Authors: John Speed

Tiger Claws (61 page)

BOOK: Tiger Claws

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“What the hell’s going on, uncle?”

Tanaji shakes his head. “Can you find a mail shirt?” Jedhe nods. “Bring one to the temple. Hurry!”

“Don’t forget the honor guard, uncle!” Jedhe says. “The ten men. Shivaji never chose them! We need them now!”

Tanaji mutters curses. “Here, take this stuff to the temple. Shivaji’s
there. Get him dressed. Get the mail shirt; make sure he wears it. Do whatever you must to get him ready I think Shivaji’s gone crazy.”

“You want him to meet Afzul Khan if he’s crazy?”

“I don’t know, all right? One step a time. First we get him ready, then we figure out a plan!” He thrusts the clothes and sword into Jedhe’s hands. “I’ll fetch men for the honor guard.”

“What are we doing, uncle?” Jedhe calls after him.

At the temple Jedhe sees Shivaji seated before the image of the goddess. A strange old woman kneels beside him, whispering in his ear. They do not see Jedhe as he enters.

“It is that time,” Jedhe hears the woman say. “The wick of righteousness burns low; once more the gods take birth as men. Once more do demons wear the skins of men to halt the flame of truth. Your time has come, my darling. You must now take on the yoke you have been born to.”

Shivaji doesn’t move. “Who is that approaching?” the old woman asks. Then she smiles. “Oh, it’s you.” Jedhe blinks; he’s never seen her before. “Shivaji’s ready for you, darling,” the woman says. “Dress him here.”

Jedhe stops short, realizing what the woman has said. “Here?”

“Here before the goddess, yes,” she says.

“In front of you?”

“Am I not his mother?” She laughs when she sees Jedhe’s reaction. “Never mind, I’m leaving.” She kisses Shivaji’s forehead, and hurries off.

At that moment, Bandal hurries up, a dark bundle in his hands. Taking Shivaji’s shoulder, Bandal shakes him. “Come on, Shahu. Let’s go. It’s time. He’s coming. You’ve got to dress.”

“Do it here,” Jedhe insists. Bandal starts to argue, and sighs. Then he shakes out his bundle, revealing a shirt of fine steel rings, and a narrow, tight-fitting helmet.

“First the mail,” Bandal slips the metal shirt over Shivaji’s head. “Now the helmet.” The helmet fits tight, like a cap.

Jedhe slips a white cotton shirt over the mail. Then he takes the long turban cloth and wraps it over the helmet. Shivaji’s eyes never leave the goddess.

“Isn’t he ready yet?” calls Tanaji, hurrying toward them.

“Almost done,” Jedhe says. He wraps the sash belt around Shivaji, and then begins to fasten the jeweled
katar
dagger.

“No,” Shivaji says, breaking his silence. “I’ll take no weapon. I have sworn it,” Shivaji repeats, eyes focused on the goddess.

“Damn it, pay attention!” Tanaji yells. “You’re meeting a killer! You’ll take weapons, damn it, or you’ll die.”

“What good are weapons against a demon, uncle?” Shivaji asks, turning for the first time to look at them.

“Don’t be a fool. He’s flesh and blood same as you.”

Bandal steps forward. “Take these, at least, Shahu,” he says, holding out his
wagnak
.

“Yes, yes!” Tanaji says. “Tiger claws. Take them Shahu! At least then you’ll be able to defend yourself.”

Shivaji ignores him. Bandal bows his head. “Please take these, lord,” he says, again holding out the tiger claws. “As your bodyguard, I insist. Even if you’re searched, they’re easy to conceal.”

“I gave my word. And the goddess has told me to go unarmed.”

“The goddess is crazy,” Tanaji snarls.

Shivaji laughs. “I’m crazy, too.” He bows to the
murti
. “Come on. Let’s see what fate the gods hold for us.”

As they walk across the courtyard, they see O’Neil carrying a cloth sack carefully in front of him. “You are going, lord?” O’Neil says. “I hope is good. No dying, now!” he adds, smiling.

“Be ready for my signal, Onil,” Shivaji answers.

“Go with God,” O’Neil replies in English, and hurries on.

Near the gate they find the ten guards Tanaji selected. Shivaji points to two. “You two are excused. Get with the others and await my signal.”

