty stemmed from an old need to heal wounds. By building he constantly reminded himself of the love he felt for his parents. He believed they could see what he built, believed that his palaces and mosques made them smile. This conviction was the source of his happiness.

  Alas, I was much less accepting of Mother’s death. Indeed, I some-times felt wronged by her departure. But in Isa’s presence I felt less slighted, for a sense of warmth seemed to emanate from him, a gentle understanding that made me feel at home. Isa was so different than anyone I’d encountered, yet full of the same romantic yearning as Father, the same vigor as Mother. What he saw in me I couldn’t be certain, but he did see something.

  On occasion, after sunset, after the workers and merchants had departed, we’d sit on the unimaginably vast foundation and I’d discover him staring at me. His stare expressed what he never gave utterance— that he cared for me as a lover might, and if not for my marriage he’d have given himself to me then.

  On such nights our thoughts were akin. We memorized each other’s faces yet never touched. We whispered secrets yet never revealed our true desires. Isa honored my marriage, and as much as I despised my husband, I knew that by betraying him I’d betray Father, for if it were ever known that his daughter was unfaithful, he would lose tremendous face.

  And so I resisted the urge to kiss Isa, even if I did in my dreams. In my dreams, at least, I could pursue fantasies. And pursue them I did. I kissed and held and adored him many nights. We made love. Our children followed.

  I spent perhaps one night in three at Khondamir’s home. My husband tried fiercely to sire a son, but his seed never took root. He blamed me, needless to say, and I visited every doctor and took every herb known to Allah. Khondamir often cursed my barren womb, though I knew it was as fertile as the Yamuna. After all, Mother had birthed many children. Could I have been so different?

  To my delight, Father partly emerged from his sorrow and managed to rule the kingdom as he once did—despite his increased reliance on my brothers. Dara dealt with the nobles, while Aurangzeb climbed ranks of the military. Shah and Murad were sent to the far corners of the Empire to improve relations with our neighbors. My brothers were men now, broad in the shoulders and slim in the waist. Each was married and had fathered at least one child, all of whom I adored.

  Except for my twin sisters—who were now being raised in Delhi by Mother’s sister—I was the only sibling lacking children. To compensate for this shortcoming I surrounded myself with those closest to me. I asked Father, for instance, if Nizam could become my attendant. My wish was granted and he was soon like my shadow. Though he was not
a man of words, I could trust Nizam with my very life. He was always where I wanted and needed him.

  I also saw much of Ladli. At my urging she became another of my helpers with the mausoleum. Her fiery personality made her a favorite of the workers and they eagerly followed her orders. Bricklayers and master masons alike sought to catch her eye, for every man knew she was unwed, and her beauty reached new heights with each passing month.

  Isa placed an extreme amount of responsibility on me. He’d explain what he wanted done, and I ensured that the builders followed his plans exactly. Furthermore, Isa had neither the time nor the interest to manage the inevitable conflicts that arose with such an undertaking. Fortunately, Mother had raised me to understand politics and found that settling the squabble of a quarryman and an elephant owner was no different from solving a row between one lord and another. Even though I was less adored than Ladli, the men seemed to trust and respect me. They were aware that my father had commanded me to this post and realized that I whispered to him each night of our successes and failures.

  My first significant failure, or at least a failure of sorts, didn’t occur until the third year of construction. The affair was none of my making but quickly swept me up in its currents. A greedy merchant was the initial culprit. The rogue was caught using a scale with false ballast to weigh his customers’ grain. In consequence, those wronged demanded his execution for the offense. Thus the merchant, and everyone aware of the plot, including his twelve-year-old son, was sentenced to death.

  The execution took place in one of the Red Fort’s immense courtyards with nobles and commoners ringing the square. Inside this circle of angry faces stood three war elephants. These beasts were clad in ceremonial silks and shuffled their enormous feet nervously. Despite being specially trained to maim and kill, the elephants were unsettled by the boisterous crowd. Kneeling before the giants were the six criminals. The merchant begged for their lives while deerskin drums rattled and people edged forward. The boy was terrified, weeping horribly.

  Father, Dara and I sat on a raised pavilion, where we had an unobstructed view of the proceedings. Aurangzeb rode one of the elephants. My brother had been warring for several years now and had the appearance of a hardened fighter. He wore leather armor and his chin bore the scar of an explosion that had killed many of his soldiers. He was proud of his wound and made no attempt to cloak it with a beard.

  Aurangzeb had taken up the habit of eating raw onions, and as he sat atop his favorite beast he munched one. The onions, I knew from personal experience, irritated the eyes of those near him. He liked causing discomfort and chewed the foul things whenever someone he didn’t approve was present, which seemed all the Empire save a few people. Somehow, the onions didn’t affect him.

  Aurangzeb’s bodyguard, Balkhi, also sat on an elephant. By now we had all heard stories of Balkhi’s mayhem, and even those of us in power did our best to avoid him. The man was a brute, and a brute given boundless rein by Aurangzeb was dangerous indeed.

  Father, who hated such affairs but recognized their value in governing, called for the episode to commence. Many executions were carried out in this manner, for the extreme horror to those involved was thought a good deterrent to anyone considering a major crime. The crowd knew what to expect. Some cursed the merchant and his men, while others showered them with rotten vegetables.

