Tiger Claws (25 page)
Authors: John Speed
Shivaji lowers his head. “I do not think that is my path.”
“Then make it your path. I know your heart. You have the strength to make it so. Like Kunti and Pandu, be happy in the forest. Be happy, husband, as I will be happy for you.” The faint light highlights tears in the corners of Sai Bai’s eyes.
Shivaji says nothing for a long time. “What about Madri? She was Pandu’s other wife. She went to the forest, too. They were happy together, the three of them, were they not?”
Sai Bai scarcely dares to breathe. “Yes, lord,” she says. “Yes, Madri was happy, too.”
“But it cannot be so with us, Sai Bai,” Shivaji says.
Sai Bai closes her eyes, feeling as though the knife has fallen through
her heart. “No,” she says weakly. They are so close, she can hear his heart beating while her own heart breaks.
her heart. “No,” she says weakly. They are so close, she can hear his heart beating while her own heart breaks.
“I have but one wife, dearest. Why would I seek another? I have but one home. If you think you know my heart, then you must know this.”
“But I thought … and she’s so … perfect …” Sai Bai’s throat is tight and she has trouble speaking.
“But she is not my wife, no matter what a priest may say. You were chosen for me, and for that I thank the gods.”
Sai Bai throws herself against him, her tears now flowing onto his shirt.
“Marry her, husband. I wouldn’t mind. Trelochan says a kshatriya must have many wives.”
“I have you. What man could ask for more?”
“But those women … all those Muslim wives …” Sai Bai says the words before she can stop herself.
Shivaji looks into her eyes. “They are not women.”
“Not women! What are you saying? I don’t understand.”
“Don’t try to understand. Just love me.”
So she clings to him. When they leave the temple, on the open road where anyone may see, she pulls away. But still she feels his weight against her. A wind gusts suddenly in the midst of the dark, humid air. The trees rustle, branches sway in the wind. Then a fat raindrop plops onto her forehead, and one on her arm, and soon the dusty ground begins to jump as big globs of rain splash on the dry earth.
The monsoon has come.
As a fish leaps from the water, eager to catch the baited hook, Ali Khalil saw his chance and leaped.
The life of a lesser nephew of the emperor, simple and obscure, filled with petty handouts and dubious favors—such a life might satisfy some men, but not Ali Khalil. He cadged an invitation to live at the palace; once there he had won his uncle’s trust. But his uncle, Shah Jahan, emperor of Hindustan, would not be emperor long, he soon realized. Ali Khalil was no fool.
So he turned his thoughts to winning the confidence of the next emperor. Of course he assumed that the successor would be his cousin, Dara. Everyone assumed this. But after spending time in Dara’s company, Ali Khalil saw that the empire would not long tolerate such a self-important fool. And the other princes—Murad, Shuja—he had seen and dismissed: they were ciphers; ineffectual, even laughable, unsuitable as emperor.
But then Aurangzeb arrived at court—quiet, introspective, adamant, modest Aurangzeb. Ali Khalil saw that the sun would soon rise on Aurangzeb even as it set on Shah Jahan. Aurangzeb too was no fool. So Ali Khalil had made himself available; he charmed, he flirted.
At last his moment had come, when he received that secret note from the old
khaswajara,
Hing. Ali Khalil leaped.
khaswajara,
Hing. Ali Khalil leaped.
Following Hing’s instructions, he had found the old path that led to the moat. But when he got there, there had been no boat.
No boat.
He had stood there like a fool, pressed against the red sandstone walls, staring at the slow-moving river. With each step back to his rooms he faced a flood of doubt and dread.
They had duped him. They had forced him to show his hand. His anger at his folly was matched only by his terror; the penalty for betrayal was death: swift, certain, secret, painful death. Curled up on his bed, he awaited the crack of the door bursting its hinges, the rush of guards, the pitiful end to his pitiful life.
But a day had passed, then another. When he tiptoes from his room, he is ignored. No one greets him. No one, it seems, even looks at him. A week passes. He must sneak into the servant cantonment to buy food, or he would starve.
They know. They all know, he realizes. He locks his door, and pulls the drapes, and determines to fast until he dies. But Ali Khalil, nephew to the emperor, will not be defeated easily. Ali Khalil makes a plan.
For he realizes that betrayal is two-edged sword. What is
his
betrayal? Nothing! Especially compared with the betrayal of the
khaswajara,
that pathetic eunuch Hing. Ali Khalil has done no more than to receive a note! What about the traitor who
wrote
that note? What about Hing?
his
betrayal? Nothing! Especially compared with the betrayal of the
khaswajara,
that pathetic eunuch Hing. Ali Khalil has done no more than to receive a note! What about the traitor who
wrote
that note? What about Hing?
He will bring the old
khaswajara
to justice, he decides, that shriveled eunuch who betrayed him. The wheel of justice will turn full circle!
khaswajara
to justice, he decides, that shriveled eunuch who betrayed him. The wheel of justice will turn full circle!
Seeing now that it is Hing, not he, who has the most to lose, Ali Khalil begins to wonder—on whose behalf did Hing deceive him: on Shah Jahan’s? Or Dara’s?
