The Serpent's tooth eotm-5

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘Father, with your permission I will return to the haram.’ He nodded but said nothing. Just as in the days of peace the evening torches were lit on either side of the gates leading into the main courtyard of the haram as Jahanara approached.

  As the Turkish female guards swung the gates open to admit her, she heard laughter. Three young women were sitting together on the marble edge of a splashing fountain in the centre of the courtyard. For a moment, listening to them, she could pretend that nothing was amiss with the world. Soon she would order the evening meal for herself and her sisters, but first she would go and tell Roshanara what their father had said about defending the fort.

  But when she entered Roshanara’s apartments on the far side of the courtyard she saw that her sister wasn’t there. Neither were her attendants. Perhaps she had gone to the bath house? She was turning to leave when she noticed a piece of folded paper lying on top of her sister’s gilded jewellery box. Curious, she picked it up and saw that it was a letter addressed to their father in Roshanara’s neat hand and sealed with her sister’s emblem of a displaying peacock. How odd that Roshanara should write to their father when she could see him whenever she wished … Jahanara was about to put the letter back when she noticed something else — the box’s silver clasps were unfastened despite the fact that Roshanara kept her finest rubies and carved emeralds, including a necklace that had belonged to their great-great-grandmother Hamida, in it. How could her attendants have been so careless? She raised the lid and looked inside. The box was empty except for a few silver bangles.

  Letting the heavy lid drop back, Jahanara scanned the room. It was not as tidy as usual. A Kashmir shawl was hanging out of a chest and a gold-tasselled silk skirt was crumpled on the floor. Could there have been a robbery? Surely not in the well-guarded haram. But then a thought struck her … She was being ridiculous and yet … Almost before she knew what she was doing she broke the seal of the letter she was still holding and as fragments of green wax showered the carpet, read what her sister had written.

  My dear father,

  By the time you read this I will have left the fort to go to my brothers. Please forgive me but I owe my loyalty to those you have wronged and who have the best interests of the empire at heart. I must obey my conscience. May we meet again in happier times.

  For a moment Jahanara stood there, scarcely able to take in the meaning of those few lines. Then, refolding the letter, she went to the door and called to an attendant.

  ‘Ask the khawajasara to come at once. Tell her it’s urgent.’

  Barely two minutes later the haram superintendent appeared, carved ivory staff of office in hand, and anxiety on her normally calm and dignified face. ‘Highness?’

  ‘When I came to visit my sister she wasn’t here. Instead I found this letter saying she’s left the fort.’

  ‘But that’s impossible … quite, quite impossible.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong. When did you last see her?’

  The khawajasara hesitated. ‘Probably when I spoke to her early this morning … about an incident in the haram …’

  ‘What incident?’

  ‘I didn’t think I needed to trouble you with it, Highness. Yesterday evening one of the haram servants, an elderly latrine cleaner, died. She was a Hindu from the town and her last wish was that her body be taken from the fort and returned to her people for cremation. The poor creature was very agitated at the last and I promised to do my best, though to be honest I doubted it would be possible. Somehow Princess Roshanara learned of the death and summoned me. I was surprised. It was unlike her to take such an interest in a humble member of my staff. She questioned me closely, then said that it was our duty to do our very best to fulfil the woman’s dying request. At first light this morning she sent a note to the garrison commander asking him to send a messenger to Prince Murad’s camp under flag of truce before the day’s bombardment began, carrying a letter she’d already written and sealed appealing for permission for the corpse to be carried from the fort … at least that’s what she claimed was in the letter …’ The khawajasara’s voice tailed off. ‘Madam, I …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Our messenger brought back word that at dusk we would be permitted to send the woman’s body from the fort in safety. We had everything in readiness and shortly after you had gone to join His Majesty on the battlements four white-clad haram attendants carried the corpse from the fort …’ The khawajasara clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘That must be how she managed it. One of the women must have been your sister in disguise. They were all heavily veiled and it never occurred to me to check their identities …’

  ‘Which gate did they use?’

