Beneath a Marble Sky

by John Shors

  “I’m not trained in military matters, my lady.”

  “Nor is anyone at birth. But some can learn of these things, and you’d learn them better than most. You learn, Nizam, by watching. You don’t ask questions as I do, but you miss nothing. You see the best way to dress stones and soon you’re dressing them. And you’ll see how his army deploys and thus anticipate that deployment.”

  “How would I join his force?”

  “Aurangzeb will conscript men before he marches. It would be easy for you to join his ranks.”

  “And how badly, may I ask, do you need this done?”

  I had never lied to Nizam and I wouldn’t start now. “I need it, my friend. But not enough to sadden you. If working with your new brothers on the Taj Mahal is what you love, then I ask that you stay. Work until it’s done and perhaps history will remember you. Surely I shall.”

  He rubbed dirt from his hands, which seemed unnaturally large, as did the rest of his features. “I wonder if Persia’s as beautiful as Hindustan. Could it be?”

  “Not likely. And you’ll be at war, Nizam. You may die in battle or Aurangzeb might discover you.”

  “Discover me?” He grunted. “Your brother never saw me, my lady. Not when I served him dinner, nor when I let him swat me with a wooden sword.”

  Unable to keep myself composed at these words, I sought his hand. Intertwined with his my fingers looked like a child’s. “You are undeserving of such memories. You should have been our friend, not our slave.”

  “Aren’t we friends, Jahanara?”

  He had never called me by my name, and my grip tightened. Though I wanted to kiss his cheek, I knew he’d feel awkward if I did. “Yes,” I replied. “And we’ll always be so.”

  “Then don’t worry about the past. For it’s truly old.”

  How noble you are, I thought. How noble and strong and rare. “Thank you, Nizam,” I said. “Thank you for being the man you are.”

  “Thank you for seeing me.”

  We returned to the Taj Mahal, pausing to gaze at the stately dome which was almost halfway finished. Beneath it stretched graceful supporting arches, four main arches in total, one on each of the square’s faces. Two smaller arches, stacked above each other, bordered the larger arches. And at each cut corner of the square, where it yearned to become an octagon, dwelt another set of stacked arches. Isa had designed the arches to resemble the white gates of Paradise. Though men once laughed at his idea and deemed it wishful thinking, Isa was clearly right. For the arches could have been portals. And Paradise, I hoped, was half as beautiful.

  “I’ll miss it, my lady.”

  “I know. And how I shall miss you.”

  “I won’t be long in his war,” he said. “For I want to see it finished.”

  “Promise me?” When he nodded, I said, “Return safely or I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Good-bye, my lady.”

  I squeezed his hand and watched him walk away. He didn’t leave the mausoleum but returned to his elephant, as if he wanted to place a few more stones before departing. Someday, I thought, I’ll repay this man. I’ll repay all those who have risked so much.

  Trembling, I wandered back to my room in the Red Fort. Arjumand gave me a moment of joy, then my thoughts soured as I worried for my friends. Who was I to put Ladli and Nizam in jeopardy? How could I twist our friendships into this…obedience? Such thoughts troubled me all afternoon. They plagued me throughout dinner and dusk. Finally, I was able to carry Arjumand down the long corridor to Isa’s home. He met me on the stairs. Yet tonight, as almost never before, his appearance didn’t cheer me. I felt unwashed in his presence, as if my sins had soiled my skin.

  “What troubles you?” he asked as I sat down tiredly and gave Arjumand my breast. I had little interest in conversation, but when he persisted, I told him of all that had transpired, of how I used Nizam. “You gave him a choice, Jahanara,” Isa countered. “He didn’t have to go.”

  “Did I?”

  He took Arjumand, kissing her fleshy cheek. “Truthfully? No, you didn’t. But to Nizam, duty’s a sacred thing. He might love working on the Taj Mahal, but he couldn’t live with himself if he failed in his duty to you.”

  “He has never failed me. But I’ve failed him.”