“They’re good men, Shahu,” Tanaji protests. “I’ll vouch for them.”

“I want you and Jedhe in the guard,” Shivaji answers. “Tanaji, you’ll hold my
katar
. Jedhe, you’ll hold my sword, Bhavani.” Not waiting for answer, he turns and begins to stride ahead.

“Lord, I beg you once more, take the
wagnak
!” Bandal whispers urgently. But Shivaji shrugs him off and he strides across the courtyard. Bandal struggles to keep up. As they march through the gate, soldiers cheer. Shivaji lifts his hand casually, exuding confidence.

“First no one can find him, now he’s everybody’s hero,” grumbles Tanaji.

“What’s that, uncle?” Jedhe asks, pointing to a metallic glint that shines through the trees.

“Those are howdahs of the war elephants,” Tanaji replies, hurrying behind Shivaji on his way to the parley. “You’ll see soon enough.”

The Bijapuri army has pushed to the very top of the new road, and now stands packed into a tight line aimed at the parley tent. At its head, war elephants stand three abreast, howdahs gleaming. The sounds of the great army echo from the fort walls.

As they approach the parley tent, Tanaji smells the elephants: a rich, rancid odor of shit and sweat. With it, the smell of hot wax, for the soldiers have lit the fuses of their matchlocks.

Tanaji catches Jedhe’s eye and nods with his chin toward the birds circling in long spirals over the road. Vultures. Jedhe’s eyes drift to the trees. “Look only at the road!” Tanaji snarls.

“I just wanted to see where the men are hiding—”

“I know what you wanted! Do you want the Bijapuris looking there?”

At the parley tent, Tanaji snaps out orders, arranging the men. From their howdahs, the Bijapuris offer mocking comments. “Ignore them!” Tanaji snarls. Stretching down the hillside are dozens of elephants and hundreds of horses, and in the wide clearing below Jedhe sees an ocean of men surging forward. How can we ever hope to defeat them? he wonders.

Suddenly a commotion erupts on the new road; the throbbing blare of war trumpets, the clatter of cymbals and booming of drums. The Bijapuris cheer. The elephants squeeze to the edge of the road, as twelve riders come forward.

One by one the horsemen emerge between the elephants and peel off in a row, facing the Marathi guard. All are Abyssinians. Though he’s seen their scarred, branded faces before, even Jedhe’s heart quails at the sight.

Last of all comes Afzul Khan, dressed in green silk robes and a white turban fastened by an emerald pin fashioned like a peacock feather. His horse sags beneath his bulk.

Oh gods! It
was
him! Tanaji thinks. It was Afzul Khan we saw in Khirki! Afzul Khan that Shahu made a cuckold! The night we rescued Maya—the night it all started. It’s been fated from the beginning!

Behind Afzul Khan rides his bodyguard, the young captain. But the Bijapuri procession is not yet finished: up the hill comes the oxcart carrying the prisoner captain in his bamboo cage. He’s babbling; drool hangs from his lips, and his head flops with each bump, yet somehow he manages to avoid the sharp spikes only inches from his eyes.

Afzul Khan dismounts and strides to the captain with the grizzled beard. “Remember!” Afzul Khan shouts so everyone can hear. “No one is to move without my order!” He points to the cage and shouts again, “Remember the penalty for disobedience!” Then Afzul Khan takes a step closer to the old captain. “Are my orders clear, captain?”

“General, look,” the older captain answers defiantly. “There stands that traitor—standing in Shivaji’s honor guard! This is a trap, not a parley! Why else would Shivaji give a traitor a place among his guard?”

“Because he is arrogant, or stupid, or both,” Afzul Khan replies. “For the last time, captain: Obey my orders or face my wrath!” The captain’s eyes glare with such fierceness that a line of fire seems to burn from them.

Afzul Khan turns to Shivaji. He frowns, as if seeing Shivaji had awakened some distant memory. But he lets it go. “All right,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

“Not here. Inside, as we said,” Shivaji replies. Shivaji’s head barely reaches Afzul Khan’s shoulders.