  Sickened by what was about to happen, but present at Father’s request, I watched Aurangzeb closely. He sat on his elephant’s neck and held a pole topped with a hooked blade. He used the blade, just sharp enough to draw blood, to tug the vast ears before him. When Aurangzeb pulled viciously on the creature’s left ear, it bellowed and wheeled in that direction. The merchant before the beast wailed, his groin darkening as he soiled himself. The elephant knocked him down with a tusk, then used its powerful trunk to lift him up. Beating at its trunk, he cried for mercy, his voice rising to a shriek when Aurangzeb hooked an ear and pulled back. The elephant roared and, rising on its rear legs, threw the merchant high into the air. He landed awkwardly, his arm snapping like a twig underfoot.

  Blood fell from beneath the elephant’s ears, and I realized that Aurangzeb was further maddening the beast. It speared the man’s leg with a tusk and tossed him again. He tried to limp away, but the monster knocked him down. The crowd cheered as a huge foot was placed atop the merchant’s chest, causing him to scream in mortal fear as tremendous weight pressed down upon him. The elephant shifted its girth forward and suddenly the man’s chest collapsed.

  The other elephants’ kills were equally grisly, leaving only three criminals unscathed. The beasts attacked two, while the boy put his head against his chest and scratched madly at his temples. Aurangzeb taunted him before urging his steed forward. Springing to his feet, the boy tried to run into the crowd, but men threw him back into the circle. He sought refuge again and was struck down.

  I was ashamed of my countrymen then, a shame that profoundly saddened my heart. These intelligent, skilled people should have been anywhere but here, doing anything but shouting and pleading for a child’s agonizing death. Suddenly I could no longer tolerate the barbarity of it all. I turned to Father, whose face trembled with disgust. “Show the child mercy!”

  “I’m sorry, my child, but it’s too late.”

  “Too late? What would Mother think?” I shrieked.

  The question shook him. He paused for an instant, as if awaking from a long slumber. Then he rose from his cushion and loudly announced, “Mercy for the child!”

  Aurangzeb, clearly overflowing with bloodlust, managed to halt his beast, then spun on its neck and stared at me. I realized that he had heard my outburst. Though fearful of his wrath, I was so disgusted to be his sister that for the first time in my life I spat—a pathetic flicker of spit that flew in his direction. For a man it was a harmless thing. But I was a woman, and upon that day many nobles witnessed the deed, and thereby knew my opinion of Aurangzeb. Some jeered me, whereas others spat to show their support.

  Aurangzeb straightened in rage. “The criminal is guilty of—”

  “Nothing!” Father interrupted.

  “Nothing?”

  “By Allah, that’s enough! He’s only a child!”

  It had been years since Father had shouted so, and no one had ever seen him reprimand a son in public. Aurangzeb wavered for a moment, as if he still considered killing the boy. Then he nodded slightly. “Very well, my lord.”

  Father wordlessly left our pavilion, signaling that the proceeding was over. The elephants were led away and the crowd dissipated. Stunned by all that had transpired, I leaned against a tent post unsteadily. Dara approached from behind and placed his hand on my shoulder. He said nothing, yet stood quite close.

  “It wasn’t right,” I mumbled.

  “But you were, my sister.”

  I slumped despondently. “Why would Aurangzeb want to kill a child? Did we not love him enough? Did we—”

  “We did nothing amiss.”

  I could never agree, for the cruelty my brother displayed must have stemmed from some bulb of discontent. But how to cut that stem was a riddle I couldn’t fathom. We stood motionless as slaves dragged away the five disemboweled corpses and rinsed the bloodied flagstones. Clouds of burning sandlewood incense drifted by, unceremoniously dispersing the odors of dung and urine as the murderous place was restored.

  I was about to leave when Balkhi entered the courtyard. A massive man with bushy eyebrows that merged together, he headed directly toward us. The longest sword I’d ever seen hung from his side, and fresh blood stained the hem of his tunic. Though Dara was an ample-sized man, Balkhi towered over him.

  Aurangzeb’s bodyguard, however, didn’t gaze at Dara, but at me. “I speak for your brother,” he growled, his thick beard covering his mouth so completely that I hardly saw it move. “The criminal was castrated by my lord.” Balkhi
might have grinned, though such movement was hard to discern, for my head spun at his words. “If he lives, keep him as your slave.”

  “The boy?” I stammered, my knees weakening. I found it hard to hear and a ringing emerged from within my ears. I swayed unsteadily and would have fallen, but Dara reached across to support me.

  Balkhi laughed at my frailty. “Unwise, so unwise to spit at him. He—”

  “Hold your tongue,” Dara demanded, his voice lacking vigor.

  Balkhi fingered the hilt of his sword. “The weakling on the throne won’t live forever. And when he dies, I’ll use the gelding blade on you both. I’ll use it slowly.” The warrior spat at my feet and walked away.

  If my brother were a warrior, he might have killed Balkhi then. If I were a man, I’d have tried, for I understood the peril I faced. Aurangzeb’s honor was slighted today, and he would not rest until I suffered. Alas, Dara remained still. And I was no man.

  “You should kill that brute,” I finally said, long after Balkhi had disappeared and my knees had ceased trembling. “Poison him; pay a soldier to slay him in battle. I don’t care how you do it, but do something.”

  “One can’t murder, Jahanara, and be righteous. I’m not of that make. Nor will I live in that world.” Dara grimaced, pausing to massage his brow. “You want more killing, after what we saw today? More death?”

  “He did the killing! And he’s not finished!”

  “I’ll consider his threats but will do nothing more.”

  “Then you’re a fool,” I replied, wishing I’d been born as Dara and Dara as I. For surely he was too feeble to stand against Aurangzeb. “When Father departs this life,” I said, “whether in two years or twenty, Aurangzeb shall kill us. We’ll die and our children will die and his claim to the throne will be complete.”