Authors: John Speed
Tiger Claws (49 page)
Word reached Bijapur in the middle of the night: A lone horseman, exhausted, covered with ash and mud after riding from the Vyasa Pass, carried the tale.
The story swept through the city like a fire. By dawn the nobles had gathered at the palace.
Gongs and trumpets blare; the dais door opens. The sultana appears, like a green tent gliding over the marble dais to the silver throne. Behind her comes the bony old eunuch Whisper, guiding the heir, still yawning, to a place beside his mother.
“He’s coming,” Wali Khan announces, lifting his silver-headed staff.
The throng of nobles grows quiet. The rear door of the Diwan-i-Am bangs open, its echo booming from the marble dome above.
Afzul Khan strides in, shoving General Shahji before him. His hands are bound, and he staggers drunkenly as Afzul Khan thrusts Shahji forward with his huge, hamlike hands. The nobles open a path, wincing as they see the bruises on Shahji’s face. Shahji stumbles in gracelessly; lurching into a cluster of sneering nobles, and falling to his knees.
“I have brought the traitor as I promised, madam,” Afzul Khan growls, and the room explodes in cries for vengeance. Wali Khan raps his silver-headed staff against the dais steps. The roar’s echo lingers.
Shahji, facedown on the cold marble floor, hears but cannot see Wali Khan descending from the dais. “Surely this treatment is unnecessary, General Khan,” he says hoarsely.
Grabbing Shahji’s collar, Afzul Khan lifts him effortlessly from the floor. “How should a villain be treated, O Wise Vizier?” Afzul Khan snarls. He lets go, and Shahji’s face smacks the floor.
“He is the queen’s commander,” Wali Khan says feebly, and again is greeted by furious shouts.
“That was a mistake, O Grand Vizier,” says Afzul Khan, “but one which can be remedied.”
“Let him speak,” says the sultana’s muffled voice. But Afzul Khan doesn’t move.
Then Whisper, thin as a dry, old reed, comes to his mistress’s side. There’s something unnerving in his look. Afzul Khan slowly lifts his foot from Shahji’s head. As he steps away, his heel clips Shahji’s ribs, as if by mistake. Shahji’s body lifts up, and then flops to the floor with a
thud
.
thud
.
“Well?” the sultana says after long, uncomfortable wait.
Shahji lifts his head. “I have done no wrong. I have in all things done my duty.”
The nobles groan in protest, bravely shaking their fists. Wali Khan bangs his staff for silence. “There is the matter of your son, commander …,” the vizier says.
“I know him not,” Shahji growls. The nobles cry out. Some pretend to tear their exquisite, fragile garments.
“You know him, liar,” Afzul Khan bellows. “He is your puppet, that is clear. You have played us false, traitor!”
“Madam, I beg you …,” Shahji whispers.
Surely she cannot hear him in the midst of all those voices, but she lifts her hand, hidden under the tent of her robes. “The queen will speak! The queen will speak!” rasps Whisper. Only when Afzul Khan raises his huge arms does the crowd grow quiet.
“We know your son, commander,” says the queen. “First he stole our forts. But now he takes our very blood, commander! He has stolen the year’s allotment! We are ruined!” Her words mingle with the shouts of the assembled nobles until Afzul Khan again signs for silence.
“This is Shivaji’s evil, not mine, madam. I begged you to attack him.”
“That was all talk, fool! You should have acted!” bellows Afzul Khan. He appeals to the queen. “Are we to think that foolish child has acted alone? Achieved success by luck alone? No one is that lucky! It is obvious who assisted him!” Afzul Khan kicks Shahji so savagely his body flips over like a sack of sand.
“This is not true,” gasps Shahji. Blood stains his teeth.
Afzul Khan is set to strike again, when the sultana cries out “Stop! What good does it do to kick him, general?”
Then Afzul Khan lifts his chin ever so slightly toward the dais, ever so slightly nods. The boy playing at his mother’s feet sees his uncle’s nod. Instantly he stands. “Silence, silence!” Afzul Khan calls out. “The heir would speak!”
“The heir is but a boy!” Wali Khan protests.
