Tiger Claws (57 page)

Authors: John Speed

BOOK: Tiger Claws

8.99Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

“Good. You’re awake,” says Lakshman. “You can see Pratapghad from here. We can be there in an hour.” He lifts his chin to the west, to a great sloping mountain ringed around its crest with stones, like a black crown. “We must be on our way. There’s a stream over there, if you want to use it.”

Maya nods, and walks stiffly to a nearby stream. Her legs ache, and the insides of her thighs are chafed. She drinks and splashes her face with water, reties her sari, braids her hair. Her muscles ache. I’m not used to riding, she thinks. She looks up to see Lakshman on his pony. “Changed your mind about sitting up front?” Maya shakes her head. Lakshman helps her up behind his saddle, his bright eye never blinking.

“You moan in your sleep,” Lakshman says after they’ve ridden for a while. “You make lots of noise. You kept calling out: ‘Shivaji, Shivaji!’”

Suddenly her head clears, and with startling clarity she remembers her dream. Shivaji had come to her in the forest, tall and strong. He had lain beside her, held her in his arms. She was willing; he was ready. She’d never had a dream so real. Even now she recalls the power as he thrust inside her, the violence of it, the heat. Wrapping her legs around his waist, pounding his buttocks with her heels, calling out his name, gripping him as she felt the spasms shudder through her, melting as he exploded deep inside her.

She finds herself trembling at the memory. It had all seemed so real. So very, very real.

Lakshman chuckles. “How you enjoyed it. How you groaned. How you begged for more.” As if he sees into her thoughts, he lisps, “It all seemed so real!” Lakshman’s lip curls and he whispers in Maya’s ear: “Did I not say you’d know? Did I not say you’d never be the same?”

And although the sun is high now, Maya trembles.

CHAPTER 27

“But can this be, general? Do the walls of Golconda still stand?”

General Jumla scowls at the smug prick sitting on the other side of Aurangzeb’s humble war tent. He readies, to launch a stinging response but catches Aurangzeb’s look. “Ali Rashid,” he says, grinding his molars, “since I have left the Bijapuri court to you, perhaps you will be good enough to leave the conduct of this war to me.”

“Nothing in war is certain,” says Aurangzeb’s quiet voice. “The diggers ran into an unexpected layer of rock.” Ali Rashid nods as if to suggest that if
he
had been in charge, there’d have been no rock at all. “Suppose you tell us how things went in Bijapur,” Aurangzeb says.

“Extremely well, Lord Viceroy,” Ali Rashid replies. “I demanded that the Marathi commander be released. Of course the sultana complied.” Aurangzeb gives the slightest nod. Ali Rashid hesitates: he expected a compliment, at least a smile. “I took the poor man to Shaista Khan’s residence.”

Jumla lifts his head at this, and shoots a glance at Aurangzeb, but the prince only stares at his carpet. “Shaista Khan is still in Agra? With Prince Dara? When’s he expected back?” Jumla asks.

“He’s away indefinitely, general. I think it may be best to bring this Commander Shahji here, or to take him to Agra. I’m not sure of his safety when Afzul Khan returns.”

Aurnagzeb’s head snaps up. “Returns?”

“He took a small force to Poona, I believe.”

“How small?” says Jumla.

“Fifteen thousand,” Ali Rashid says, surprised that this information is causing concern.

“We’ve got Shahji. Afzul Khan’s gone. Who’s in charge of their eastern armies?”

“I don’t know, lord,” Ali Rashid says. “It should be easy to find out.” Aurangzeb glares at him. “Of course, I sent a note to Shivaji as you suggested, telling him Shahji had been freed, offering him help. Also to say he should present himself in Agra with the nine crore hun as tribute.”

Aurangzeb blinks. “You put both the offer of help and the demand for tribute in the same letter?”

Ali Rashid shifts uncomfortably. “At the time, it seemed …”

“What was Shivaji’s reaction?” Jumla asks softly. His lifted eyebrows bulge over his thin nose.

“A very prompt response, general. Shivaji said he had matters in hand. But he agreed to go to Agra. He’s probably on his way there now.”

“Probably?”

“He said that he was making preparations, and would leave as soon as he was able. I understood—”

“Fool!” shouts Jumla. “You understood very little, it appears!”

“Keep a civil tone, sir,” Ali Rashid says haughtily. “I trust I’ve managed this affair appropriately.”

“You haven’t managed it at all!” Jumla snaps.

“And then you sent your men to Poona?” Aurangzeb asks.

“There was no need, lord,” Ali Rashid replies, his face confused. “My men are marching back from Bijapur, even as we speak. With the war moving so slowly here, I assumed …”

“I told you not to send him!” Jumla cries. “I told you he’d botch it up!”

