From that time we suffered a number of desertions, particularly among troops not of your religion. I suspect your brother knew that he was losing the confidence of some of his men. In consequence he almost ceased asking his officers’ advice. His orders became ever more autocratic – even sometimes irrational – as he sought to impose his will and enforce his men’s loyalty. Ashok Singh did what he could to maintain the army’s morale but after his death – a matter of great personal sorrow to me; I cannot help worrying whether I could have done anything to save him – I think your brother doubted his ability to hold his army together through a long and dangerous campaign and that I believe was why he aborted the mission. He is unlike other commanders I have served, being austere and cold. It’s hard to tell what is in his mind and I suspect he would have it thus.
Jahanara touched her scarred cheek. In those terrible weeks after the fire Aurangzeb had hurried back from the Deccan to be at her bedside. Could that tender affectionate brother have become the remote, self-contained man conjured by Nicholas? Yet now that she thought back she realised how little Aurangzeb had ever revealed of himself, his feelings and ambitions, even during the hours they’d spent together at that time. If he was indeed a man such as Nicholas described, what had made him become so? Did some seam of bitterness run through him like a vein of marble or of granite, cold and unyielding, hidden until you dug deep enough? As the eldest of her parents’ children – and as a sister who loved him – it was her duty to try to find out … She owed it to her mother who, had she lived, would surely have penetrated her son’s reserve.
Sitting down cross-legged at her desk she took her pen and began to write again to Nicholas.
Thank you for your letter, even if it has caused me great heartache. How can a woman living such a protected life as I understand fully what is in men’s hearts – their thoughts and feelings, their true desires. What you have said raises so many questions that I cannot rest until I know more. Please, I must see you. Come to me here in my palace tomorrow evening, as you did before.
Heating a stick of wax over a candle she let the red tallow trickle in a little pool on to the bottom of the letter. Then, taking her mother’s ivory seal, she pressed it firmly into the wax. She would have given the letter to her steward but his daughter had just given birth to his first grandson in the town and he had gone to visit her. This time she would have to entrust the errand to someone else.
‘Nasreen!’ she called to her attendant. ‘Come quickly. I have a task for you.’
As he often did, her father had ordered that he was not to be disturbed that evening, but the piece of smooth ivory-coloured paper in her hand gave Roshanara the confidence she needed.
‘I have information for my father that cannot wait,’ she told the captain of the Turkish female guards who protected the main entrance to the emperor’s apartments from the imperial haram. The Turk – broad-shouldered and muscular as a man in her tightly belted leather jerkin – hesitated a moment then bowed her close-cropped head. At her signal the guards flung open the silver-clad doors to admit Roshanara into a long torchlit corridor at the far end of which was a second set of doors, also flanked by Turkish haram guards.
Accompanied by the captain of the guard, Roshanara took her time as she made her way towards them, the hem of her turquoise silk robe rustling as it brushed the ground. After all, she’d already waited long enough … indeed she’d even begun to think that Nasreen would never obtain any useful information, but finally her patience had been rewarded. She had something to dislodge Jahanara from her patronising pedestal and prove to her father that he should not have treated her so roughly when she had first voiced her suspicions. She paused while the captain of the guard tapped on the second set of doors and informed the haram eunuch who appeared that the Princess Roshanara had urgent business with her father.
A few moments later she was in his familiar apartments overlooking the Jumna. Shah Jahan was on the terrace where he often stood at night, gazing across the river at Mumtaz’s mausoleum by the light of an almost full moon.
‘What is it, Roshanara?’ He looked tired, but there was no reproach in his voice for disturbing him so late.
‘I thought you should see this, Father.’ She held out the piece of paper.
‘What is it?’