  ‘The same side gate as our messenger had earlier — a small one facing the town.’

  So that was why she and her father, looking out across the Jumna, had seen nothing, Jahanara thought. When they had been standing talking Roshanara had slipped away … How could she have done such a thing? And how dare she write about conscience when she plainly didn’t have one? But then a fresh worry struck Jahanara.

  ‘What about Princess Gauharara? When did you last see her?’

  ‘She has been in her apartments all day with a bad headache. At least, that’s what her attendants said and I’d no reason to disbelieve them … I promise you I’ve always taken my responsibilities very seriously.’

  But Jahanara wasn’t listening. With the khawajasara close behind, Jahanara rushed to her youngest sister’s rooms across the courtyard. Gauharara hadn’t deserted their father as well, had she? The ivory-clad doors were closed, just as they’d been to Roshanara’s quarters. Jahanara’s heart was thumping as she pushed them open. The blinds were lowered over the casements and only a few lamps were burning. Some herbal smell — camomile perhaps — filled the air. Squinting into the gloom Jahanara made out a form lying on a divan, then heard a querulous voice. ‘Who is it? My head is splitting.’

  The voice sounded like Gauharara’s but she must be certain this wasn’t yet another trick. Taking an oil lamp from a niche Jahanara went closer. By its flickering light she saw her sister’s thin face … thank goodness.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Jahanara. I thought it might be Satti al-Nisa. I’ve been asking for her all day. She’s the only one who knows how to get rid of these headaches of mine but she hasn’t been near me.’

  ‘Madam, I haven’t seen Satti al-Nisa since this morning,’ said the khawajasara, who had followed Jahanara into the room.

  Looking over her shoulder Jahanara signalled to the woman to say nothing further. There was no point in telling Gauharara about Roshanara’s flight yet. She turned back to her sister. ‘I’m sorry you’re not well. I’ll see if I can find Satti al-Nisa for you.’ Still accompanied by the khawajasara, Jahanara turned into the thickly carpeted, silk-hung corridor at the far end of which was the room Satti al-Nisa had occupied for nearly three decades — ever since she had become Mumtaz’s confidante. Satti al-Nisa was the one person she could rely on to tell her what was happening, yet she didn’t seem to have detected anything of Roshanara’s plans. Had her sister simply taken an opportunity when it appeared or had she been planning this for a long time?

  As soon as Jahanara pushed aside the curtains and entered her friend’s room she saw that something was wrong. Satti al-Nisa was slumped on a silk bolster on the floor, her long silvery-grey hair loose around her. Had she had a seizure? She was still so vigorous it was easy to forget how old she was. Kneeling beside her, Jahanara took Satti al-Nisa’s hand in hers. It felt chill, and as she chafed it there was no response … neither was there any sign of the rise and fall of her breast. No, it couldn’t be … Jahanara’s eyes filled with tears as she put her face closer to Satti al-Nisa’s. Then she felt — or thought she did — a faint exhalation of breath against her own skin. Gently releasing Satti al-Nisa’s hand, she rose to her feet. ‘She’s very ill but I think she’s still alive … Fetch help quickly,’ she shouted to the khawajasara standing in the doorway.<
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  The woman returned a few minutes later with a purple-robed companion whose forehead was curiously tattooed. ‘This is Yasmin. She is from Arabia, where she learned some of the skills of the hakim from her doctor father.’

  As Jahanara moved aside to give her room, Yasmin leant over Satti al-Nisa, felt for her pulse and then raised one of her eyelids to reveal a dark, dilated pupil.

  ‘What’s wrong with her? Has she had a fit?’ Jahanara asked.

  ‘No, Highness. I think she has swallowed opium and is in a very deep drugged sleep.’

  ‘Opium? Are you certain? I have never known her take it.’

  Turning, Yasmin picked up a silver cup standing on a low white marble table, dipped in her right forefinger and then licked it. ‘The bitter taste of the poppy is unmistakeable, even when mixed, as it has been here, with rose-flavoured sherbet.’