  Isa kissed our child again before placing her gently in the crib. Humming, he stroked her thigh until she settled. He then sat on our sleeping carpet and pushed another pillow behind my back. “I think, Swallow, that Nizam might not find the army so terrible. Remember how at the Ganges he’d ride all day, exploring new lands? He was like a boy on that trip. His eyes never paused. And now, he’ll travel to Persia, journey with men who’ll become his friends.”

  “I remember. But he wasn’t at war.”

  “Someday, Jahanara, you’ll make it right. Buy him a piece of land, and let him build his own home. Even help him build it. Nothing would make him happier.”

  Sighing, I unpinned my veil, worried I might never be able to compensate Nizam. “And what would make you happy?”

  “Truly happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “For you to see yourself as I do.”

  “As what?”

  “As inspiration. As beauty and grace and wisdom all gathered up in one little frame.”

  I bit my lip, cherishing his words but disbelieving them. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

  “You should love yourself. But alas I think that in order to love yourself, you need other people to love you. This is your only weakness, Jahanara. Because you live your life as you believe others deem you should. You live it for your father, your mother, for everyone but yourself.”

  “But I need—”

  “To live as you wish.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Yes, yes, you do. But you rarely let yourself.” My eyes tingled. My nose grew moist. “Even now,” he said, his hands caressing my face, “you fight your tears, as if afraid I might think of you as being weak.” I knew of nothing to say. Isa’s words were true, but I’d never admitted as much. “See yourself as I do, Swallow. Do this and you’ll no longer fight your tears. Live as you want, and you shall be at peace.”

  Chapter 13

  Karma

  Exactly two days after I spoke with Nizam, Allah gave me a choice. A wretched choice it was, but one, without question, that would alter my entire world.

  It was an auspicious day, by all accounts, for we had finished dressing one of the four minarets with white marble. The minaret was shaped like a bamboo stalk, as tall as fifty men and segmented by three rings. Atop it, graceful arches supported a small dome.

  We celebrated the achievement for the better part of the day. Aurangzeb’s army hadn’t departed yet, and so Nizam stood beside us when the last slab of marble was carefully plastered into place. Father had arranged for barrels of wine to be rolled to the site, and for eighty bulls to be slaughtered and put upon spits. Of course, Hindus ate no such meat, but Father accounted for their presence. Piled atop the merchants’ stalls were endless platters of spiced rice, sweet potatoes, sherbets, yogurts, nuts and fruits.

  Twenty-two thousand laborers drank and feasted. Contests of wrestling, running and lifting ensued. Scores of polo matches, though lacking horses, also sprang up around the site. Amazingly, Muslims and Hindus celebrated together, despite being so recently at one another’s throats. But with Dara and Father present, each of whom had many Hindu friends, tensions quickly evaporated.

  We bled the barrels dry.

  Never did I fondly share Isa’s company in public, but on this day, it seemed natural. I was his assistant, after all, and we had a right to celebrate together. We stood, along with Nizam and a group of our master builders, in a circle. The men joked about amusing mishaps, such as when Nizam’s elephant, inflamed by its need to copulate, had c
harged into the river, rammed a barge and nearly drowned my friend.

  Only when the men began to return to their homes, shortly before dusk, did I wave good-bye to Isa and start back to the Red Fort. I missed Arjumand and wanted to hold her. I needed to hold her. I’d consumed a fair portion of wine and my legs were heavier than usual. My thoughts, however, were made light by the wine, buoyed further by Nizam’s apparent readiness to forgive my request. Earlier today I’d sought him out and given him a porcelain brooch bearing a portrait of Mother. He had loved her, I was certain, and my gift had rendered him mute.

  My mood had much improved with Nizam’s thankful smiles, and I now hurried forward, eager to see Arjumand. The closer I came to the Red Fort, the more the usual chaos reigned in the ever-tightening streets. Children chased a baby monkey. Teams of oxen and warriors towed newly cast cannons toward the citadel. Incessant haggling dominated the passageways, for servants bought live chickens, ladies eyed garlands of flowers, and masons asked exorbitant prices for sheets of stone lattice.

