Tiger Claws (55 page)

Authors: John Speed

BOOK: Tiger Claws

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At the door of the palace, Jijabai greets Tanaji. She starts to speak to him when Sambhuji runs in and hugs him hard around his legs. Tanaji tousles his hair and Sam runs off.

Jijabai shakes her head. “He’s been like that for days. Shivaji gives him nothing. He sits with that sick wife of his, as though he can make up for years of neglect. Shameful what he did to her—but what he’s doing now is even worse. He should be with his army!”

“That’s why I’ve come.”

“Good. Talk some sense into him. It does us no good for him to wait there in the dark, watching her die.”

“Is there no hope for her, then?”

“We must all die, Tana.” She shows Tanaji to a small room, and goes to get her son. The narrow steps seem steeper these days, her legs shorter. By the time she reaches the top, she must press her hand against a wall to catch her breath.

When Jijabai enters, Sai Bai’s eyes move to her, but nothing else. Shivaji sits up, startled. His hair hangs down around his shoulders. “Tanaji is downstairs,” Jijabai hisses. “Make yourself presentable.”

Shivaji slumps when she says this. He presses Sai Bai’s hand. “I’ll be back soon.”

Jijabai closes the door as Shivaji leaves, and sits at the edge of Sai Bai’s bed. “Well?” she says.

“I’m feeling much better, mother,” Sai Bai answers, but her eyes are wide and dark and her face is thin.

“This lingering illness of yours is more than a nuisance. It’s dangerous. He sits by your side when he should be commanding armies. Your indulgence may cause many to die.” Jijabai stares angrily at Sai Bai. Slowly however, she grows softer. She touches a single finger to Sai Bai’s hand. “A woman’s lot is never easy. Much less a queen’s.”

“I’m not a queen, mother,” Sai Bai whispers.

“You must act like one.”

“But how, mother? You can’t mean for me to die.” Sai Bai’s eyes now seem filled with fear.

“Not to die. But you must free my son to do his duty. You must let go his hand. You must be braver than he.”

“But how can this be done?”

So Jijabai tells her.

Servants bring in butter lamps, and their golden flames casting flickering shadows on the plaster walls. Soon Balaji and Trelochan join Tanaji in the darkening room. As they wait for Shivaji, the smells of evening drift through the high windows; the dusky smell of dung fires, the tang of oil on hot metal pans, the golden smell of chapatis being fried.

A servant comes to the door, and shows a cloaked figure into the room. “Bandal!” Bala exclaims, as the visitor takes off his cloak.

“I thought you were at Pratapghad,” Tanaji says, rising to greet him.

“I just came from there. Where’s Shivaji?”

Trelochan chuckles. “That’s what we all wish to know.”

“Now you have your wish,” Shivaji says, stepping through the door.

Tanaji tells of the situation in Welhe. “All in all, not good,” he says. “We’re outnumbered five to one. Our men have had no training.”

“But what about the Bijapuris, uncle?” Balaji puts in. “An army that size, gathered in a short time. They won’t have had much training either.”

Tanaji shakes his head. “Afzul Khan’s armies live in fear; he stands behind them with a whip. Death at the hands of an enemy is better than living to face Afzul Khan’s displeasure.”

“We’ve heard all this before,” says Bandal. “Whether they’re trained or not, what difference does it make? They have five men for every one of ours. And he has elephants. And Abyssinians.” Bandal turns earnestly to Shivaji.
“You send untrained men against Afzul Khan, led by an untried captain, and what do you think will happen? Disaster!”

Tanaji bristles. “You agreed to the plan. And it’s not like Hanuman’s alone. Iron is there.”

Bandal snorts. “I don’t trust him, cousin,” he says to Shivaji. “I’m guessing that Iron will go his own way; he always has.”

“We’ll discuss Iron later,” Shivaji says wearily. “We have another problem to solve.” He nods to Bala.

So Bala tells Bandal of the letter from the Mogul ambassador, the offer of support and the demand for nine crore hun.

“What are we to do about this, Shahu?” Tanaji demands.

“Nothing,” Shivaji says flatly.

“But they’ll attack us!”

“We’re already under attack. Afzul Khan isn’t writing letters; he’s here in force, today. The Moguls are far away.”