‘A letter from Jahanara to Nicholas Ballantyne. Yesterday Jahanara asked her attendant Nasreen – the one I spoke about to you before – to take it secretly to Nicholas’s lodgings. However, anxious that her mistress seemed to be conducting a clandestine correspondence with this man and afraid that she might be blamed for helping, she brought it to me unopened. At first I wasn’t sure what to do. Then I remembered that when I told you Nicholas had visited my sister in her mansion you said I’d been right to tell you … I opened the letter, hoping and believing I would find it was nothing, but I confess the contents shocked me. I knew it was my duty to bring the letter to you at once.’
‘What does Jahanara say?’
‘You should read it yourself, Father. Here.’
Shah Jahan took the letter and moved closer to a torch burning in a sconce. The flickering orange light danced across the page as he read. At first he couldn’t believe what he was reading, the words jumping before his eyes, jumbled up and making no sense. He took a deep breath to steady himself and looked again. This time his daughter’s elegant script – written in the pale blue ink she always used – stood out only too clearly, though the hand in which he was holding the letter was beginning to tremble. How can a woman living such a protected life as I understand fully what is in men’s hearts – their thoughts and feelings, their true desires … Please, I must see you …
Shah Jahan shook his head. Could this be anything but a letter from a woman to her lover? How could Jahanara bring shame on herself and her dynasty like this? He closed his eyes but all he saw was his daughter’s face as it had been before the fire, smiling at him just as Mumtaz had used to smile. He had lost the dearest thing to him on earth – his wife – and now by her own thoughtless and disgraceful acts he was losing Jahanara … For a moment he pressed his knuckles to his eyes as if by so doing he could drive away the images in his mind.
‘Father, are you all right?’
Shah Jahan struggled to speak but his emotions choked the words. Shock and doubt whirled in his head but as the letter’s contents sank in he felt something else – a scalding anger such as he’d not felt for many years, perhaps not since the time when Mehrunissa had demanded two of his sons as hostages. In those days he had been forced to submit to what could not be helped but no longer – he was an emperor whose word was life or death to a hundred million people. No one – not even a much-loved daughter – could escape his anger when they had transgressed.
He opened his eyes again to see Roshanara standing before him with a half-smile on her face. This was nothing to smile at. He took her none too gently by the shoulders and pulled her towards him so that her face was only inches from his. ‘Does anyone else know the contents of this letter?’
She shook her head, her smile banished. ‘No. Only I read it and I told no one.’
‘Good. So it must remain. I’ll not have your sister’s reputation dragged through the mire of court gossip any more than I can help. Return to your apartments and act as if nothing had happened. Do you understand?’
‘I understand.’ Roshanara was trembling in his grasp. She had expected her father to storm and rage but his voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper and there was a coldness in his eyes. For the first time she realised how merciless he must have looked on the battlefield, or as he was about to pronounce death on a traitor in the court of justice. She almost regretted what she’d done. She’d wanted to see Jahanara humbled in their father’s eyes and to pay her back for her disparagement of Aurangzeb. Now she wondered what she might have unleashed on her sister.
‘Highness, please, you must wake up.’
Jahanara opened startled eyes to see Satti al-Nisa bending over
her, lined face anxious. ‘What is it? Has something happened to my father?’
‘No, it’s not that. It concerns you. Someone has betrayed you. As soon as it’s light the emperor intends to summon you to the fort to account for yourself.’
‘What do you mean? You speak as if my father suspects me of some crime.’ Jahanara sat up and pushed her long hair back from her face as she struggled to make sense of Satti al-Nisa’s words.
‘He does, Highness. If what I heard tonight in the haram is true he has come by a letter written by you to the Englishman.’
‘My letter to Nicholas Ballantyne? How did my father get it?’
‘One of my oldest friends told me your attendant Nasreen claims you gave her a letter to take to him but that instead she made sure it found its way to the emperor. She is saying that he is your lover and boasting she’s to receive a rich reward.’
