Tiger Claws (44 page)

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Authors: John Speed

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At last she finds her tongue. “What are you thinking? Do you really mean to die here?”
“We all must die, my darling,” he says. “It will be best for everyone.”
“No!” Sai Bai answers, twisting away. “The god of death alone knows when to pluck your soul. It is Yama’s choice to make, not yours.”
“I will not be his slave, but my own master,” Shivaji replies. “I need no permission. It is a warrior’s privilege. Tell me goodbye and leave me.”
A silence passes agonizingly between them. “Tell me why, husband, and I will leave. Otherwise I’ll do everything I can to stop you. Is it something I have done?”
“No!” Shivaji shouts and the sound echoes from the walls. He has to look away from her before he can speak. “I’ve made a mess of things. I can feel the hands of the gods about to crush us. I’ve angered them by my pride.”
“But those stones!” Sai Bai protests.
Shivaji lifts his hands to silence her. “Four stones placed in my hand by a madman and look what I do! In a few days, Bijapur will fall upon us like a thunderbolt!” He counts the problems on his fingers: “No cannon. No army—a few farmers, maybe, men whose fathers went to war, but no army! No money—that’s right, the money’s all but gone! What am I to do, Sai Bai, what am I to do?” Now she cannot stop from throwing her arms around his shoulders, from pressing her face against his cheek.
“Is this the man I love, the husband I married, the father of my children? If you have a warrior’s privilege, then you have a warrior’s duty, husband! Why are you afraid?”
He lifts his head, each word an agony. “I can’t send men to die.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s enough,” he answers. A light seems to flash between them, like a flash of lightning. She squeezes her eyes tight, but sees an echo of that flash behind her eyelids. In it, she sees faces: men that she has never seen. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands, each face a shrieking mask of agony and pain. “Make it stop!” she cries at last, grabbing Shivaji’s hands. “What have you done to me? Make it stop!”
Shivaji whispers: “You see now what I see—every moment. Does this course now seem so bad?” He lifts his knife.
“It’s not your choice, husband. Everyone must die. So what if some may choose to die for you! Let them choose! Let them act as warriors, too. Let them follow you, to death if they choose!”
Taking his face between her small hands, she looks into his eyes. “And who are you to say that they will die? Why in a month, a week, a day, all
may be changed! Maybe a devi will shower us with gold.” Shivaji snorts. “Oh, you laugh at me,” Sai Bai pouts. “I’m just a foolish woman! But look, you: Who would have said that today you would hold four forts? Who could guess an army would be at your gates, awaiting your command? Who? Things change, husband. Do not take this coward’s blade! If you claim the warrior’s privilege, take the duty, too! Stand firm! Be brave!”
He stares into her trusting, gentle face, her face that has no doubt of him at all. “You called me the father of your
children
,” he says softly.
“Did I?” She looks away, brushing back a hair that has fallen out of place. The lamplight flickers around them like dancing stars. “Silly of me.” He waits for her to speak. “Maybe …”, she says, and she sees at last that smile of his, the one she longs to see.
“Don’t you know?”
“It’s early, but … Well, I’m woozy every morning, and you have been … vigorous.” Her voice falters, but her face tells him everything. He lifts her hands to his lips. When they walk back, Shivaji presses her close, his long arm tight around her shoulder.
 
 
“She liked you.” Kalidas, chewing on the haunch of a roast goat, lifts a heavy black eyebrow to Lakshman.
“Who?” Maybe from the wine, maybe from the vision of Kali, Lakshman’s brain floats in a kind of dream. The thief’s hut is furnished like a palace—Persian carpets scattered everywhere, pillows of brocade.
“She has taught me everything,” Kalidas says, his voice rich but raw. “I made myself her slave—her child—fifteen years ago. And I had been a good Muslim up till then—said my prayers each day, right up until the day Mommy looked at me.” His face grows serious. “She said she’d give me anything I desired. And she has.”
He’s mad, thinks Lakshman. But he’s fascinated by the heavy, dark energy that hovers around Kalidas. “You live well, sir,” Lakshman says, nodding at the beautiful furnishings.
