Tiger Claws (50 page)

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Authors: John Speed

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There’s a long pause. “When I took my oath.”
“Did you think they’d never bleed again?” With a clawlike finger, Ram Das traces the bleeding scars on Shivaji’s palms. “You think you’re the first person to bleed, lord? You’ve died a million times already. Now give some other men a chance to die!” Shivaji says nothing. Ram Das strokes his shoulder. “But give them something to die for. Look what you’ve done since we first met! Think it’s all your own doing?”
“I don’t know what to say, father.”
“Say whatever you want. I don’t give a shit. Your answer makes no difference. It’s all decided anyway.” Tiptoeing to reach, Ram Das kisses Shivaji on the forehead. “Close your eyes, lord,” Ram Das says solemnly. Shivaji stands there with eyes closed, expecting who knows what. After a minute, he opens one eye and peers around. The old man is gone; his rags have disappeared as well. Shivaji lifts his bleeding hands in the moonlight.
 
 
By the time he reaches his home, Shivaji’s hands have stopped bleeding. It will be dawn soon—too late to sleep. So he goes to Sai Bai’s room and slumps against a cushion near her bed. He hasn’t spent the night with his wife in many days—making war instead. And as the night passes, he grows concerned. He can feel it: something is wrong with Sai Bai.
The door of Sai Bai’s room opens just a crack, letting in a shaft of the dawn sunlight. “I thought you might be here,” Jijabai whispers.
Shivaji frowns and nods to Sai Bai, who sleeps restlessly beside him. “I think she’s sick.”
“Maybe,” Jijabai says. Then she realizes that with even a single word, she has revealed too much.
“You know this? What’s wrong with her?”
“We all must die, Shahu,” Jijabai says. “I blame your father. She was never a suitable wife. Shahji should have sent her back.” Her voice trails off and she looks at Sai Bai’s face. “I once was pretty, Shahu,” she says quietly.
Shivaji stares at her. At length, Jijabai scowls. “Stop mooning about. You must finish what you have begun. She is nothing!”
“Hold your tongue! What if she hears you?”
“You think I don’t say this to her face? I am no hypocrite.” She sighs. “Never mind now. Bijapur has responded to your attacks. They’re holding Shahji for ransom.”
Shivaji comes bolt upright. “In Bijapur?”
“You’re surprised by this?” says Jijabai, lifting her eyebrows. “Now I am concerned. Go. The others want to talk with you—they’re quite disturbed.”
Shivaji begins to fix his turban. “And you are not?”
“I hope you let him die.”
 