“You see the forces I array against you?” Afzul Khan replies. “You see the might of Bijapur ready to assail you? Where are your armies, little mouse? Cowering behind those walls?” Afzul Khan laughs. “Huddled around the treasure you have stolen? How long can they survive? How long will those gates keep out my elephants, eh?”

Shivaji’s eyes grow hard. “If you think yourself invincible, why parley? You asked for this. Let us go inside and talk.”

Afzul Khan squints at Shivaji, sizing him up. The sapphires and diamonds of his turban jewel glitter in the sunlight, the gold embroidery of his green silk robes gleams. In his white shirt, Shivaji looks as plain as any farmer. “All right. We’ll talk. You and me, alone.”

“No!” Tanaji comes forward. “Each with a bodyguard, as we agreed. And with no weapons, as we agreed.”

Afzul Khan’s black eyes gleam as he turns his heavy face toward Tanaji. “Does this puppet speak for you?”

“He only reminds us. I know you keep your word.”

“Yes, unlike your coward father, I keep my word.”

“Then let your man be searched,” Tanaji snaps. Afzul Khan scowls, but nods to the young captain, who steps forward. Face taut and pale, he lifts his arms. Bandal pats his sides and legs, then probes his turban.

“Now the general,” says Tanaji. Afzul Khan’s face grows dark, but after a pause, he too lifts his arms.

Bandal scarcely needs to lower his head to pass beneath the general’s arms. When he pats the silken robes, he must make two passes, so wide is the general’s form. Bandal steps back. “Your turban, general.”

Afzul Khan looms over him. “Be careful of my jewels.” He slowly bends at the waist, until Bandal can just reach the thick white silk of his turban. Bandal works quickly. Then he steps back, and Afzul Khan settles his turban and its gleaming jeweled pin with a vain, almost feminine gesture. “Now you,” he says to Bandal.

Bandal lifts his arms. The Bijapuri captain pats his sides and legs, and then his turban. He doesn’t notice the two dark rings on the fingers of Bandal’s hand. “Now you, sir,” the captain says to Shivaji.

Shivaji lifts his arms. The captain feels the mail beneath the cotton shirt and hesitates. “Don’t take all day,” Afzul Khan mutters. The captain looks at Shivaji uncertainly, then probes his turban as well. Again he hesitates. “Well?” says Afzul Khan. “A weapon?”

“No,” the captain says, uncertainly. “No weapon …”

“Then step inside,” the general growls. “What are you waiting for?” The captain shrugs. “Now you,” Afzul Khan says, nodding to Bandal. Bandal glances at Shivaji and steps through the entrance flap.

“You go first, mouse,” Afzul Khan says to Shivaji. “It’s my tent.” Shivaji at last walks into the tent, and Afzul Khan, stooping carefully, follows.

Over the battlements of Pratapghad peek a thousand hidden eyes. The villagers have crept up the tower steps to watch. They huddle in clusters, peering around the basalt stones, through the bow slits, at the confrontation near the tent.

Maya hunches near a shepherd and his family. In vain she searched for Gungama. Shivaji looks to her like a king from the old tales; Afzul Khan like a rakshasa. “Daddy, where have all the soldiers gone?” the shepherd’s daughter asks. “No one’s here. Who will protect us?”

“Hush,” says the shepherd. “Shivaji will protect us.” But Maya sees his
fingers check for his knife. “And if he fails, I will protect us.” Maya realizes that he will kill the girl if he must.

And who, Maya thinks, will protect me?

“I see him! Shivaji’s there!” Hanuman whispers.

“Where?” whispers Iron, crawling up beside him. “Are you sure?”

Hanuman points through a small clearing in the underbrush. “Look, there by the tent.”

“I can’t see a thing with all these damned elephants,” Iron mutters.

Hanuman looks again. “And now I can’t see anything either.” He turns to Iron. “It had to be him.”

Iron tugs his mustache. “If it was Shivaji, it means our attack is on.”

“What if he doesn’t come out, uncle? What if Afzul Khan comes out?”

Iron scowls. “Shit, I don’t know. Worry about that later. They’ll only be in that tent for a short while. Spread the word: time to get ready.”

Hanuman suddenly gives Iron a hard embrace. “When the signal comes, there won’t be much time. I’ve enjoyed your company, uncle.”

BOOK: Tiger Claws

11.55Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub