All that afternoon there was frenetic activity on the riverbank across from Shah Jahan's apartments. At first, he paid no attention. All his thoughts were focused on the son who was dead and the son and grandson who were still alive but incarcerated in Gwalior. Would Aurangzeb order pousta to be fed to Sipihr too? He wished Jahanara were here with him ... he needed her good sense and compa.s.sion more than ever as darkness enveloped his family a miasma conjured by Aurangzeb for reasons that he still struggled to comprehend. Ambition was one thing it had driven the Moghuls to great as well as terrible deeds but spite and vindictiveness were something else.

Sending Dara's decomposing head had been an act of deliberate malice. Why did Aurangzeb hate him so much, and when had those feelings begun? Had they already been festering that day when Aurangzeb had defied his order to inspect the underground chamber of Dara's mansion? At the time he had been too angry to consider what really lay behind his son's strange behaviour ... whether he had genuinely thought Dara intended to kill him and that his father would collude in his murder. Surely not. But Aurangzeb's suspicions and insecurities ran deeper and further back than he had ever suspected. His humiliation and killing of Dara was calculated, cold-hearted revenge against his father as well as a brother he had envied and despised. It signalled a determination to rid himself of anyone who posed a threat. First Dara, then Murad. Who would be next? Probably Shah Shuja wherever he might be and his grandson Suleiman? Ever since Dara's flight from Agra after the battle of Samugarh a good portion of Shah Jahan's hopes had focused on Suleiman. He had longed to hear that his army was marching on Agra, but no more. Having slaughtered Dara, Aurangzeb wouldn't hesitate to kill his eldest son, now his most serious rival for the throne. He wouldn't care whether it was a clean death in battle or by the blade of a paid a.s.sa.s.sin creeping into Suleiman's camp. One way or another Aurangzeb would have his way ...

Shah Jahan remained deep in contemplation all of it bleak and dark until finally the raucous clamour outside grew too loud to be ignored any longer. He had no intention of going out on to his terrace where he might be observed, but looking through a carved jali screen he could see well enough what was happening. About two hundred feet away on the opposite side of the Jumna soldiers had almost finished erecting a large green silk pavilion edged with gold and supported by tall, slender poles striped green and gold. At each corner, the fabric was tied back on either side with golden cords on to which, from the bright sparkle, gems had been sewn. Beneath the canopy the troops had spread the earth with rich carpets while on the strip of ground between the pavilion and the river itself they were arranging more carpets in rows like prayer rugs in the mosque. Two jewelled incense burners shaped like crouching tigers and almost as large had been positioned on either side of the pavilion and thin trails of white smoke were already issuing from the tigers' open jaws, inside which perfumed crystals must have been lit.

Curious crowds had already a.s.sembled. Straining to see what was going on, they were being held back by soldiers who had formed a cordon from one side of the canopy round its back to the other. Excited cries and shouts filled the air. He had long realised even before the crowd roared their approval of Ismail Khan's execution at the beginning of his reign how fickle the people were and how short were their memories and loyalties. So many times he'd ridden at the head of his troops into the Agra fort while his attendants flung ornaments of beaten gold to his cheering subjects as they roared their enthusiasm for their ruler. Did a single person waiting so expectantly on the riverbank have a sympathetic thought to spare for their true emperor standing betrayed just across the river? Probably not. Like children craving entertainment and trinkets, not caring from whom they came, all their thoughts would be focused on the coming spectacle and Aurangzeb's potential largesse.

What was Aurangzeb planning? It wasn't too long before he had his answer. A large, flat-bottomed barge of a design Shah Jahan had not seen before came slowly into view from downstream, rowed by a dozen men whom Shah Jahan did recognise as imperial boatmen who crewed the vessels usually kept moored beneath the fort walls for the emperor's use. Bare backs glistening with sweat in the late afternoon sun, they were straining at the oars not only because they were battling the current but because of the weight of a tall object covered with a piece of oiled cloth positioned in the middle of the boat. It was so heavy that the vessel seemed to ride low in the water. As the boatmen nudged the bow in at an angle against the far bank, soldiers ran forward to grab ropes the oarsmen flung to them and heaved the boat a little farther up on to the flat, muddy bank.

