Tiger Claws (60 page)

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Authors: John Speed

BOOK: Tiger Claws
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“No men. No archers.” He points to the battlements. “Walls only. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Parley in tent.”
“We’ll put up a tent, if you want.”
“No!” the captain answers, glowering. “Afzul Khan tent only!”
Tanaji steps beside Shivaji. “Don’t do this, Shahu. It’s some kind of trap.”
“How can a tent be a trap?” Shivaji nods at the captain. “Agreed.”
“Good. In tent Afzul Khan only, Shivaji only.”
“No!” Tanaji bursts out. “This is bad, Shahu.” He turns to the captain. “Bodyguards. One guard to each man.”
“Agreed,” the captain says. “But no weapons in tent.”
“Agreed,” Shivaji answers, though Tanaji again protests.
The captain leans back and says, “Good. Done. Parley at noon tomorrow.”
“Wait!” Tanaji strides forward. “No soldiers near the tent! It would be a death trap!”
“Ten soldiers,” the captain offers. “Ten soldiers, Shivaji; ten soldiers Afzul Khan. Ten soldiers each man only.”
“Enough,” Shivaji says. “Our arrangements are done.”
“Yes, done,” the captain looks at the faces of the watchmen on the battlements. “You have bad men for soldiers, I think.” The captain says one unknown word out loud, and the Bijapuri riders laugh.
Shivaji stands solemnly. “Go while you still breathe.” Iron and Hanuman move to his side.
The captain considers Shivaji, measuring him. “Tomorrow. Noon.” He nods to his men, and they ride off slowly down the new-made road.
 
 
At that moment, Jedhe stumbles out of the fort. Behind him, Bandal waves his bare sword at a crowd of angry Marathis, shouting and throwing stones. They begin to form a circle around Jedhe. A stone clips his ear and he staggers to his knees.
Shivaji runs to stand in front of Jedhe. “What are you doing?”
“He’s a traitor, lord! He deserves to die!” someone shouts and the others cheer.
“Quiet!” Shivaji orders. He bends over Jedhe and pulls him to his feet. Blood trickles down Jedhe’s face. “I will deal with this, not you. Go back inside the fort.”
Hanuman rushes out from the fort, and behind him, Iron and Tanaji. They stand in front of Jedhe, hands on their sword hilts.
With their arrival, one by one, the men obey. Last to go is a tubby,
barefoot farmer, his face twisted in anger. “Take back your goddamned weapon,” he says, throwing a jewel-hilted sword at Jedhe’s feet. “I won’t carry a traitor’s sword.”
“Are you all right?” Shivaji asks. Jedhe nods. “Bring him to my room,” he tells Bandal.
“Are you going to try him, lord?” asks Bandal.
“No.”
“But he’s a traitor!”
Shivaji glares at him, then turns to the others. “You believe that? You’d take the word of that—that mercenary?”
Bandal shakes his head. “I don’t know what to believe, lord.”
“If he betrayed you, he must die, Shahu,” Iron says softly.
“You can’t let a traitor live, Shahu,” Tanaji agrees.
“Stop it,” Shivaji cries. “Are you a traitor, Jedhe?”
Jedhe lifts his head wearily, glancing at the faces that watch him. “I did only what you told me, lord,” Jedhe answers. “I wouldn’t betray you.” He looks at the others, pleading. “I did only what Shivaji asked.”
Shivaji smiles. “I believe him. You must believe him, too.”
“But we don’t know what really happened, Shahu!” Hanuman cries.
“So we must take his word. How will we succeed if we do not even trust each other?” He looks from face to face. “The only way to convince Afzul Khan to come alone was to make him think that he might take me by treachery. So I asked Jedhe to play the traitor.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about this plan?” Tanaji spits out.
“Your father also did shit like this,” Iron tells him, his face ugly. He shakes his head. “It’s bad business. You make us weak, Shahu. Afzul Khan will think our ranks are full of traitors.”
“We’ll sort this out later,” Tanaji says. “That army will be here soon. If we’re dead what difference will it make?”
Shivaji nods. “Afzul Khan will bring his army up that new road. That’s my plan, at least.” The others say nothing, but Shivaji’s words seem to hang in the air, suddenly hollow. “We must hide the men in the forest along the road’s edge before he gets here.”
“Sleep in the forest?” Hanuman says. As he says this, the plan sounds more and more doubtful.
“Yes. We’ll set our cannon along the road. Also any cannon we can move from the far side of the fort. You’ve heard this plan before,” Shivaji insists. “You all agreed!”
“No one is disagreeing, Shahu,” Tanaji says, his eyes cold.
“How is Onil progressing, Hanu?” Shivaji asks.
“He’s got about a hundred
granadas
ready, Shahu,” Hanuman answers.
“And the bombs for the road?”
“He says he isn’t certain that they’ll work, Shahu.”
“They’ll work,” Shivaji answers, confident as ever. The other men look skeptical. “We’ll plant the bombs along the road as soon as they’re ready.”
“What about the parley?”
“We’ll launch the attack as soon as Afzul Khan goes in the tent. Bandal, you will be my bodyguard.”
Bandal looks up, surprised.
“How much of your plan did Jedhe know, Shahu?” asks Hanuman. “How much has he betrayed?”
“I betrayed nothing,” Jedhe whispers.
“So you say,” Tanaji replies.
“You want to make a different plan?” Shivaji says. “You want a different leader?” No one answers. “Then do as I say.” Shivaji leads Jedhe toward the fort.
As they stand there, looking after Shivaji and Jedhe entering the fort, Bandal nods toward the road. A courier on a Marathi pony hurries forward. “Here comes more bad news,” Bandal says.
“How do you know that, cousin?” Hanuman asks.
“Because it’s all bad news, cousin.” He shakes his head, disgusted. “I’ll see to finishing the road.”
“What about this courier?”
“That’s Shivaji’s look-to, whatever it is. Let him handle it. I’ve had enough for one day.”
 