  When I neared the Red Fort, homeless children gathered about me. I handed coins to youths and lepers until my pockets were unburdened. Still, children followed me, beseeching for more. They walked with me until I shuffled past the fort’s main gates, at which point guards congealed behind me and kept the beggars from entering. Passing a stand of fresh papayas, and seeing how delicious they looked, I reached for some rupees. Only then did I realize I’d given all my money away!

  Wine is a precious gift, I thought, for it lets one simply forget.

  I strode through the serpentine corridors of the fort and climbed endless stairways. When I finally reached the floor of the royal chambers, I was breathing heavily. My room was the second to last, and I went to greet my nursemaid and child. The woman’s daughter had died of the fever and she took to Arjumand like a mallard to water. I trusted her completely.

  While passing in front of Aurangzeb’s door, I heard a noise, which emerged as a whimper and was barely audible. The wine must be playing games with me, I decided, but then the whimper came again. That it emanated from Aurangzeb’s room was unusual because he often slept with his family in a palace outside the fort. Normally, I’d have passed the room without hesitating, but the wine emboldened me and I dared to knock. A whisper answered, urging me to enter.

  “But come slowly,” the voice advised.

  Confused, I carefully opened the door. To my astonishment Aurangzeb and his wife—a young, plump girl of high rank—cowered in a corner. A few paces in front of them lay an overturned basket. Among the tulips that had spilled from the wicker swayed an enormous cobra. The snake stood upright, its black hood spread wide, its tongue flickering at the air.

  It took me only a heartbeat to see what had happened. Someone had tried to murder Aurangzeb, sending death to his room in a basket. My brother’s face trembled, for the snake was less than a pace from him. If Aurangzeb were to move, surely he’d die, and die painfully. His wife, her tears dropping to the floor, was farther from the serpent.

  I stood motionless, may Allah forgive me, pondering what to do. If I simply left, slamming the door behind me, the cobra would likely strike Aurangzeb. Thus my worries would cease. Dara would become emperor while my loved ones lived in peace. And Muslims and Hindus might act as they had this day, as brothers, not foes.

  I closed my eyes, praying that Allah would give me a sign. What was I to do? Save one brother to let him kill the others? Allow Aurangzeb, even though my enemy, to die? I groaned, terribly unsure of any action. What if the Hindus were right and karma ruled? If I let Aurangzeb die, surely I’d be punished later. But if I let him live, my family could suffer sooner. How much easier, I thought, it would be just to leave. Hadn’t he asked for this death by offending so many? His murderer, whoever he might be, was simply helping me. Surely I should go!

  Aurangzeb’s wife whimpered and the cobra hissed in response. A monstrous thing, the snake was as long as my outstretched arms and thicker than my ankle. My brother was shaking, and I realized, to my amazement, that the serpent terrified him. Here stood a man who feared no blade or cannon, no charge of war elephants. He fought unlike any general, on the front lines, certain that Allah protected him. Yet where was his Allah now? Why did he have so little faith when a cobra poised before him?

  My brother sought to speak to me, but only a rasp escaped his twitching lips. His wife edged away from him and the cobra rose higher, tongue darting. It appeared unconcerned with her and had eyes only for Aurangzeb. I knew I should leave, but doing so was impossible. How does one let a brother die? Yes, he had once turned his back on me; but if I did the same, could I claim to be better than he? If I abandoned him, could I ever tell Arjumand, in truth, that I had lived my life as a good woman?

  And so I crept toward a low table bearing Aurangzeb’s sword. The cobra must have smelled me but made no turn in my direction. My legs shook as I eased across the thick carpets, and I feared that the serpent could somehow sense my trembles. I never took my gaze from the creature, for if it spun at me, I’d have little time to react.