Kalidas turns on him. “What you see here is shit. Anyone may get such trash. One has only to reach into the privy. I’m talking about one’s true desires, sir. The thoughts a weak man dare not even name.”
Lakshman feels clammy. There’s a ringing in his ears. Suddenly his mind leaps back in time: He’s back at Torna, the cold edge of the serpent knife slicing across his eye, the rain pouring across the bleeding socket. He looks up to see Kalidas. “Yes,” the dark voice says. “Yes, thoughts like that.”
Lakshman shivers. “That’s not a desire!”
“Isn’t it?” The question lingers in the air like smoke. Kalidas frowns, and then as if struck by inspiration he claps, and a young servant girl enters, twirling gracefully through the door. “This is Amba,” Kalidas says to Lakshman. Then he nods, indicating Lakshman. Instantly Amba falls to her knees before Lakshman, and tugs the drawstring of Lakshman’s pants. “Amba is a
houri,
” Kalidas whispers, as though explaining to a child. “She’s an angel made in paradise for the pleasure of the blessed. You didn’t truly think that she was real? She is but Mommy’s shadow.”
Lakshman finds himself growing stiff, and he tries to hide it. His eyes are glued to Amba’s. Suddenly his pants are around his ankles, and he feels her lips upon him, her sliding, wriggling tongue, the moist darkness of her mouth. A deep droning burns in Lakshman’s ears; his heart is pounding like a beating drum. “What are you doing to me?” he cries out.
Amba sucks at his lingam as though it were the source of all desire. She fondles her heavy breasts as she works, her face glowing, and always her wild eyes on Lakshman. Kalidas chuckles. “To Mommy it is nothing. To have a woman do whatever you bid, no matter how depraved. To her it is a trifle.” But Lakshman now is past the point of speech. “Ahhh,” Kalidas sighs as he looks at Lakshman’s face. “Yes, Lakshman. Mommy says yes: it can be any woman you desire.” As Kalidas says this, Amba’s face begins to change. Even as she rubs her wet cheek against his length, Amba’s eyes grow lighter, flecked with gold, and her nose grows small and straight; her brown lips shine like bloodred rubies; her breasts grow smaller and more shapely; the hands that fondle them grow delicate and small.
“Maya …”, Lakshman gasps, his voice constricted.
“Even her,” Kalidas whispers. Maya clutches the shaft with both fine hands to her bare breasts, glorying in it, moaning. And all the while Maya’s gold-flecked eyes still bore into Lakshman’s face.
“Leave us,” Kalidas says casually. Maya stands—but, no, now she’s turned back into Amba as she was before. Amba stands, pulling her sari clumsily around her as she leaves, still smiling over her shoulder at Lakshman.
“Don’t be upset you didn’t finish,” Kalidas chuckles. “You can have that nautch girl anytime, brother.”
“Why are you doing this to me!” Lakshman cries as he struggles back into his pants.
“Have you not yet understood? We have a pact, Mommy and I. She gives me anything I desire … I give her anything she asks for.”
“What has she asked for now?” says Lakshman. He feels like his whole world is spinning out of control.
“You.”
Lakshman closes his eyes when he hears the word; he feels himself sliding into blackness. “And if I say no?”
“Hell, say whatever you like. What you say to her is your look-to, not mine. Mommy just likes you, that’s all. She wants you to be her little boy. But I have brought you here for a different reason.”
“What reason was that?”
“A secret.” He runs his hands through his thick hair, looking very serious. “I talked with Mommy—I told her I was tired of running, tired of robbing and killing. I told her my desire was peace.” Kalidas laughs, his voice rich and harsh. “I have a secret. Tell Shivaji. I have a secret that can bring him victory. If Shivaji will guarantee me peace, I’ll tell it to him.”
 
 
Crickets and night birds. And the sound of footsteps. “Who’s there?” the young sentry whispers into the darkness.
“Just me.” Jedhe moves into the dim light. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
“I’m to watch all night, sir. I can’t go to sleep.”
“Can’t you? Thought it was part of the job! You’re the first sentry who has stayed up this late.”