 
In the darkness behind him, the walls of the fort twinkle with a thousand tiny Dewali lamps,. Around the blazing fire in the central courtyard, soldiers and villagers are singing, a long, energetic chant. But here on the walls of the high place, Shivaji sits alone, staring across the moonlit mountains. He sees his new road through the forest, like a white scar on dark skin beneath the crescent moon.
At his side, his sword, Bhavani, lies unsheathed, its ram’s-head hilt glistening. The basalt stone is rough where he sits. The singing voices seem a hundred miles away.
He sees beyond the hillside the campfires of the Bijapuris blinking
through the forest. Eastward, the horizon has begun to glow, the first hint of dawn, of death approaching.
He turns his head toward the north, and stares hard into the darkness, as if he might see a wisp of smoke from Sai Bai’s funeral pyre.
Shivaji stands. Slowly he unfolds his turban, and unties his hair, which falls across his shoulders, blown by the breeze. The turban slips from his uncaring fingers—caught by the wind, it floats and spills like a ghost in the shadows. Finally it whispers out of sight into the darkness where the fort walls meet the mountain, falling into emptiness.
Shivaji steps forward, until his toes have reached the wall’s edge and touch the empty air.
“How does this help, darling?” comes a soft voice behind him.
Shivaji looks around to see the wrinkled face of Gungama. For a moment he ignores her, and begins to lean over the edge of the wall. Instead he turns to her, and carefully, for the wall is narrow, he manages to kneel. “Give me your blessing, ma.”
“Not for this, darling. I don’t have that many blessings left. I’ve got to be careful how I use them.”
With a light touch on his chin, Gungama lifts his head. “Have you been crying? Your wife was done with that body, darling.” Gungama combs his long hair from his face as though he were a child. “She needed it no more. She played her part; and she’s off to play another.” Shivaji drops his eyes. “Your part is not yet over. Why do you wish to die?”
“Maybe dying now would be the best,” he stammers. “My men no longer trust me. Why should they?”
“So what happens if you jump? Then, poof, your men will triumph?”
“No. Then my men will die. But at least I won’t be to blame.”
“You don’t know that, darling. Maybe you end up floating in the sky up there, a hungry ghost, watching their blood flow like a river down that nice new road.”
“Our only freedom is to choose the moment of our death.”
Gungama shakes her head. “To me you say this foolishness? I am too old for it, child. What matters is how we choose to live, not when we choose to die. Consider your wife. Was she not faithful, all her life? Faithful even in her death? Did she not rise and feign recovery so that you would come here free from worry?”
Shivaji starts. “How do you know that?”
“Jump, and you prove her life was worthless. And your life, and mine
as well. Jump and I will jump with you, darling, for with your death, all hope will flee the world.” She points to the horizon. “The man who waits out there—he is no man. He is a demon incarnate, come to earth to destroy you. He must die, and you, my sweet, must kill him.”
Shivaji looks over the battlements with a face filled with grief, or longing. “If it’s what you want, mother.”
“No!” Her voice fills the air like a shriek, harsh and terrifying. “You must do what you want. I’m old and dying. She’s dead. You have life. You choose.”
“What do you want of me?” Shivaji yells. “These hints, these knowing looks … They mean nothing to me! Either you’re crazy, or a fool, or both. But I will not be persuaded by you! If I live, or if I die, it’s none of your affair. Leave me!”
She stares up at him, a tiny doll. At last she speaks: “Throw me down if you think I’m lying.”
He grabs her up and lifts her from the stones. As easily as one might lift a bird he holds her in midair. The look upon her face is one of ecstasy. Her legs sway in the emptiness. “Ah, ah!” she cries. “I’m dancing! Dancing!”
Shivaji whirls away from the edge, and thrusts her to ground. Then he strides off into the darkness.
After a moment, Gungama gets up, and presses her hair with her old palms, and creeps carefully down. At the bottom of the wall, she finds Maya hurrying toward her. “What happened, mother?”
“Who can tell, child? Anyway, he’s alive; that’s something. Go to him, child. Tonight of all nights he needs comfort. You, of all women, know how best to comfort him.”
Maya looks up in surprise. “He’ll just turn me away, mother.”
“Not tonight. Go to him child. Go now.”
In what seems like an instant Maya finds herself before Shivaji’s door. She knocks, and tries the latch.
It’s open.
 
