Tiger Claws (46 page)

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Authors: John Speed

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“Me, too,” says Bandal. “We’re in this together. Tukoji’s a fool. I’d rather be dead than a Bijapuri slave!”
“We’ve come to you, Shahu, to offer our allegiance,” Jedhe says proudly.
But Bandal bites his lip. “We … we thought you had money.”
Tanaji shakes his head. “Shit! I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” He rounds on Jedhe, shouting so angrily that spit flies from his lips. “Have you no honor? Money? You arrested your own father for fucking money?”
“No!” Jedhe shouts angrily.
“Yes,” says Bandal. His soft, unexpected answer captures the attention of everyone. “Yes, of course, uncle. For money.” He continues, his eyes cold and serious, “Yes, fucking money! I’ll admit it. What about my people? Every year, the Bijapur allotment grows heavier. Do you think that’s right, uncle? Is it right that they should pay out three hun for every four? It’s only fucking money? Should I just ignore this burden?”
Tanaji’s answering shrug infuriates Bandal. “We’ve become fucking tax collectors! Fleecing our own people, sending the tax to Bijapur with a fucking smile.”
When Bandal stops, though, no one says a word; no one breathes. Finally Lakshman laughs. “Listen, money’s no problem. Not anymore. Shahu, listen—I’ve just come from Kalidas.”
“Kalidas the bandit?” Trelochan exclaims.
“He’s a day’s ride north of here. He’s got an offer, Shahu. We can fix our money problems for good. You’ll have to grant him protection, Shahu. He wants to be done with banditry, but he wants no reprisals against him or his men. I promised I wouldn’t say anything until I heard you say the words. Anyway, then I can tell you.” Lakshman grins, but when Shivaji says nothing and the silence grows longer, his smile begins to fade. “Is this a problem? Believe me, Shahu, it’s worth it, whatever he’s done.”
“Kalidas is evil, boy. Just tell us,” Iron says. “Then Shahu can decide.”
“I promised not to, uncle. First Shahu makes the promise, then I tell the secret—that’s what I promised Kalidas.”
“If the secret’s worth so much, why is he giving it to Shivaji?” Bala says gently.
Shivaji looks from face to face. Finally he speaks. “I will give Kalidas what he requests.”
Iron pulls back. “You can’t be serious! I can’t agree with this, Shahu!”
“Then leave.” Iron’s eyes grow wide. Shivaji glances around the circle. “Anyone who wants to, leave! Otherwise, stay and obey my will. I asked for your advice. I listened. Now I have spoken.” No one has heard Shivaji speak this way before. The sun from the high window falls on his face. “Well?” Shivaji whispers, looking at Iron.
“I’ll stay,” Iron grunts back.
“I’m glad, uncle. I need you. I’ll need all of you.
“You’ve heard my decision, Lakshman. Tell this to Kalidas. Within my power I will protect him—but only for what he has already done—not what evil he may yet do. Let him stray an inch and he will feel my wrath.”
Lakshman bows. “This is what he told me you would say, Shahu.” Then Lakshman starts to weave the tale:
Every year the Maharashtran allotment is collected by special guards. Usually each
watan
’s share is carried straight to Bijapur, but this year is different. The master of the treasury has gone to Kalyan for his health, a large city to the west on the Kankonen plain.
The master of the treasury, Lakshman continues, has not gone to Bijapur. To be cooped up in the stuffy treasure rooms of Bijapur—it will do his health no good. So he has gathered the allotment to Kalyan. Once it’s counted, he’ll send it by caravan to Bijapur.
Tanaji’s eyes light up. “All the gold’s in Kalyan? How are they guarding it?”
A thousand cavalry, Kalidas had said. Around the circle, eyes grow bright. Though Iron seems almost to be salivating, he warns: “But this information, coming from a villain …”
There’s more, Lakshman explains. The master of the treasury is a scoundrel. Now the circle grows very still indeed. Many scoundrels sit there, hanging on Lakshman’s words.
The master of the treasury is not really sick, of course. All these arrangements have been made with one purpose only … to line his own pockets.
“He’s skimming!” Bala cries out. Lakshman nods. He plans to skim one tenth of the year’s allotment. But how to hide that much money?
That’s where Kalidas comes in. Mulana Ahmed will pass the skim to Kalidas. Kalidas will pass it to shady bankers in Agra. For his part, Kalidas gets a crore of hun. Lakshman waits a moment for the number to sink in.
“A hundred lakh of hun!” Bala says. “The wealth! The wealth!”
The caravan from Kalyan to Bijapur will travel by the Vyasa Pass. The captain plans to camp on the other side of the Great Ravine. It is there the transfer with Kalidas will be done.
“This is Kalidas’s secret?” Jedhe says. “It’s worth a dozen promises!” Trelochan frowns at him, but Shivaji’s face is a mask of emptiness.
That is Ahmed’s plan, Lakshman continues. Kalidas has different ideas. Why get a hundredth part, rich though it is? Why not take the whole allotment? A hundred men on either side of the ravine can cut off the caravan,
Lakshman says. There’s no escape. The room is full of shadows now. Through the window comes the sounds of dogs, of children playing, the smell of chapatis cooking.
“What else does Kalidas want?” Tanaji asks suspiciously. “More than protection, I bet.”
Lakshman shrugs. “He says that Shivaji should give him the gold that would have been his share.”
“A crore of hun,” whistles Jedhe. “We do all the work, face all the danger, and Shahu should just hand it to him?”
“He said it makes no difference. He told me to tell this to you, Shahu: ‘If Shivaji gives or does not give, it is all one’—that’s what Kalidas said. Still he says to tell you it was the agreed portion.”
Shivaji looks up. “I will consider his request,” is all he says.
“You’ll need more than a hundred men,” Tanaji says.
“No,” says Iron. “Too many and you lose the surprise. Surprise is key.”
“Do we know the day the caravan is to leave?” Bandal asks.
“Kalidas will tell us,” Lakshman answers. “There won’t be much warning. The captain of the caravan’s no fool.”
The men around the circle fall to talking. Plans are scratched out on the floor, maps drawn with fingertips. After they’ve argued for a while Shivaji motions for silence. “What do you say, Hanuman?”
“Three hundred men, lord.”
“Make the arrangements.”
There is a moment, just a moment, of awesome finality. “No good will come of this,” Trelochan says quietly. “To steal that much gold … you think Bijapur won’t react?”
“It’s true,” Tanaji says, frowning. “A moment ago Bijapur’s attack was the only thing we could discuss. Afzul Khan the new commander? Do you think he’ll just sit in Bijapur while we walk off with the whole allotment?
“His attack might come at any time, Shahu,” Tanaji says quietly, continuing. “How will you manage that? You have no cannon, the army is … well, untried, to put it nicely.”
Before Shivaji can answer, however, Bandal speaks: “What difference does it make? We’re no worse off now than we were before. The only difference is, maybe we can get a load of fucking money.”
“Tanaji is right,” Shivaji says, “and so is Bandal. Lakshman, please go to Kalidas, and wait for word of the caravan. Hanuman, please plan the
attack. The rest of us will set up a defense against Afzul Khan. There is no doubt he will attack.” Shivaji stands. “Enough. I’m hungry. Let’s go eat.”
 
