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Authors: John Speed

Tiger Claws (42 page)

BOOK: Tiger Claws
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Shivaji’s doing what he’s seen his father do a hundred times—grabbing the loyalty of a group of soldiers through the simple act of walking past them. When he reaches the line’s end, Shivaji gives Ali Danyal a boost onto his saddle. “Go ahead and look,” he tells him.
His fingers feel as thick as sausages as Ali Danyal fumbles with the ties of the saddlebag. He throws back the flap and sees inside six canvas sacks. Choosing one at random he tears at the opening, exposing a jumble of silk-wrapped cylinders. Thrusting his hand into the sack he feels for one—not the top one, that would be too easy, he reasons. He scrapes the silk wrapper. The afternoon sunlight just touches it; he sees the glint of gold.
Ali Danyal looks up almost in tears. “You’re a rich man now, Ali Danyal.” Shivaji turns to the line of soldiers. “Your commander goes in honor to Bijapur to receive the thanks of a grateful queen! Tomorrow, once the handover of the Lion Fort is completed, you shall go there, too. You’ll find a special reward awaits you!” The soldiers of Singhaghad who have until now seemed tentative, once more start to cheer.
“
Jai, jai
Ali Danyal!” shouts Tanaji. “
Jai, jai
Ali Danyal!” the soldiers yell.
Ali Danyal turns his horse toward the gate, held open now by two of Shivaji’s men. “I expect you’ll shoot me as I leave,” he whispers.
“When have I done a single thing that you expect?” Shivaji replies.
 
 
All through dinner, the sergeant remembered that look on Lakshman’s face, that single eye so full of rage. He finds himself fingering his medallion, something he does when he senses danger. Maybe he should just tell the cook to make a meal for the peasants. How hard would that be? Again he finds his hand toying with his gold medallion. What’s wrong with me? Maybe I’ll just see how things are going, he thinks. But when he steps through the door of the mess hall, the sergeant finds the two sentries trussed like captured wolves, whimpering through cloths stuffed into their mouths.
Above them stands Lakshman, an arrow notched in a short bow. All the peasants are there. All of them with bows drawn. They wear belts now, and from the belts hang swords and quivers full of arrows.
They hid the weapons in those bales of thatch, the sergeant realizes. As usual, too late.
Hopelessly, he stares into Lakshman’s burning eye. Slowly he kneels. The arrow aimed at his heart quivers with the force of Lakshman’s hand upon the bowstring. As the sergeant stretches prostrate, his gold medallion drops against the floor. Face in the dirt, hands curled upward inches from Lakshman’s sandaled feet. “Mercy,” the sergeant says. He lifts head to look into that horrid, pitiless eye. “Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.”
Lakshman reaches for his knife.
 
 
The three brothers cross the courtyard. Above them the moon glints behind a silver cloud. They’ve been awakened in the middle of the night, summoned urgently to Dadaji’s room. “Something is wrong,” Munna whispers.
“Show some courage!” says Ahmed. “Our fate is in the hands of Allah.”
As they approach they see a figure striding from Dadaji’s door; a fierce-looking peasant who glares at them with one relentless eye. He frightens them even more than the sight of Dadaji, wearing a formal robe and large white turban pinned with a jewel. In the middle of the night, what can be happening? Two guards slip behind them. Dadaji sits gravely before them, like a judge. “I deliver now Shivaji’s judgment. He finds that none of you are worthy. The fort, therefore, is forfeit.”
The brothers look at each other. “I don’t understand!” Kurshid says.
Munna shouts, “I told you! I said we couldn’t trust them!”
“Quiet!” Ahmed shouts. He has seen the guards touch their swords.
Dadaji lifts his chin for silence. “My master says he finds the lot of you despicable. Brother ready to murder brother … and for what? A clod of earth; a chip of rock. In his beneficence, my master offers you a choice. Stay and face the punishment your treachery deserves, or go back to Bijapur, to your own people, to be judged by them as they see fit.” Dadaji’s eyes move slowly from face to face. “Well? Which do you choose?”
“We choose neither,” Ahmed says, sneering. “We shall return to Purandhar.”
Dadaji shakes his head wearily. “Even now our men have captured it.”
Ahmed begins to laugh. “The hell with you, uncle.”
Dadaji turns and lifts something from a nearby table. He dangles it before Ahmed’s eyes; a gold medallion spinning on a thick black thread still moist with blood. “Your men are dead, sir. You may join them if you wish. You have five minutes.” Dadaji stands, but this time does not bow. “After that, I’ll set the guards upon you.”
Dadaji moves quietly to the door, ignoring the brothers’ protests. His hand slips into the pocket where he carries the treasure Shivaji gave him. Four dark stones, one of them a clod of earth.
 