‘My lover …’ Jahanara gasped and gripped Satti al-Nisa’s arm. ‘But it’s not true. How could anyone think such a thing … there was nothing in that letter. All I said was that I wanted to talk to him about Aurangzeb … to understand more about the northern campaign and what caused my brother to act as he did.’ Still dazed, Jahanara got up. Though the night was warm, shock and dismay chilled her as for the first time she considered how others might interpret her words. How could she have been so careless? But she had never expected one of her servants to be so deceitful. Anyway, she tried to comfort herself, when her father understood that only anxiety about her brother had made her write in that way surely he would forgive her … After all, what was there to forgive?
‘I must go to my father at once and explain.’
‘No! Be careful, Highness. Though I have admired your father for many years – even before he became emperor – I can’t be blind to his faults. His bitterness against the world since your mother’s death still eats away at him. He has turned in on himself and does not always react rationally. Of all his children he loves you and Dara the most – that is common knowledge – but if he feels that one of you, his special ones, has let him down, his rage will be all the greater. Remember you have further to fall than either of your sisters.’ Satti al-Nisa took Jahanara in her arms. ‘After Mumtaz’s death, while you were trying to be a mother to your brothers and sisters, I tried to be a mother to you. And it is in that role that I came here tonight – to counsel as well as to warn you. Do not rush to the fort. Allow your father’s anger time to cool and give yourself time to think what you will say.’
Satti al-Nisa was right, Jahanara thought, as the older woman comfortingly stroked her hair in the way she had done when Jahanara was a child. But suddenly she jerked away as a new and terrible thought struck her. ‘If my father is angry with me, how will he feel towards Nicholas Ballantyne? He’ll have him killed … I must warn him.’
‘Yes, but no more letters, Highness. Let me be your messenger. Now that I have told you all I can I will return to the fort and go to his apartments. He knows me of old and will listen to what I say.’
‘Tell him to leave Agra immediately and to do so in disguise – to get as far away as he can, perhaps even to take ship for his homeland from the English settlement at Surat.’ For a moment she saw Nicholas’s frank open face beneath that unruly golden hair as he spoke his reluctance to communicate with her before he left for the north. He had become a familiar and trusted part of all their lives, yet by her thoughtlessness she had put his life at risk. ‘And tell him I am sorry … none of this is his fault. Go, Satti al-Nisa. Go now! I pray it’s not already too late.’
‘Approach no further!’ Shah Jahan was seated on a silver chair in his Hall of Private Audience beneath the green silk, pearl-sewn canopy. His stiff embroidered robes, the strands of emeralds and rubies round his neck, the jewels glittering on his fingers, told Jahanara how carefully he had prepared for this interview. She knew him well enough to realise that at his most distressed or vulnerable he retreated behind the magnificence of his imperial image. Though they were entirely alone with all the doors tight shut she felt as if the eyes of all the court as well as her father’s were watching her in judgement.
‘Father, you don’t understand …’
‘Silence! You will not speak until I give you permission.’ Jahanara was close enough to see the taut skin around his unblinking eyes and pursed mouth, the rapid rise and fall of the jewels on his chest and the tightness with which his hands gripped the lion’s head arms of his chair. Taken aback by the vehemence of his words and expression, she looked down at the floor.
‘Well may you bow your head in shame before me. I’ve known for some time that you once invited Nicholas Ballantyne to your mansion. Because I trusted you I assumed it was for innocent reasons. I refused to think badly of you and pushed the incident from my mind. Now I discover I was wrong. For two years at least letters have been passing between you and the Englishman and they were not innocent!’
Reaching inside his robe, Shah Jahan pulled out her latest letter and flung it to the ground. ‘You, an imperial Moghul princess, the First Lady of the Empire, write to a man of feelings and desires … In our ancestors’ days on the steppes you would have been killed at once for shaming our house. Jahanara …’ his voice cracked a little, ‘I trusted you, gave you everything you could desire … even your own mansion … and this wantonness is how you repay me.’
Jahanara wanted to shout out ‘It is only you who ever behaved wantonly, not I’ but knew she must not. In the effort to keep silent, she dug the nails of her manicured right hand into the palm of her left.