  The room was small. I soon reached the table. Aurangzeb’s sword was sheathed. Slowly dropping to my knees, I placed one hand on its hilt and the other on its scabbard. With infinite care I pulled on the hilt. The weapon was well oiled and made little noise as it slid free. Almost all our warriors brandished one-handed swords, but the hilt of my brother’s weapon was meant to be held with both fists.

  The sword’s weight was appalling, but the weapon felt oddly reassuring in my grasp. Again I crept forward. Was this power what men experienced on a battlefield? I briefly imagined what it might be like to run toward a Persian warlord with this blade in my hands. Do men think at such times? Or was there only rage? Or fear?

  Soon I was but two paces from the cobra. Amazingly, it still had its hooded head turned from me. I raised the sword, despite its unwieldiness, above my right shoulder. I started to take another step, just one more, when the creature whirled about. It hissed as it spied me, rearing its head back as if to strike.

  With a shriek I swung down the blade. It fell toward the floor, as all heavy things do, with remarkable speed. As the cobra darted forward, its coiled body springing at my thigh, steel met scale. My sword caught the serpent just below its hood, severing head from body. The head spun to the side, while the body’s momentum continued to carry it into me. I screamed as the bloody, twitching body struck my leg. I lifted the sword again, far over my head, and slammed it with all my strength against the cobra’s thrashing torso. The blade bit down through the snake, through the carpet, and into the stone floor. It shattered, breaking off at the hilt. Three parts of the cobra still twisted, and, dropping the ruined weapon, I stepped back.

  Aurangzeb’s wife squealed, throwing her arms about him. He thrust her aside and she shrieked again, sobbing uncontrollably. He trembled, and his face still twitched. “Leave us!” he roared at his wife, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her toward the door.

  She stumbled past me, tripped on a cushion, and fled into the hall. I found myself shaking and dazed. The cobra’s tongue flickered, as if seeking me. How close I’d come to death! I could still see its head twisting in my direction, its mouth agape, its fangs curved and white.

  “Have a change of heart?” Aurangzeb yelled, skirting the cobra’s parts to near me.

  I failed to understand his words. “What?”

  “Decide, sinner, that you’d rather not kill me?” His hands were suddenly upon my shoulders, his fingers pressing painfully into my flesh. “Lack the courage?”

  “The courage?”

  “To watch me die!”

  A pain exploded within me. I hated him then, abhorred that he was of my blood. “You think it was I?” I cried, hardly believing that he’d blame me. Furious, I pushed him away.

  “You, Father, Dara. What does it matter?”
/>   The wine and my brush with death gave me the strength to turn on him, to actually advance, hitting his chest with my fist. “It matters, you ass!” I screeched. “And it was someone else! How many men consider you an enemy? A hundred? A thousand? Perhaps it was the father of a girl you raped, a Hindu whose temple you burnt, or a Persian you let escape. Do I know who tried to kill you, or care? Of course not!” I punched him again, and he didn’t ward off my blow, but merely stepped back.

  “You swear, on Muhammad’s grave, that you had nothing to do with it?”

  “Would I save you, fool, if I did?”

  He considered my words, looking fearfully at the dead cobra. “Then I owe you a life,” he said regretfully. “A life I’ll repay on one condition.” I cared little for his conditions and told him so. But Aurangzeb, his fists clenching in anger, merely spat. “When the time is right, sister, you’ll join me, help me grab the throne. Or I’ll kill you, and enslave your child.”

  The words, even coming from Aurangzeb, assaulted me. “But I saved you—”

  “And I’ve forgiven your sins!” he exclaimed, spittle flying. “Which are countless, may Allah be merciful upon you! Join me and I’ll let you live in peace. But back the heretic and your death will be terrible!”

  “My duty is to Dara!” I argued, my rage a living thing. “Why can’t you let him have the throne? He’d rule in name while you ruled in power!”

  Aurangzeb’s lips curved into a horrible smile. “The heretic will never rule. The throne shall be mine. And I, I alone, will restore order to the Empire. Order, by God!”