Authors: John Speed
Tiger Claws (41 page)
Of course, getting invited is the key to Shivaji’s plan.
Meanwhile, about twenty miles away, Lakshman trudges up the hill to Purandhar fort. Over the bleak road of unforgiving stones, he leads a line of a hundred bare-chested peasants. Each man balances on his head a great pile of thatch. It’s hot, hard work.
When challenged at the fort gate, Lakshman pulls from his pocket the order written by the three brothers. It’s damp with sweat. The sentry hurries off to find someone who can read, leaving Lakshman and his men standing in a long line that extends a hundred yards down the road. At length Lakshman pitches his bale to the ground and leans against it with a look of irritation. The other peasants do the same. They are too tired to talk.
“It looks all right,” a cynical sergeant says, returning with the paper. Lakshman stuffs it in his pocket. The sentries laboriously set about opening the elephant gate, working the big keys in the great locks. It takes two men to unhitch the chain—each link weighs twenty pounds.
Swinging the heavy bundles of thatch back up to their heads, the men pass into the fort, meek and weary. The sergeant shakes his head, as if the procession is yet more proof that all officers are idiots.
With the commander dead, and his sons away in Poona, discipline in Purandhar has gone to hell. Lakshman sees only three or four lookouts on
the battlements. Some men play at cards, some at dice, some nap. There are women around as well, looking well paid and available, but it’s early and they’re not yet getting too much attention. One of the women glances at Lakshman; she winces when she sees his broken face and turns away.
the battlements. Some men play at cards, some at dice, some nap. There are women around as well, looking well paid and available, but it’s early and they’re not yet getting too much attention. One of the women glances at Lakshman; she winces when she sees his broken face and turns away.
“Who’s in charge?” Lakshman grunts.
“Sarge, I guess. Or nobody, more like. Why?”
“We’re supposed to repair the roofs. Orders.”
The sergeant ambles over. “How long is all this going to take?”
“Not long. A couple of days, maybe.”
“You’ll be staying down the mountain, at the village?” asks the sergeant.
“We’ll be staying up here, at Purandhar fort!” Lakshman bristles. “You’re supposed to provide us shelter. Didn’t you read the order?”
The sergeant fingers a gold medallion hanging from his neck by a thick black string. “I wanted to know if you had read it.”
“Do I look like I can read?” Lakshman sneers.
“All right. We’ll find someplace to put you. I suppose you’ll want food, too.”
“When’s dinner?” Lakshman says.
The sergeant glowers at him. “Do some work first.” He walks away, unconsciously fingering his gold medallion.
Lakshman watches him leave with a sneering grin. The men round up four or five rickety bamboo ladders and start to hump the heavy bales to the roofs of the buildings. The smell of meat cooking begins to rise from one of the buildings. Dinner soon, Lakshman thinks. It won’t be long now.
As they approach the towering gates of Singhaghad, Tanaji finds himself remembering the horrors of Torna. I’m getting old, he thinks. It’s not like Torna—we have Shivaji’s plan, a perfect plan. Nothing can go wrong.
But the memory of Lakshman burns in his heart; he winces every time he thinks of that knife slicing his son’s fair face. He should never have had Lakshman volunteer to go to Purandhar; he should have stopped him. Oh gods, he prays, keep Lakshman well.
Despite his doubts, Tanaji presses on. Soon he sees Shivaji nod toward the high gate of Singhaghad, flashing that brilliant, confident smile. Tanaji halts the men with a wave of his hand, lifts his head and calls to the sentries high above: “I bring a firman from the sultana of Bijapur!”
“Who the hell are you?” the sentry barks.
“I’m the one who brings the firman!” Tanaji replies.
“Who the hell are the others?”
“They are with me.”
Again a long silence. Tanaji lifts the long tube covered in black silk that Shivaji took from the feuding brothers of Purandhar. He waves it at the sentries. “This firman from the sultana is why we’ve come. Bring us to the commander, sentry. This concerns him, not you.”
In a moment, the small inner door of the great gate opens, and a soldier comes out—just as Shivaji had said would happen. The soldier walks slowly up to Tanaji, his left hand steadying his sword. He’s about Tanaji’s age; his leathery face is puckered and his mustache gray.
“Give me the firman,” the soldier says.
Before he answers, Tanaji looks at Shivaji. Even this look is part of the plan. “No,” Tanaji answers. “This firman is for the commander, for Ali Danyal—not a common sentry.”
