Tiger Claws (17 page)
Authors: John Speed
Then the guard’s head snaps back. Blood bubbles from his mouth. His sword drops harmlessly beside him. Blood pours into Tanaji’s face and eyes, blinding him. He feels the body of the guard roll away, and he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. Shahu stands over him, offering him a hand up. Beside him is the guard, the hilt of Shahu’s broken sword thrust into the back of his neck, right below the skull.
Tanaji gets up with Shahu’s help. The walls are burning. They dash through the door when Shahu looks behind him and curses. Then he runs back into the room.
“He’s a leper!” shouts Tanaji. “Leave him!”
His foot bumps into the confused pile of bodies outside the door. There is the
farang
he took for dead, still pinned beneath the body of one of the guards. As Shahu and the veiled
farang
emerge coughing from the burning room, Tanaji heaves the body from the
farang
.
farang
he took for dead, still pinned beneath the body of one of the guards. As Shahu and the veiled
farang
emerge coughing from the burning room, Tanaji heaves the body from the
farang
.
Onil, the light-haired
farang,
smiles wanly. A deep gash bleeds across his chest. “Where other man?” the
farang
whispers. He raises his eyes to see the veiled
farang
next to Shahu; then his head pitches forward.
farang,
smiles wanly. A deep gash bleeds across his chest. “Where other man?” the
farang
whispers. He raises his eyes to see the veiled
farang
next to Shahu; then his head pitches forward.
The veiled
farang
starts to cough, a high, sick-sounding hacking that won’t stop. Shahu watches the
farang
for a moment, and gives up, turning
instead to Onil who is at least capable of speech. “Listen to me,” Shahu shouts. He pulls Onil’s head back roughly and pull his face up close. “Listen! Your treasure! Where is it?” Onil shakes his head. “Damn you, listen!” Shahu insists. “Where is the treasure? The building is burning and we don’t have much time!”
farang
starts to cough, a high, sick-sounding hacking that won’t stop. Shahu watches the
farang
for a moment, and gives up, turning
instead to Onil who is at least capable of speech. “Listen to me,” Shahu shouts. He pulls Onil’s head back roughly and pull his face up close. “Listen! Your treasure! Where is it?” Onil shakes his head. “Damn you, listen!” Shahu insists. “Where is the treasure? The building is burning and we don’t have much time!”
“No treasure, no treasure …,” Onil says, listlessly.
“Of course there’s treasure. Everyone is dead, do you hear? Your treasure is still here!”
Onil points to the veiled
farang.
“She has treasure,” he whispers. Then he shakes his head. “No! No! I say wrong!”
farang.
“She has treasure,” he whispers. Then he shakes his head. “No! No! I say wrong!”
Shahu points to the veiled
farang.
“Do you mean, he has the treasure?”
farang.
“Do you mean, he has the treasure?”
“No,” says Onil, struggling for the words. “Mean, she is treasure.” He smiles as if satisfied and then his head flops forward.
Shahu feels and finds a pulse. “What does that mean?” Tanaji asks him.
The other
farang,
who has at last stopped coughing, throws back the veil that has covered his face. Only, of course, it isn’t his face, it is her face. And she is no
farang
; her face is beautiful and fierce, with kohl-stained eyes and dark lips. And now they both realize what they knew all the time. Of course it was a woman. Now it all makes sense.
farang,
who has at last stopped coughing, throws back the veil that has covered his face. Only, of course, it isn’t his face, it is her face. And she is no
farang
; her face is beautiful and fierce, with kohl-stained eyes and dark lips. And now they both realize what they knew all the time. Of course it was a woman. Now it all makes sense.
Shahu stares at her for a only a moment, then returns to his question as if unaffected by her beauty. “What about the treasure?”
Her voice is soft but powerful. “I am the treasure. I am a nautch girl sent by the court of Bijapur to Viceroy Murad of the Moguls. My worth is more than gold, or so they say. Such is the price of desire.” The thick dark hair hidden beneath the hat has spilled to her waist, framing a face that is golden in the flames. With dark eyes blazing, she faces Shahu. “My nautch name is Maya. And you, who stole me from these flames where I had hoped to die, what is your name?”
He stands before he addresses her. “My name,” he answers, “is Shivaji.”
Tanaji recovers his wits. The fire is spreading—flames leap from the thick, low-hanging smoke and lick the outer walls, a fire too large to be put out by the two of them. In a few minutes the dharmsala will be engulfed. The
farang
Onil is unconscious, breathing steadily and deeply. The woman Maya looks calm, but it won’t be long before she realizes that she’s standing in a pile of corpses. Shivaji is standing, but breathing hard.
farang
Onil is unconscious, breathing steadily and deeply. The woman Maya looks calm, but it won’t be long before she realizes that she’s standing in a pile of corpses. Shivaji is standing, but breathing hard.