 
“Why was I kept ignorant about the treasure at that fort?”
Whisper the
khaswajara
stands facing a muslin sheet hung from a cord, which hides the sultana of Bijapur. “If I might but see you, madam.”
“When will you cease to vex me,
khaswajara
? No man shall see me,” comes the sultana’s voice from behind the curtain. “Answer my question.”
How did she find out so fast? Whisper wonders. What goes on behind that curtain? Despite his bribes, despite his threats, none of her maids would say. Even the brat would tell him nothing. “You’ve heard, madam?”
“You think I am without resources? I am the sultan’s mother and the sultan’s widow. That was eunuch gold.”
The words sting. Does she know, or only guess? “The Brotherhood may have had an interest, madam. We would be grateful to recover it.”
“And why did you keep this secret from me?”
“I keep many secrets, madam. Many are secrets of yours, madam. Your son, the heir—”
“Enough!” Whisper hears the anger in the sultana’s voice, and knows his hint has met the mark. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Leaning close to the muslin curtain, the
khaswajara
whispers his plan.
 
 
Has it only been three weeks since he arrived in Bijapur?
What a nice man Shaista Khan is, Bala thinks. He should have been lost in the labyrinth of the Bijapuri court without Shaista Khan’s friendship.
And more: clothes, money; introductions; advice, intelligent and subtle, all given with offhand nonchalance, more like an uncle than a Mogul general.
Shaista Khan is welcomed everywhere. Odd, thinks Bala, for Bijapur seems terrified of the Moguls. The court flutters with news of Aurangzeb’s campaign against Golconda. Rumors fly that when Golconda falls, Bijapur is next. And no one doubts that Golconda will fall. Maybe that’s why Shaista Khan is received so well. He brings with him a hope of peace. He hints that Bijapur is safe; he suggests—through a tilt of his head, through a shrug—that he has secret assurances.
When Bala galloped into Bijapur, he had a purpose. He spoke well and defended his friends. After twenty days, however, no one seems to care about Shivaji. All the talk of attacking Torna appears to be forgotten. People seem to wonder why Bala is still around. Bala too has begun to wonder. He hasn’t heard from Shivaji for days.
Suddenly his door bangs open. Shaista Khan strides in. “Get dressed,” he commands. “I’ve just had word. Shivaji has been busy.”
Shaista Khan leans on some cushions while Bala dresses. “It turns out that Torna had two lakh hun in its strong room.” At the figure, Bala’s wide mouth drops open. “The eunuchs were working some mischief, a big bribe probably. Who’s on the take, how deep it goes, no one knows. It’s a huge scandal. Afzul Khan executed the Torna captain last night, and that’s just the start. No one knows where it’s all going to end. Also, Shivaji has fortified an old stronghold at Bhatghar, the mountain next to Torna. Also, an entire Bijapuri garrison is on its way here from Singhaghad. Seems the commander took a bribe and handed the fort over to Shivaji. My guess is he’s got a few of those missing huns. Also, Shivaji’s men captured Purandhar fort yesterday. They may have massacred the entire garrison.”
“I don’t know what to say, sir,” Bala says.
Shaista Khan eyes him, like a trainer looking over a colt at an auction. “No. It’s clear you know nothing. All the more reason for you to leave.” He turns and shakes his head. “I knew there was something about that Shivaji. Son of a bitch, he’s good. Tell him that from me, do you hear?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“There’s a horse for you outside. Ride for Poona and slam the gate behind you. I’ll hold things together here for as long as I can.”
Bala chews his lip. “I’m Shivaji’s ambassador. I should plead his case.”
“Ambassador? Shit.” He softens. “Listen, Bala—at best you’re a pawn. They’ll hold you hostage. I don’t know if that would make a difference to
Shivaji. In any case they’ll torture you in their spare time. The Bijapuris are devils. Get out while you can.”
“What do you think will happen next, sir?”
“Without you around to kill? They’ll go after Shahji. But Shahji’s tough, and smart—he’ll figure something out. Then they’ll come after Shivaji. He only has a little while to get ready.”
The color drains from Bala’s face. “A little while?”
“Maybe a fortnight, maybe a month. Depends on how much fight Shahji’s got left. My guess is he’ll ask to lead the attack on Shivaji.”
Bala’s mouth drops. “Attack his own son?”
“Right now his own son is single-handedly destroying Shahji’s comfortable position here at court. Now listen—as soon as you get to Poona send messages to the sultana. Eternal loyalty, it was all a big mistake, Shivaji loves Bijapur—you get the idea. Buy as much time as you can. Send copies to me. I’ll do what I can to slow things down. They’re still terrified of Aurangzeb—I can use that. Get going, Bala. You have no time to lose.”
 