 
It had been like a cloudburst; first the tension—unbearable, fierce, heavy—then the sudden, shuddering release. As Gungama had predicted, this time Shivaji had not sent her away. But there’d been no joy in it, that first time, no pleasure, no desire, only the cloudburst, only the release.
Later, though, it was different, oh my yes. Later it had been slower, gentler, finer: eager hands stroking warm flesh, lips brushing lips, tongues darting, teeth nipping. There were moans, and gasps, and pleasure building; she had locked herself around him, felt his strong arms and hard thighs, felt his heart gallop against her breasts, felt the spasms crashing through her like waves as he burst inside her, calling out her name.
After that, she had used the skills a nautch girl knows: the whispering caresses of fingertips and eyelashes; her soft breath and moist lips teasing him, swirling him back to hardness; her tongue coiling around him until he groaned and begged for mercy. Only then did she lower her hips upon him, twisting and squeezing while her hands smoothed the tightening muscles of his belly, while her hair fell over him, while her fingers teased his nipples, until he strained against her, clutching her tight. Then the agony and rapture filled her so she could stand no more, and she fell upon him, mouth pressed against his neck to keep herself from crying out.
It had been nothing like her dream, not at all: rougher and more gentle, stronger and softer than her dream. So different from her dream. How
many times? She wonders now, as she dozes, her skin still tingling, the smell of him still lingering in her hair. I lost count, she thinks, smiling. However many, it was too few.
She rolls over, and reaches out her hand, but he is gone. That jolts her awake. She sits up, alert.
At that moment there’s a knock at the door. Another knock and the door begins to move. She finds her sari and clutches it about her. Tanaji looks in, glances at her. “Where is he?” he growls. She turns away. His eyes dart around the room. “Shit,” he says, and pulls the door shut, hard.
 
 
“He wasn’t there,” Tanaji tells Hanuman.
“Damn.” His son shakes his head. “I just sent men to walk the walls.”
“You don’t think he jumped?” says Tanaji, aghast.
“I don’t know what to think. Last night when he found out about Sai Bai …” Hanuman leaves the sentence unfinished.
Tanaji decides against telling him about Maya in Shivaji’s room. “We don’t have any more time. Disperse the men into the forest now, before the Bijapuris get here. Are the cannon in place? And the bombs?”
“Yes, that’s all done. But, father, what about the signal?”
Tanaji frowns. “Same as we agreed: when Shivaji comes out of the parley tent, attack.”
Hanuman looks desperate. “What if he doesn’t show up for the parley?”
“For that matter, who’s to say that Shahu will be the one to come out of the tent and not that demon Afzul Khan? If Shahu’s gone, we’re all dead anyway. For now, we’ll follow the plan, and pray.”
“Shit,” Hanuman says, and he hurries away.
Tanaji has an inspiration. He runs to check the Bhavani temple. Empty. Then he checks the stables, even peers down the well. Nothing. Tanaji even goes to the powder hut, but no one is there but O’Neil, making still more
granadas
. “Seen Shivaji?” Tanaji asks.
“Not until yesterday,” O’Neil answers, not looking up.
“How many
granadas
are you making, Onil?”
“Make three hundred yesterday. Now fifty more. Enough?” O’Neil studies Tanaji’s face. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing. If you see Shivaji, say that I am looking for him.” Tanaji strides off. Near the main gate, he catches up with Jedhe. “Seen him?”
“No. No luck?”
Tanaji snorts. “I think he’s left us.”
“No!” Jedhe gasps. “What are we doing, uncle? Without Shivaji, what’s the use?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” He glances at the sun, reckoning the time. “No! He’ll come back—he must come back!” Tanaji sighs. “This is a bad day, Jedhe.” Tanaji walks away, and Jedhe feels more afraid even than at the camp of Afzul Khan.
 