“Oh, you’re joking again sir,” the sentry laughs. But his head jerks up. “Who’s that with you, sir?” he asks, grasping his lance tightly again.
“It’s just my cousin Bandal. We’ve come to see my father.”
“He gave strict orders, sir, not to be disturbed …”
Jedhe pats him on the shoulder. “Family business, you understand. Be a good lad and stand away from the door.”
Bandal takes the sentry’s arm and whispers. “We’ve got some bad news. He’d be embarrassed if one of his soldiers were to hear him cry. A favorite uncle. Very old. It’s been expected, but …”
“I understand, sir. I’ll stand here where I won’t hear a thing.”
“That’s the boy.” Bandal steps back to Jedhe, near the door. “Keep an eye on the horses.”
With Bandal beside him, Jedhe pushes the door open gently, and the two of them duck inside. Tukoji huddles in the covers, his snores filling the room. “I’m scared,” Bandal whispers into Jedhe’s ear.
“It’s not dangerous,” Jedhe whispers back.
“Maybe. But it’s sinful.”
“Shall I do this alone?”
Silence for a moment. “No, I’m with you,” Bandal whispers.
Jedhe kneels by his father’s head. With a start, Tukoji bursts upright, his hooded eyes opening so wide the whites glisten in the lamplight. “What! Who’s there?”
“Only us, father,” Jedhe whispers. One hand slips into his pocket while the other grasps his father’s shoulder.
“Jedhe,” sighs Tukoji. “Why are you here? It’s the middle of the night!”
“We think you need a change of scene, father. Some fresh mountain air will do you good.”
Tukoji is fully awake now. “Why would I be going anywhere?”
Jedhe lifts his hand from his pocket. Tukoji sees the iron rings; he doesn’t need to see the blades. “Bandal is placing his fort under Shivaji’s control. And we’re joining him. We’re giving Shivaji our fort—Kari fort, I mean.”
Tukoji’s face goes blank. He looks to Bandal, who shrugs. “It was Jedhe’s idea, uncle,” Bandal says weakly.
“The idea is worthless.” Tukoji struggles to collect his wits. He looks at his son. “Kari isn’t yours to give.” Jedhe shrugs and glances at his hand, flexing the fingers just a little, just enough to expose the short, harsh blades between them. Tukoji pulls back. “You can’t. I’m your father, damn it!”
Now Jedhe closes his fingers tight, and the bright edges of the
wagnak
glisten in the lamplight. “Being your son has very little to recommend it, father. I suppose some boy somewhere might have enjoyed all your insults. I’ve grown weary of them, frankly.” The hand holding the
wagnak
moves slowly, until its points press against Tukoji’s side. Around his shoulder, Jedhe’s arm pulls Tukoji toward him. “It’s ending, father: now, tonight. I don’t much care how. Come with us, or stay here and bleed your guts out. It’s all one to me.”
“I don’t know you,” Tukoji whispers, his eyes wide with horror.
“Yes, you do, father. I’m your son. Remember me?”
Bandal hands Tukoji his cloak and a pair of sandals. Watching Jedhe all the while, Tukoji puts them on. “We’ll take you to Hirdas, sir. It’s not such a bad place,” Bandal whispers to him while he dresses. “My father built a summer house there for my mother.”
“You see, father? Nice and cool.” Jedhe hikes his father to his feet. “Perfect for you.” Bandal wraps Tukoji’s wrists behind him with a leather thong. Together then the three of them walk through the door. Jedhe keeps
one arm on Tukoji’s shoulder as though holding him up. Horses are saddled nearby.
The young sentry steps forward, his pale face shining in the darkness. “Do you need some help?” The sentry can see Tukoji trying to catch his attention. The young man glances from face to face, and shakes his head. “I know it’s hard, sir, but there’s nothing to be done. In time it won’t be so bad.”
“He knows?” Tukoji asks, incredulous. Bandal shrugs. “Worthless scum!” Tukoji spits out. “Traitor!”