  ‘Someone must have deliberately drugged her. That’s the only explanation.’ Jahanara could guess who. Roshanara had left as little as possible to chance and given opium to an old woman who had looked after her nearly all her life. ‘You’re absolutely certain she’s in no danger?’

  ‘There should be no lasting harm. She’ll be herself again in a few hours, though her head will ache and she will feel weak and sick.’

  ‘Stay with her and let me know at once when she wakes.’ With that, Jahanara turned and left the room. How would she break the news of all this to her father? Yet tell him she must and as quickly as possible … Just a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, she re-joined him.

  ‘What is it? Why have you returned so soon?’

  She hesitated, but there was no way to disguise the truth — that yet again her father had been betrayed by his own flesh and blood. ‘It’s Roshanara. She’s left the fort and gone to Murad. She wrote you this … Forgive me. In my haste to find out what had happened I opened it.’

  Shah Jahan took Roshanara’s note from her and scanned the short message. Then he crumpled the paper and let it fall to the ground.

  ‘It seems she disguised herself as one of a party of mourners carrying the body of a dead Hindu woman out of the fort. She …’

  Shah Jahan held up a hand. ‘How she did it is of no consequence,’ he said quietly. ‘What about Gauharara?’

  ‘She is still here, Father.’

  ‘I am glad.’ Shah Jahan said no more but turned away from her so that she couldn’t see his face. She had expected him to be very angry but she sensed only a deep sadness in him. She understood it very well, because she felt exactly the same. How had their family become so divided? Could scars like this within any family — let alone an imperial one — ever truly heal? Probably not.

  ‘Welcome to my camp. It’s time you and I celebrated properly now that I’ve returned to Agra.’ Aurangzeb clapped Murad on the back. ‘I’ve arranged for food to be served separately to your escort but we two will eat in my tent.’

  ‘I came as soon as I received your invitation. Roshanara sends greetings. Wasn’t it good she found a way of escaping from the fort and joining me?’

  ‘I only wish Jahanara would see sense, but you know what she’s like. She sets loyalty to our father above the good of the dynasty …’ Aurangzeb led the way to his command tent, where silk cushions had been spread on the rug-covered floor and a cloth already laid on a low table for the meal to come.

  As Murad lay back on some of the cushions, an attendant poured water into a brass bowl for him to wash his hands. Then another offered wine. ‘I thought you’d renounced alcohol, Aurangzeb?’

  Aurangzeb smiled. ‘I have, in accord with what I believe are the tenets of our religion, but I know you haven’t. And as I said, this is a moment to savour and be generous, not to be too strict … I will not drink, but you should take as much as you wish in celebration.’

  ‘You really believe we’ve won?’

  ‘Yes. Think about it for a moment. Dara’s dead. Who else is there to challenge us? That’s certainly what most of the important nobles and vassals seem to think … even those who fought for Dara are rushing to abase themselves and declare allegiance to us. I’ve been receiving such messages almost daily and you must have been as well.’

  Murad nodded and then said, ‘But what about Father and the forces in the fort? He’s showing no sign of giving in.’

  ‘He’s not the man he was. It can’t be long before even he sees reason — especially when he hears that I’ve returned to Agra with my army to reinforce you. And if he doesn’t, we’ll find a way to compel him to capitulate.’

  Murad took a long swallow of wine from the cup and leaned back, beaming. ‘You were right all along … You always said we’d win even when I had doubts — even after Samugarh. After all, Dara had our father and most of the imperial armies behind him …’

  ‘Yes, but he squandered his advantages, especially by being over-confident. He didn’t bother to woo powerful supporters like Khalilullah Khan — in his conceit he just assumed they’d follow him. But I knew Khalilullah Khan from our time campaigning in the north and I knew he could be, let’s say, “encouraged” to join us …’

  ‘These past days I’ve thought about Dara a lot … whether his death was necessary. He was our brother. There must have been other ways … exile, or a pilgrimage to Mecca?’