 
The Bijapuri war elephants, with armor glistening in the morning sunlight, plod to the front of the line. In the clearing around them stand several thousand men, spears and helmets gleaming. Into their midst lumbers the huge war elephant of Afzul Khan.
Afzul Khan, dressed in robes of green, lifts his legs over the railing of the howdah, and slides to the ground. Without missing a step he strides to the head of the line. The cart that carries the captain in his bamboo cage trundles a few yards behind.
The captains bow as he approaches. “Report,” Afzul Khan commands.
“You can see where the parley tent is being raised,” the young captain says, lifting his hand to the promontory at the top of Pratapghad. “All will be ready by noon.”
“What about this road, captain?” Afzul Khan asks, with a hard, steady look, as if testing him.
“It’s new, lord. Looks like they built it for our convenience.”
“‘For our convenience,’” Afzul Khan repeats. “And what do you think?” he says, turning to the older captain.
“I think it’s a trap.”
“But you think everything’s a trap, captain!” Afzul Khan laughs. The other captains join him.
“I say it’s a trap because it is one, general.”
Afzul Khan eyes blaze. “Of course it’s a trap. You think I don’t know a trap?”
“Then what are we doing, lord?” the young captain asks. The others stand impassive, eyes glued on Afzul Khan.
“You’re the captain. You’re the one who marched us into this trap. So, captain, what’s your plan?”
The young captain gulps. “I place my trust in you, general. Whatever you may order will be best for all.”
Afzul Khan throws a heavy arm across his shoulders. “You hear how he answers? This is why I’ve chosen him to be leader!”
The old captain spits. “Let’s get out of here, general. We’re like tigers driven toward the ring. It’s madness.”
“Why? If you were Shivaji, what would be your plan?”
Simon jumps in. “If he is Shivaji, he is now shitting his pants.” Afzul Khan laughs, and the others laugh, too.
“If I were Shivaji, I’d have you right where I want you,” the old captain answers. “I’d get you in that tent and hold you.”
“How?” smiles Afzul Khan. “How would you hold me?”
“I’d think of a way. Then I’d launch a flying attack down this new road. Horsemen at full speed. Cannon from the fort for cover. Archers there and there.” The older captain points to some nearby rises.
“Do you see any archers, captain?” Afzul Khan asks. “No. Why? Too obvious. Besides he has not got enough men.” The other captains chuckle. “Still, I agree with some of what you say. He will try to hold me at the tent, and then he’ll throw everything he can at us. That’s what this road is for. He thinks he’s got us where he wants us.”
“So then you’ll move us back to cover, lord?” the captain asks.
“Do I look like a coward?” Afzul Khan replies. His eyes are empty, and his tone flat.
“It isn’t cowardice to protect your men.”
Afzul Khan walks slowly around the circle of captains, looking carefully at each. “Simon, what do you say?”
“Shivaji is a fool. He is not a good leader. His men are very rude. We should have not a worry with him, lord.”
Afzul Khan nods. “That’s right. We have an army here, not a bunch of farmers waving pitchforks. Shivaji is a coward and the son of a coward. I will bring that mountain rat home in a cage.” He turns to Simon. “Your men have their instructions?”
“They make tent just as you say, lord,” Simon answers, bowing.
“No, captain, he may try, but Shivaji shall not hold me. Rather I shall do the catching.” He smiles at the old captain. “But what about this road? How to keep them from flying down upon us, waving their pitchforks?”
The young captain’s face brightens. “We could block the road, lord!”
“Ahcha!” says Afzul Khan, now grinning like a jackal about to feed. “We could block the road! How could this be done?”
“Move the army up the road,” the captain answers “Elephants at the head, then infantry. Archers at the rear.”
“And what’s wrong with that plan, eh?” Afzul Khan asks, lowering his face over the captain like a vulture.
“Those cannon … But they’ll overshoot the road,” the young captain beams proudly. “Look—they’ll never manage the angle!”
“Yes,” Afzul Khan agrees. “The mountain rat has miscalculated. His cannon overshoot the road! Would he aim cannon at his own troops?”
“But what if Shivaji holds you, somehow, in that parley tent?” the old captain asks.
Afzul Khan’s face grows cold. “You’ve outgrown your usefulness. I think you might be growing cowardly.”
The captain sets his jaw and stares back. “Then, with all respect, general, I resign from your service.”
“No one quits me, captain.” Afzul Khan smiles his terrifying smile. “I was going to make you my bodyguard for this parley, but you stink of fear. Instead, I’ll place you at the front of the attack. Let’s see if you still have any balls.” The captain stands mute. “Arrange the troops. Push to the very top of the road. Place yourself at the front of the charge.”
“Yes, lord,” the captain says stiffly.
“No one is to move except upon my order. Upon my order only, captain, do you hear? Unless you hear the word from me, you do not move. Not one inch, except when I give the order!”
“Your command is clear, lord.”
“Let me be bodyguard, general,” Simon offers. “I will not fail you like some coward.”
“I’ll take the boy,” Afzul Khan replies, nodding toward the young captain. “He’s faithful. Besides, I have a special order for you, Simon. If this fellow moves before I say, if he even blinks, put him in a cage.”
 