If only he were wiser; if only he had been raised at court instead of in his mother’s country house, maybe he would not be in such danger—danger exacerbated by his ill-formed plan.
Ali Khalil writes a hasty note to the captain of the palace guard, signs it, and seals it with wax. He opens his door, fearful of being seen delivering it. But then, the Prophet be praised, luck shines on him: A boy comes his way, a carefree African boy, dark as shadows, his teeth gleaming white against his black lips. In a moment Khalil has sent the boy scurrying.
While he waits, he himself sponges his elegant gray cloak—for he is poorer than he would like to appear, and it is the only one he owns. He hears a timid knocking at his door. The boy has brought an answering note. The captain suggests a time when they can meet in secret; when the inner palace will be deserted.
It never occurs to Khalil to wonder why the note is unsealed.
As the note instructed, he waits in a colonnade near the Diwan-i-Am. Behind him he hears a heavy groan. Beneath the shadowed archway of the colonnade, the palace wall begins to bulge, and a secret door appears, formed from the wall of heavy sandstone blocks.
From the shadows of that dark doorway, a hand signals him. Khalil glances around, assures himself that no one is looking, and then heads into the shadows of that open door, a man chasing blindly to his death.
The door groans shut, closing with a deep
thoom
that seems to echo for miles, and the world is plunged into shadows. Stepping from the white brilliance of the morning into the inky dark, Ali Khalil can sense but not see the cramped and narrow passageway.
thoom
that seems to echo for miles, and the world is plunged into shadows. Stepping from the white brilliance of the morning into the inky dark, Ali Khalil can sense but not see the cramped and narrow passageway.
He smells dust and damp stone. Then the small flame of a butter lamp floats in front of him. Slowly his eyes adjust: he sees then the long fingers and narrow hand that holds the lamp; the arm and slender waist and finally the body and face of the man who holds it.
The eunuch who holds it.
One of the eunuch’s dark eyes drifts outward: it’s hard to tell which eye is really looking at him. “Who are you?” Khalil asks.
“Didn’t you want to see the captain of the guard?” The voice is throaty, but commanding. “In secret?”
“Yes … but who are you?”
“I serve the one who answered your note. Is that not enough for you to know?”
“Perhaps,” Khalil says.
“What do you wish with the captain of the guard?”
“That I will say to him alone.”
The eunuch seems about to answer but shakes his head. “You might have saved yourself some trouble if you had spoken first to me, Ali Khalil. But never mind; that is not your fate.” With that he starts off, casting Khalil into shadows as the lamp proceeds into the darkness.
At this point, Khalil is in turmoil. A eunuch! Since when was the captain of the guard attended by a eunuch? “Wait,” he cries. His voice swirls into a mush of echoes. Ali Khalil hurries toward the flame like an unsuspecting moth.
He catches glimpses of the dark stones that line the narrow hall—great stones, roughly cut, jammed in place with lots of mortar and no finesse. The floor is uneven, and he often stumbles as he struggles to keep up with
the slender eunuch and his quick, swaying step. Khalil slides his left hand along the stone wall as he walks in the near darkness. Unconsciously he begins to lean against that hand, steadying himself when he starts to trip on the uneven floor. But suddenly the wall disappears from beneath his hand. He cries out and stumbles.
the slender eunuch and his quick, swaying step. Khalil slides his left hand along the stone wall as he walks in the near darkness. Unconsciously he begins to lean against that hand, steadying himself when he starts to trip on the uneven floor. But suddenly the wall disappears from beneath his hand. He cries out and stumbles.
“Are you all right?” the eunuch asks.
In this light, his eyes look like an animal’s, Khalil thinks. “I’m fine,” he answers. “Where’s the captain?”
“Try to keep up. It won’t be long. Do be careful, Ali Khalil. From here on we start to go down.”
Why didn’t he answer me properly? thinks Ali Khalil.
“Stop!” Ali Khalil calls out after what seems like hours of walking. “I will go no further! Let the captain of the guard come here!” He is nearly screaming, he realizes, and his voice echoes and echoes and echoes.
The eunuch comes near, putting out a hand. Ali Khalil flinches. “Calm yourself. You must be calm. If you don’t keep your head these old paths can be treacherous.”
“Treacherous, indeed,” says a voice behind him. Khalil swings around. The flickering light reflects on thick spectacles, the rheumy eyes behind them wet and cloudy, like the eyes of a fish that is starting to rot.
“You surprise me, Ali Khalil,” Hing says to him. “And I’ve grown so tired of surprises. Maybe you should try Alu instead. He likes surprises. He likes so many things.”
The old eunuch looks to the other. “Well, Alu? Would you like Khalil to surprise you? I understand that he’s your type.” Hing starts a chuckle that dissolves into wet coughing. “Alu likes the company of rugged men. You’re rugged, aren’t you Khalil? Alu, do you find him attractive?”
