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.
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 …’