“Good morning, ladies,” Yasaman said coolly, and not even waiting for an answer, continued, “Samira—that is your name, isn’t it? Present these others to me immediately.”
Caught totally by surprise, Samira complied with the authoritative tone of Yasaman’s voice before she even realized what she was doing. By then, of course, it was too late. She had already lost face before her companions. “Layla, Nilak, Lalita, and Thyra,” she finished curtly, wanting to claw the little smile from Yasaman’s face.
“Lalita, you are of India, are you not? You will always stand when I speak with any of you. It is only mannerly,” Yasaman chided them firmly.
The woman called Lalita arose quickly and politely bowed to the princess. “Yes,” she said. “I come from the south, Golconda.”
“ ‘Yes, my lady,’ ” Yasaman gently instructed her. “You must each remember that I am the mistress of this house now. I must be treated with dignity.”
“Yes, my lady,” Lalita replied. She was a tiny, dark-skinned woman with a sweet expression on her round face.
“Layla. Nilak. You are Persian, I believe,” Yasaman said. “Layla means Dark as Night in the Persian tongue. Nilak, a bluish lilac flower. Your names are as lovely as you both are.”
The two young women, pale-skinned with blue-black hair and black eyes, arose and bowed. “Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady,” they chorused brightly. Samira scowled.
Yasaman’s head turned to look at the young woman with the
golden hair. She had never before seen such hair. “Thyra? What sort of a name is that?” she asked.
Thyra stood now and bowed almost arrogantly. “I am Greek,” she said, and her cool eyes looked directly at Yasaman, but the princess did not flinch. Finally, with a small smile and a shrug of defeat, Thyra lowered her gaze.
“Do you not wish to know where I come from?” demanded Samira, irritated to be so ignored.
“Wherever you come from,” Yasaman told her, “they did not teach you any manners!”
“I come from Samarkand,” Samira said proudly. “My father was a great general!”
“Your father was a common soldier who bred you on a street whore,” Thyra said mockingly. She had had all she wanted of Samira. “Why else would you be a slave in a zenana?”
Samira grabbed up a small fruit knife and snarled, “I will cut your heart out for that insult, foreign bitch!”
With lightning speed Toramalli slapped the knife from Samira’s hand, much to the woman’s surprise. “Do not ever arm yourself in my mistress’s presence again,” she said fiercely, “else I will have the pleasure of killing you.”
Samira’s rage turned from Thyra to Yasaman’s servant. “
Who
,” she demanded angrily, “
are you?
”
“I am Toramalli. I guard the princess now, as I have ever since her birth. You are not fit to breathe the same air she does, woman of the streets. You had best beware me.”
“Enough!” Yasaman said quietly. “Samira, please go through the palace and seek out the servants. Tell them that I would see them immediately on the main lakeside terrace.
“I am not your messenger,” Samira said rudely. “Find the servants yourself,
my lady!
” She stood boldly before Yasaman, feet apart, chin thrust forward. “I am the prince’s favorite. You cannot make me do anything I do not want to do.”
“I do not repeat a command twice,” Yasaman said softly. “Go now as I bid you, or you will find yourself for sale in the marketplace before the noon hour, Samira. Believe me when I tell you it is within my power to do so.” Then Yasaman turned on her heel and left the zenana, followed by her two faithful women.
When she had gone, Thyra laughed. “You had best do as she says, Samira. She is young, our master’s bride, but she will, I can see, have her way. Or if you wish, do us the favor
of being more disobedient. None of us would be sorry to see you go.”
“Go yourself,” Samira replied. “I am not that little girl’s slave. I belong to Prince Jamal. Her threat is meaningless, Thyra. Do you think he would let his wife sell any of his women? She is daring with a boldness that comes of having had a man’s lingham up her yoni for the first time.
“She thinks he loves her and will let her do whatever she wants to do. She will quickly learn differently. I will speak with our master when he comes to us tonight, and he will come. A woman can lose her virginity only once. After that she becomes like other women, distinguishable only by her degree of erotic skills. I doubt a carefully nurtured little royal blossom has such skills as we possess.”
