Authors: John Speed
Tiger Claws (35 page)
“It would take more than a sword to kill that old log,” Amba snorts.
Shivaji stands when Hanuman returns, his long hair still loose over a clean white shirt. He places his hand softly on Hanuman’s shoulder. It is an unexpected gesture, formal yet intimate, the gesture of a kindly general toward an untried lieutenant. Hanuman looks into Shivaji’s dark, intense eyes.
“I need a right-hand man to help me in my work, Hanu,” Shivaji whispers.
“I’m always here to serve you, Shahu.” That last word bothers Hanuman. “Lord, I mean.”
“Have we stopped being friends, Hanu?”
“No, lord,” Hanuman answers. “But things are different.”
“And more changes are coming, Hanuman. More than you can guess.” Shivaji nods toward Lakshman on the bedmat. “You and your brother are more dear to me than life itself. Do you know that? Your brother’s task is hard, far harder than I had any notion of. The pain that he must face …” Shivaji winces as though thinking about some unnamed horror. “I feel unworthy of the honor he does me. You won’t fail me, either,” Shivaji sighs, as if he’s heard Hanuman voice some binding oath. “You have the easier path to tread, Hanu, if that’s any comfort. Or at least the shorter one.”
“What path, Shahu?” Hanuman whispers, but Shivaji does not answer.
“Come,” he says, nodding toward the verandah door and holding out his hand to Hanuman, “I must talk to these people.” As Hanuman stands beside him, Shivaji stares at him once more. “Say you’ll do whatever I ask.”
“Why, Shahu?” Hanuman asks.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I’ll do whatever you ask,” Hanuman replies simply.
Shivaji lifts his hand to Hanuman’s face. For a moment, Hanuman thinks Shivaji might slap him, but instead he pats his face with his broad, soft palm, once, twice, three times. “Good man,” he says.
As they walk to the verandah door, a thought strikes Hanuman. “Is this about that vow we made, Shahu? Years ago, at the temple?”
Shivaji grins, the old familiar grin that Hanuman remembers. “You guessed.” He nods. “Yes, Hanu. Yes.” His eyes crinkle as though with pure delight. “Don’t you think it’s time we did something about that vow?”
Hanuman grins back. “It’s way past time, Shahu.”
When Shivaji and Hanuman step outside, the waiting crowd barrages them with questions. Shivaji stands motionless as if he is listening to some far away sound. One by one people fall silent. Hanuman motions for them to sit, then he takes a seat before Shivaji. There is some shushing and hushing as people wait for Shivaji to speak.
Shivaji has told so many stories in his life that even when he simply wants to give some news, he tells it like a story. He spins the tale for them, and the crowd responds with wide eyes. He weaves the scene: the fight at the gate, the battle of arrows, Tanaji’s and Hanuman’s struggles, Iron’s courage on the stairs, Lakshman’s torture, Iron’s valor. Every one
of them a hero, except Shivaji himself. When he is finished speaking, some of the men brush tears from their eyes; women weep.
of them a hero, except Shivaji himself. When he is finished speaking, some of the men brush tears from their eyes; women weep.
Near the verandah door is an open window. Suddenly the curtain is pulled aside, and Tanaji thrusts his head out. “Very nice,” he croaks. “It wasn’t really nice, though, was it, Shahu? Why did we kill those men, men no different from ourselves? Why did we bleed? For what, Shahu?”
Shivaji gazes at the floor. “Ask him,” he says, nodding to Hanuman.
Hanuman looks shocked. “It just seemed right,” Hanuman begins, speaking directly to Shivaji, but Shivaji nods for him to face the crowd. “Why shouldn’t that fort be ours?” he continues, his voice gaining volume as he starts to speak. “Why should Iron’s village be held captive to some far-off king?”
“Queen,” Bala says.
“Queen, then,” Hanuman says. “That fort was built by Hindu hands, by the sweat of our grandfathers’ grandfathers. And up until a hundred years ago, we were ruled by Hindu kings! Kings we knew!” As Hanuman speaks, a man near him pats his knee. “Maybe our fathers lost some war. That was years ago! What about today? What about us? Must we live beneath the heel of a far-off king because our grandfathers were weak?”
“Queen,” Bala says again, and this time everyone laughs.