Ali Rashid’s face grows pale. “How dare you, sir! My father—”

“Your father is an imbecile,” grunts Jumla, “and you, sir, are a fool.”

“Lord,” Ali Rashid pleads to Aurangzeb.

“Jumla’s right,” Aurangzeb answers, staring serenely at the carpet. “You’ve killed Shivaji and you’ve lost the gold. More important, you’ve lost the trade routes. Shivaji might have been our ally. I thought you might have gained some sense from your mother. Sadly, you’re your father’s son.”

Ali Rashid looks as if he has been struck. “I’ll send the army, lord! I’ll make things right!”

“It’s too late,” Jumla snarls. “Afzul Khan will have captured the gold and killed Shivaji by this time.”

“Maybe Shivaji has defeated him!”

Jumla sneers. “If Shivaji defeats a Bijapuri army under Afzul Khan, he’ll have no trouble defeating you!”

“A Mogul soldier is worth a dozen Bijapuris!” Ali Rashid shouts. “How dare you insult our soldiers!”

Aurangzeb stands and turns away. “He’s not insulting our soldiers, Ali Rashid. He’s insulting you. Take a rug.”

Ali Rashid stares; he has no idea what Aurangzeb might mean. Then Aurangzeb unfurls a small carpet to face west, toward Mecca. He takes from his pocket a small brown disk, clay fired from the soil of Mecca. He places his forehead on the disk, and begins to say his prayers. Jumla, glaring at Ali Rashid, hurls a prayer rug at him, then rolls out one himself.

Then a slender eunuch stoops through the entry of the tent. “Highness! A dispatch from Agra! Highness, it’s important,” he insists.

He taps the prince’s shoulder but Aurangzeb does not stir. Only when he has finished praying does he turn to Alu. “Never disturb my prayers.”

“This is important, highness,” Alu says, giving him a silver tube.

Aurangzeb frowns and takes the tube.

“It’s from Murad,” Jumla whispers to Ali Rashid, now so caught up in the moment that he has forgotten his anger.

“Murad? Aurangzeb’s brother?” But Jumla doesn’t answer; his eyes are locked on Aurangzeb’s face for any sign as to the scroll’s contents.

At last Aurangzeb sighs, and his shoulders slump. “Not important enough to interrupt prayers,” he says finally, with a face of sorrow. “But I forgive you this time.” Aurangzeb closes his eyes. “My father’s dead.”

“
Allah akbar
!” Ali Rashid whispers. “God is great, lord. How did the
padshah
die?”

“My brother, in his grief, has neglected to tell me.” He looks down once again, studying the parchment intently.

“So the time has come at last, my old friend,” says Jumla gently.

“Yes,” Aurangzeb replies. “Dara has mobilized his armies around Agra. Murad has begun the march from Surat.”

“For a funeral?” asks Ali Rashid. He seems confused to be discussing tactics at this time of tragedy.

“For a battle,” answers Jumla wearily.

“This is the moment I have dreaded, general,” says Aurangzeb. “Somehow I thought the day would never come. A foolish hope. Vain to think that death might somehow pass us by.”

“I’m so sorry about your father, lord,” says Ali Rashid.

“Don’t be,” Aurangzeb replies, his face now empty of any emotion. “When my mother died, he lost all perspective. He lived in vanity and debauchery. He fancied he’d make a paradise on earth; all the while he sank deeper into hell. I fear he’s in the fire even now, cursing the Prophet with each burning breath.”

“Never you mind, Ali Rashid,” Jumla says, voice dripping venom. “You’ve still got Dara. Your father is Dara’s favorite.”

“Well, Dara will be a good emperor, won’t he? You act like there’s something wrong with him.”

Jumla nods toward Aurangzeb. “Remember where you are, fool. What do you think is going to happen to
him
?” At the young man’s puzzled look, Jumla explodes: “He’ll be killed, and his children and his wives! A new emperor kills his rivals!”

“But everyone knows that Aurangzeb has no designs on the Peacock Throne.”

Aurangzeb looks up. “Pray, tell my dear brother that when you see him. But I don’t think that he’ll believe you.”

Ali Rashid seems stunned. “Lord, please excuse my—”

Aurangzeb waves his hand. “What Allah wills. I am but a poor fakir, Ali Rashid. What difference to me life or death? Still, out of kindness, think well of me when I am gone.” He sighs. “I suppose you wish to go to Agra? At times like these, a son’s thoughts bend to his beloved father, no? Go. Travel fast. Dara will set his armies on me soon. You won’t want to be here when he does.”