“Do not be a fool, Samira! This girl is not just a wife. She is the Mughal’s daughter,” Thyra said. “She was married to Prince Jamal for a reason. Already there are rumors that the Mughal means to give our master Kashmir to rule in his name. That will only happen, however, if the Mughal’s daughter is a happy bride. Now go and do her bidding, lest her wrath fall on all of us!”
“You are the fool, Thyra!” Samira snapped. “This princess is an inexperienced girl! He will use her vigorously until she is with child. Then he will have done his duty and not bother with her again. Do you think he will find her fascinating when she is fat and swelling like an overripe melon? A Mughal’s daughter is for breeding sons and nothing more. We are the important women in his life, not that whey-faced bitch!”
“I will go and fetch the servants,” Lalita said to Thyra. “As long as they appear, the princess will not know which one of us did her bidding. She will be satisfied, and we will avoid a confrontation.” She hurried out.
Samira smiled smugly. Then, taking up an ivory comb, she began to dress her long hair.
“Samira is right, of course,” Layla assured Nilak and Thyra. “She is very knowledgeable regarding men.”
“Perhaps, and perhaps not,” Thyra replied. “She cannot predict with certainty if the prince will lose his heart to his new wife or not. Zenana women are for young, unmarried men,
and
old married men. There is a period between the two when we are simply not needed. Now that our master has taken a wife, he may take three more. What use are we to him then?
“We might escape this princess’s wrath if we are pleasant
company and do not anger her. I know that is too much to ask of you, Samira, isn’t it? Our days here, ladies, are numbered, I fear. Prepare yourself. This woman of Samarkand will seal our doom sooner rather than later. Then we will find ourselves on the block once more.”
Layla and Nilak looked unhappily at each other, but Samira just laughed at Thyra’s words and continued to dress her hair, dipping her comb into heavily scented musk oil. Thyra shook her head. She wouldn’t be sorry to find herself away from Samira, who, she thought, would sow discord even in paradise.
The servants were surprised to find themselves summoned by a woman from the zenana. The zenana women were rarely seen but by those few female slaves who brought them their daily food and occasionally cleaned their chambers. The servants’ life was a good one because the prince, their master, required little of them. They had more than enough to eat, and comfortable sleeping quarters as well. Most spent their days at leisure, fishing or sunning themselves, or working in the little gardens they cultivated for themselves. They sold this produce of Jamal Khan’s land for extra rupees, with which they purchased little luxuries and forbidden wine.
Yasaman awaited them on the lakeside terrace, her foot tapping impatiently. She was flanked by Adali, Rohana, and Toramalli. The servants fell to their knees, their heads touching the terrace floor; then they sat back upon their heels, looking up expectantly at their new mistress.
“Who is high steward here?” were the first words she spoke to them.
“The steward died a year ago, gracious princess,” came the reply.
“Who are you?” Yasaman demanded.
“I am Hassan, the head cook, gracious princess.”
Yasaman saw the gauze mask hanging about Hassan’s neck. Of course he was the cook. She should have noted it sooner, and would have were she not so angry. “Since there is no high steward here, the high steward from my own palace will take immediate charge. This is Adali, and he speaks with my voice. You will obey him in all things, unquestioningly and with dispatch. There is much work to do here. You have badly neglected your duties; but I will not blame you entirely, for there was no one to oversee you. This is my lord’s home, and all will be harmonious for him from this day forth.” She smiled
briefly at them, then, turning, departed, Rohana and Toramalli walking in her wake.
Adali looked out over the nervous faces. “I was with the princess’s mother;” he began, “and I have looked after Yasaman Kama Begum’s household since her birth.
I cannot be bribed
. The past is past. Today you each begin anew. That is how my mistress wishes it to be, though frankly, I think her too lenient in this case. Beware of my wrath. I do not possess her kindness. Now, we have much work ahead of us. The princess’s apartments must be ready by sunset for her habitation. Hassan the cook!”
“My lord steward?” the cook spoke up quickly.
“For supper the princess wishes a fresh lake fish, broiled. A roasted chicken, and perhaps a small curry. She will speak with you later as to the prince’s likes and dislikes. She, however, prefers simple meals and enjoys a variety of fruits and vegetables.”
“Yes, my lord steward!”