 
Sambhuji waits outside. Shivaji’s long arms reach for the boy and draw him in, half-pulling him from his feet. He squeezes him tight, until the little boy giggles and gasps for mercy, then lets him go, mussing his hair. “Let’s go to supper, Sam.”
“Are we going to war, father?” Sambhuji’s eyes gleam.
“Maybe.”
They look up and see Sai Bai coming toward them. “We’ll see, Sam.”
“There’s a big war coming soon!” Sambhuji tells her. “Father might take me along!” He runs ahead to find more friends to tell.
Sai Bai’s face is troubled. “Is it war then?”
Shivaji shrugs. “Maybe.”
She looks at him for a moment as though her heart would burst with all the cares it carries. Instead she reaches for his hand, and presses it, and then turns and walks toward the palace. “I have a surprise, I think, husband.” She leads Shivaji to the dining area.
“It’s too early for dinner, isn’t it?” Shivaji asks.
“You’ll want some privacy for this, I think,” Sai Bai says softly.
Seated on a cushion is Jyoti. Her face looks different though—the eyes are softer, rounder, lined around the lids with kohl; her lips darker, lead-reddened; the hands dyed with an intricate web of red-brown henna. She looks at him with a mixture of joy and terror.
“Aren’t you glad to see Jyoti, husband? I told her you would be. She has come to ask a favor, husband.” Jyoti blushes and turns away.
Shivaji waits. Finally Jyoti turns his way, keeping her eyes low. “I’m an orphan, you know.”
“I think I’ve heard that, Jyoti,” Shivaji replies.
“I’m not that old, you know.”
“No, you are not old,” Shivaji agrees.
“I’ve saved a few rupees, too.”
Shivaji looks puzzled. “That’s good. That’s frugal. Very good.” Sai Bai pats him on the hand, patience, patience.
“Also, I’m a good cook.” This time Shivaji says nothing and merely waits. Jyoti looks up. “Do you get lonesome sometimes, sir?”
Shivaji seems surprised by the question. “Not often.”
“No,” Jyoti says. “No. Because you have a wife.”
Now Shivaji starts to understand. “Jyoti, I am in a giving mood. Ask a favor.”
Jyoti throws herself forward, pressing her head to the floor. “I bow to you, sir. You know what I want. Can you ask for me, sir? I have no one else to represent me. Can you arrange it? Please?”
“Who?” Shivaji says.
“Hanuman.”
Shivaji sits up straight. “That could be difficult.”
“But you could ask?”
“I’ll ask … I’m only saying, maybe it’s not so easy. Maybe …”
Sai Bai catches his eye. “Maybe it won’t be as hard as you think, husband.”
“Oh?” Shivaji sits up, crossing his arms, his eyes darting from face to face. “A love marriage? Is that it? Have you spoken to Hanuman already?” Jyoti turns to him and gives a tiny nod, terrified. Shivaji grunts. “This is not a good idea. Such marriages are doomed, I think. They always end in heartache.”
Jyoti’s face begins to crumble and Sai Bai reaches quickly for her husband’s hand. “But we love each other, husband, do we not?”
“Our love grew, the way it should …
after
we were married.” Shivaji looks uncomfortable. “I’m only saying what is well known, dearest. How can they be happy together?”
Again a look passes between Sai Bai and Jyoti, that woman’s look that men find so unnerving. Shivaji shakes his head, resigned. “Very well, Jyoti. I’ll speak to the family. May you find every happiness.”
Jyoti tries to restrain herself—she shouldn’t look too happy until the wedding is arranged. “I have a little money, not much …”
“Save your money. I’ll take care of it.”
“It will be a wedding gift from us,” Sai Bai says.
“I’ll ask tonight,” Shivaji tells her. Jyoti bows, pressing her forehead to the floor as he steps out the door. Sai Bai watches him, and wonders what the future holds.
 