“It’s your father’s fault, Shahu!” Tanaji says from the window when the laughter falls away. “It wasn’t our fathers that lost that fort. It was your father! It is Shahji that’s the villain!”
“Shahji was no villain,” one of the Poona riders says. Some people nod and agree, others seem to wonder. Shivaji says nothing.
“Let me tell you about Shahji,” Bala says. People are surprised to see that Bala is not smiling now. “My father fought with Shahji. Lots of our fathers did.” Bala looks at Shivaji. “Of all of us here, who got the worst deal when Shahji surrendered? Shivaji did. Shivaji might have been a king today. Do you blame him, Shahu? Do you call him villain?”
Shivaji says nothing.
“No,” says Bala. “And why should you condemn him? After all, Shahji tried, didn’t he? He took back the land … the forts our grandfathers built, this home we called our own for countless generations! He failed. But at least he tried!” Bala looks around him: few of the people here have heard him speak this way. “That fort up there, where the saffron flag now flies, that fort is ours! And so it should be! That was Shahji’s bargain: the forts to be returned when Shivaji came of age.”
Anger begins to show on people’s faces, the bruises of old insults.
“I knew I might get hurt,” Hanuman says above the murmurs of the crowd. “I knew I might die. I’m sick of being some queen’s hostage, paying some queen’s taxes. Sure we got hurt, but look up there!” The saffron flag flutters on the hill far above them. “Shivaji went up, same as us. He was the first to bleed! Show them your arm, Shahu! Shot through the arm! Pinned to the wall!”
“He didn’t bleed as much as Lakshman,” Tanaji growls.
“You were ready to die, father, and for us to die beside you,” Hanuman replies. “You chose us to go. You hate your choice now? Fine. I stand by my decision. Lakshman, I do not doubt, will stand by his as well.”
“Tell us what’s next, Shahu,” Balaji speaks up, sensing that the crowd now is ready to listen to a leader.
“Tell us, Shahu,” Hanuman whispers. “Tell us,” many voices ask.
“We’re going to take back what’s ours,” Shivaji says quietly.
Eyes dart from side to side, faces turn frowning, waiting for him to speak again. But Shivaji holds his silence. Then, one by one the people seem to reconsider what he said. “Take back what is ours!” a voice shouts. “Take back what’s ours!” others call. Then cheers erupt, and clapping, and thumping as hands strike the wooden floor, as the crowd at last realizes that a line of battle has indeed been drawn, and Shivaji has drawn it.
Then as the shouts subside, eyes turn to Shivaji, eyes bright now, full of fire. “Who’s with me?” Shivaji says.
Across the verandah, people cheer again, getting to their feet. “Shivaji
ki jai
!” Bala’s voice rings out.
ki jai
!” Bala’s voice rings out.
“Shivaji
ki jai
!” Victory to Shivaji, everyone shouts. “Shivaji
ki jai
!”
ki jai
!” Victory to Shivaji, everyone shouts. “Shivaji
ki jai
!”
Soon the crowd is chanting, bouncing on their feet, dancing in place. Shivaji walks among them as they shout, pressing each man’s hand, looking deep into each face.
“Har, har mahadev!”
Even the
shastri
and his wife are shouting, holding on to one another’s hands, dancing. Then Shivaji takes Jyoti’s hand, and presses it, and then Maya’s, who looks at him with tearful eyes.
“Har, har mahadev!”
Even the
shastri
and his wife are shouting, holding on to one another’s hands, dancing. Then Shivaji takes Jyoti’s hand, and presses it, and then Maya’s, who looks at him with tearful eyes.
“It’s over now,” she says.
“It’s just beginning,” he replies above the din. Even when he shuts the door, the chant goes on and on:
Har, har mahadev!
Har, har mahadev!
“You’ll be in charge,” Shivaji says to Hanuman. “Take twenty men and occupy the fort. Pick five men to march the Bijapuri prisoners back to Bijapur. Put Govindas in charge of the escort. No injuries are to befall them.”
“Yes, lord,” Hanuman replies. It seems right to say this, now.
“Prepare an inventory. Guns, gold, anything of value. Send it to me as soon as possible.”
“Yes, lord. The horses?”
“Keep them here for now. Send the prisoners back on foot.
“Bala,” Shivaji continues, “prepare a letter for my signature. To the sultana of Bijapur: Tell her that her Captain Hamzadin was derelict in his duty, and I have relieved him of command.”
“Just that, lord?” Bala replies. “You need to press your case …”
“What do you suggest, Balaji?”
“Tell her that the fort remains in the keeping of its rightful owners,” Bala says. “But about the allotment, lord?”
“Suggest that nothing’s changed, but say that cagily as well.”
“Of course, lord. So I understand … you don’t plan to pay?”
Shivaji looks up and smiles, as though surprised Bala needs even to ask. “Ride for Bijapur as fast as you can. I want the letter to arrive before any rumors reach them. I want
you
to tell them of the capture of the fort.”
you
to tell them of the capture of the fort.”
“And what about you, Shahu? What will you do?” Hanuman asks.
“In a day or two, I ride for Poona. I’ll send money and replacements.”
“What about me, Shahu?” says a hoarse voice. Tanaji sits with his back against a wall, looking miserable.
“You’re tired, uncle, and hurt. What sort of man would I be to take offense at words spoken in sorrow? You didn’t raise me to be a man like that.”
“No,” Tanaji replies, but his face is still pinched. “But I should maybe not have said …”
“Speak to me later, uncle, when we both have had more time to think,” Shivaji replies and turns as though Tanaji were not even there.
Thunder rumbles through the mountains, but the rain still holds back. In the courtyard, Hanuman has assembled a dozen men and ponies. They are checking their livery, pulling cinches, tying bags across their saddles. Shivaji comes from the house and says goodbye to each.
“Keep everything you find at the fort safe. Prepare an inventory. There’s a mosque there, I think … don’t let the men harm it. Treat it like a temple. Do you want me to tell them?”
“No,” Hanuman replies. “That’s my job.”
Shivaji seems delighted by his answer. “If you find their holy book, wrap it in white cloth, and bring it with you when you come. That’s important, Hanuman.”
“I won’t forget, lord.”
“You’ll be in my prayers, cousin,” Shivaji says,
namskar
ing.
namskar
ing.
Hanuman nods and waves the company forward. Shivaji watches as they walk out the village gates, and looks up to the fort where the saffron flag billows lazily against the dark sky.
He turns to see Maya coming from Iron’s house. “I must also say goodbye,” Maya says to him, after a long silence. They stand awkwardly, facing each other from a few feet away.
“For a little while, goodbye. We will never be apart for long, I think. And always I will hold you in my heart.”
“Keep me always in your mind as well,” she whispers. Suddenly she steps forward, quick as a doe, and taking him by the shoulders, raises her face to his. She brushes her lips across his, feeling for a moment their softness, tasting for a moment their sweetness. When she steps away, her face is full of longing.
But if he sees, he makes no sign. His indifference makes her catch her breath. A sound escapes her, like a laugh maybe, or a single sob. She pulls the end of her sari over her head, and she walks backward, eyes on his.
After Maya leaves, Jyoti comes to Shivaji. She’s been waiting, giving her mistress time alone. “Is Hanuman still here?”
“I’ve sent him away,” Shivaji answers.
Jyoti’s face falls. “I never told him goodbye.”
“He hasn’t gone far enough to bother with goodbyes,” Shivaji answers. “He’s up at the fort. I’m sure he’ll want to come down to the temple as often as he can … I know how much he loves to see the goddess there.”
It takes a moment before Jyoti understands and answers with a smile.
As he clears the top of a gentle rise on his borrowed Bedouin mare, Bala sees the dome of the Gol Gumbaz peeking over the walls of Bijapur.
After riding through two days of endless rain, Bala enjoys the hard gleam of the morning sun. Through the sparkling air, light spills across the brown fields. Tiny green pennants of wheat sprouting in dark soil dot the wide plateau that approaches the city gates. Although dark clouds clump in the eastern sky, it seems to Bala that the monsoon rains have begun to wane. The morning air is so crisp that he can see each detail of the far-off city.
Only once before has Bala come to Bijapur: with his father, Manji, the famous carpet trader—before his father joined with Shahji and was killed. He had been only a boy. He remembers the winding streets and tall buildings, not much more.