“You and your kitchen help are dismissed. I will question the rest of you, each in his turn,” Adali said, and proceeded to do just that. As each department of the household staff was identified, the eunuch set them about their tasks until he was finally alone on the terrace. With a satisfied smile, he hurried off to his mistress’s apartments.
“All the cleaning in the world will not make these rooms a pleasant place to be,” Yasaman wailed as the servants worked about her.
“Let me send for your own things from your own palace,” Adali suggested. “The furnishings here are outdated and old-fashioned. It will not take long to have them brought across the lake.”
“The walls are impossible,” Yasaman said. “The designs are caked with filth, and there are stones pried from them that will take months to repair.”
“We will hang carpets and tapestries, my lady,” Adali soothed her, “and once your own furniture is in place, it will seem quite friendly. Where are your trunks?”
“Upon the terrace where our people left them two days ago,” Rohana told him, frowning. “There is also no private bath for our mistress, Adali!”
“Where are the women’s baths, then?” he asked her.
“In the zenana,” Rohana said. “What are we to do, Adali?
Our mistress cannot share a bath with those
creatures
of the prince’s.”
He nodded in agreement. The whole situation was absolutely untenable. This is what came of having to arrange a hasty union for Yasaman Kama Begum. This palace was absolutely not ready to receive her, let alone any decent woman. She could not remain, Adali decided. “My lady,” he said to his young mistress. “I would suggest that you return to your own palace until we can set this one in order. Let me speak to the prince. I know he will agree with me. It will take time to make these rooms fit for your habitation.”
Yasaman looked about her. To return home to Rugaiya Begum would be such an anticlimax, but she was a realist. There simply wasn’t any choice. The furniture in her apartments was worn or rotting. Their efforts to clean the place were resulting in clouds of dust. She sneezed several times, and then she burst out laughing.
“I will sleep in my own house,” she told them, “but I must remain during the day to oversee the renovations. The salon of the zenana is quite large, Adali, and there is a fountain in the room. Let us call the builders and take a portion of that room to make a private bath for me. The plumbers can run piping beneath the floor into the new bath for a water supply.” She sneezed twice more. “Go to my lord, Adali, and tell him of what we would do. He will not gainsay us.”
And, indeed, Jamal Khan did not. He returned to Yasaman’s apartments in Adali’s company and, looking about, grimaced. “You are correct, Princess, in your assessment of these rooms,” he agreed. “It will take time to make them habitable. Do whatever you must. I will not deny you.”
“Will you join me at night, my lord, at my own palace?” she asked. “There is more than enough room for you.”
“I think it best, Princess, that I remain here to be certain our servants do not slip back into their slothful ways,” he told her.
“Nonsense, my lord,” Adali told the prince. “Go with your bride! I will oversee all. You will forgive my saying it, but you are not used to such things as the running of a household, my lord. I am.”
“You are correct, Adali,” Jamal Khan answered the eunuch gratefully. This Adali was a clever fellow who was obviously going to make life quite pleasant. “Time alone with my bride will give me time to get to know her better,” the prince said. He smiled warmly at Yasaman, and she smiled shyly back.
“Go now,” Adali encouraged them. “It is a fine late summer’s day. The lake is perfect for a relaxing cruise. Rohana and Toramalli will return to you later.”
“I will teach you to fish,” Jamal Khan told his bride.
“Will I have to bait my own hook?” she asked him nervously, and he chuckled indulgently, thinking her charming even as he took her hand to lead her from the palace.
Behind them, Adali looked askance, while Rohana and Toramalli found themselves unable to restrain their giggles. Yasaman Kama Begum was a most experienced fisherwoman and had been since the age of five. She could also ride a horse astride like a warrior, and had been hunting for tiger and gazelle with her father many times. Like Akbar, she loved the chase and was fearless to the point of being reckless, much to the worry of Rugaiya Begum. Still, she was an expert at handling her own weapons, both bow and gun. Akbar and Salim were united in their admiration of her abilities, which had eased Rugaiya Begum’s fears somewhat.
Adali chuckled. “I can see who will truly be in charge of this marriage,” he said to his two companions.
“It is as it should be,” Toramalli answered him pertly. “Men should confine themselves to making love and seeing their families can pay the merchant’s bills.”