 
Tanaji has given up looking for Shivaji. He watches the Abyssinians set up the parley tent. It is a rich affair, tall and wide, silver tent poles, carpets on the floor, sides of woolen cloth, ropes wrapped with silk.
Below him, the army of Bijapur has begun to move up the newly built road. It’s wide enough for three elephants to walk side by side. Tanaji watches as they trudge up its length, groaning as the mahouts kick their ears. Behind them comes an army, a real army, with gleaming lances and shining shields. He thinks of his son’s troops, ill-equipped, untested—men who stepped off the farm a few days ago. Now they’re hiding in the trees and underbrush along the road. What do they think when they see that army? How can they face an enemy like this?
Where the hell is Shivaji?
In his anxiety, Tanaji begins to pace beside the parley tent. The Abyssinians pay no attention to him. They bring carpets now, and a strange, folding camp table. Seems too big for that tent, thinks Tanaji. He shakes his head. Why am I watching these fools? I should be making preparations. I should be sharpening my mace. I should be praying.
Praying … Suddenly he remembers the tiny Ganesha shrine, a few yards from where the tent is being raised. Before he knows it, he stands before its open door. He kneels so he can peer inside, and it seems to him he sees a shape stretched around the red-painted stone. He’s here. The great leader! Sleeping! Clutching the
murti
the way a child might clutch a doll!
Crawling into the tiny shrine, Tanaji reaches in and jostles Shivaji roughly by the shoulder. “Come out, damn it.”
“Hello, uncle,” Shivaji says as he crawls through the tiny doorway. His long hair falls over his bare shoulders; he’s not even wearing a shirt. Tanaji glares at him. They walk past the tent, but the Abyssinians don’t recognize him—they scarcely look up. Tanaji glares up at the surprised sentries standing on the wall, and lifts a finger to his lips.
Once inside the gate, Tanaji wheels on Shivaji. “What were you doing?” he shouts.
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”
“Quiet!” He pulls close to Shivaji. “Goddamn it, it matters!” Shivaji shrugs, and starts to walk off. “Where do you think you’re going?” Tanaji shouts. “You’ve got to get ready!”
“I’ll be at the temple,” Shivaji answers blandly, not even looking back. Tanaji watches as Shivaji ambles off, and then runs to Shivaji’s room. It’s empty; Maya’s gone. He rummages through Shivaji’s bag; finds clean clothes, a turban, a jeweled
katar
. Shivaji’s
farang
sword hangs from a hook on the wall; Tanaji grabs that, too.
As he runs for the temple, Bandal and Jedhe hurry toward him. “What do we do?” Bandal calls. “Afzul Khan will be here any minute!”
“He’s back,” Tanaji answers. “He’s gone to the Bhavani temple.” Bandal’s eyes grow wide. “He’s not even dressed!”

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