He might also recall Shah Shuja to court to reward him for his management of Bengal which too seemed prosperous and peaceful, although his despatches were as terse as Aurangzeb’s and even less frequent. Shah Shuja’s hard-working officials probably deserved the real credit but it would be good to see his son again. As for Murad, he must certainly soon summon him to Agra. Unlike his brothers, he was not performing well as a governor. Only last week a private report from Gujarat’s loyal and honest revenue minister, Ali Naqi, had informed him — respectfully but unambiguously — that even though Shah Jahan had personally ordered Murad to levy higher dues on the rich English traders of Surat, the foreigners had easily bought off the prince with rich gifts which he was squandering without a thought for remedying his province’s dilapidated finances. Would Murad take his strictures to heart? All the evidence suggested that he remained shallow and vain and — if his letter attempting to excuse his behaviour over the Surat merchants was anything to go by — full of bluster when challenged about his inadequacies just as after the failure of his northern campaign.
Shah Jahan closed his eyes, feeling weary as he now quite often did. A few hours hunting or hawking exhausted him. The days when he’d galloped hundreds of miles yet still had energy to wield his ancestors’ sword Alamgir in battle were long gone. Perhaps that was to be expected now he was in his mid-sixties. Soon he would hand the sword to Dara — it was fitting that his eldest son should have it, especially since he himself was now the father of promising sons. Suleiman was a fine horseman and marksman but also a thinker and scholar like his father. Young Sipihr closely resembled their Moghul mother Nadira, sharing her charm and intelligence. The dynasty’s blood ran strong and vigorous through their veins.
Shah Shuja, Aurangzeb and Murad also had sons though he scarcely saw them. If they arrived at court tomorrow he would barely recognise them. That was a pity. He would like to know them better so that they could learn from him, just as he had from his own grandfather, Akbar. That thought made him especially pleased that Dara, who had always seemed to him to resemble Akbar in so many ways, would not be away too much longer.
Hearing the hooting of an owl, Shah Jahan opened his eyes to see the bird’s dim shape soaring into the sky. How bright the star-dusted heavens, so loved by his great-grandfather Humayun, looked. He took a few steps away from the pavilion the better to appreciate their beauty. But as he did so, the world began spinning around him. The stars were whirling at his feet while the sky sprouted flowers and fountains. Was it an earthquake? He reached out for something to hold on to but his hand seemed to extend into nothingness and he felt himself falling forward … He could hear voices, but faint and far away. Dark mists enveloped him.
‘What do the hakims say? Tell me everything, please, Roshanara …’ Jahanara’s heart thumped as she scrutinised her sister’s face.
‘They’re not yet sure what the problem is but they say he’s exhausted, both in mind and in body. Of course they blame his onerous responsibilities, the time he must spend in the Hall of Public Audience administering justice … the long hours he has to spend privately with his counsellors and commanders. But of course recently he’s had other worries …’
Jahanara flushed but said nothing. This was the first time Roshanara had visited her since she’d been confined to the fort’s haram. At first she’d wondered whether Shah Jahan had forbidden her sisters to see her but Satti al-Nisa had assured her it wasn’t so. Doubtless her sisters didn’t wish to associate themselves with her disgrace. Now that Roshanara had finally come, she didn’t want to say anything that would send her away, at least not until she had learned everything she could about their father’s health. ‘How serious is it? How long do they think it will take him to recover? He will recover, won’t he?’
‘The doctors believe so but say it may take some time. One of them — old Ali Karim — has suggested that when our father is strong enough he should go north to Lahore where the cooler air will do him good. I will accompany him if he goes — Dara too. He has been informed of our father’s illness and is hastening his return to Agra.’ Roshanara smoothed the heavily embroidered border of her sleeve.
‘And our other brothers? Have you written to them?’
‘No, not yet. I didn’t want to alarm them. I considered it better to wait a few days when Father’s condition will be clearer and there may well be good news to report.’ That wasn’t quite true, Roshanara thought as she continued to play with her sleeve. She had written at once to Aurangzeb. He had been so grateful for the other information she had sent him about what was happening at court — what she heard in the haram through wives of their husbands’ rivalries and alliances, their secret ambitions and weaknesses. She liked to feel important to someone — not something she’d experienced often in her life. Unlike Dara and even her father, Aurangzeb at least knew how to value her.
For a little time the sisters were silent, each immersed in her own thoughts. Then Jahanara said awkwardly, ‘I’m glad to see you, Roshanara. How have you been … and Gauharara? Satti al-Nisa told me you gave a party together last week, here in the haram.’
‘We’re both very well. Gauharara has a pet mongoose, sent to her by Dara’s wife Nadira. When it hears the notes of a flute it stands on its hind legs and revolves for as long as the music lasts.’ Roshanara glanced towards the door, clearly thinking of leaving.
Suddenly Jahanara could contain herself no longer. ‘Sister, why are we discussing such trivialities? Why don’t you ask me straight out about what happened between myself and Nicholas Ballantyne … don’t you want to know the truth? Though my father will not listen to me, it would grieve me that you, Gauharara and my brothers should think ill of me. I promise on our mother’s memory that you have no cause to do so. I’m guiltless. Make them understand my innocence too. Be my ambassador.’
‘Why should I be the bearer of your lies?’
‘Roshanara!’ Jahanara stared at her sister, shocked by her tone and the hardness in her eyes. ‘I would never lie to you or to our father. As I told him, I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. My relationship with Nicholas Ballantyne was innocent.’
‘How can you say that? I saw your shameless words to him and I …’ Roshanara fell silent, but it was too late.
Jahanara moved closer to her sister and looked into her face. She saw the flicker of dismay and suddenly she understood … ‘Was it you who betrayed me? Did Nasreen bring my letter to you, instead of to Nicholas?’
Roshanara said nothing and Jahanara felt a sudden urge to slap her smooth, round face, angry with herself as well as with her sister. She’d assumed that a curious Nasreen had not been able to resist opening the letter and, reading the contents, had seen an opportunity for reward. She wouldn’t have been the first attendant venal enough to seek to profit from her intimate position in an imperial household. But it had never crossed her mind that Nasreen had simply been doing another’s bidding … and not just anyone’s but that of her own sister! ‘You planned it all, didn’t you? That was why you urged me to take Nasreen into my household … to be your spy. How could you do such a thing? And even if she did bring you my letter why didn’t you come to me first instead of taking it to our father? You never gave me a chance to explain.’