 
Outside the walls of Golconda, where the Mogul armies wait in siege, Mir Jumla shifts uncomfortably in the ovenlike heat of Aurangzeb’s war tent. He hates it here, for Aurangzeb’s tent is most inhospitable. Would it hurt to have carpets? Cushions? Tables? Even the poorest of officers affords these things!
Aurangzeb has no furniture. He leans against his simple saddle, his legs stretched out on a rough blanket. In his hand he holds a small book, elegantly written, decorated in gold. Books he will spend money on. He flips a page and tilts his head with a nod, as though a passage catches his fancy.
He’s a prince; he may soon be emperor if all goes well, thinks Jumla. Why must he live this way? Perhaps he thinks it will impress me? Very well! I’m impressed! Now may I have a cushion?
Aurangzeb looks up. “Of all poets, Hafiz is finest, don’t you agree?”
Jumla ignores the question, waiting for Aurangzeb to close the book and get on with it. But Aurangzeb stares at Jumla with quiet eyes until Jumla realizes he’s actually expected to answer. “Whoever you prefer, lord,” he says, hoping that he doesn’t sound too impatient.
Aurangzeb sighs and closes his book. “What did you wish to discuss, general?”
He looks into Aurangzeb’s empty eyes and feels afraid. Even God fears a naked man—Who had said that? thinks Jumla “It’s the digging, lord. The trenches you ordered. My men resent it.”
“Tedious, but there is no alternative. The cannon can only do so much. We must breach the walls. That means explosives. That means trenches. But you know this.”
“In Persia we had slaves to do this work.”
“A single Mogul soldier is worth a dozen slaves.”
“But it’s so damned hot, lord,” Jumla says, suddenly vehement. “Too hot to dig. My men are killing themselves.” Another cannon volley rocks the air.
“If you want someone to control the weather, general, you must ask my brother Dara. I understand he’s studied that and many other mystic arts. For my own part, I appreciate a soldier’s honest sweat.” He lifts his hands, looking at Jumla. “They’re my men too, general.”
“I worry for their health, lord. If Golconda should try to break the siege, I don’t think my men will be fit to fight.”
“Very well,” Aurangzeb says. “Let them dig by night.”
Jumla manages to hide his anger. When he looks up, Alu, that slender young eunuch, has floated into the tent. He carries two tight scrolls; these he places at Aurangzeb’s side. The eunuch glances at Jumla, his dark eyelids highlighting his wide eyes. Alu leans forward gracefully and whispers into Aurangzeb’s ear. Then, with another glance at Jumla, Alu glides outside. A sweet perfume, roses and sandalwood, lingers in the tent’s warm air.
Jumla turns back to see that Aurangzeb has been watching. Jumla manages a feeble smile, while the prince’s eyes bore into him. “He’s quite a help to me, you know,” Aurangzeb says quietly.
“Yes, lord,” Jumla answers, trying not show his suspicions. Aurangzeb stares at him. Jumla feels a ball of sweat slide slowly down his back.
“If that’s all, general?” Again the cannon boom, and the thud of the volley thuds against their chests. “How much longer until the trenches reach the city wall?” Aurangzeb asks, as if in afterthought.
“Maybe three weeks, lord.”
Aurangzeb doesn’t even say goodbye. Jumla eventually realizes he’s been dismissed.
Aurangzeb opens the dispatch from Bijapur. Shaista Khan has written:
 