“But the Moguls have Shahji. He’s practically a hostage!” Trelochan says. “What about your father?”

Shivaji shakes his head. “Do the Moguls mean to use my father to control me, like the ring in a bullock’s nose?”

“But, Shahu,” Tanaji says quietly, “if you accepted their offer—if the Moguls would move against Bijapur …”

“That’s nothing but smoke, uncle,” Shivaji replies. “Five thousand men against Bijapur? Do you seriously believe that they’d attack?” Tanaji shrugs. “Anyway, how would that stop Afzul Khan?”

The circle is silent for a moment. “Well then,” Tanaji says at last, “if that’s how it is, we must gather all our strength. Shahu, you must lead the battle in Welhe.”

Bandal shakes his head. “To go to Welhe is a fool’s errand. We can’t defeat Afzul Khan in open battle!” He leans close to Shivaji. “Why should we fight on a flat field? Our strength comes from our mountains! Those Bijapuris come from the plains. They ride Bedouins, not mountain ponies! How can they hope to win, if we choose the place of battle?”

“The battle plain is chosen, Bandal,” Tanaji says firmly. “The plan is to face them in Welhe!”

But at the moment, the door opens, and Sai Bai enters. The argument is forgotten as the men look up in wonder. Yes, it is she, Sai Bai, in a bright blue sari, with golden earrings, with kohl around her eyes and vermilion along the part of her braided hair. She sweeps across the floor, a tray of toddy cups in her hands.

“I thought you might be thirsty, husband,” Sai Bai says, lowering herself gracefully to him.

“But can this be?” Shivaji asks, eyes wide.

“I am feeling much better, husband,” Sai Bai laughs, moving around the circle. “Yes, much better now.” She stands, and maybe a look of pain steals across her face, but in an instant it is gone and her smile returns.

“My heart is glad to hear it,” Shivaji answers.

When he starts to rise, Sai Bai shakes her head. “You have business, husband. Do what you must do. See, I am well now, by the goodness of the goddess!”

“It is a miracle,” says Bala quietly. Sai Bai nods, her dark eyes beautiful and deep, and shuts the door behind her.

Outside, Jijabai takes the tray from Sai Bai before it tumbles from her hand, and takes her arm before she falls. Sai Bai collapses against her. A servant girl moves to help, but Jijabai glares at her. “What are you looking at, eh? This doesn’t concern you!”

Grunting and scolding, Jijabai helps Sai Bai up the stairs. She’s surprisingly light. Behind them the bright blue sari’s train sweeps across a trail of drops: dark red blood, freshly fallen on the wooden floor.

The flames of the butter lamps flicker as the door closes, and then burn bright once more.

“I will join the battle,” Shivaji announces.

“Excellent!” says Trelochan. “Sai Bai’s recovery is a sign. Soon all will be well. Shivaji’s sword will lead us!”

Bandal leans forward intently. “The battle’s better joined at Pratapghad than in Welhe. We can put the Bijapuris where we want them. In Welhe, we have no advantage.”

“If Welhe falls, then Poona must fall as well,” Bala answers. “Afzul Khan will march straight for Poona. The treasure will be lost.”

“I disagree. He wants vengeance more than treasure. He’ll follow Shahu.” Bandal looks earnestly at Shivaji. “Pratapghad’s perfect, Shahu. The place is a fortress. I can’t imagine how those tribals did it. The fort was empty when we got there; the gates still barred from the inside. Inside, nothing: no sign of life, no bodies. Nothing but ghosts.”

“How did they do it?” Bala says.

“As I say, I have no idea. Pratapghad’s impregnable. There’s a long road leading to it, narrow, twisting. Deep forests on each side. A perfect place to stage an ambush.”

“The time has come for battle, not for ambush,” Trelochan insists. “Win in open battle. Don’t win by deceit!”

Shivaji smiles. “Since when has lying ever failed me?”

“But what of the Moguls, lord?” asks Bala.

“Delay. Tell the captain I’m considering their request,” Shivaji says. “Who knows what the morrow may bring?”

“With any luck, we’ll all be dead by then,” Tanaji says, trying to make a joke, but no one laughs.