“He’s upset,” Jedhe whispers to the sentry as they guide Tukoji toward his horse. “Pay no attention. See me when I return … I’ll show my gratitude for your loyalty.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies. He watches as they struggle to help Tukoji onto the saddle … the old man’s grief seems so severe, he can hardly use his hands.
 
 
Imbeciles! Fools!
Shaista Khan watches the chaos as the Bijapuri court explodes once again into shouts of recrimination. It’s been like this for more than an hour, ever since Wali Khan, the grand vizier, finally acknowledged—after two days of rumors—that Shivaji had captured Singhaghad and Purandhar.
It’s just the same as Agra, Shaista Khan thinks bitterly. Just as puffed up, just as useless. But Agra, at least, is quieter. No one shouts in Agra.
Shaista Khan knows why he’s been sent to Bijapur. At home, in Agra, he’s dangerous. Emperor Shah Jahan needs to put him somewhere safe: away from Agra; away from Aurangzeb—for the two of them together are like gunpowder and fire. Away from Roshanara—for in Agra gossip is like money; and a hint of their affair would be pure gold.
So where to send dangerous old Shaista Khan? Where else but Bijapur?
Odd, reflects Shaista Khan, that the man I most admire in Bijapur is one I’ve never spoken to. He looks across the churning mob. Only one other man merely watches from the side. General Shahji, he thinks, what an ally you might have been. If only you had chosen us instead of Bijapur.
Shahji had accomplished much, Shaista Khan thinks. He’d taken a couple of dozen forts. He might have made himself a little kingdom—if his army hadn’t fallen to pieces, feuding with itself; if the sultan of Bijapur himself hadn’t made Shahji an astonishing offer: riches, a new wife, a place at court, command of all the Bijapuri armies. This even while Shahji’s own troops were pointing their lances at each other.
I don’t blame him for that decision, Shaista Khan thinks. Any man would have done the same. Honor only gets you so far.
Maybe I should speak with him, Shaista Khan thinks. Maybe I should tell Shahji of my admiration. And my admiration for his son. Maybe I could make Shahji our ally. Even Aurangzeb hadn’t managed that.
 
 
“Please, hurry, madam. It’s getting very unpleasant out there.”
Yet again, Whisper faces the white, unwrinkled sheet that hangs like a curtain at the sultana’s door. How long has he stood there this time? Many maids sweep past him, looking at him—mocking him, he thinks—as they slip behind the white sheet into the place where he may not go. Not even he, the
khaswajara
!
“Madam, I beg you, hurry!”
“I will eat,” comes her voice, as if from far away.
But this is no time for eating! Whisper thinks. Sure enough, now come the serving girls: first some with salvers of water for cleansing the mouth and hands; then others carrying dishes from the kitchen wrapped in red cloth and white, all bearing the seal of the royal taster. The girls cover their noses with kerchiefs lest they even breathe upon her food. Behind the curtain, Whisper has no doubt, some other trusted servant tastes it one more time before the sultana eats. If only he could find out who!
“They will not wait much longer, madam!”
“You fret too much,
khaswajara.
They can do nothing without me. You only worry that you’ll miss the fun.”
At last comes the serving girl bearing
besan
flour. The meal must be over, Whisper thinks, it must be over now! She’ll rub her hands in flour to clean them, she’ll dip her hands in water, and then at last we’ll go.
“I’m dressing now,
khaswajara,
” the voice says. He knows she says it only to frustrate him.
“But we must hurry, madam. It is a crisis!”
“It is always a crisis.” Another line of maids parades past. These carry silver trays, each with some new adornment: a blouse and slip of lightest gauze, a skirt and overblouse of ivory silk shot through with gold. An overskirt embroidered with a thousand tiny roses. Then jewels: jewels for the ears and nose, jewels for the hair, jewels for the wrist and fingers, jewels for the ankles and toes. A miniature jeweled dagger in a diamond sheath. Jeweled slippers, tiny as a doll’s. A mirror ring to slip upon her thumb. Clothes no one will ever see.
Then, carried by two maids, a tray heaped high with velvet cloth, a poison green.
Why even bother with the rest, thinks Whisper. “You must hurry, madam!” But she does not answer. His scarecrow foot taps the marble floor.