  ‘You were always kind-hearted as a child. It was him or us. If we’d let Dara live he’d only have plotted against us. The whole conflict might have reignited and more lives been lost.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I know I am. Anyway, it’s done. Put it out of your mind. I took the decision alone and will answer for it.’

  ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it? Father criticised both of us for our handling of the campaign in the north yet we’re the ones who’ve ultimately triumphed. Perhaps he’ll now regret being so unfair.’ Murad took another swig before adding, ‘It’s a pity Shah Shuja isn’t with us. This is his victory as well and he’d have enjoyed our celebration. I’ve heard nothing from him. Have you?’

  ‘Not for a long time. But I’ve sent messengers east to find him and tell him the good news. Perhaps it will give him the backbone to deal with Suleiman.’

  ‘Backbone?’

  ‘Yes. By letting Suleiman defeat him and then fleeing he damaged our credibility.’

  ‘But in a way it worked to our advantage. Shah Shuja kept Suleiman in the east instead of returning to Agra. If Suleiman had joined forces with his father at Samugarh, the outcome might have been different.’

  ‘Perhaps … thought not ultimately. Suleiman has some of his father’s failings as well as some of his own … he’s impulsive as well as over-confident, and doesn’t think.’

  ‘So he’s not a threat?’

  ‘Not a serious one. Once news of Dara’s death reaches Suleiman’s camp, I expect some of his troops to desert and others to lose heart. It would be preferable if Shah Shuja can exploit that situation and defeat him. But if he doesn’t think he has the manpower, I’ve suggested that he bring his forces straight back to Agra. It’s time the three of us were together again so we can decide how to divide the provinces of the empire between us. But that’s enough serious talk for the moment … let’s eat.’

  Murad held out his cup for an attendant to refill as others brought in dishes of roasted lamb, quails stuffed with raisins, pheasant breasts flavoured with saffron and pulaos sprinkled with dried cherries and apricots. For a while the two brothers ate, Murad hungrily and in quantity, Aurangzeb more sparingly. The sky, visible through the tent’s half-open flap, was filling with stars and a crescent moon was rising when Murad lay back with a grunt of satisfaction, took another drink from his wine cup and said, ‘You remembered my favourite dishes. I’m flattered …’

  ‘Of course, my pleasure-loving little brother. And I’ve arranged something else you like.’ At a clap of Aurangzeb’s hands a cloaked and veiled woman, face entirely concealed, entered the tent and touched her hand to her breast. ‘I’ll leave you alone to enjoy my gift —
I understand she has skills you’ll appreciate. If you do, you can take her into your service? It’s getting late. Why don’t you spend the night with her here so that we can talk again in the morning?’

  As Aurangzeb withdrew and the tent flap closed behind him, Murad beckoned the woman nearer. ‘Let me see your face.’ As she unfastened her veil, Murad saw brown eyes steadily regarding him. Without waiting for further instructions she pushed back her hood, revealing thick hair hanging loose.

  Murad’s smile broadened. He loved voluptuous women, as his brother well knew … Aurangzeb really was showing his appreciation.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Zainab.’

  ‘Well, Zainab, let’s see whether you can fulfil my brother’s promises …’

  Swaying slightly with the effects of the wine, Murad rose to his feet and reaching out released the single clasp of her cloak, which slid to the floor revealing her naked body, skin gleaming like marble and the nipples of her full high breasts painted golden. Stepping closer, Murad ran his hands down her body, exploring the curves of her slender waist, the soft swell of her buttocks, and buried his face in that glorious hair, which smelled of jasmine. She was perfect … With one hand still gripping her right buttock, with his other he reached between her legs.

  ‘Wait, my prince — let me massage you first. It will heighten the pleasure, I promise you. Your brother told you I have special skills … he wants me to use them to please you … don’t disappoint him.’

  Intrigued, Murad released Zainab and nodded.

  ‘Good. You won’t be sorry. First, let me undress you.’ Swiftly she removed his clothes and when he too was naked looked at him appraisingly for a moment, then smiled. ‘Any woman would be glad to spend the night with you … Come, lie face down on those cushions.’