 
Two days later, Bala sits in Shivaji’s bedroom. “Massacred!” Shivaji whispers, incredulous. “Massacred a garrison? What a hideous thought!” Bala shrugs. “Do you think he was just making this up, Bala? Maybe he wanted you out of the way for some reason?”
“I don’t think so, Shahu. He seemed convinced.”
“That will all be cleared up soon enough,” Dadaji says. “The Purandhar garrison should be in Bijapur in a few days.”
“But what damage will be done in those few days, uncle,” Bala says. “Shaista Khan says we have only two weeks.”
Dadaji’s eyebrows move against one another as though they are wrestling against the thoughts in his head. “Maybe it was me, Shahu.”
Shahu seems stunned. “You would never …”
“Something slipped out when I spoke to those brothers. They might have misinterpreted … they were terrified. Perhaps they thought …”
Bala listens, incredulous. He wonders if Dadaji truly understands the damage he has done.
“There’s something else I need to tell you, Shahu,” Dadaji says, looking very ashamed. “There’s been a mix-up in the strong room. We double-counted some of the money. Look for yourself!” he says, brandishing the account books.
“Let me see them, sir,” says Balaji. His eyes widen as his finger runs down the page. “Dadaji, this isn’t like you! You’ve carried the wrong balance here, and here, and here.”
Dadaji lowers his head. “I resign. I’m making foolish errors, Shahu. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I’m old. My mind’s growing dim. Time I handed over my key, my books.” He unties an iron key hanging on his neck, and hands it to Shivaji. “You’re not without support, you know. Bala can take care of things. Don’t get up. I’ll say goodbye before I leave.”
“Maybe I should go after him,” says Balaji.
“Not this time.” Shivaji seems serious, almost angry.
“It’s a mistake anyone might make, Shahu.”
Shivaji picks up the account book, which has fallen unnoticed from Balaji’s lap, and hands it back to him. “How much do we have?”
“It may take me a while to figure it out exactly …”
“But you found three mistakes. What do those add up to?”
“Maybe sixty thousand rupees less than we thought.”
“That means nothing to me, Bala. Not how many rupees … how much time?”
Balaji nods and leafs through the book. He stares at the invisible slate some more, frowns, looks in the book, frowns more. “Three weeks, Shahu. At current rates. There’s a big payment due the Rajput masons in two weeks. If we can delay that payment, we have four weeks.”
Shivaji sighs. “Three or four weeks? Is that all? I thought …” For a moment, Balaji thinks Shivaji is looking at him, but realizes that he’s staring at a small altar on a nearby table. There’s a small bronze image of Bhavani, another of Ganesha. “What shall we do, Bala? It’s like we’re burning money.”
“What you’re doing costs a lot. Bribes. Building. Salaries. Weapons.”
“Yes. Weapons. We need cannon, Bala.”
“There must be cannon at your forts, Shahu.”
“Fixed cannon. Good for defense only.”
“Maybe you can put wheels on them, Shahu.”
Shivaji shakes his head. “Also we’ll need to place cannon at Bhatghar once the fortifications are complete. We can cannibalize the other forts for a start, but it won’t be enough if it comes to a war. Without cannon we’re nothing, Bala. What is a wasp without a sting, eh?”
“Maybe there’s another way, Shahu? Are cannon really that important?”
Shivaji winces. “Leave me, Bala. I need to think.”
 