I’ve heard from Hing. Your brother Dara has delayed his move against your father.
From a letter that he sent me, however, it’s clear that Dara is actively baiting the trap. He asked me to sound out the sultana’s reaction to the planned coup. This request is typical of his womanish approach.
I have not the heart to do this. But I can’t delay much more without arousing his suspicion.
Hesitate no more! I beg you in the Prophet’s name to act quickly.
These Bijapuris are like hens without their heads. Without the forts of Maharashtra to protect them, they would be easy to defeat.
Word has come that Shahji’s son, Shivaji of Poona, is starting to recapture his father’s territory. He’s taken a couple of Malve forts—without a shot, if you can believe it. The Bijapuris never saw it coming.
Afzul Khan is pressing hard to attack Shivaji. The Bijapuri hens are holding back. Fools. It would be easy to stop Shivaji now. Best to do it before the boy gets a foothold. This delay may work to our advantage, however.
I have made friends with Shivaji’s emissary, a pleasant bumpkin who trusts me completely. You are more subtle in such matters than I, lord. I’ll wait for your instructions. Should we help Shivaji? Or help Bijapur against him? Perhaps we gain advantage by letting matters take their course.
I trust the siege goes well.
By the way, a troupe of acrobats came to entertain the sultana’s boy. One them was huge, a wrestler who might have been the twin of that giant bodyguard of yours. Does he have a brother? It occurred to me that you might enjoy a matching pair, but he left the palace before I could speak to him.
 