“We’ve heard enough from the son of this traitor,” Afzul Khan sneers. “Let us hear what the son of our sultan may say.”
Though the sultana reaches out to stop him, her little boy moves to the silver rail.
“Let him be sealed, uncle,” the boy’s thin voice pipes.
“What did he say?” bellows Afzul Khan dramatically, holding out his arms to the other nobles.
“I said, let him be sealed!” shouts the boy.
“Let him be sealed!” Afzul Khan howls. “Let him be sealed!” Soon all the nobles take up the cry. The boy sultan slips beneath the silver rail to stand near Afzul Khan, his upturned face shining.
“What has he done to deserve this? Who will be next, Afzul Khan?” the vizier calls out. But the mob of nobles is already on the move.
“No!” Shahji cries as Afzul Khan hauls him to his feet. “No!” he screams again as Afzul Khan drags him from the audience hall.
The boy sultan, laughing and pointing, chases along behind. The noblemen follow after them like yapping dogs.
The alcove has walls of dark brick and a moldy smell, for there are only shadows here. Manacles black and heavy hang from bolts embedded in the walls. Afzul Khan fits these over Shahji’s wrists.
“You shall be sealed, traitor,” Afzul Khan intones. “We shall send letters to Shivaji. If he wants to save you, let him come here. Let him bring our gold. Or I shall go and take it from him. With these hands, I swear it!” He turns back to Shahji with a sneer. “Your son shall decide, general. I shall be happy either way.”
“Will he be sealed, now, uncle?” the boy sultan asks, his small hand reaching into Afzul Khan’s huge fist.
Afzul Khan looks down fondly. “Yes, sealed, but slowly, little one. One brick an hour. You will watch him die. Find the mason,” he snarls to a nearby guard. “Make sure the bricks are large.”
“Have you seen Shivaji?” Hanuman asks, walking to Bala’s room. Trelochan shakes his head.
Everyone wants to see Shivaji. But in the three days since he has returned to Poona, bringing with him in triumph the Kalyan allotment, Shivaji has scarcely showed his face. “Maybe he’s with Sai Bai,” Trelochan suggests. “Do you think he’s all right, Hanuman? He seemed very distraught at the funerals, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know why,” Hanuman replies. “We only lost eleven men. Eleven men against a thousand. The Bijapuris had almost two hundred dead.” He frowns and scuffs the ground as he walks. “Why hasn’t he sent for me? I’m supposed to be his damned lieutenant!”
They reach Bala’s room. To their surprise, Bala is not alone. Seated beside him is a small, strangely dressed man. His skin is extremely dark, his eyes fiery. The fabric of his clothing is richly colored, decorated with hundreds of tiny white dots, and embroidered with silver thread and beadwork. Near the man’s bare feet lies a long black dog. “What’s Bala doing with a tribal?” Hanuman whispers to Trelochan.
“Come and meet this person,” Bala says pleasantly.
The tribal lifts his hands in greeting, and Hanuman notices the network of white scars and black tattoos that circle his wrists. “Tell them what you were telling me,” Bala says to the small man.
“I am Warli tribe man. Name Lion.” Though heavily accented, the man’s language is clear enough. “Bring story to you headman. Tell story. Strong place ours. We give.” Puzzling this through, Hanuman glances at Bala, but Bala seems not to notice. Lion goes on, “Strong place, you understand? Pratapghad. We give you headman.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Hanuman says. “Are you saying you have captured Pratapghad? Taken the fort?”
“‘Fort’ means strong place, yes?” Lion answers carefully. “Yes, take strong place. Give head man. Give Shivaji. Give son of Shahji.”
Trelochan whistles. “I’ve been to that fort. There’s a big Bhavani temple there, on a hill inside the walls, very old. The tribals revere it—they think the Bhavani
murti
is their tree goddess. The fort itself is quite grand.”
murti
is their tree goddess. The fort itself is quite grand.”
Hanuman leans close to Bala and whispers. “Tribals taking Pratapghad? Can it be believed?”
“I’ve never known a Warli to lie,” Bala answers.
“But how?” Hanuman asks Lion. “How did you do it? What about the Bijapuris?”
