Tiger Claws (52 page)
Authors: John Speed
Soon Hanuman says: “I have a woman I like, but I cannot marry her. My mother does not like her, I think. Maybe you know her, Onil. She is Jyoti, the servant of that nautch girl, Maya.”
O’Neil tosses a newly finished bomb to Hanuman. “I know that one. Why servant girl, Hanuman? Why not nautch girl? She is pretty, eh?”
Hanuman seems amused. “She’s a nautch girl, Onil. Not suitable, you understand? Also, her family. She is a something, you understand?”
O’Neil isn’t sure what sort of something the nautch girl would be that would make her even more unsuitable. An orphan, maybe? He seems to remember that Maya is an orphan. Then a thought occurs to him; he remembers the sword that nautch girl gave to Shivaji, the Solingen blade with the six-pointed stars engraved on the steel. “That nautch girl, that Maya. Her father is a
farang
?”
farang
?”
“I think maybe yes. But I think her father is dead now.”
“Ahcha,” O’Neil answers. What does that make her? he wonders. Makes her an outcaste, I suppose, not a fit companion for a Hindu. And then an image occurs to him unbidden: Maya walking back from her bath, her hair flowing unbraided in the breeze, her skin shining in the sunlight.
And a thought strikes him—one both practical and pleasant. He thinks about voicing it aloud, but on second thought, he holds his tongue. He’s managed fine without a woman so far. But as he tries to work, his mind seems intent on conjuring up images he has until now kept at bay, and the woman he imagines is one fair and slender, with burning, gold-flecked eyes.
Outside it is bright afternoon, but in this part of the Bijapur palace, it might be midnight. Some of the people waiting in the line cough from the smoke of the torches. Just ahead, someone has overturned a narrow wooden box, because the opening grows smaller and higher every hour, and many of those in line are now too short to see.
Of course, those who get the best view also get the worst smells. For manacled as he is, the prisoner has few options. His pants are stained with urine and excrement. Once an hour, the hourglass sands run out. A weary old mason ambles forward with a wet lump of mortar, a well-worn trowel, and a single brick. The corridor echoes the scraping of the mortar and the ringing of trowel as he taps the brick in place.
When they see the mighty Hindu general kneeling in his own excrement, what do they think? That ruin may come to anyone? That in the end, even the greatest warrior must soil himself like a baby?
A one-eyed man lingers while the others peer into the shadows and move on. When others stay too long, the guards scowl and poke them away, but this man has been free with his baksheesh and they leave him alone.
At one point the corridor echoes with the
bang
of an opening door, and the
clack
of thick heels on stone. A huge, heavy-set noble stomps down the hall, a little boy scurrying ahead of him. Bright rings glitter on his heavy fingers. He scoops up the boy and lifts him so he can look. The boy giggles. After a moment the man sets him down, and glances inside himself, taking
a moment to spit into the cell before he leads the boy away. The guards bow until they hear the palace door slam shut.
bang
of an opening door, and the
clack
of thick heels on stone. A huge, heavy-set noble stomps down the hall, a little boy scurrying ahead of him. Bright rings glitter on his heavy fingers. He scoops up the boy and lifts him so he can look. The boy giggles. After a moment the man sets him down, and glances inside himself, taking
a moment to spit into the cell before he leads the boy away. The guards bow until they hear the palace door slam shut.
The next time the hourglass is turned, the guards push everyone aside; they even hold the mason back. At their nod, the one-eyed man steps onto the overturned box and tosses a brass flask into the cell; it clatters across the stone floor and rests against the prisoner’s knees. This moment has cost him twenty rupees.
Shahji looks up at the one-eyed man. For a moment he seems to recognize the face. But no, the general thinks, for he knows no one with a face scarred so, with one eye ruined so. He considers mouthing some word of a thanks. But how will he reach that flask, just inches from his knee, and even if he could, how would he open it, and even if he opened it, how would he drink? Thirsty as he is, the gesture seems to him most cruel.
Shahji prays to all the gods that he might die, but from his lips what comes is only a long and incoherent moan.
The sultana still sits upon the throne, still hidden beneath a mountain of green velvet, but the faces of the nobles turn her way no longer. Instead they cluster around the towering form of Afzul Khan as he holds forth, standing with his back to the queen. “This is what comes of pandering to infidels!” Afzul Khan cries, his neck swollen with rage. “We must only crush them! We must grind their idols into dust!”
He is only starting to warm to his subject, however, when the major domo calls out: “His excellency Ali Rashid, ambassador and messenger of Prince Aurangzeb, Viceroy of the Deccan!”
A young man dressed in black robes shot with silver walks confidently forward. Ambassador Rashid moves to the dais, and makes a sweeping bow.
“Your highness,” he says in a clear voice that carries easily through the hall, “I bring you greetings.” He holds out a roll of parchment heavy with ribbons and seals. “Madam, sadly the urgent nature of my mission prohibits the exchange of pleasantries. I beg you read this letter straightaway.” He holds out the parchment until Wali Khan, with that special care that men of size are apt to use, picks his way down to receive it.