Tanaji’s clothes are wet with the blood of dead men. The smell sickens him and he hurries to a trough near the stable. In the flickering firelight, the blood that washes off looks dark and oily. He wipes his face with his kerchief and then drops it, disgusted. Meanwhile Shivaji brings their horses from the stables: they toss their heads and try to pull away from the fire. Tanaji goes to lend a hand and make a plan. Shivaji ties Tanaji’s pony next to his own Bedouin mare. “We’ve got to get out of here,” says Shivaji.
“Right. That fire is going to attract some attention. There’s a lot of dead men around. We better move quickly.” Tanaji nods to the girl. “She comes with us. Anyone who isn’t dead comes with us.”
Shivaji nods. “How many horses do we need?”
“You, me, the girl. Three. What about the
farang
?” Tanaji gestures with his chin to Onil. “Will he live?”
farang
?” Tanaji gestures with his chin to Onil. “Will he live?”
“Maybe. What about the others?” he asks. “What about the guards?”
Tanaji shakes his head. “So. Four horses. You get them saddled. Set the rest free before they burn. I’ll scavenge what I can.” Taking up his mace, he strides back to the courtyard. The ghostly light of the flames gives the scene
a nightmarish air. He hurries to his room, past the splintered door, trying to avoid puddles of oozing blood. He shoves his few belongings into his bag. Next door he does the same with Shivaji’s.
a nightmarish air. He hurries to his room, past the splintered door, trying to avoid puddles of oozing blood. He shoves his few belongings into his bag. Next door he does the same with Shivaji’s.
But he can’t bring himself to do the neccessary.
Come on—you’ve seen worse, he tells himself as he heads back to the courtyard. It’s hard work, though, even for a hard man. Ignoring the twisted bodies, the burning flesh, the blood and brains splashed on the dust, he pats the pockets of the dead men, slipping what he finds into his pack.
As he walks past the ashes of the caretaker’s burned body, he remembers something. He pats the body, feeling the charred skin crackle beneath his palm. Nothing. Then he draws his hands through the dust nearby: at last he finds the iron ring of keys.
“Captain, captain,” one of the corpses moans. Tanaji leaps to his feet, mace ready. It’s the
farang
Deoga; pale and dying. “I’m thirsty.”
farang
Deoga; pale and dying. “I’m thirsty.”
Tanaji forces himself to come closer. “You’re dying,” he tells the
farang
. “Water will only make it worse.”
farang
. “Water will only make it worse.”
The captain closes his eyes and nods. “Listen, captain,” he gasps. “I’m sorry for all the very bad things I have done ever.”
Tanaji scowls at him. “Die like a man.” He smells the rusty odor of warm blood dripping into the dust and aches to get away.
“Take my purse, captain. Give my money to the poor. Do a favor, captain. You owe me.”
Tied around the
farang
’s neck, Tanaji finds the purse, soft yellow leather. Hanging from the same cord is a
farang murti
: a small dark sculpture of a man in a lungi, his arms and legs tacked to a thin cross. Tanaji cuts the cord with the edge of his dagger. He lays the
murti
gently on the
farang
’s gurgling chest; the purse he places in one of his pockets.
farang
’s neck, Tanaji finds the purse, soft yellow leather. Hanging from the same cord is a
farang murti
: a small dark sculpture of a man in a lungi, his arms and legs tacked to a thin cross. Tanaji cuts the cord with the edge of his dagger. He lays the
murti
gently on the
farang
’s gurgling chest; the purse he places in one of his pockets.
Without looking back, he leaves the
farang
to die.
farang
to die.
By the time Tanaji returns, the whole guesthouse is in flames. Oily smoke spreads like fog around his feet. He hurries over to Onil, for the fire is moving toward him, and pulls him away from the fire.
“Wait,” Onil gasps, choking in the smoky haze around him. “Help up, please.” With Tanaji’s help, Onil struggles to the horses. Tanaji can hear Shivaji in the stables. The woman is nowhere to be seen.
“Let’s have a look,” Tanaji says, trying to appear unconcerned. He peels back Onil’s shirt: the damage is less horrible than it might be—a heavy, ragged cut across the chest down to the belly, bleeding but already scabbing over in places. Onil too has a silver pendant dangling from a string around his neck: the image of a goddess, maybe.
Tanaji goes to the watchfire and takes two handfuls of cold ashes from the edge. He comes back and rubs the ashes hard along the wound, forcing them into the cut. Onil grimaces, but makes no sound.
“That will only make it worse.” Maya has come up behind him.
“Is that stuff yours?” Tanaji replies.