“Warli sneak. Bijapur all dead men now. Bijapur bad men. Break tree. Tree goddess sad. Cry to Warli. Warli fix. Warli sneak. Bijapur bad men dead.” Lion says all this quite calmly, patting his dog’s long back.
Hanuman slides next to Trelochan and whispers. “Can this be true? I thought the Warli were peaceful.”
“They’re great archers, don’t forget. And they’re not peaceful when it comes their gods. They worship trees.”
“Yes, trees. Trees good. Bijapur break tree. Bad. Now Shivaji take strong place. Not break trees. Yes? Not.”
“This can’t be happening,” Hanuman says. “How can this be? Tribals come out of nowhere to give Shahu forts?”
“This is her work,” Bala says reverently, nodding toward his
murti
of Bhavani. “Nothing is beyond her power.”
murti
of Bhavani. “Nothing is beyond her power.”
“But Bala,” Hanuman exclaims. “Forts, money, armies! These things have just appeared!”
Bala rises and bows to Lion. “My dear Lion, you must be exhausted after your journey. Let me get food for you. And for your dog.” He goes to his door and calls out. Soon a servant girl escorts Lion from the room.
“Does Shivaji know about this?” Hanuman asks.
Bala shrugs. “All this news and no one can find him.”
“More news than this, Bala?” Trelochan asks.
Bala nods. “The towns of Indapur and Baramati have written. They need our help—they’ve set up roadblocks and have stopped the flow of supplies to the forts there.”
“A siege?” Trelochan gasps. “The fools. The Bijapuris will drive down from the forts and destroy them!”
“They ask us to send troops,” Bala explains.
“We don’t have troops to send,” Hanuman says blankly.
“Don’t we?” Bala asks, honestly surprised. “Have you paid attention to the encampment? Two or three thousand men have arrived in the past three days! I’ve had to set up special teams to find supplies. They all arrive hungry, of course. And more are on the way! Lonavala is sending men; Pimpalgoan is; Peth is. Other towns too. Jedhe and Bandal’s men are arriving as we speak, and they say more are on their way. Lots more!” Bala’s face, always smiling, now seems to glow as he speaks. “Do you think that the goddess is powerless? This is her work!”
Hanuman doesn’t want Bala to see his disbelief, and he turns away. Trelochan catches his eye. “If you don’t believe in the goddess, you can believe in money. Money changes everything.”
“Yes.” Hanuman nods. “The gold.”
“Her gold,” Bala says softly.
“Have you finished counting it?” Trelochan asks.
“Nearly,” Bala replies.
“And how much is there?” Trelochan prompts.
Bala smiles. “Lots.”
“Damn it,” exclaims Hanuman. “Where the hell is Shahu?”
At an old temple on a hill overlooking Poona, as the air grows cool and the evening breezes blow, Shivaji weeps. Though he knows Bhavani is everywhere, he comes to this small dark temple, as though it contains the door to her heart.
Wiping his eyes with his palm, Shivaji stares across the river at the lights of Poona. The river sparkles like a cloth strewn with tiny mirrors. At length he picks his way down the hill, his path lit only by the stars.
At the riverbank, Shivaji walks slowly past eleven heaps of ashes. In some the embers still glow orange. “You hardly knew them,” Hanuman had said as the flames of the funeral pyres leapt into the air.
“I knew them well enough,” Shivaji replied.
Now only ash remains, and soon the wind will blow the ash away. Shivaji steps into the river. The water comes up nearly to his armpits, so he holds his gauntlet sword above his head. Once on the other side, Shivaji walks along the outside of the city walls. A shadow catches his eye, and Shivaji turns, reaching for his sword.
Amidst a pile of rags lies the wizened, naked body of Ram Das. “What are you doing here?” Ram Das croaks.
Shivaji sheathes his sword. “I should be asking this of you!”
“But then I would know for certain that you are fool,” Ram Das answers. “Do you have any food?”
Shivaji shrugs. “Sorry, father.”
“Never mind.” Ram Das peers into Shivaji’s shadowed face. “Hold out your hands.” Slowly, uncertainly, Shivaji lifts his hands. In the moonlight he sees blood pouring from his palms. “Those are your scars are bleeding. Remember how you got those scars, lord?”
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