Shaista Khan ends the letter with the usual formal pleasantries. Aurangzeb closes his eyes. He might be sleeping he is so still. The cannon boom again but he shows no sign of having heard. He reads the scroll once more. Then he sets the end of the scroll into the tip of the lamp’s flame.
Once he’s stirred the ashes, he turns to the other dispatch. He takes a deep breath, then he rolls it out to read. It comes from Agra, from his sister Roshanara. And on the scroll there is but one word:
 
Soon.
 
Shivaji knocks on Tanaji’s door. “There’s no one home,” Nirmala tells Shivaji when she answers. “I don’t know where they are.”
“But I have come to talk with you, auntie.” Reluctantly, Nirmala swings aside the narrow door. She had sworn she would never let him come here, after what happened to her poor Lakshman. “You are well, auntie?”
Nirmala harrumphs—How well can a mother be who’s seen her child mutilated? She nods for Shivaji to sit.
“Do you think Hanuman is lonesome, sometimes, auntie?”
Nirmala looks at Shivaji, eyeing him carefully, suspicious of his soft voice and smooth smile. “How am I to know? You keep him too busy … too busy for his own mother.”
“That will not do, auntie,” Shivaji replies. “I will tell him that he must not neglect his mother. Family is important, auntie.”
“That is very true, Shahu.” What’s his game? she wonders. “But surely you did not come here to discuss Hanuman’s family.”
“Ah, but that is precisely why I have come, auntie.”
Instantly she knows why he has come. Feeling suddenly rather wobbly, she sits nearby him. “You can’t be serious. Who’s the girl?”
Shivaji tells her. It takes Nirmala a while to figure out who he’s talking about. When she does, she shrieks with horror. “That one! That one! A nautch girl’s servant! You can’t be serious!”
“She’s not what you think, maybe, auntie. Jyoti’s an orphan, but her parents were of good quality. She was raised by brahmins all her life. She is a servant now, but how should it be otherwise? All her life she was kept by the temple. The woman that she serves is not a nautch girl, not anymore; she is the guru of the devadasis at Welhe. In many ways Jyoti is quite special.”
Nirmala lifts her head imperiously. “She has nothing to recommend her. No family, no accomplishments. You are infatuated with that nautch girl, and hope to gain her approval by recommending her servant.”
Shivaji shakes his head. “I need no one’s favor, auntie. I’m here at my pleasure, and because Sai Bai asked me.”
“Sai Bai?” says Nirmala, widening her eyes. “I thought Sai Bai had better judgment. Hanuman will never agree. Haven’t I tried to get him a wife? How many have I recommended, eh? And always he turns me down!”
“Maybe you haven’t recommended the right woman, auntie.”
Nirmala puffs her cheeks. “And I suppose some orphan servant of a whore is the sort of woman Hanuman would marry!”
“Maybe it is, auntie.” Again that serene, infuriating smile.
Nirmala examines Shivaji’s face. “She … They’re not …” Shivaji lowers his eyes, but his silence tells her everything. “A love marriage,” sighs Nirmala, half in awe, half in sorrow.
“It’s not so bad, auntie,” Shivaji says quietly. “Hanuman is no child. Marriage first, then love—usually that’s true.”
“You think I am an old fool? Your point, I suppose, is that sometimes love may come before marriage? This is, I think, a favorite plot of the songs
that young men sing nowadays. Love before marriage! I’ll have no part in it! It can only end in sadness.”
“But I think Hanuman has found some happiness already, auntie. Isn’t that what you want for him?”
Nirmala eyes Shivaji coldly. “Have you spoken to him about this?”
“No!” Shivaji exclaims. “Jyoti appealed to me to act in a brother’s role. I would never speak to Hanuman before I spoke to you!”
“Well,” she says, her lips tightening as though she’s facing a terrible task, “I’ll discuss it with him. I won’t recommend it, though! I’ll just mention it. We’ll see what he says.”
“Of course, auntie. You must do what you think is right.” But his eyes are bright, because he knows the matter is accomplished. But at the door he turns to Nirmala, his face troubled. “What happened to Lakshman was … terrible. He was brave, so brave, and to be hurt that way … I don’t know what to say, auntie.”
When she looks at him, Nirmala realizes that his heart is overwhelmed with grief. Shivaji has been like another son to her; she cares almost as much about him as she cares about her own two sons, and her eyes cloud with tears. She sees now that he has shared her pain in secret. “Life is hard, sometimes, Shahu. How can anyone avoid its pain? We must all suffer … . But for a mother it is hard, you know? To see that face destroyed. Do you blame me for being angry at you, Shahu?”
“No, auntie. But, auntie, blame me, not Tanaji. I bear the burden, not him. He only did what I ordered.”
“There’s more than enough blame for both of you I think.” She looks away. “Now go. I’ve heard your apology. Give me some time. About the other, I’ll speak with Hanuman. Now go.”
 