The soldier looks up into Shivaji’s bright eyes, considers, then turns. “Let them pass!” They hear the
clank
of iron, the thud of bolts moving, and at last the gates of Singhaghad groan slowly open.
clank
of iron, the thud of bolts moving, and at last the gates of Singhaghad groan slowly open.
It’s like a card game. Either hand can win, Shivaji had explained. It comes down to how we play. The first step is getting inside the fort. Now that he’s managed it, Tanaji thinks that first step was the easy part.
The inner gates are every bit as formidable as the outer ones, even more so. But once inside, the path is smooth and the horses walk easily. The inner gates lead to a long, roofed corridor; dark and lit by torches whose flickering flames catch the firing slots in the walls, the holes in the arched ceiling from which hot death can be poured.
As the line of soldiers rides into the courtyard of the Lion Fort, Tanaji holds high the black firman tube. “Ali Danyal, come forward!” Tanaji shouts. “I bear a firman from Bijapur. Come forward, Ali Danyal!”
Around the courtyard, soldiers look up. The riders form a wide half circle around Tanaji and Shivaji. “Come forth, Ali Danyal. Receive the sultana’s command!” Tanaji shouts again.
“You!” Shivaji says, picking out one of the Bijapuris. “Fetch the commander at once.” The soldier glances around. Who is this fellow to order him about? “Well?” Shivaji says softly.
The soldier considers, then walks to a nearby building.
Quiet. Beneath the relentless sun, men watch each other, fingering their weapons. Tanaji can feel the perspiration sliding down his back.
In a moment, the guards at the door snap to attention and Ali Danyal emerges. He strides forward. He is younger than Tanaji expected: a stocky man with a square, pockmarked face. “I am Ali Danyal, commander of this fort,” he says as if he’d never seen Shivaji. “State your business.”
Tanaji withdraws the firman from the tube and with a flourish unrolls it, careful that its seals and ribbons can be seen by all. “Ali Danyal!” he shouts. “I bear greetings from Bijapur—this firman from Wali Khan, grand vizier of the sultana!” Tanaji lifts the parchment high and turns in a wide arc on his saddle, displaying it for all to see. “I will translate, sir: ‘To our trusty servant Mohamed Sharif Ali Danyal, greetings!’” Tanaji continues, pretending to read. “‘Know by this firman that we herewith return the custody of Singhaghad fort, its contents and environs, to its rightful master our trusty friend, Shivaji,
mandsab
of Poona, the son and heir of our General Commander Shahji. In token whereof we bestow on him this key of authority. Make haste to deliver up to him control as quickly as may be.’”
mandsab
of Poona, the son and heir of our General Commander Shahji. In token whereof we bestow on him this key of authority. Make haste to deliver up to him control as quickly as may be.’”
Now Shivaji lifts the ceremonial iron fort key high in his hand. If from this distance anyone can tell that the fort engraved upon its badge is not Singhaghad but Purandhar, his eyes are good indeed.
“Long live the sultana of Bijapur!” Tanaji shouts at the top of his lungs. “
Jai, jai
Bijapur!”
Jai, jai
Bijapur!”
Shivaji’s men lift their bows high above their heads and cheer behind him: “
Jai, jai
Bijapur!” Soon, as Shivaji hoped, the soldiers in the courtyard cheer as well. Ali Danyal’s eyes are fixed on Shivaji.
Jai, jai
Bijapur!” Soon, as Shivaji hoped, the soldiers in the courtyard cheer as well. Ali Danyal’s eyes are fixed on Shivaji.
After a few more cheers, Ali Danyal lifts his hand, and the soldiers stumble back to silence. “Come with me,” he says. Shivaji dismounts, followed by Tanaji.
“No weapons,” Ali Danyal says. He waits while they leave their swords outside the door. Before he heaves it shut, he orders his guards to stand away. “What is this shit, sir?” Ali Danyal says quietly, taking the firman. His lips are tight against his teeth.
For a moment, Tanaji is about to answer. But it’s Shivaji’s turn now, he thinks. He wants it—let him have it. He’ll either end up a fool or a king. It’s out of my hands.
Ali Danyal waves the firman at Shivaji. “What’s this supposed to mean?”
“Read it and tell me.”
“It’s a fake! A forgery!” Shivaji says nothing. “Suppose I send to Bijapur for confirmation, eh?” Again Shivaji says nothing. So Ali Danyal
tries another tack. “I thought we had a deal! One lakh hun! Are you going back on your word?”
tries another tack. “I thought we had a deal! One lakh hun! Are you going back on your word?”
