The Feast of Roses Read Online Free PDF

the zenana had enjoyed such favor from Jahangir. . . . And so came the little pestering doubts Mehrunnisa tried to keep at bay, as they always did when she talked with Ruqayya.
    The Dowager Empress was again lying back on the divan, watching Mehrunnisa with cunning eyes. “Go now,” she said. “Go back to your apartments and to bed. You need to sleep.”
    As Mehrunnisa kissed Ruqayya’s hand and rose to leave, she said, “It was good to be with you again, Mehrunnisa.”
    Mehrunnisa bowed to the Dowager Empress. At the door she turned. “I now have a new title, your Majesty, I am no longer Mehrunnisa.”
    “Be careful, Mehrunnisa. Be careful of how you talk to me. Remember what I have done for you.”
    Jahangir’s newest Empress shook her head. Two months ago, Ruqayya’s words would have cowed her, but things were no longer as they once were. “I will never forget the debt I owe you. But I am now Nur Jahan. Perhaps I will allow you to call me by my old name. But I am no longer Mehrunnisa. You must not forget that.”

CHAPTER TWO
    But there was one fatal flaw in her. She was a woman. . . . And in the prejudice of the age, women had no public role, and ambition was the prerogative of men.
    — ABRAHAM ERALY,
The Last Spring:
    The Lives and Times of the Great Mughals
    E ven as Mehrunnisa and Ruqayya sat talking through the night, a man neared the inside doorway of the Hathi Pol, the Elephant Gate on the western side of the Agra Fort. He stood for a moment watching the two guards leaning in sleep against spears dug into the hard ground—stringless puppets silhouetted against the looming sandstone walls. The man coughed and the guards sprang awake. One stumbled back to level his spear at the man’s chest, the honed tip a few inches from the zari -embroidered front of his coat. “Identify yourself.”
    The man raised both his hands. His well-oiled hair, long to his nape, caught a midnight glint in the light of the lamps. “Mahabat Khan,” he said simply, letting his voice and his name do the rest.
    The guard let his spear fall, then bowed deeply. “Mirza Mahabat Khan, I beg your pardon, I did not recognize you,” he said, tripping over his words in distress. “But how . . . I would have thought you had left the fort by now . . .”
    Mahabat shook his head gently, with the indulgence of a man not accustomed to interrogation. “Such solicitousness on behalf of the Emperor is commendable. But you must know whom you question. Open the door for me.”
    “Of course, of course, Mirza Khan. I beg your pardon. I only meant . . .” He rushed to the side door near the huge gates and pushed it open. The rest of the guard’s explanation was lost as Mahabat Khan let himself out of the fort. He walked away with carefully measured steps, the soles of his leather boots crunching on the dirt path.
    Mahabat’s hand rested lightly on the dagger tucked into his cummerbund. His eyes wove through the shadows in the streets, skimming over the snoring drunks in the corners, waiting for a twitch that signaled danger. The stench of arrack and old wine ambushed him. As Mahabat passed, the pariah dogs sniffed and growled, nostrils quivering. But no one, man or beast, came to threaten him. No voice raised itself in intimidation, no hand commanded the thick string of pearls around his neck or the marble-sized ruby in his turban. It was as though they all knew that Mahabat Khan was Emperor Jahangir’s favorite minister, his trusted confidant. Mahabat walked through the streets, his steps leading him to Muhammad Sharif’s house.
    The mansion lay well back from the main street in Agra, along the Yamuna, in the shade of ancient mango trees. Its roof was flat, the front surrounded by a deep verandah of peach-colored limewashed pillars. Mahabat climbed the front steps and knocked on the heavy wooden door, plated with embellished silver leaf. A servant boy, who usually slept on the floor with his back against the door, opened the