At last she comes, like a tent of green silk. She lifts her covered hand to him. He must extend his arm to reach it—her velvet skirts keep him far away. The cloth tugs the floor as she sweeps across the courtyard. He can feel her fingers, small as a child’s, but the cloth drapes her hand so he cannot see. Whisper glances at her eyes, buried in the shadows of her veils. Are they angry? Worried? Whisper cannot tell.
The sun streams through the harem courtyard setting the fountains glittering. Laughter echoes from the marble walls: children playing before harem school begins. She does not turn.
He steals another look—does she enjoy their laughter? Resent it? Her hidden eyes give him no clue, and she lets no other part be seen. In silence they sweep past. Former wives and nautch girls bow. He nods in reply; the sultana makes no sign. “How fragile is this paradise, madam,” Whisper breathes. “We are only beggars on this earth.”
As she struggles up the steps of the main palace, she truly grips his hand. How heavy those robes must be!
They pass through the harem gateway, into the world of men. A dozen guards appear to march on either side of her. Across the palace courtyard stands a massive, guarded door. Even closed they can hear the shouts within. Footmen swing the door at their approach, and the tumult floods out.
The herald strides from the door to the center of the hall. Gongs and drums and trumpets clamor in a deafening blare. With the fading of their echo, the hall grows silent.
Whisper enters first, for she is so formidable in her elaborate costume that she must come through the door alone. But he feels her fingers tighten around his hand, and looks back.
For an instant he sees them, her eyes: anxious, frightened, terrified. For just a moment he sees the court through her eyes: a hundred angry, greedy men; each twice her size; not one of them her ally. For a moment, he understands.
Even so, he leads her to the dais, to the silver throne. He leads her there, and then he walks away.
She has her fate, Whisper thinks, as do we all.
 
 
With Afzul Khan in the lead, the angry nobles of Bijapur stride to the silver-railed dais of the sultana. Bolstered by the men around him, trying to appear as if he comes reluctantly, Afzul Khan steps forward to face the veiled queen of Bijapur. The attendants with their horsehair whisks have withdrawn to the shadows; only Wali Khan, the vizier, and Whisper, her
khaswajara
have the courage to stand by her.
“It is time to face facts, your highness,” Afzul Khan shouts. “How can you allow your armies to be led by a traitor?” His followers begins to shout and shake their fists. Wali Khan glances helplessly to General Shahji, as if imploring him to speak on his own behalf, but the general only stares away.
Whisper looks into Afzul Khan’s brutal, bloated face. “What are you suggesting, lord?” The eunuch’s voice is barely audible. A few of the mob now wave their hands for silence.
Afzul Khan approaches, towering over him. “Of course it’s obvious,
khaswajara.
But it’s not up to me to say.” He fixes his fierce eyes on Whisper, but the eunuch stares back unperturbed. In time Afzul Khan snorts and turns away.
But the mob notices; for they want to end up on the winning side, and Afzul Khan, for all his bluster, still stands outside of the silver rail. Whisper, on the other hand, has stood inside that railing longer even than the sultana. “You’re right, lord,” Whisper agrees. “It isn’t up to you. Do you suggest that Shahji be accountable for the actions of his son?”
With the uncertain look of a bear being led toward a trap, Afzul Khan frowns.
“Don’t try to confuse him, Whisper. It’s too easy.” The voice is muffled, coming from behind the dark veil of the sultana. Whisper bows and moves back to the sultana’s side.
“General Shahji!” the sultana’s muffled voice calls. “I ask you: If I order you to attack Shivaji and retake the forts that he has stolen, will you do it?”
“Yes, madam,” Shahji answers firmly. “I’ll do my duty, and if it is the will of the gods, I shall return victorious. But madam, I am your military adviser as well, and I therefore recommend against this course.”
To this the nobility responds with sounds of exasperation, some pleading directly to the sultana to be allowed to speak. Wali Khan bangs his baton on the floor, demanding order. “I would suggest, madam, that a battle between the forces of a father and son must invariably be a source of ruin.