 
In her small room near the temple, Maya rolls a lump of wet
mendhi
onto a stiff cloth. She folds the cloth tight around the
mendhi
to a form a flat package, and with a scissors snips off the corner.
Watching from the bed is Jyoti. She holds out her feet unnaturally, letting them dry. Already Maya has traced them, top and sole, intricate twisting lines. Where bits of the
mendhi
have dried and fallen from her foot, Jyoti’s skin is stained dark orange. “You do this so beautifully,” she says to Maya. “These Ori designs are so much prettier than Marathi designs.”
“Now for your hands,” Maya says. She presses the cloth envelope and squeezes from the cut-off corner a thin string of
mendhi
onto Jyoti’s palm. Carefully she begins to draw another line, concentrating hard.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Jyoti says.
“Shivaji likes you, and Hanuman is his friend. He will not disappoint you.”
“The
mendhi,
I mean.”
Maya looks up. “It’s too late now! Besides, you saw it in a dream. It must be right!” She sets back to work.
Jyoti looks at her pretty hands, worrying over them. “But this is what brides do …”
“And the friends of brides, and their families. Don’t you want to be Hanuman’s bride?” Maya looks into Jyoti’s face. How bright she looks, Maya thinks, how frightened. “If it is to be, it is to be. So why worry?”
“Do you really think there is a husband meant for me?” Jyoti asks.
“Hanuman, you mean?” Maya laughs. “You know he loves you.”
“What has marriage to do with love? I have no parents, no dowry …”
Maya stops. Careful not to disturb the
mendhi
on Jyoti’s hands, Maya puts a slender arm around her shoulder.
“I suppose it makes no difference. It will be or not be.” Jyoti leans her head against Maya’s. “Do you ever dream of a husband, Maya?”
“I’ve had enough of men.”
“A husband would be different though! A home together! Suppers. Children. Bed.” Jyoti’s voice trails off. “Maybe Shivaji …”
“Let’s speak of something else,” Maya says quietly.
 
 
On the peaceful verandah of his house in Kari, Jedhe sits amidst a symphony of tiny gold objects, his implements and containers for making pan.
He moves slowly, every gesture careful and meticulous. For what else does Jedhe have to occupy his time? Today at least, Bandal is here. He arrived at Kari in a breathless gallop. Bandal had brought news of Shivaji. Their cousin now has taken three forts from Bijapur. Three forts!
Jedhe shakes his head. He had never guessed his cousin would be so daring. It pleases him to think of what Shivaji has done. Jedhe imagines that he too might be capable of daring acts, if only his father would allow him!
“Are you thinking about joining him, cousin?” Jedhe later asks Bandal. “Despite my father’s advice, I mean.”
Bandal shrugs. He and Jedhe are close in age, but he seems so much older … quiet, cynical. “Your father’s a wise man, Jedhe. He has advised me well. While my father was dying, he told me to seek your father’s counsel.”
“You didn’t really need to come all this way. His advice never changes: Do nothing. Hold tight. Be sensible. Think twice.” Bandal laughs, for Jedhe has captured even Tukoji’s frown as he intones his clichés.
“You’re not giving your father enough credit, Jedhe. This is big—big enough to cause a war.”
“Yes, war, or worse.” It is Tukoji himself, come to join them. As he sits beside Bandal, Jedhe hands him a bright green packet of pan. “But maybe war can be avoided. Maybe even some good can come from this misfortune.”
“I don’t see that it’s a misfortune, father,” Jedhe starts to say.
“Sometimes the path of dharma is hard, Bandal,” Tukoji says, ignoring his son. “I think maybe now is such a time. Our hard path is clear. We must ride against our cousin Shivaji.”
“Is there no other way?” asks Bandal.
“He’s only a cousin, my dear boy. Why, you scarcely know him … it’s not such a terrible thing, is it? Assign your men to my command. I will lead them down to Poona. I don’t think we’ll find too much resistance.”
BOOK: Tiger Claws
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