Soon soldiers climbed into the boat. One drew his dagger and began to saw at the thick ropes holding the object's covering in place. It took some minutes before the ropes fell away and other men were finally able to pull off the oiled cloth. Shah Jahan gasped as he saw what it had been concealing. Facing towards him was his golden peac.o.c.k throne. The twelve emerald-studded pillars supporting its domed roof blazed green in the sunlight. The gem-studded peac.o.c.ks and trees set with rubies, diamonds, emeralds and pearls atop the pillars were dazzling.

For a moment a kind of pride pushed aside Shah Jahan's troubles. He and he alone had created this fabulous thing, personally selecting the best jewels from the treasure of his empire. No ruler since the days of King Solomon had possessed such a throne ... When the idea had first come to him at the start of his reign he had still been young and full of hope. For just a few moments he was that man again, with his glory days still ahead of him and his family around him, but then the feeling faded. His family had imploded. This was no longer his throne. A usurping son had stolen it from him. As he watched, two of the oarsmen lowered the front of the barge, which must have been specially constructed for this purpose. A group of soldiers edged behind the throne and began to push. Slowly and painfully they inched it forward. When at last it started to emerge from the boat on to the bank Shah Jahan could see that it had been placed on a wooden platform with rollers at either end. After twenty more minutes' pushing, the throne was finally in place beneath the canopy, its gleaming, glittering front facing directly towards the fort.

Towards sunset, Makhdumi Khan had said ... Glancing towards the horizon, Shah Jahan saw it wasn't far off. As if on cue, moments later a series of strident trumpet blasts sounded, apparently from somewhere along the fort's battlements. Then the great, silver-oared imperial barge his barge appeared from the same direction as the boat that had carried the throne. It had been re-gilded and banners of Moghul green fluttered from prow and stern, and its decks were deep with rose petals that drifted in the breeze like pink snowflakes. In the centre of the vessel shielded from the sun beneath a giant green umbrella stood Aurangzeb, dressed in cream-coloured robes with long ropes of pearls round his neck. On his head was the imperial turban with its white egret feathers and his fingers gleamed with gems. Everything about the way he was holding himself, from his straight back to his raised chin, suggested pride and authority.

Two more boats were following. Shah Jahan recognised nearly every one of the thirty bright-robed courtiers aboard. Some were Aurangzeb's commanders and n.o.bles but among them were men he had thought loyal to him, even a few who had helped defend the fort during the siege. Aurangzeb had bought them ... or had they too simply bowed to the inevitable?

Saddened by the sight, Shah Jahan left the jali screen and walked the room, feeling a little like one of his hunting leopards restlessly prowling its cage except that the leopards sometimes had the chance to run free. He might never know freedom again ... But eventually, even though he knew that whatever he was about to witness could only bring him pain, further fanfares of trumpets followed by the booming of kettledrums drew him back to the jali screen.

Aurangzeb had disembarked and, flanked on each side by twelve bodyguards in silver breastplates, was making his way towards the peac.o.c.k throne followed at a respectful distance by the courtiers. Reaching the throne, Aurangzeb paused for a moment, looked up at the dazzling canopy, then mounted its golden steps, turned and sat down. His courtiers ranged themselves before him. Then at a single shrill trumpet blast they fell to the ground, prostrating themselves in the age-old obeisance of the korunush, arms spread wide and faces pressed against the earth. At the further sounding of a trumpet they rose again. Next, a bearded man whom Shah Jahan hadn't noticed before stepped forward. Dressed in a white robe and black turban he looked like a mullah. At a sign from Aurangzeb, he turned to face the courtiers and began a loud chant that Shah Jahan recognised at once as the prayer inaugurating the reign of a new Moghul emperor: 'By the grace of G.o.d, and in succession to the glorious reigns of the mighty Genghis Khan and Timur, of Babur the Great and Humayun, of Akbar and Jahangir, of Shah Jahan ...'

As Shah Jahan heard his own name, for a moment he clenched his eyes tight shut.

'... I now proclaim that Aurangzeb is the new Emperor of Hindustan. May his glorious reign bring light to his people so that they and their descendants will bless his name for centuries without end and his memory will be as a shaft of sunlight driving away the darkness of the world. Long life to the Ruler of the Age!'

As the mullah ceased his sonorous chanting, Aurangzeb raised his right hand. From behind the throne emerged a line of qorchis, each carrying a heaped tray. From the glint Shah Jahan guessed what they were carrying gold rupees, the traditional gift of a new emperor to his people. At a nod from Aurangzeb, the qorchis divided, half making their way to the right, the other half to the left, where the spectators were waiting. As they reached the cordon of soldiers they threw the contents of the trays into the air, showering the crowds with golden coins. There was a wild scrambling as people rushed for a share of the new emperor's largesse. Meanwhile, more qorchis brought silken robes of honour and small bags doubtless containing money and jewels which Aurangzeb began handing to his n.o.bles as each in turn approached the throne and knelt before him. Shah Jahan's eyes narrowed as the tall figure of Khalilullah Khan advanced and Aurangzeb presented him with a sword whose jewelled scabbard flashed in the dying rays of the sun. The reward of treachery.

By the time Aurangzeb had finished, the light was fading and attendants were thrusting burning torches into the ground at intervals along the riverbank. From the battlements of the fort came the crack and whizz of fireworks and bursts of gold and green stars patterned the sky above Aurangzeb. Unseen drums and trumpets were sounding and attendants carrying lanterns waited to escort the emperor and his courtiers back to the boats. So many lamps had been lit on the imperial barge that the dark waters of the Jumna shimmered gold around it.

What had this ritual really been about, Shah Jahan wondered. Why had Aurangzeb chosen the riverbank as the place to proclaim himself emperor instead of the Hall of Public Audience within the fort? There was only one answer ... Aurangzeb had chosen a spot directly opposite his father's apartments in the fort because he had wanted, just as Makhdumi Khan had hinted, to show his father who was emperor now. Taking one last look through the jali, Shah Jahan saw his son still seated on his throne erect and motionless and looking directly towards him, as if he knew his father was watching and that after all these years he had his full attention at last.

Chapter 23.

'He refuses to come to Agra to see me. Look what he writes ... that I have forfeited the rights of a father ...' Shah Jahan held out Aurangzeb's letter to Jahanara, whom Makhdumi Khan was now allowing to visit him each day.

Over the past six months of their incarceration she herself had written several times to her brother begging him to come to Shah Jahan. She had advanced every argument she could think of Shah Jahan's age and frailty, the duty owed by a son to his father, even the love Aurangzeb had once had for her. She had reminded him of how he had rushed to her bedside after she had nearly burned to death. His replies had been polite but cold, their implication that by choosing to give her loyalty to their father she had forfeited any rights to his affection or attention, but as she read Aurangzeb's brutal words to Shah Jahan she gasped.

You ask me to come to you. Why should I? What good would it do either of us?

You demand to know how I can treat you, my father, in this way. The answer is simple. You were never a father to me and so can have no claims on me.

You never loved me. You slighted and neglected me in favour of your other children the more so after the death of my mother. You scorned me when I advised you to follow more closely the teachings of our religion in your own life and that of the empire.

You upbraid me for my treatment of the heretic Dara and of the murderer Murad as if the fact that they are my brothers should make me excuse their crimes. They deserved their fates and I acted within the law in punishing them. Indeed I would have been culpable if I had not. What's more, your protests are the purest hypocrisy. You appear to forget you had my uncles Khusrau and Shahriyar killed for no better reason than that they stood between you and the fulfilment of your ambition, yet under the customs of our people their claims to the throne were no less than yours. You, not I, are the murderer the truly guilty man.

Father and daughter were silent for a minute or two. Then Shah Jahan said, 'There is some truth in what he writes. I was responsible for the deaths of my half-brothers, but they had to die for the safety of all of you my children and of the dynasty. They died so that my sons, full brothers, would never have to face the dangers I had to. I was never easy in my mind about their deaths. Now it seems it was all for nothing ... the old cycle of blood, of father against son, of brother against brother, has begun again. I blame myself. I was complacent when I should have been vigilant. I believed the rivalries that have cursed the Moghuls for generations could never happen in my family.'

'You couldn't have foreseen Aurangzeb's behaviour.'

'You did you tried to warn me about him!'

'No. I was worried that you and he were drawing apart but I never dreamed his discontent would lead him to rebel against you or to kill Dara ...' Jahanara's voice shook. Fighting to retain her composure, she turned back to the rest of Aurangzeb's letter.

But now I must raise practical matters. I have wished to be merciful and give you time to adjust to your new circ.u.mstances. I have tolerated your abusive and accusing letters as the outpourings of an old man whose mental and physical powers are fading and who cannot accept that the times have moved on and he is no longer emperor. I have also borne your continued refusal over these past months to give up your imperial jewels, but my patience is becoming exhausted. You will either send me what I ask including Timur's ring or I will have them taken from you. I hope you will act with dignity, but the choice is yours.

Hearing a movement, Jahanara looked up. Her father was on his knees before the leather-bound chest in which he kept his most precious possessions. Taking a key on a slender gold chain from round his neck, he opened the chest and then reaching inside began flinging out the contents enamelled chains, necklaces of rubies, emeralds and diamonds and heavy gold bracelets. Out they all came to lie gleaming on the carpet.

'Father, what are you doing?'

'He has stolen my throne but some things will never be his ... like Timur's ring, which will go with me to my grave or this!' So saying he took out what he must have been searching for a roll of dark green velvet. Clearing a s.p.a.ce, he laid it down on the carpet and unrolled it to reveal a long, triple-stranded necklace of creamy, perfectly matched l.u.s.trous pearls. 'My father gave me this when I won my first battle. It once belonged to my grandfather Akbar.'

Getting to his feet with some difficulty, with the pearls trailing from his right hand, Shah Jahan walked to the corner of the room and knelt down again, this time next to a large inlaid marble carpet weight. Spreading the pearls out in front of him, he picked up the weight with both hands and began pounding the pearls, crushing some to a powder while others, freed from the silk cord on which they'd been strung, went rolling across the floor.

'Father ... Father, please don't!' But Shah Jahan paid no attention to Jahanara. There was something frightening about his cold, concentrated expression as he continued to crush the pearls, sending up clouds of filmy white dust. When he had finished, he looked up at her, chest heaving with effort and tears in his eyes.

Roshanara stared into Jahanara's face. 'Timur's ring must be found.'

An hour earlier Jahanara had been surprised to hear a fanfare of trumpets, and hurrying outside had been in time to watch the painted elephant carrying her sister in a closed silver howdah that had once been her own make its slow way into the haram courtyard. Roshanara was magnificently dressed in stiff gold-embroidered maroon silk. Gems glittered on her fingers and round her neck while a filet of twisted gold set with rubies was wound through her hennaed hair, which beneath the dye would be as grey as Jahanara's own. Now she knew what had brought Roshanara back to the Agra fort after all these months.

'I've already told you that I don't know what Father has done with it. He's surrendered the rest of his jewels ... isn't that enough?'

'No. Timur's ring is our greatest family heirloom. Aurangzeb says that Father must be brought to his senses.'

'Is that why he has dismissed Makhdumi Khan and sent his head eunuch to be the new governor?'

'Yes. He thinks that Makhdumi Khan was over-indulgent towards our father, encouraging his arrogance and his obstinacy. Itibar Khan understands his duty better.'

'By refusing to allow our father to leave his apartments to walk in the gardens? By further reducing the number of his attendants? By restricting the length of my visits to him?'

'Yes. It is all on Aurangzeb's orders.'

'It is vindictiveness and spite towards an old man his own father.'

'Aurangzeb won't relent until he has the ring. You know how stubborn he can be.'

'Father is stubborn as well, and he has cause to be. Can't you and Aurangzeb understand how much the ring means to him? Aurangzeb has taken everything else the peac.o.c.k throne on which he now sits in the Red Fort in Delhi, the imperial treasuries, all the Moghul palaces and estates. Can't he show enough greatness of spirit to be content? He pretends to be an emperor but he behaves like a dacoit preying on the weak and vulnerable.'

'I have no voice in the matter. I came to the fort to see you because Aurangzeb asked me to. He believes you could make Father see reason if you wanted to. If you help him in this matter he will make your life more comfortable. Of course, if you refuse ...'

'Tell Aurangzeb I will try to persuade Father to give up the ring but not because of his promises or his threats. I will do it for Father's sake. Every time Aurangzeb demands the ring Father becomes so agitated that I fear for him. I want him to live the remainder of his years quietly and peacefully with no further hara.s.sment just as you should!'

Roshanara said nothing.

'All these months I've waited for some word from you,' Jahanara continued, her emotions rising. 'Even if you didn't wish to visit us, would it have hurt you to write a few words to me or to Father? You must have known how he would react to Dara's death. Did you know Aurangzeb was planning to send Dara's head to him? Imagine how he felt when he lifted it out of the bag and saw what it was ... Couldn't you have stopped Aurangzeb doing such a cruel thing, or didn't you care?'

'I didn't know what Aurangzeb meant to do,' Roshanara said slowly. 'Believe me, if I had I would have tried to dissuade him. But don't ask me to feel too sorry for Dara. Aurangzeb did what he had to for the sake of the empire.'

'Aurangzeb did what was good for him as he's always done just as you've always done what was best for you. Why have you really come in your silks and jewels? To make me jealous? Do you think I envy your position as First Lady of the Empire, doing the bidding of a brother with blood on his hands? I just wonder at the woman you've become no conscience, no charity, no compa.s.sion as hard as those diamonds on your fingers.'

'I have nothing to be ashamed of. If my presence is distasteful to you I will leave, though I have some news for you.'

'What news?'

'Our nephew Suleiman has been captured.'

Jahanara's thoughts flew instantly to Shah Jahan. He would be grief-stricken. 'How? What happened?'

'After Dara's arrest, Suleiman's army deserted him. He himself tried to flee north but he was betrayed and handed over to one of Aurangzeb's generals. He was brought to Delhi in chains and appeared before our brother in the Hall of Private Audience. I observed everything from the women's gallery.'

'What sentence did Aurangzeb p.r.o.nounce?' Jahanara's voice was a whisper.

'He was merciful. He has ordered Suleiman to be sent to the Gwalior fort.'

'To be fed pousta like Murad?'

Roshanara didn't answer. Then she said quietly. 'There is something else you should know. Murad is dead.'

'From the opium?'

'No. The brother of Ali Naqi, the official murdered by Murad, pet.i.tioned Aurangzeb claiming he and his family had the right to compensation in blood or in money for his death. Aurangzeb acknowledged the justice of his case. He offered him gold but the man refused, insisting on a life for a life.'

'And Aurangzeb agreed, of course,' said Jahanara. How convenient to be able to get rid of a rival all in the name of the law. Perhaps he had even encouraged Ali Naqi's brother to come forward ...

'Aurangzeb had no choice. He asked the man to forgive him for allowing brotherly sentiment to override duty and had Murad publicly beheaded. Afterwards, he rewarded the man for his determination to see his brother avenged and his refusal to be bought off. As Aurangzeb said, many would have been tempted by the gold.'

Jahanara's mind was numb. As if from far away she heard Roshanara say, 'But now I must leave. Send word to me about the ring.' Then with a rustle of silk her sister was gone.

So Murad was dead ... At least he had been spared the torments of pousta. But what about the captive Suleiman, perhaps even at this moment already on the long path to destruction by poppy ... Her thoughts cleared. Nothing could be done for Murad, but she could still help her nephew. Timur's ring must be traded for Aurangzeb's promise not to harm him. Knowing her father as she did, she was certain he wouldn't hesitate.

Chapter 24.

Agra Fort, January 1666.

'Aurangzeb has refused me. I thought he would. He writes that his campaigns in the south are costly and he can't afford expensive building projects. He dismisses the idea as an old man's fantasy and tells me not to raise the question again ...'