Shivaji turns to Bandal, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Shall we go to Pratapghad?”

“Yes, lord,” he answers. “I’ll die at your side.”

Shivaji collects his gear, and straps on the sword Bhavani. He glances around the room, fixing it in his memory. He’s about to visit Sai Bai, but Jijabai stops him at the door. “She’s sleeping, Shahu.”

“Good. She hasn’t slept for days, not really.”

“As you say, Shahu. This is good news. It is the sleep of healing.”

“Her recovery is a miracle.”

Jijabai walks him to the courtyard. By the light of torches, they see Tanaji and Bandal already mounted, with Shivaji’s pony at the ready. Nirmala stands nearby, covering her mouth with the end of her sari.

“Tell her I said goodbye.” Shivaji hoists himself onto the saddle.

Jijabai bows as they ride off. Men can be so foolish, she thinks.

CHAPTER 26

The stone walls of Adoli temple shake like the kettle of an elephant drum.

Through the columns, Maya sees the night sky flash, and then, a moment later, she hears the thundering blast. A great, deep-throated roar rips the air like the laughter of a rakshasa. The mountains flash, the smoky air glows, and eerie shadows swirl.

An hour ago her nose began to sting with the smell of gunpowder smoke. Now tears stream from her burning eyes. She leans against the stone wall of the inner temple. Inside that room sleeps Bhavani. Its doors are locked, and the brahmins have taken the key. Who will wake the goddess in the morning? she wonders.

I should have left, I should have left, I should have left! They told her to leave—the
shastri
’s wife begged her, Jyoti in tears, but she had broken free. At last they fled the temple for the hills, and left Maya behind.

Her fingers tighten on the handle of a sickle. She had suddenly felt the need of a weapon, and the sickle was the only sharp thing she could find. Her butter lamp is guttering: the flame sputters and all is dark. The air flashes again. For a moment she sees clearly, and then her world dissolves in blackness.

No, she tells herself. She thought—she must have been mistaken—she thought she saw a man standing in the doorway. She raises the sickle. A series of flashes sputters through the darkness. The shadow has moved.

A man.

Maybe the
shastri
has come back for her.

Then the sky flashes again, and she sees now only steps away a haji cap, a grizzled beard, the wild look of a fakir. She lifts the sickle over her head. In another burst of light, the fakir waves his hand. As he does, the sickle flies from her grasp. The clatter of it echoes from the walls.

The lights flare again, and Maya sees who it is. “Hanuman!”

“No,” the man answers. And in the next roaring flash, she sees the ragged scars, the moisture seeping from the flat and empty eyelid. “Recognize your handiwork?” Lakshman asks, with a voice like acid.

Suddenly Maya is utterly alone; no gods, no friends, just her and this half demon. When the light flashes again: there he stands, one eye bright and evil, and in his hand, he now holds her sickle.

“How did he do that?” Lakshman asks in a harsh falsetto. “I’m so frightened! Oh dear! I’m alone with a magician!”

“What do you want?” she whispers.

“What do I want, indeed? For I can have anything. Anything at all.”

She flinches as she feels his cold touch in the darkness. “Do it and get it over with. I’ve had so many. Another man, what difference will it make?”

She hears his ragged breathing in the darkness. “When I take you, you’ll know. You’ll never be the same.” The cold hand moves to her neck. “You think that I’m the same as other men? No more. No more.” The hand creeps down her shoulder, the fingers slide across her breasts. Through the thin fabric of the sari, Lakshman pinches Maya’s nipple.

“I’ve come to take you out of here,” he says, lifting his hand, just so, as if he’d never touched her. “Afzul Khan is coming. He’s going to destroy this temple. Because it is Shivaji’s goddess.” The words hang in the air, like the echo of a gong. “You think your precious Shivaji would come to save you? You poor bitch. He’s sitting on his ass in Poona. He doesn’t care a shit. Bastard.” He takes her upper arm, firmly, not rough as she expected. “We’ve got to get going. Afzul Khan is almost here.”

“I won’t leave the goddess. Someone needs to protect her!”