Soon all is quiet except the ticking of the Persian clock. Wali Khan breaks the seals and unrolls the parchment. Slowly, his fat lips moving, he reads it silently. Then he shuts his eyes and stands as still as stone.
“Read it,” comes the sultana’s muffled voice.
Wali Khan’s face voice is tight. “‘To our much loved servant, the sultana of Bijapur, greetings.’”
“Servant!” bellows Afzul Khan. “He says that? Servant?”
“Let him read, general,” says the queen.
“That is not right!” Afzul Khan protests, turning his angry eyes to the messenger.
The ambassador lifts his head proudly. “I am the embassy of the Great Mogul and my person is inviolate,” he says softly. The messenger is weaponless, but his soldiers place their hands upon their sword hilts. Afzul Khan glares at him, nostrils flaring.
Wali Khan continues. “‘It has come to our notice that Bijapur has imprisoned Shahji, the father of our ally, Lord Shivaji of Poona.’”
An angry murmur stirs through the crowd of nobles. They look to Afzul Khan, but the general stands mute. He appears baffled: eyes wide, mouth working, speechless. He may be brave and full of bluster—but he has no skills, the nobles now realize, to respond to the subtle thrusts of a Mogul ambassador.
Desperately nobles shift their gaze to the dais. Surely the sultana can answer. Or Wali Kahn, or Whisper. Even Afzul Khan turns around to look.
“Fetch him,” comes the sultana’s muffled voice.
The nobles explode into anguished cries, but Wali Khan looks to his guards and lifts his chin. Without a word, the guards begin to move. “No!” shouts Afzul Khan, glaring at Wali Khan. His eyeballs seem about to burst from their sockets. “No!” he says again, this time quietly. “No, I will do it.”
He turns and stomps from the hall. The nobles watch him go. The wiser ones, sensing the unexpected shift in the mantle of command, bow appreciatively toward the silver throne.
“Lord Ambassador, how kind of you to bring us this letter,” pipes Whisper, his voice barely perceptible. “We might have thought to receive it from the hands of our dear friend, Shaista Khan. Is he not well?”
“Prince Dara requested General Shaista’s presence. Viceroy Aurangzeb, concerned for General Shahji’s safety, sent me. I am an unworthy substitute, I fear. My main advantage was proximity.” The ambassador waves his hand, the vague, unconcerned gesture of a man born to nobility. “I was so anxious to come, I fear I even outpaced the small honor guard the viceroy sent with me. No matter, they shall be here presently.”
“We shall be glad to welcome them, Lord Ambassador,” Whisper says. “The guesthouse of Shaista Khan—”
“They are too many for that guesthouse, I would think.”
“How many are there, Lord Ambassador?” Whisper asks.
“Some five thousand, with horse and elephant, Lord
Khaswajara,
” the ambassador says. “Imperial guards detailed by the viceroy. I am most honored to be favored by their company.”
Khaswajara,
” the ambassador says. “Imperial guards detailed by the viceroy. I am most honored to be favored by their company.”
Whisper’s eyes grow wide, but he recovers himself. “It is no less honor than you deserve, I’m sure.” The ambassador inclines his head, his point driven home.
“Bijapur welcomes you, lord. We are pleased to hear that Shaista Khan is well,” comes the sultana’s voice, softened by her many veils. She lifts a covered hand, and Wali Khan and Whisper step close to her. “What shall I do?” whispers the muffled voice.
Wali Khan looks fiercely toward the face that he has never seen. “You must free him, madam.”
“It will be seen as weakness, madam,” Whisper answers. “Afzul Khan will seize upon the act to depose you.”
“He would not dare!” the queen gasps.
“He’ll declare himself regent to the heir. Any hope you have of power will be lost,” Whisper insists.
“What if you do not free him, madam?” Wali Khan whispers. “What of Aurangzeb’s imperial guard? They are enough to rescue Shahji, maybe even enough to capture you, madam. If we fall upon them, Aurangzeb will send armies to invade us. It will be war, madam.”
“War must come, madam,” Whisper replies. “We’ve known that for years.”
“But who will lead your armies, madam?” Wali Khan protests. “Shahji? I think not. Afzul Khan? Give him the army and he will depose you! You must release Shahji, madam—you have no choice!”
“If I release Shahji, then I hand over the regency. There must be some way to contain Afzul Khan,” the sultana says, sounding desperate. “You are my advisers! How shall I do this?”
Whisper shakes his head. “I know not, madam.”
“Give me time to think, madam,” Wali Khan says.
“There is no time,” she answers. “You men! You act as though you have forgotten our most important problem!”
“What is that, madam?” Whisper says.
“The gold!” she answers. “The Kankonen gold! How shall anyone rule without a treasury?”