Ali Rashid looks alarmed. “Your kindness, lord, will never be forgotten, not by me or by my heirs.”

“You see his quality?” Aurangzeb smiles to Jumla. “What an idle promise that would be, coming from me.”

“You have sons, lord,” Ali Rashid protests.

“Not for long, I fear.”

Ali Rashid stands. “Then I swear here, by the Prophet, that my children will pray for you, and my children’s children, for seven generations!”

“I am much comforted. Now do go quickly.”

When he’s gone, Jumla groans. “What a pompous jackanapes!”

“He’s an improvement on the father.”

“Pray Allah that I never see either man again.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Jumla,” Aurangzeb says.

Alu stoops through the door flap and glides gently forward. “Highness, what are your commands?”

“Murad brings his army to Rathanbore. We will raise the siege at once and with all haste rendezvous with him there. I myself will leave immediately with a hundred guards. Leave the tents behind. Rathanbore fort is well stocked.” He turns to Jumla. “Now listen: forget the cannon, forget the elephants. What we’ll need the most is men.”

“You can’t mean to leave everything here, lord,” Jumla protests.

“Things have changed, Jumla. A moment ago the Marathi, what’s his name—Shivaji—was all I cared about. Now he has lost all importance.”

Jumla frowns. “I’m not leaving five hundred cannon for the Golcondans. They’ll end up being used against us.”

“You’re correct of course, general. Detail four thousand men to bring them north. Alu, I’ll set you in charge of the transport of the cannon.”

“I’d prefer to go with you, highness, in the vanguard.”

Aurangzeb gives him a grateful smile. “Thank you. But Jumla’s right, we need to bring the cannon, and I too am right; we can’t afford to wait. You know how to get results. You have effective means of persuasion, I understand.” Alu’s face pales for a moment. How much do you know about me? he wonders. Alu inclines his head and looks up with his softest smile.

Less than an hour later, the Mogul armies have pulled back from the Golconda walls. From the hilltop Jumla can see the dust cloud of Aurangzeb galloping north to Rathanbore.

Afzul Khan lifts his hand, and a eunuch quickly brings a great goblet that he drains in a gulp. Only then does Afzul Khan turn his face toward Jedhe. “Well?” he rumbles.

“I bring greetings from my lord Shivaji, general,” Jedhe says at last, lifting his hands to his forehead.

“You bring greetings from a dead man. But you know that. Your name?”

“Jedhe, general. I am one of Lord Shivaji’s captains and
deshmukh
of Kari.”

“I thought that belonged to Tukoji,” a captain with a grizzled beard speaks up.

“Tukoji is my father. He … retired,” says Jedhe, feeling uncomfortable.

“Enough,” says Afzul Khan. “State your purpose and be gone.”

Jedhe licks his lips. “My master seeks a parley, general.”

“Why has he not come himself? No matter. He can talk to me in Poona, if he lives.”

“He’s not in Poona, general. He’s moved to Pratapghad, with his family.” Jedhe pauses: “And the gold.”

As his comrades begin to shout in protest, Afzul Khan lifts his hand for silence. “This can’t be true, lord,” a captain stammers. “We’ve had watchmen at the city gates. It would take a caravan to move that gold! Our watchmen have seen nothing!”

“Bijapuri watchmen, captain?” Jedhe lifts an eyebrow.

“I told you to use Abyssinians!” shouts Afzul Khan. “Who knows what the hell those men were up to!”

“General, I swear!” But Afzul glares at him, and the captain holds his tongue.

“Lord Shivaji wishes a parley, general,” Jedhe continues. “He does not wish harm to you or to your men.”

“He doesn’t want to die, you mean,” Afzul Khan growls in reply.

“Lord Shivaji hopes that you and he can reach some settlement.”

“What’s wrong with death? That settles all. Your man is a coward!”

Jedhe glances around the fire and speaks guardedly, leaning closer. “You’re right, general.”

Now Afzul Khan sits up straight. “Go on.”

Jedhe feels the sweat begin form small beads beneath his turban. “Shivaji is just what you say. A coward.”

“Like his father,” growls the general.

Jedhe nods. “I lied about Tukoji. My father wanted to to bring Shivaji to Bijapur. I arrested him, and pledged my forces to Shivaji.” He looks up helplessly. “I was a fool.”

“Not just a fool. Also a traitor!”

“Let me make amends!”

Afzul Khan leans back. “I’m listening, traitor.”

“Shivaji is holed up at Pratapghad. He has at most three thousand men, farmers mostly. You’ve seen them fight.”

“I’ve seen them run, you mean.”

“Exactly! Not a warrior in the bunch! Cowards all!”