Jahanara sighed. Though in her heart she'd known it was unlikely, she'd still hoped that Aurangzeb might be swayed. It had long been her father's dream to construct a black marble counterpart of the Taj across the Jumna as his own tomb.

'You mustn't be sad, Father not on your birthday.' Jahanara had dressed carefully in her best silks and jewels and sent special instructions to the kitchens for the preparation of her father's favourite dishes, even though she knew he'd not eat much. His appet.i.te was growing smaller and smaller. Shah Jahan, though, would not be distracted.

'Aurangzeb's right, of course. I am old. No other Moghul emperor survived to this great age of mine. Akbar, the oldest, was over ten years younger than me when he died.'

'Seventy-four is not so old, Father ...' But even as she spoke Jahanara thought how weary he looked and how frail. As he neared his birthday Shah Jahan's strong const.i.tution had begun to weaken and the slow but irreversible decline into deep old age to set in. In the last few weeks he had scarcely ventured from his comfortable apartments overlooking the right-hand bend in the Jumna beneath the fort and beyond that the Taj Mahal.

How handsome and strong her father had once been as he rode out at the head of his army, but now his once muscular warrior's frame was wasting away. Time had been unkind to him, as it was to most men, but in his case perhaps not as cruel as his own flesh and blood. In the seven years of Shah Jahan's imprisonment Aurangzeb had not visited him once nor written a single spontaneous letter. Any important news had continued to come from Roshanara ... It was from her sister that she and her father had finally learned of Shah Shuja's disappearance on the eastern fringes of the empire. In his eagerness to escape Suleiman's approaching army the prince had ventured into the swamplands ruled by wild Arakan pirates and never been seen again. Of the four brothers who had once been so close, only one had survived ... Aurangzeb.

'I was born under the sign of Libra ...' Shah Jahan was continuing. Jahanara guessed what was coming next. She had heard him say it many times before. 'The conjunction of the planets at the moment of my birth was the same as at the birth of Timur. My grandfather named me Khurram, "joyous". He said I was "a riband in the cap of royalty and more resplendent than the sun."' Shah Jahan looked up at her from the divan where he was resting and such a smile lit his face that for a moment the years rolled back to reveal the man he had once been. She was glad that he could take such pleasure in the past. The present sometimes seemed so bleak, even though Aurangzeb had honoured his promise to make their confinement more comfortable. Their apartments were well furnished and they had enough servants. But what could compensate for their loss of liberty? Often she found her father looking across the Jumna towards the Taj Mahal. It was his dearest wish to be allowed to visit Mumtaz's tomb and walk in the gardens he himself had planted, but Aurangzeb had repeatedly refused to allow him to leave the fort.

'Father, tell me that story again the one about how my great-grandfather led you through the streets of Agra on the back of a baby elephant to the imperial mosque school to begin your education. I always enjoy hearing it ...'

It wasn't a lie. She enjoyed the stories of his boyhood only a little less than he did telling them. Now, as she listened to his soft, low voice, she saw before her a young boy exactly four years, four months and four days old as tradition demanded with Akbar by the side of his gorgeously caparisoned elephant, looking excitedly around him as the crowds cheered and flung rose petals ... She pictured the beturbaned scholars, Hindus as well as Muslims, grouped at the entrance to the school, waiting to take the child inside so he could begin his education as an imperial prince.

But when Shah Jahan was still only about halfway through his tale, Jahanara saw his eyes closing and his head beginning to nod forward. He slept so much these days. Rising quietly from her stool so as not to disturb him, she walked to the cas.e.m.e.nt. At first her legs felt a little stiff, but then she herself was getting older in April she would be fifty-two. Her hair, though still thick, was growing white as the snows of Kashmir she hadn't seen for so many years. Yet what did it matter how she looked? There were few to see her now ...

From the cas.e.m.e.nt she watched a young boy leading a camel down to the Jumna to drink and other children running along the riverbank and shouting. The sight gave her pleasure, yet their high spirits and simple joy in each other's company cost her a pang. How narrow and constrained her own existence seemed in comparison. Yet her youth had been full of life and of people her mother and six brothers and sisters, the endless bustle and activity of the court, their journeyings, the attendants who had become friends, like Satti al-Nisa, now at rest in her tomb in the grounds of the Taj Mahal ... and of course there was Nicholas Ballantyne.