“It’s your own safety you should think of, not hers. She’s just a piece of rock. So what if Afzul Khan breaks her: imagine what he would do to you! Come. It’s me or death.” A flare streaks light on his dead-white scars. “Come on, I’ll take you to him. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Beneath his grip she stumbles, driven blind into the darkness.

“Stand fast! Stand fast!” Hanuman screams into the night, as his pony wheels and bucks beneath him.

Around him, the battle boils: dust and smoke, the crack of matchlocks and the boom of bombs, the screams of elephants and horses, and of men. Around his pony’s feet, shrub grass smolders; burning trees spew sparks into the breeze like swarms of fiery insects.

“Stand fast!” Hanuman cries, his long sword waving. “Stand fast and form a line!” His voice can’t be heard for the roar of O’Neil’s
granadas
. Hanuman swings around to see Jedhe ride up. Blood streaks Jedhe’s face. “They’re running like rats!” he shouts to Hanuman.

“Where’s Iron?” Hanuman shouts back.

“About a half mile behind us.”

“Pull back!” Hanuman shouts, spurring his horse. “Tell everyone to pull back!” He drives his pony over the bodies of dying men. A bullet rips his pant leg. On he rides. “Fall back!” he cries. One by one the archers see him, eyes wide with terror. “Fall back!” he screams.

“Onil!” one shouts to Hanuman. “He’s still up there!” The air flashes, and Hanuman sees a lone figure on a rise a hundred yards ahead. The man hurls something toward the Bijapuris and throws himself onto the ground.

The
granada
’
s
roar blasts the air. Hanuman peers into the smoke. He glimpses the army of Afzul Khan, sees the silhouettes of elephants and horsemen. And a strange, unearthly sight: a man suspended in a bamboo cage. For a moment Hanuman thinks the man is floating over the lurching cart. Hanuman spurs his pony to O’Neil, and hauls him onto the saddle. The pony dashes madly into the darkness, racing from the noise and fire.

Iron sits next to a tree, holding his head in his hands.

“What’s happening?” Hanuman asks, as he jumps from his horse. O’Neil dismounts and goes to look for water.

Iron looks up, his white mustache stained with soot. “The men are running! I said no good would come from attacking at night!” Iron scowls. “The gods are set against us. We’re finished!”

“Keep your voice down, uncle!” Hanuman whispers.

“What I’m saying everyone already knows,” Iron says, but he lowers his voice. “Surrender. It’s useless to go on.”

Jedhe interrupts. “Forget surrender, Hanuman. Fall back. Collect the men. Make a plan!”

Iron glares at him. “Why should more men die?”

“You surrender then, old fool,” Jedhe spits. He turns back to Hanuman. “We’re no good here. Move fast! A retreat is better than a rout.”

“All right,” Hanuman replies. “We’ll fall back to the Poona road. Leave the cannon if we must.”

Without waiting another moment Jedhe races toward a cluster of men, shouting the order to fall back.

“What about Torna?” Iron grunts. “You mean to abandon it?”

“Torna can hold out a long time.”

“Against ten thousand men? With no relief?” Iron’s face creases. “You are more a coward than your father is!”

“Fine! Stay here and die. Or come with me and fight. I don’t give a shit.” With all the strength he can muster, Hanuman strides away.

“Wait!” Iron cries, catching up. “I know the men in Torna, nephew,” he says, suddenly looking very old. “What you ask is hard for me.” He lifts his hands to his face and his whole body seems to shake. Then he turns to Hanuman eyes cold as death. “By the gods, I’ll triumph or I’ll die.”

Afzul Khan clambers down the elephant ladder. His captains sit on a carpet spread on the bare ground. Not far away, the forest burns, spreading a ghostly light across the clearing. “Where is my best captain?” he shouts, and of course the others know exactly who he means. In a moment an oxcart rolls into the clearing. Lashed to the cart is a swaying bamboo cage, and in the cage is Afzul Khan’s captain. The sign HE DISOBEYED bounces against his chest. His legs are stained yellow and brown.

The men around the circle cannot help but stare. They fear the prisoner will look at them, but he focuses only on the twin blades of bamboo mere inches from his eyes, his face nearly mad with concentration.

“How goes it, captain? Still alive?” Afzul Khan laughs. He reaches out and shakes the cage; the leather lashings squeak as the bamboo flexes, and the captain’s face grows pale.

“I’m having six more made, just in case,” says Afzul Khan, his eyes moving from face to face. It doesn’t take the men too long to count seven faces in the circle, and one of those is Afzul Khan’s. “Let’s have reports.”

An Abyssinian is first to speak. “We met very little resistance, general,” he says. “They are very bad fighters.”

“Casualties?” grunts Afzul Khan.

“On their side, hard to tell. They pull the bodies from the field.”

“What about us?”

Silence as the captains glance nervously at one another. At last one of them speaks; the oldest, small and wiry, with a grizzled beard. “Not so
good.” Afzul Khan’s eyes narrow as he turns to face him. “We lost six, seven hundred men, maybe, mostly wounded but a lot of them dead.”

“Wounded is worse than dead,” Afzul Khan says, with a voice smooth as oil. “How many Marathis fell? How many bodies on the field?”

Again the grizzled captain glances around the circle. He might as well already be dead. “Maybe fifty.”

The captain in his cage takes just that moment to moan. Everyone looks up, and then looks away. Except, of course, for Afzul Khan. “So, tell me, captain,” he says, leaning in, so great folds of flesh well up over his chin, “how we lost fifteen times as many men as those mountain rats.”

“
Granadas,
general.
Farang
bombs. Most times they only hurt the men who throw them. That’s why we don’t use them. But this
farang,
he was a crazy man. He stood maybe twenty yards from our line, lighting them and throwing them and never thinking twice. Blew up a hell of lot of men, and a hell of a lot of horses.”

When the captain stops speaking, Afzul Khan stares at his grizzled face very quietly, for a very long time, as though sizing him up, then leans back. “Fine. We can afford to lose a few men. They cannot. Things are good.”

“Yes, general,” the captain says, and the others nod and mumble along.

“Well, what’s your advice, my captains? Shall we rest here for a while? Or should we pursue them while their trail is hot?” Afzul Khan’s eyes flit from face to face. “Well?” No one speaks.

A young captain gulps. “We should do, general, whatever you say.”

There’s silence for a moment. Around the circle everyone hesitates; no one even breathes. “You see?” Afzul Khan says. “When is a fool not a fool? When he obeys me. And you, captain, are no fool.”

“Thank you, general,” the young man gasps.

“We’ll rest here for the day.” He places a heavy hand on the young captain’s shoulder. “You will be my new aide,” he says. “Prepare the men to leave at dawn. We move up the Poona road, capture the city, and Shivaji. And of course, the gold.” Afzul Khan eyes the captain. “Cheer up. Not all my aides end up in cages. You might return a hero.”

“Thank you, sir,” the young man manages to say.

“You,” Afzul Khan says to the Abyssinian. “Get fifty volunteers. I have a special project they’ll enjoy.”

“What sort of project is it, general?” asks the Abyssinian.

“Light work,” says Afzul Khan, his face glowing. “Tell them each to bring a hammer. And torches. And we’ll need a cannon too, I think.” He gives the cage another violent rattle and stalks back to his tent.

Bandal, Tanaji, and Shivaji have stopped to rest. With their ponies stumbling so often in the dark, they give up and wait for dawn. No one says much: they each feel the bitter hopelessness of their situation

Shivaji, lying on his blanket stares into the sky, to the cold light of the stars. Soon he is asleep.

He wakes with a start. He’s seated before a doorway. Its shape reminds him of the gateway of a fort.

The wooden doors swing open, and a figure glides toward him. At first he thinks it’s Maya. Her dress is stiff, colored the deep green of old ivy leaves, but her skin is pale gold like the youngest grass, and she has many arms.

I know you, he thinks.

There is no sound when it happens; no crash, no cry. Just her hand breaking off at the wrist and flying through the air. The stump that’s left is dry and white.

Her eyes implore him as the rest of her arm explodes in a shower of shards.

Great dents sink silently into her body. Her dress begins to shatter.

A great white gash appears where her nose once was. Then half her face flies off.

Help me, she mouths.

Her head explodes into a powder, leaving a broken neck, white as snow.

Shivaji wakes with a scream. “What is it?” shouts Bandal, sword in hand. Tanaji scrambles for his mace.