First a bath, and then the queen, he thinks. His horse’s hooves begin to
click,
for from this point, the city road is paved in stones. The dome he’s seen for miles looms large. He can see the city gates, tall as ten men. Bronze cannon bristle atop the city walls.
click,
for from this point, the city road is paved in stones. The dome he’s seen for miles looms large. He can see the city gates, tall as ten men. Bronze cannon bristle atop the city walls.
His horse prances nervously along the main avenue. Merchants push flat wood carts, farmers lead flocks of sheep and naked children drive water buffalo. Soldiers carry bright spears. Yellow dogs scurry past.
Directly before him towers a huge, menacing cannon, placed at the entrance of the city: Malik-i-Maidan, the Monarch of the Plain. Longer than
a tree trunk, wider than a house, its barrel large enough to hold a sitting man. The cannon is fashioned like a lion, its barrel the lion’s mouth. Jeweled earrings glitter in the lion’s ears. The gun is covered by a great green cloth. Bala has heard that the gun has never been fired in war; only in executions. They found parts of one man’s body three miles from the city.
a tree trunk, wider than a house, its barrel large enough to hold a sitting man. The cannon is fashioned like a lion, its barrel the lion’s mouth. Jeweled earrings glitter in the lion’s ears. The gun is covered by a great green cloth. Bala has heard that the gun has never been fired in war; only in executions. They found parts of one man’s body three miles from the city.
Every wall in Bijapur bears in stone or metal an image of the crescent moon. For the Bijapuri sultans came from Turkistan, and the crescent moon recalls their ancient lineage. Bala rides beneath the towering dome of the Gol Gumbaz, the largest in the world, they say. Its walls are covered in turquoise-colored tiles, inlaid with lapis and jasper. Bala smells the stink of a nearby butcher shop, but bites back his disgust.
Passing through the busy bazaar, he turns toward the city palace. Here, at least, the way is quieter, for army guards patrol the streets and let no merchants pass. He sees the walls of the palace. Between its minarets hang long chains of stone: delicately carved from a single piece of white marble, the links so light that they flutter in the breeze, clinking softly.
Just in front of the palace stands the Mosque of the Relic, that holds, they say, a crystal vial with two of Muhammad’s hairs. A few hundred yards from the palace, he finds what he wants: a public bath.
He wears his best robes and finest slippers, which he brought with him from Poona to Welhe. You never know when your best clothes might be needed. You never know when Shivaji might suddenly decide to name you ambassador to Bijapur, and send you to the sultana with an urgent message.
But here in sophisticated Bijapur even his very best clothing looks plain. So Bala focuses his thoughts on Bhavani, and begs the goddess for guidance.
She provides help immediately as she always does:
It doesn’t matter
.
.
The words ring in his heart. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself as he hands the frayed reins of his borrowed Bedouin to a palace groom. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself as he climbs the marble stairs to the doorway of the palace, because I come with urgent news, and can’t be expected to waste time primping. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself again as he knocks on the vizier’s door, because I am a Marathi, and they expect rustic clothing on folk like me.
All that matters—he tells himself as the vizier’s secretary considers his request—is my mission. My letter—he thinks, as the secretary looks him over, curls his lip, and then lowers his head in welcome, leading him gravely to the throne room—gives me power. And since Shivaji’s father is the Bijapuri commander—he thinks, as a eunuch whispers his name to the sultana’s major domo—attention must be paid, however I may look.
But I’m frightened, ma, he tells the goddess.
Be frightened later
, Bhavani replies.
, Bhavani replies.
And so despite his clothes Bala’s name is called out at the entrance of the Diwan-i-Khas, and the low chatter of the throne room grows silent as he approaches the sultana, the queen of Bijapur.
She perches on the edge of the wide and shining silver throne like a bird of prey. Her tiny figure is covered top to toe in black silks shot with gold. The fabric seems to have a structure of its own; like a tent she sits inside, rather than a dress she wears. Only her flickering eyes emerge from behind her veil, eyes like those of an aging hawk. Cabochon rubies on chains of gold droop from her headdress so her head tilts forward from their weight, and when she lifts her hidden hand to straighten her long, dark skirt, heavy diamond bracelets
clunk
dully against each other.
clunk
dully against each other.