As Afzul Khan strides along the dark corridor, he at last begins to think. Who knew that Shahji had allies in Agra? He’s played a double game the whole time, Afzul Khan realizes. Well, now we know. He’s always been a traitor. I alone understood the threat! I alone acted!
Maybe I should kill her, he thinks. It would be easy enough. She’s only stolen her power from that boy of hers. And who better to help the boy to grow into manhood?
The guards have heard him coming and pushed the crowds away. Afzul Khan glares at everyone. The wall is nearly finished now—the remaining opening would be filled by only one or two more bricks. For a moment he stands beside it, head bowed, nostrils flaring. Then he strikes.
Inside the alcove that has become his tomb, Shahji kneels and prays for death. Soon, he prays with all his heart. Soon.
He hears the crash and clatter. Despite his weariness, his eyes turn once more toward the wall. A half dozen bricks go flying through the air, crashing to the floor around him. Shahji ducks his head.
Then the great bulk of Afzul Khan looms over him. Kill me, prays Shahji. He waits for the heavy foot to kick. Instead Afzul Khan unlocks his chains.
Shahji pitches to the floor. Afzul Khan grabs him by the collar and tosses him through the broken opening. Shahji rolls over and sees the cowering faces of a line of people in the torchlight, and the dreadful face of the one-eyed man who threw the water flask.
But the moment ends quickly. Shoved and dragged and thrown and carried, Shahji lurches toward the throne room. At last he falls at the dais steps, on the very spot he landed—when? A day ago? A week? A month?
“As you requested, madam,” Afzul Khan growls out, gasping for breath. “Here is the traitor.”
“Your wish, Lord Ambassador?” the queen asks.
“I pray that you put him in my care, madam,” the ambassador answers.
The sultana nods to her
khaswajara
. “You may take him to Shaista Khan’s residence,” Whisper says.
khaswajara
. “You may take him to Shaista Khan’s residence,” Whisper says.
“There he may stay, but no other place,” says the veiled queen.
The ambassador bows. “As you say, madam.”
Soon Shahji is hoisted to his feet by the two Mogul guards. Though he has no idea how he comes to be free, he doesn’t care. Somehow Shahji manages to walk from the hall like a man.
“You got what you came for, Lord Ambassador,” the queen says. Her voice is strong behind her many veils. “You have the father.” She pauses. “The son, however, is a different story.”
The ambassador straightens. “I have no instructions about the son, madam.” He looks at the mountain of velvet, but there is no face to read.
“Then sir, leave with our blessing.” With these words, the ambassador takes his leave.
For a moment silence blankets the room, and then the sultana speaks.
“Shivaji,” she says. The word becomes a hiss that echoes through the room. “Who will rid me of that mountain rat?”
At last a noble speaks. “I will,” answers Afzul Khan.
Tension grows as the days pass. In the bazaar, a crowd of angry Bijapuris stone a Hindu merchant to death; no one is quite sure why, but everyone, at least the Muslims, seems certain he deserved it. The few Hindu shopkeepers in the great city board up their stalls.
Lakshman buys the white knitted cap of a
haji
and begins to sit amidst the
qwali
singers at the tomb of Ibrahim Roza, the Sufi saint buried in the shadow of the massive dome of the Gol Gumbaz.
haji
and begins to sit amidst the
qwali
singers at the tomb of Ibrahim Roza, the Sufi saint buried in the shadow of the massive dome of the Gol Gumbaz.
The
qwalis
echo through the courtyard. The lead singer is a blind man with white, wandering eyes. His voice like a trumpet rings pure and strong over the drone of the tamboura and the
thud
of the tabla. The singers join the chorus as the blind man ends the verse. As Lakshman becomes familiar with the songs, he joins in. After a while, one of the singers slides over, making a space for Lakshman.
qwalis
echo through the courtyard. The lead singer is a blind man with white, wandering eyes. His voice like a trumpet rings pure and strong over the drone of the tamboura and the
thud
of the tabla. The singers join the chorus as the blind man ends the verse. As Lakshman becomes familiar with the songs, he joins in. After a while, one of the singers slides over, making a space for Lakshman.
From time to time Lakshman enters the tomb, placing his head under the grave cloth of the saint. The third time he does this, he kisses the stone over the saint’s feet like a devout Muslim. When he rises, he accepts the gift of flower petals scattered on the tomb, eating them one by one with closed eyes as a true believer might. The tomb attendants embrace him as a brother. They smell funny, Lakshman thinks.
Sometimes Lakshman sits apart, moving his lips, babbling any nonsense that comes into his head. Before long pilgrims approach him, cautiously kneeling to drop coins at his feet as though he too might be a saint. He reaches to touch their bent shoulders and says something, anything,
and they look at him in gratitude, their eyes sometimes damp with tears. One day, the imam giving the lesson uses Lakshman as an example of true devotion.
and they look at him in gratitude, their eyes sometimes damp with tears. One day, the imam giving the lesson uses Lakshman as an example of true devotion.
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