Some months before her death Satti al-Nisa had smuggled a letter from him into the fort. It had come all the way from England a journey that, from the date, had taken over a year. It had said simply that he had reached home and was living quietly on his brother's estates but that he missed the heat and colour of Hindustan and of course his friends at court. When she had read the letter her eyes had filled with tears. She'd been relieved that Nicholas had at last returned to his cold, rain-washed island but she'd often wondered whether he could ever find contentment there. The sadnesses of disappointment and unfulfilled hope were part of life, whether that of an imperial princess or an adventurer like Nicholas, just as they were of the most humble peasant.

Jahanara woke with a start. The pale light of a late winter dawn was filtering into her apartment, throwing into relief the intricate sandstone carving around the cas.e.m.e.nt. Getting up, she walked across to the window and looked out through the mists that so often shrouded the Jumna at this time of year. Suddenly a shiver ran through her, not of cold, even though the morning was a chill one, but of apprehension. She must go to her father, whose frailty had seemed to increase daily since his birthday two weeks before. Without pausing to question her intuition she called for her attendants and quickly began to dress.

In less than a quarter of an hour, warmly clothed and with a soft Kashmiri shawl drawn across her face in place of a veil, Jahanara was hurrying to her father's apartments. Two of the haram eunuchs led the way and two of her own female attendants followed. Reaching the ivory-clad doors to her father's rooms the eunuchs knocked with the ebony staves of office they carried, and then as the doors were opened from inside stood back for Jahanara to enter. 'Has my father awoken yet?' she asked his chief servant, an elderly silver-haired Pathan.

'Yes, Highness,' he began, and relief flooded into Jahanara as he continued, 'He was awake about an hour ago when we looked in on him as we now regularly do. He told us he did not wish to rise but asked for a bed to be prepared beneath the domed pavilion just outside his room where he could rest longer.'

'Is he in the pavilion now?'

'Yes, Highness. It didn't take us long to ready the bed. He was dozing when I pa.s.sed by ten minutes ago.'

'I will go to him.' Still feeling an unaccountable unease, Jahanara crossed the richly carpeted room and went through the exterior doors out to the pavilion. Her father was lying on a divan propped against brocade cushions and bolsters and swathed in soft wool blankets and shawls against the early morning cool. A gentle breeze caught a lock of the silver hair protruding from beneath the chintz-patterned shawl framing his head. Jahanara bent and tucked the strand of hair back beneath the shawl. At first Shah Jahan, whose eyes were half closed, did not seem to notice either her touch or her presence. But slowly his eyes opened a little further and focused.

'Jahanara, is that you?'

'Yes, Father.' Jahanara took his hand. How soft his skin felt. How little flesh there was on his palms and his long fingers.

'Good. I am so glad.'

For a moment or two neither said anything more. Watching Shah Jahan's shallow, rapid breathing Jahanara realised her forebodings had not been misplaced. His condition had deteriorated even in the few hours since she had last seen him. Then her father put her fears into words. 'I feel my life ebbing from me.' Seeing tears well in Jahanara's eyes he went on, 'Do not weep. Every man has his time to die and sometimes I feel I have gone beyond my own. I have no pain, just a sense of the life force draining from me.' Then his voice strengthened. 'Before I go, lift me higher against the bolsters so I can see your mother's tomb.'

Struggling to contain her tears, Jahanara hoisted her father's frail body up the bolsters and tucked more cushions behind his back.

'Thank you. Now give me your hand again. I have things I must say.'

Taking his hand once more in her own, Jahanara realised the futility of trying to convince him that he was mistaken about his condition and so just nodded. 'Go on. I am listening.'

'It may not matter to him, but tell Aurangzeb that I forgive him ... Above all beg him to do all he can to avoid conflict with and between his sons. Such animosities have plagued our dynasty since we first entered Hindustan. I wanted to end them ... but to my lasting regret I failed.'