“I’m a slave,” she answers. “I own nothing.”
“It’s hers,” interrupts Shivaji, coming from the stables with two more saddled horses. Maya glares at him defiantly.
Tanaji reaches into his bag. He twists one of his shirts into a long roll that he presses against the cut. “Hold this,” he tells Onil, Then he ties their bags to the horses Shivaji has saddled. He strokes each horse after he has done, and they calm beneath his soothing hand. The other horses, released by Shivaji, trot around the courtyard nervously whinnying.
“Mount up,” he tells the woman.
“Ride that horse—by myself?” She laughs. She has a cold laugh that cuts through Tanaji like a poison. Taking her by the waist, he heaves her on the back of one of the Bedouins.
She is feather light—far too light for all the force he used. He didn’t need to be so harsh—but, after all, in those
farang
man’s clothes, who could tell she was so delicate? She must be very young, he realizes. His empty hands still feel her waist; it felt vibrant when he lifted her. He chides himself: bad manners, lifting her like that. But she doesn’t curse him as he deserves; she just sits fiercely silent atop that big horse.
farang
man’s clothes, who could tell she was so delicate? She must be very young, he realizes. His empty hands still feel her waist; it felt vibrant when he lifted her. He chides himself: bad manners, lifting her like that. But she doesn’t curse him as he deserves; she just sits fiercely silent atop that big horse.
“Time you learned to ride by yourself,” Tanaji snaps. He shortens the stirrups and puts her feet in them. She wears women’s slippers; inside them, her feet are round, smooth, like a child’s feet.
Tanaji scolds himself for getting distracted. This woman, he realizes, is provocative. They are going to have their hands full. Oh yes.
Tanaji wraps Maya’s fingers around the reins. “Pull like this for left, like this for right. Pull like this to stop.”
She snatches the reins from his hands. “But how do I make it go?”
“Squeeze your legs and rub his flanks with your heels,” he answers, more gruffly than necessary. He can still feel where she placed her fingers on his rough hands. Shivaji, meanwhile, struggles with Onil. Whenever he sits him upright in the saddle, the
farang
just faints and falls off. In the end he lashes Onil to the horse: he slumps over, but stays in the saddle.
farang
just faints and falls off. In the end he lashes Onil to the horse: he slumps over, but stays in the saddle.
“Let’s get out of here,” Shivaji says.
Tanaji takes the caretaker’s keys and unlocks the gate. As the dharmsala
fire begins to roar, Shivaji trots past, leading Onil. Maya spurs her horse as it swings open. “I thought you never rode before,” he calls.
fire begins to roar, Shivaji trots past, leading Onil. Maya spurs her horse as it swings open. “I thought you never rode before,” he calls.
“I haven’t,” she replies, but rubs her heels against the horse’s flanks like an expert, and the horse breaks into a brisk trot.
Shit, thinks Tanaji, struggling to mount before she gets too far away. He spurs his pony. In spite of the smoke, he can still smell her perfume.
A mile from the dharmsala, Tanaji glances at the
farang
. “How’s he doing, Shahu?” he asks.
farang
. “How’s he doing, Shahu?” he asks.
“I think he’ll live,” Shivaji replies. “Are we always going to be in trouble, uncle?” Tanaji shakes his head. Trouble is like a clever beggar; it can always find them.
Maya is no longer riding easily. Suddenly her beginner’s luck has run out. She kicks the horse violently, but now when he begins to trot, his gait jostles her and she pulls back on the reins to keep from falling. The poor horse can’t figure out what she wants him to do.
“Hold his reins steady and he’ll keep moving,” Tanaji tells Maya. “You don’t need to keep kicking him.” She glares back, and continues riding exactly as before: push-pull, start-stop.
A nautch girl and a man who’s mostly dead, thinks Tanaji. Which is slower? He trots back to Shivaji. “Let’s leave them,” he suggests. “Neither of them can ride worth a damn. Let’s get to Poona fast. This fellow is all but dead. And the girl? Hell, she can take care of herself.” Then thinking of Shivaji’s soft heart, Tanaji adds, “We’ll just involve them in our troubles. For our good and for theirs, we need to leave them and get going.”
“They are too valuable to leave behind,” Shivaji answers.
“It was just an idea,” Tanaji mumbles. “Let’s at least get off the road. That’s a shepherd’s path—let’s try it.”
Tanaji trots forward, and without a word, grabs Maya’s bridle. Despite her protests, he leads them down the narrow path. Tree roots and sharp stones punctuate the rough surface. Tanaji’s sturdy pony has no trouble negotiating the uneven ground, but the Bedouin’s hooves slide dangerously. And the girl grunts whenever she bounces in her saddle. When Tanaji shushes her, she glares back. “I’m being as quiet as I can. You should be glad I’m not screaming.” Behind them Tanaji sees Shivaji struggling with the slumping form of Onil.