A little brat about Sambhuji’s age sits at her feet, playing with a set of tiny silver soldiers. Everyone else in the room is standing. Bala glances from face to face, trying to guess which courtier is which. That, he thinks, must be Whisper, the queen’s
khaswajara
—no other eunuch comes so near her side. And that, he guesses, looking at the fat and oily fellow standing on the stairs of the dais at her feet, must be the grand vizier, Wali Khan. Others are there, but none he recognizes. He smiles at everyone anyway.
khaswajara
—no other eunuch comes so near her side. And that, he guesses, looking at the fat and oily fellow standing on the stairs of the dais at her feet, must be the grand vizier, Wali Khan. Others are there, but none he recognizes. He smiles at everyone anyway.
Then Bala notices a huge, broad man who steps out from behind a marble column. To Bala he seems to have the menacing presence of a mast elephant: a dark and shadowed face that emerges from a vast, bloated body. Bala has heard the tales about him and his voracious appetite: Afzul Khan, the sultana’s nephew, and Shahji’s chief rival at the Bijapuri court.
If Afzul Khan is here, Bala thinks, then General Shahji must be, too. Bala expected that he’d remember him, even after all these years. But his eyes pass over Shahji twice before he recognizes him.
He’s shorter than Bala remembers, shorter than Shivaji. And his face has grown softer, the big eyes Bala remembers now peering over fattened cheeks. But the general’s bearing remains, though he has put on weight, and
he holds his head as he always did, squinting quizzically down his long, beaklike nose. Bala nods to him, but the general merely stares back.
he holds his head as he always did, squinting quizzically down his long, beaklike nose. Bala nods to him, but the general merely stares back.
As he approaches the silver throne Bala becomes aware of a deep ticking echo from the walls:
thock, thock, thock.
At the foot of the dais is the royal timekeeper, a bored-looking fellow who stares languidly as sand spills through a wide hourglass. Next to him is something Bala has heard of but never seen: a thick, platter-sized machine, ticking regularly, so loudly that the noise echoes through the room. With each tick a single, arrow-shaped pointer jumps a notch on its intricately carved face. A Persian clock. Bala stares. Why would anyone want a contraption like that when a beautiful, quiet hourglass serves the purpose?
thock, thock, thock.
At the foot of the dais is the royal timekeeper, a bored-looking fellow who stares languidly as sand spills through a wide hourglass. Next to him is something Bala has heard of but never seen: a thick, platter-sized machine, ticking regularly, so loudly that the noise echoes through the room. With each tick a single, arrow-shaped pointer jumps a notch on its intricately carved face. A Persian clock. Bala stares. Why would anyone want a contraption like that when a beautiful, quiet hourglass serves the purpose?
Aware of the stares that follow him, Bala steps to the edge of the dais. Now he can see close-up the Abyssinian Christian guards; the deep black crosses they have burned into their faces, ear to ear and forehead to chin. Does their god make them do that? If O’Neil worships that god, why has he not burned his own face just so?
Bala can smell the tension in the air. After all, Shivaji’s refusal to bow to the old sultan was the insult that forced his exile to Poona; the courtiers want to see what Shivaji’s emissary will now do.
Bala stretches full length on the heavy Persian carpet, burying his head beneath his arms. When he stands, Bala feels the court’s approval; having been forced to grovel so often themselves, they appreciate seeing Bala do what his master would not. Only Shahji scowls; when Bala rises he turns away. Even the sultana’s wary eyes are crinkled with amusement over the edge of her golden veil.
“Oh, your highness,” Bala says loudly, bowing his head, “forgive this fool. He would not dare to enter your presence on his own accord. He only hazards this task at the bidding of his master, your faithful servant, Shivaji of Poona.” At these words the sultana arches an eyebrow toward Shahji, who stands listening impassively across the room. “This lowly fool is but a messenger from one great person to another.”
There is much consternation, for his speech is full of subtle contradictions: his bow, his greeting, describing Shivaji as the sultana’s servant—all these of course are pleasant and surprising. But those last words, “one great person to another,” cause many eyes to open wide, including the sultana’s. For a moment, the eunuchs who fan the throne with gold-handled whisks stop swaying, as if they expect lightning to crash down.
