The Feast of Roses by Indu Sundaresan Page B

hurry, shouting orders at his servants. He went to Mehrunnisa’s apartments and she was there, waiting for him, serious. She had done nothing to apologize for. As Emperor, he could not apologize either. There was no fault in either of them.
    He carried with him an embroidered bag of velvet as a gift. Earlier in the afternoon, he had sent for this most precious piece of metal in the empire. Jahangir put the bag in her hand and enclosed her fingers over it.
    “What is it?” she asked.
    He said nothing at first, a curious light of excitement in his eyes. Then, “What you have wanted, Mehrunnisa.”
    “I have you.”
    Again he was quiet, watching her. “Without it you do not have me completely.”
    Could it be . . . no, but this was so soon, so sudden . . . Mehrunnisa glanced down at the bag in her hand. Whatever was inside was heavy, tiny but heavy. Through the cloth she felt its smooth and round edge. She laid the bag against her chest, and the coolness of the metal seeped through the weave.
    “Thank you,” she said, numb of all other feeling, without any other words to speak of her enormous gratitude. With this piece of metal, she owned the empire. Possessed power over every corner of its lands, all of its people, why, even the earth on which it rested and the sky above it.
    Jahangir stayed the night in Mehrunnisa’s apartments. They slept wrapped around each other, frightened by what had happened this last week. A fight . . . a non-fight . . . a misunderstanding. How easy it was for this to happen, how easy to inflate a small incident out of all proportion, to bring a wedge between them.
    Every night a sword was brought to the Emperor’s sleeping chamber, a different one each night, the scabbard encrusted with rubies and pearls, or pearls and emeralds. Jahangir slept with it by his side—this was a ritual his father had begun, that a Timurid Emperor never closed his eyes without protection, no matter how heavily guarded he was on the outside. And so this night, the sword found its way to Mehrunnisa’s chambers and lay within Jahangir’s reach by the bed.
    When the eunuchs returned from this errand, they talked in the zenana. Lamps that routinely waited to be extinguished only after news of Jahangir’s whereabouts were now put out, and the women went to bed knowing that somehow, with some sorcery, the newest Empress had once again managed to beguile the Emperor.
    And so Mehrunnisa’s star rose again.
    •  •  •
    Abul Hasan leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching his sister’s profile outlined against the window. The sun lit up circles around her, escaping through the pattern of the filigree work of the wooden shutters. She was reading an embellished scroll held up to the light. Abul waited for her to speak, as patiently as he could.
    “What is it?” he asked finally, with a note of fretfulness in his voice.
    Mehrunnisa looked up, her face aglow. “A royal farman. ”
    “What has the Emperor given you this time?” He bent to pull it from her hands and frowned. “An order for a mansab to one of the courtiers. Why do you have it? What does it have to do with you?”
    “Everything, my dear Abul.” Mehrunnisa patted the divan. “Sit down.”
    He sat and then saw the little green Malacca velvet sack, embroidered with pearls. Even as she read, Mehrunnisa had her hand on the bag, her fingers rippling over the pearls. “What is that?”
    Mehrunnisa smiled. “So many questions, Abul. You ask too many questions. Tell me, what does it feel like to be allowed to enter the hallowed walls of the imperial zenana ?”
    A week earlier, she had sent instructions to the guards to allow Abul in. Every mole on his face, every hair on his head, every bend of his limbs was described in detail. As Abul stood outside the gates, the Kashmiri guards and the Ahadis examined him minutely, and then sent a message to Hoshiyar Khan inside the zenana. Hoshiyar came and conducted his own