Free Tiger Claws by John Speed Page B

the princess; what are they to do? Before they have time to act, she bursts forward and throws open the bedchamber door. Basant catches a glimpse of the emperor, naked with the two nautch girls. Before he can blink, Roshanara slams the door behind her.

CHAPTER 3
     
     
    Carried on the shoulders of sweating men, Basant floats above the fragrant streets of Agra. His palanquin bearers must brave the open sewers. They squeeze through the market crowds, and tiptoe past the garbage.
    Through curtains of silk gauze Basant watches as hawkers cry out for customers, housemaids bargain at the top of their lungs, beggar children whine for coins, dogs bark. The road is jammed: the palanquin is outpaced even by the skinny cows that amble through the twisting streets.
    Basant adores Agra.
    Unlike the palace, no one planned Agra; no one owns it, or controls it. The city streets dance to a wild, secret music unheard inside the palace walls. Just as the smack by a heavy wave renews an ocean swimmer, so the tumult of Agra restores Basant. Agra, bursting with life, gives Basant hope.
    The brothers say that hope clouds the will and muddles the judgment. Hope is a cruel joke.
    But right now, inspired by the unfettered bustle of the city, Basant dares to do his sums: Fourteen hours have passed since the guards were murdered in his rooms, yet no one has arrested him. That fool Ali Khalil found his bloody carpet in the moat and let him go. Somehow, by the grace of the Lord All-Merciful, he has managed to squeak through.
    Here in the streets of Agra, carried on the shoulders of sweating men, Basant floats on a cloud of hope. He ignores the dangers on every side: the eunuch guards, the strange actions of the princess, Hing and all his riddles, the murder of his servant. He would rather die in hope than live in fear.

    Across the Jumna, a few miles from the palace, lies a perfect garden, built by Babur, the first Mogul emperor. Babur never loved the land he conquered. Compared to Samarkand, his home, Agra seemed wild and misbegotten. So he built a garden like paradise, with fountains and orchards, with peacocks and deer.
    His garden, the Rambagh—so simple, so pure—fell into disfavor as his grandchildren built ever grander gardens of their own. But Aurangzeb has loved that old garden since he was child—its simplicity and calm. It is there that Aurangzeb has set up his tents, using its sandstone pavilion for his temporary headquarters. It is there Basant will meet him.
    The palanquin approaches the Rambagh. The road grows wider, and the way more sunny. Set in the clearing are a dozen large tents. War tents, not the majestic harem tents with gilded tent poles that Basant is used to: these are no-nonsense affairs, quick to set up and quick to strike; soldiers’ tents, arranged in a circle, surrounded by bedrolls and makeshift cots. Near one tent a green banner flies; the flag of the viceroy of the Deccan.
    After they set him down, Basant pads along the sandstone walkway that leads through the gardens. The sun is bright, but in this expanse of green, its light feels gentle. Water chatters beside the walkway in sandstone channels cut through the lawn. Tall trees shade the walk; fountains send sprites of water dancing. The air is damp and fresh.
    Soon Basant reaches the marble platform that marks the center of the garden. As Babur would have wanted, Basant takes a moment here to enjoy the layout of the garden; a large enclosed lawn cut by four causeways, like the four rivers of paradise meeting at the throne of God. Then he follows the walkway to Aurangzeb’s pavilion.
    It’s an informal building surrounded by columns of red sandstone. Basant notices the peacocks and elephants carved into the tops of each of the columns, for it was built by a man who considered charm more important than majesty. Silk drapes of gold and green hang from chains run through large iron rings embedded in the walls.
    A slender young man in elegant clothing the color of old