Maybe Alu responds—Khalil pays no attention. His stomach is churning now, his mind reeling. He’s walked into a trap! How long did Hing hide there? “What do you want,
khaswajara
?” Khalil says. His voice sounds surprisingly confident. Already the first threads of a plan are weaving in his mind.
khaswajara
?” Khalil says. His voice sounds surprisingly confident. Already the first threads of a plan are weaving in his mind.
“I want so little, Khalil.” Khalil sees the spectacles bobbing as Hing walks. “I’d like to eat food again, something with more substance than rice. I’d like a friend. Not the sycophants I’m plagued with; toadies like you. I’d like to have Nur Jahan for empress again. Now there was a real queen.” Hing pauses. “Am I boring you?”
“No,” Khalil lies.
“And I’d like … let’s see … I’d like to have my balls back, please. And my dick. Is that too much to ask? They’ve had them for so long; you’d think they’d be done with them by now.” Now Hing moves closer, and Khalil can see that he steadies himself by placing his hand on the shoulder of a beautiful African boy, a boy as dark as shadows.
Khalil curses Fate. He is right to do so, for it was Fate that brought Hing’s little eunuch to his door, Fate that put Kahlil’s note into his black hands, Fate that he carried the note straight to Hing, his teeth gleaming white against his black lips all the while.
Hing sighs. “But you didn’t truly mean to ask what I want, did you? You wanted to know what’s going to happen to
you
.” Khalil draws back from the yellow, decaying smell that seems to ooze from his body. “You’re going to die, my boy. You’re dead already, in fact. You’ve been dead for hours. You’re just too stupid to lie down.”
you
.” Khalil draws back from the yellow, decaying smell that seems to ooze from his body. “You’re going to die, my boy. You’re dead already, in fact. You’ve been dead for hours. You’re just too stupid to lie down.”
Khalil sees a shadow of movement in the flame of the butter lamp, and sees that the slender eunuch now has a long knife in his hand. Instinctively, he reaches for his belt. But of course, he brought no weapons. He was meeting the captain of the palace guard, after all.
“You see how it is Khalil? Alu likes surprises. Don’t you, Alu?”
Alu’s thumb twitches on the edge of his knife’s narrow blade.
“You should have come with us, Khalil. You have no idea what a world of trouble your absence caused.”
“I tried, but there was no boat!”
“Pity you weren’t there on time. It seems someone else took your boat instead. A nice enough fellow—out of his depth of course. A pity. He drowned. But you knew him! Basant—the eunuch who killed those guards!”
“Basant killed the guards? How? He hadn’t the strength …” Despite his situation, Khalil is intrigued.
“Yes,” Hing says, suddenly congenial. “Little Basant. Harmless Basant. Would you like to see how he did it? We’re not far from where they died.”
“They died here? In these tunnels? Can you show me?” Khalil feigns curiosity, interest, respect. He’ll buy time, he thinks. Khalil bows his head. And it works. With a vague smile, Hing leads the way. Amazing that Hing could be manipulated so easily. All Khalil had to do was show a little interest and Hing was ready to take him on a tour instead of killing him.
He must know these tunnels blindfolded, Khalil thinks.
Khalil shapes a plan. Hing he can kill with his bare hands: that dry old
neck will snap like a twig. The boy—he’ll be a nuisance, but Khalil will manage. It is Alu, the young slender eunuch, that is the key. He holds a knife, he’s young; strong enough to fight back. Khalil might surprise him; even overpower him.
neck will snap like a twig. The boy—he’ll be a nuisance, but Khalil will manage. It is Alu, the young slender eunuch, that is the key. He holds a knife, he’s young; strong enough to fight back. Khalil might surprise him; even overpower him.
But Alu also holds the lamp. What if he were to drop it in a struggle? Then Khalil would be trapped in this maze of darkness. Hing might know his way in the darkness, but not Khalil. Could he leave Hing alive long enough to lead him out through the dark? Wouldn’t Hing realize he’d be the next to die?
It’s like a puzzle where the final piece won’t fit.
What Khalil doesn’t realize, of course, is that there is no escape. He already draws his last breaths. Instead, Khalil’s eyes dart like his thoughts, from Hing to Alu, from Alu to Hing. Which to attack? Which to kill?
All the while, his own death is only a few steps away.
Khalil sees Hing’s shadow hobbling into some kind of passageway ahead, one not yet lit by Alu’s wavering light. Khalil reaches out like a blind man. Here water trickles down the stone walls, water that smells harsh, almost acidic. He pulls his hand back at its touch, then calms himself—it’s only water, after all—and once more feels along the damp wall until he finds the doorway, where the wall disappears into emptiness.
With his hands, with his toes, he probes the utter darkness, for Alu’s lamp doesn’t yet shine into this passage. But Khalil moves forward, he wants to appear confident.
Hing, however, knows Khalil’s true state of mind. He has brought many men to this place, men whole and brave. He knows how the heart quails and the mind begins to squirm, walking through the damp shadows. He knows that by now Khalil has stopped planning, that his mind instead has begun to churn with nightmare images of shadowed fangs and great pale eyes.
With each tentative step Khalil takes into the noiseless black, into shadows so dark they seem to have weight, with each anxious breath of that stale dank air, his senses struggle and his panic rises.
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