 
In the courtyard, Shivaji sees Balaji hurrying toward him. “A letter’s come from Bijapur. From Shaista Khan. He says General Shahji is still in charge. Afzul Khan is supposed to prepare the plan, but Shahji approves it.” Bala’s thick lips pull into a wide smile. “That’s good news, lord.”
Shivaji shakes his head. “Shahji will feel compelled to approve Afzul Khan’s plans. If he doesn’t, he’ll look like a coward or a traitor.”
“But even so, it means delay, lord. Both men will want to maneuver, each will seek to find a way to be superior. It will take days, maybe weeks, before they agree on a plan, longer still to implement it. In the meantime …
Kalyan.” Bala’s face grows almost rapturous, as though he can feel the Bijapuri gold spilling across his fingers.
“What if the gold is a lie, Bala? What do we do then?”
“That can’t be, lord! Lakshman would not lie to us.”
“Maybe not, but Kalidas would.” He gets a foot in a stirrup and swings up over his horse’s saddle. “I’m moving to a tent in the encampment. Stay here and keep an eye on the compound.”
Just then a guardsman rides through the compound gates and rides quickly to Shivaji. “Sir, the sentries saw some activity in that copse near the main gate. It’s a merchant caravan from Surat, lord. One of them is a
farang.
The
farang
claims to know you, sir. He sent this token.” The guardsman holds up a small silver medallion that spins at the end of black string. Bala laughs, recognizing it. “Onil!”
 
 
Balaji rides with Shivaji through Poona toward the main gates. The city swarms with activity—so many have come to Poona in the past few days: soldiers, and their families, and vendors, and merchants—and all seem to be hurrying through Poona’s main thoroughfare.
Outside the city walls, Shivaji and Bala canter about a mile to the copse of trees. O’Neil waves to them. He’s dressed once more in
farang
clothing; his red hair glints in the sunlight. As they ride up, Onil gives them a low
farang
bow, waving his arms gracefully toward the earth.
“Onil, you have returned!” Shivaji says as he dismounts.
O’Neil lifts his hands Indian style. “Yes, lord, I returned. Come see what I have brought you.” He walks toward the trees, where the captain and the caravan escort scramble to their feet. The oxcart drivers try to look important as O’Neil goes to the first cart and pulls aside the tarpaulin. Four bronze cannon lie in the cart. Each of them is about five feet long, with muzzle bores about wide enough for a fist-sized cannonball. Shivaji looks at them and for a moment disappointment crosses his face. “You have others, Onil?”

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