After a few hundred yards the track levels off as it leads along the edge
of the cone-shaped hill. Despite the darkness, Tanaji can make out an overhang of rock. It will provide some protection, like the roof of a house.
of the cone-shaped hill. Despite the darkness, Tanaji can make out an overhang of rock. It will provide some protection, like the roof of a house.
When he reaches it, he slips off his pony and then halts Maya’s horse as well. She whines for help getting down but he ignores her—he’s happy to have her stay put until he gets his bearings.
Soon Shivaji and the
farang
join them. Shivaji dismounts and he helps Maya down. Instead of thanking him, she simply chides Tanaji for his bad manners. But Shahu ignores her, and this irritates her even more.
farang
join them. Shivaji dismounts and he helps Maya down. Instead of thanking him, she simply chides Tanaji for his bad manners. But Shahu ignores her, and this irritates her even more.
They see the orange glow of the dharmsala’s flames edging the horizon behind them. “Let’s split up,” Shivaji says to Tanaji. “The moon’s bright enough to follow this trail. I’ll take the
farang
. You bring the woman when the sun comes up. Meet at that toddy shop on the Daund road.”
farang
. You bring the woman when the sun comes up. Meet at that toddy shop on the Daund road.”
Tanaji knows better than to argue with Shivaji, though it seems to him that they should all just wait for daylight.
“Take my pony,” Tanaji insists. “It’s got better footing, and you’re not going to be able to see where you’re going, not in this light.”
Shivaji agrees. They untie the
farang,
and sling him onto the pony. In a moment Shivaji and the
farang
are gone, and it’s just Tanaji and Maya, alone under the lonesome overhang of that secluded hill.
farang,
and sling him onto the pony. In a moment Shivaji and the
farang
are gone, and it’s just Tanaji and Maya, alone under the lonesome overhang of that secluded hill.
Their rest is short. As soon as the first hint of dawn pinks the horizon, Tanaji orders them forward. But their mood has improved. With Tanaji riding beside her, Maya even seems able to keep her horse moving.
“Do you know that you haven’t said your name?” she says.
Tanaji blinks in embarrasment. She’s right. So he tells her. He feels so embarrassed, he tells her the name of his wife, and his twin sons, and his pet lizard. With her smiling encouragement, Tanaji talks freely. He doesn’t realize how often she bends the conversation toward Shivaji. In a few minutes he has told her about Shivaji’s wife and son, his interfering mother, Jijabai, and the father who abandoned them. He tells her how he took Shivaji into the hills to hide from the Bijapuris, of years spent living in caves, riding with bandits.
Behind them, the sun rises: a fierce yellow disk in a hazy sky. Far to their right they see Ahmednagar, the city a shadowy mist in the dawn light. The sun begins to warm their backs. Tanaji now begins to ask Maya questions, and with each answer, his wonder grows.
She tells him that her temple sold her for a slave to some
farangs
who took her to Goa, and from there to Bijapur where she was to be given to the
grand vizier. But there’d been some trouble—she wouldn’t go into it—and next she knew, the Bijapuris had decided to send her to Murad, the Mogul Viceroy of the West Provinces. “They said I was a peace offering,” she says in a soft, detached voice. “The seal on some alliance they arranged.”
farangs
who took her to Goa, and from there to Bijapur where she was to be given to the
grand vizier. But there’d been some trouble—she wouldn’t go into it—and next she knew, the Bijapuris had decided to send her to Murad, the Mogul Viceroy of the West Provinces. “They said I was a peace offering,” she says in a soft, detached voice. “The seal on some alliance they arranged.”
“What alliance?” Tanaji asks, suddenly alert. But she has no answer. “So why were you with
farangs
? Why not Bijapuri guards?”
farangs
? Why not Bijapuri guards?”
It had been a secret caravan, she answers. “The stakes were so high, they feared their own people would betray them.”
“Why?” asks Tanaji. “How much are you worth?”
“Seven lakh hun, I think,” she answers without looking up. The figure is so staggering, Tanaji pulls up his mount and sits blinking. She’s lying. She’s mistaken. But he has heard of nautch girls sold for more than whole towns are worth. Could she be one of those? Who decides these things? And all the while, hoping she won’t notice, he steals curious glances.
The path opens onto a narrow lane, and that lane joins a well trampled road, with big trees planted along each side. Soon they come to a green canopy set up in the middle of the road: the tomb of a Muslim saint. At the side of the white marble tombstone, a man is praying, burying his face in the green tomb cloth. He looks up at their approach. It’s Shivaji.
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