“What kind of riddle is this, you who call yourself a fool?” the sultana asks. Her voice is muffled by her veils. Though her words are sharp, her demeanor is calm, and as she speaks she runs her fingers idly through her son’s thick black hair. “We understood only you brought us news. Now you claim to be the emissary of some great person. If that is so, what presents do you bring?”
Bala smiles; he prepared for this. “The fool before you is a poor servant, madam, dispatched in haste. I have no presents but this letter. My master Shivaji, that great person, bade me place it at your feet, a token of his humility before your greatness.” With that, ignoring the eunuch boy that the
khaswajara
sends to intercept him, he steps briskly up the dais stairs to the very foot of the sultana’s throne. There he kneels and places the leather message tube beside her jeweled slippers. As Bala tiptoes backward to his place, the boy sultan puts down his silver charioteer and hands the letter casually to his mother. She glares at him, for now she’s forced to take it.
khaswajara
sends to intercept him, he steps briskly up the dais stairs to the very foot of the sultana’s throne. There he kneels and places the leather message tube beside her jeweled slippers. As Bala tiptoes backward to his place, the boy sultan puts down his silver charioteer and hands the letter casually to his mother. She glares at him, for now she’s forced to take it.
It is as much as Balaji might hope for. “Your highness is too kind to this poor fool,” he says, bowing deeply.
“We agree,” says the sultana, her dark eyes glaring over the veil. She hands the tube to Whisper, her
khaswajara,
who passes it to the vizier, who in turn passes it to a secretary.
khaswajara,
who passes it to the vizier, who in turn passes it to a secretary.
“‘Most effulgent of the lights of Allah, most fragrant rose of the master’s garden, more graceful than any bird in heaven …,’” the secretary reads out, translating Bala’s Persian.
“Yes, yes, get on with it,” the sultana says. “I don’t need every word.” She fluffs her robes, for it is hot already in the throne room.
The secretary clears his throat. “The writer goes on to say that your Captain Hamzadin was derelict, madam. He left Torna fort unattended. He and all his men fled the fort, lord, or so this letter says.”
“Fled? Were they under attack? Has war come to Torna? Why was I not informed?” Wali Khan asks, looking levelly at Balaji. But Balaji simply shrugs.
“It seems the captain grew weary of the monsoon rains, lord,” the secretary says, trying to hide his amusement.
“Hamzadin is your man, isn’t he, general?” Wali Khan says to Shahji, a vacant look on his round face.
“As well you know, lord,” Shahji replies, “he is not my man.” Shahji bows both to Wali Khan and the sultana.
“Then whose man is he, general?” the sultana asks after a suitably indifferent pause.
“May I suggest you ask your nephew, madam?”
Her veiled face turns to the imposing form of Afzul Khan, who stands on the other side of the room. “This letter, madam,” says Afzul Khan, “is Marathi lies.” His voice trumpets across the throne room.
From the corners of the Diwan-i-Khas, courtiers begin to stir, suddenly conscious of a conflict, anxious for some gossip to share later with their mistresses and wives. They begin to converge, like so many carrion birds at the first smell of blood. Among them is a short, tough-looking man with dark intense eyes and a graying beard. It is Shaista Khan, the Mogul ambassador, just returned to Bijapur from Agra. His sharp eyes dart between Afzul Khan and Shahji, sizing things up, looking for opportunities.
“Well, fool?” asks the sultana, peering over her veil at Balaji.
“It is easy to say that a letter lies, madam,” Bala replies. “For how will a letter, which is nothing but a dead thing, defend its honor?” He bows to Afzul Khan. “So now I speak for Shivaji.” Bala looks directly at Afzul Khan. “Call me a liar, if you will. I say that Hamzadin was derelict. I say that they fled the fort like cowards, afraid of a little shower of rain. Do you hear me? Come and say I lie. For I am no dumb letter, sir. I may be a humble fool, but even a fool might defend his honor.”
“It seems this fool can talk, nephew,” says the sultana, settling back upon the ornate silver throne.
“By his own admission he is a common servant, madam,” Afzul Khan replies, his face flushed. “There is no honor in answering a fool.”
“Read on,” the sultana commands.
“Here the letter states that Shivaji has acted on your behalf, madam. Mindful that even your benevolence would not tolerate cowardice, Shivaji arrested Hamzadin. Then your affectionate servant garrisoned the fort with his own men, and at his own expense.”
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