“I stand by the deal, Ali Danyal.”
“Do you? Haven’t you forgotten a small detail? The gold?”
Shivaji turns coolly away, and starts a slow circuit of the commander’s room. As Ali Danyal follows Shivaji’s movement, Tanaji quietly takes a pair of blackened tiger claws from his pocket and threads the thin black blades between his fingers. When he drops his hand, only the black rings show—the blades of the
wagnak
are hidden by his fingers.
wagnak
are hidden by his fingers.
Shivaji stops at Danyal’s desk. “I have not come empty-handed, Ali Danyal. On my horse and Tanaji’s are twelve bags of gold: the lakh of hun. Take the gold, sir. Take the horses too if you wish.”
This is the moment, Tanaji thinks. The gold is in the fort, ready for the taking. Does Ali Danyal shout for his guards—or does he take the gold and flee? His hand grips the
wagnak
tightly.
wagnak
tightly.
Ali Danyal walks toward Shivaji, no longer pretending to be civil. “What if I order you killed?” he asks.
“Do you think your soldiers would obey? We are emissaries of the sultana—you heard the cheers. Do you think they’d kill us now?”
Ali Danyal considers his situation. “Suppose I just kill you myself, and keep both the money and the fort?” His hand moves toward his dagger. Before his fingers even touch it Tanaji has slipped across the room. He places his left hand heavily on Ali Danyal’s shoulder, and his right hand clenched, so the black
wagnak
blades protrude. Ali Danyal turns to see the points emerging like claws. He licks his lips.
wagnak
blades protrude. Ali Danyal turns to see the points emerging like claws. He licks his lips.
“Ever seen these, commander?” Tanaji asks softly. “Very messy way to die. Nasty. Blood and shit everywhere. One of those ugly, painful deaths; a dirty wound that festers and leaks and smells. You don’t want to die that way, commander. Trust me.”
“Go ahead!” Ali Danyal spits out, defiantly. “You think you’d leave alive? My men would have their vengeance! Go ahead—test their loyalty.”
“A lakh of hun will buy a lot of loyalty, commander,” Tanaji answers, giving Ali Danyal’s side a little jab.
“Death or gold, sir,” Shivaji says softly. “Which shall it be?”
Back in Purandhar, a boy steps to the mess hall door and clangs the dinner bell. From the rooftops, from the courtyards, the peasants from Poona stop
working and stare hungrily as the Bijapuri soldiers amble toward the mess hall. Some of the peasants move hopefully toward their ladders.
working and stare hungrily as the Bijapuri soldiers amble toward the mess hall. Some of the peasants move hopefully toward their ladders.
“Back to work, you lot!” the sergeant calls out. The peasants stop. “You heard me … back to work!”
Some turn to Lakshman, uncertain. Lakshman swings down the ladder and looks the sergeant in the face. “We’re hungry,” Lakshman says. “A few vegetables, some chapatis … is that too much to ask?”
The sergeant looks almost pleased by Lakshman’s discomfort. “Your hunger is not my concern,” he declares. “Maybe later, after we’re through. If anything is left.” The glare of Lakshman’s good eye, however, unnerves him. “There’s usually something left,” he mumbles as he turns away.
“How long is this going to take?” Munna asks as he sits in Dadaji’s room.
“Not long,” Dadaji replies, opening a notebook and dipping a reed pen in a bottle of ink. “Your brothers have been most helpful.”
“How will you make your choice, uncle?” the young man asks. “How will you know who is most deserving?”
“Shivaji will decide who most deserves the fort.”
Munna eyes Dadaji suspiciously. Something in the old man’s tone rings false. “I want to see my brothers. Take me to them!”
“Not until we’re done.” Dadaji’s eyes have narrowed. “Or shall I tell my master that you no longer accept his judgment?”
A minute passes, maybe more, as Munna weighs his options. “Let’s be fast, then, uncle,” Munna says at last.
Dadaji nods and sets the pen to the paper. “Your full name?” Munna starts to talk, trying to ignore his unnamed fears, but as Dadaji writes and questions him, his agitation grows.
Facing the mounted men of Poona, the soldiers of Singhaghad now stand in the courtyard in a long, straight line. With Ali Danyal at his side, Shivaji walks along the line of Bijapuris, giving some a nod, others a smile, here and there asking a question. Ali Danyal has a look of agitated impatience, as though he needs very much to take a shit.
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