‘All night I sat up in my apartments wondering what punishment would fit the crime – and a heinous crime I consider it. One thing and one thing only has made me stay my hand from harsh measures – the knowledge that the physical scars you bear are my fault. My actions robbed you of some of your beauty and that loss has perhaps caused you to forget yourself and seek the touch of a man, however dishonourable and improper. At least that is what I have tried to tell myself as I struggled – still struggle – to find excuses for your immorality. Until I have considered further you will be confined in the imperial haram within this fort. As for Nicholas Ballantyne, this morning at dawn I ordered his arrest, but when my guards went to his lodgings he had fled … hardly the act of an innocent man. But I promise you this – he will be found and brought back to Agra where I will have him castrated before wild horses rip him apart.’ Shah Jahan rose from his chair and descending the shallow dais took a few steps towards her, his face an expressionless mask. ‘Now I have said what I wished to say, you may speak.’
Jahanara opened her mouth, but the will to defend herself and Nicholas was draining from her. What was the point? That her father could treat her like this hurt with a pain more deep-seated than that of her burns had ever been. He was judging her as arbitrarily and distantly as if she and Nicholas were strangers dragged before him, and what was more using the standards of his own moral weakness to do so. She’d done nothing to be ashamed of; just the reverse. Rather than indulging in selfish desires she had been trying to hold his family together. She would not stand abject before him. Neither, having done her best to secure Nicholas’s escape, would she plead with him. If he had so little trust in her, let him do with her what he would. Whatever happened she would keep her pride and her honour and one day her father would once more beg her forgiveness. She straightened her back. ‘I have done nothing to dishonour you or our family or – most important – myself. I swear so before God, my immortal judge. Do with me as you will.’ Jahanara’s eyes flashed defiance. ‘But before you do there is one thing I must know. Who was it who brought my letter to you?’
‘Someone with more regard for our family’s honour than you. Their identity is no concern of yours. Now go.’
As father and daughter turned stiffly away from each other both had tears in their eyes – in each case tears of righteous anger, betrayal and loss.
Chapter 16
Shah Jahan leant against one of the columns of
the pavilion in his mahtab bagh, his moonlight garden across the Jumna from Mumtaz’s tomb. Here, among the waxy white champa flowers and orange trees, was one of the few places he could find peace. On nights like this he could almost imagine Mumtaz herself was beside him. What would she have said about the state of his relationship with their children? But that was a foolish question – if she’d lived their children would never have drifted so far away from him or apart from each other, and they themselves might have turned out differently.
As so often in recent days his thoughts returned to Jahanara. His initial anger had blunted a little over the week since he had confined her to the imperial haram, but he couldn’t forgive her behaviour with Nicholas Ballantyne. Of all his children she was the one he’d thought he’d understood the best, believing they had recreated the bonds that had existed before the incident leading to the fire. Clearly he had been deluding himself, seeing what he wanted to see rather than the reality. Wasn’t that what men often did as old age claimed them? Her duplicity had hurt him far more than if it had been Roshanara or Gauharara. Though his younger daughters were affectionate enough they’d never meant the same to him. He missed Jahanara … her daily visits, her companionship and wisdom.
At least Dara would soon return from his inspection of the new fortifications on the great trunk road near Gwalior. What would he make of the scandal that had enveloped his sister? As for his other sons, he’d not seen any of the three for many months. Aurangzeb was still in the Deccan. Despite his stubborn pride and confidence in his rigid view of the world, he was at least showing himself a diligent and effective administrator even if his reports were short and uninformative. Taxes from the wealthy south were flowing smoothly into the Moghul treasuries and for the moment the empire’s southern borders seemed quiescent. He was glad that his third son appeared to have at last put the humiliation of the northern campaign behind him. He must find some important honour to confer on him and summon him to court to receive it. Aurangzeb’s claim that he had never loved him still lingered … it wasn’t true and he would prove it to his prickly son …
Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth Page 20