Both armies will become dispirited and desperate, the action horrible, the resolution without honor.”
“So you recommend what, general? That we abandon all these forts to your son?”
“No, madam. I recommend that you replace me as your commander.”
At first unprepared, the nobles realize what Shahji has said. They begin to applaud, then to cheer. “Afzul! Afzul!” someone yells, and soon everyone is shouting.
“Silence!” Wali Khan pounds the floor with his staff until they stop.
“If not you, General Shahji, whom would you recommend as the queen’s commander? Who can save us from the threat of Shivaji?” Wali Khan asks.
“Shivaji is a small threat. Bijapur’s greater threat comes from the east. Compared to the eastern threat, Shivaji is a nuisance, nothing more. If steps had been taken earlier, as I suggested, things might be different. As it is, we must now defend both borders, east and west.”
“Surely you don’t think, general,” says Shaista Khan, stepping forward with a sweep of his cloak, “that the Mogul is your enemy?” Wali Khan nods gravely to Shaista Khan, and raises a questioning eyebrow to Shahji. One might think that he was smiling.
“I never said so, Lord Ambassador,” Shahji replies. “But let me ask you, as one soldier to another … where is Bijapur more vulnerable? From the single road that leads across the mountains of our western border—or from the Golcondan plain that is our border to the east?”
“But the forces of the Moguls now protect your eastern border from Golconda.”
“And what protects us from the Moguls?” replies Shahji. “As you are a man of honor, tell the queen!”
Shaista Khan feels Shahji’s dark eyes burning into him. “In all honesty, majesty, your eastern flank is more vulnerable. Vulnerable from Golconda, I mean, of course. That is one reason why we Moguls march against them, to assure your peace.”
Shahji laughs. “The Moguls will come against us, madam, if Golconda falls. As the ambassador well knows.”
“You’re not going to insist again that we send armies to support Golconda, are you, general?” The queen’s voice from behind her veil sounds thin. “Say that you are not. I find the matter tedious, and wish to hear no more.”
“Then let me answer for him, madam,” Shaista Khan calls out. “A
Mogul victory against Golconda is inevitable. But if, for some reason, Aurangzeb should fail, then beware. Golconda will remember that you left them hanging, and they will attack you. I agree with Shahji: You should send troops east—but to be allied with the Moguls, not with Golconda.”
“What is this?” Afzul Khan roars. “Are we now to have all our strategies designed by foreigners?” He strides threateningly close to Shaista Khan. “What business is it of yours, jackal?” Afzul Khan’s thick fingers move slowly for the jeweled handle of his
katar,
but Shaista Khan merely stares up at him, as if measuring the man’s fat chest to find the perfect spot to thrust a knife.
Afzul Khan spins on his heel. “Remember my words—if these two say look east, I say look west! Can’t we see through their lies? The west is where the danger rests!”
“I am certain the ambassador was concerned for our safety, Afzul Khan,” says the vizier. “For the second time I ask, General Shahji—if not yourself, who should be commander?”
“I would divide our forces into two armies, lord vizier, an eastern and western part. Many captains have the skill required to lead them. I’d suggest Razoul Khan and Ali Sharif, though others on my staff are just as capable.”
“But to command those two, general, to be the commander-in-chief? Who for that post, eh?”
“For that post I would recommend you, lord vizier.” Shahji stares levelly at Wali Khan. From the crowd of nobles comes a hubbub of whispers. Afzul Khan looks stunned. A youngish noble pats his broad back sadly. Shaista Khan hears Shahji’s answer with surprise.
“I asked my question seriously, general. Pray don’t trifle with me,” Wali Khan replies.
“I have answered you honestly, lord,” Shahji says, looking genuinely hurt.
“Some might wonder, general,” Whisper says, and at his soft voice the room becomes quiet, “some might wonder why you failed to name another. Would you tell us why you did not name our Lord Afzul Khan? I’m sure her majesty would wish to know as well.”
Before the queen can even nod, however, Afzul Khan strides forward, his face aglow with rage. “I insist,” he says in a voice as soft as Whisper’s, but full of violence.

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