 
The circle of men sit in an open space, a hundred yards from anyone. Bandal sweeps a spear around the grass before he sits, as if worried someone hides there. “Are these precautions really needed, cousin?” Trelochan asks.
“You think we’re not at war?” Bandal snaps back. “You think that we’re surrounded only by our friends? Afzul Khan likes spies, brahmin. There may be spies in this very circle.”
“There’s no harm in being careful.” Shivaji says. Trelochan looks around the circle dubiously. There’s Jedhe, Bala, Hanuman, Lakshman, and finally Shivaji. Their eyes are fixed on the parchment just arrived from Bijapur.
“Well? What does it say?” Lakshman asks, looking bored.
Bala speaks: “It’s from Shaista Khan. He writes that General Shahji has been arrested. They’re sealing him, even as we speak. One brick an hour until he’s sealed behind a wall.”
Bala continues: “They want the gold, the Kalyan gold. Unless they get it, Shahji will be sealed completely within a week.” Bala looks around the circle. “Official word from Bijapur should come soon. The arrest was two days ago. Five days remain until General Shahji’s sealed.”
When Bala stops speaking, to the surprise of all, Lakshman stands. “I’m going, Shahu. All this foolish talk has become a nuisance. I will fight no more.” He lifts his hands to his forehead in with an exaggerated bow.
“Where are you going, cousin?” Jedhe asks, looking stunned.
Lakshman bows again. “I’m off to Bijapur, cousin. They can use a man with my talents.”
“What talents are those?” Jedhe asks, his face cold.
“I have no morals,” Lakshman answers.
“I shall be sad to see you go, cousin,” Shivaji says. “No matter what you do, I will always honor you as the son of my uncle, and as my friend.”
“You see how it’s done?” Lakshman looks at the others, pointing to Shivaji. “One thing more: Bala, when I send you a letter, here’s how you’ll know it’s from me. The code word will be ‘vengeance.’”
“Will you be sending letters, Lakshman?” Bala asks, looking confused.
“Why the hell do you think I’m going to Bijapur? You think you can beat Bijapur by force of arms? You don’t stand a chance. I’m going to be your spy, you fools. Don’t any of you understand?”
Now they do. Now the men in the circle stand and wish him luck, and bow him off, but Lakshman simply shakes his head and strides across the field as though walking from a pit of garbage.
“Do you think you can trust him, lord?” Bandal asks.
“You’re talking about my brother!” Hanuman cries.
Bandal looks down for a moment. “I know who I’m talking about. Haven’t you noticed how he’s changed?”
“You can’t let him go, lord,” Jedhe says, finishing Bandal’s thought. “He says he wants to be a spy. Whose spy? What if he tells Bijapur about our plans?”
“We have no plans,” Hanuman says, disgusted.
“Let him go,” says Shivaji. “For better or worse, let him go.”
After a silence, Bala whispers, “What shall we do about this letter?”
“Ignore it.”
“Let your father die, lord?” Trelochan gasps. “It isn’t right that he should suffer for our actions.”
“Shahji’s situation is not our fault!” Hanuman declares. “He himself chose this course. He forsook his family for Bijapur. If Bijapur plays false, what’s that to us? Does Bijapur think one man is worth all that gold?”
“How shall we have victory if we fail to honor our fathers?” Trelochan responds, but Jedhe stirs uncomfortably.
Shivaji stares at the ground. “I won’t return the gold.”
“Then they’ll attack us,” Bandal says.
“They’ll attack us anyway,” Hanuman responds.
“Then let’s use the gold against them,” Jedhe whispers. “Send gold to every town and village that sits beneath a Bijapuri fort. Tell the headman to block the roads. Some towns are doing this already. Encourage it.”
“Yes, yes!” Jedhe says. “People are waiting for a reason to move against the jackals. Give them a reason! The gold will give them the courage!”
Bandal agrees: “Pratapghad fell to a bribe. When they hear about your wealth, other forts will fall.”
“This is meaningless,” Hanuman cries. “You’re forgetting that we have no army. Afzul Khan will be here soon. He’ll mow us down like grass.”
“Maybe, cousin,” Bandal answers. “But they’ll come with a big army, and that will take time.”
“In the meantime, we organize,” Jedhe says eagerly.
“When we receive the demand from Bijapur,” Bala says, reflecting, “we must promise to return the gold.”
“They’ll never believe it,” Shivaji says.
“Write to Aurangzeb!” Jedhe suggests. “He’s in Golconda. Offer to ally yourself to the Moguls. You’re a force now, lord. He’ll have to pay attention.”
“Why should Wagnak give us any help?” Shivaji asks, using Aurangzeb’s old nickname. “He defeated my father. Why should he rescue him now?”
“Because now we have the money and Bijapur doesn’t,” Jedhe answers. “Hell, it’s worth a try! Look how quickly things can change. Delay, delay! Every day becomes our friend!”
Shivaji sits for a moment in silence, then nods. “Very well. Bala, send letters to Shaista Khan and Aurangzeb. Make promises. Beg.”
“Yes, lord,” Bala answers. “Shall I write to Bijapur too, and promise you’ll return the gold?”
Shivaji thinks about this. “No. I intend to use the gold as you suggested, cousin. We’ll offer bribes to the fort commanders. But we won’t be able to hide this from Bijapur. Word will get around. Hell, we want word to get around. If I lie in their faces, it will infuriate Bijapur. Let the news trickle in. Jedhe, you and I will go to Welhe with the new arrivals, and prepare against Bijapur’s attack. Bandal, will take a couple of hundred men and fortify Pratapghad.” Shivaji turns to Hanuman. “Hanu, stay here and coordinate our efforts. I expect there will be new arrivals coming. Who knows, maybe another fort will fall without our help!” Shivaji smiles.
“This is a bad plan, lord,” Trelochan says. “You’re needed here. Maybe you haven’t realized, but you are sparking an uprising. You must stay here and be the king!”
“I say I am no king!” Shivaji says. For once his face looks truly angry.
“As you wish, lord. Even so, you must not leave Poona. Stay here, lord; send others.” Shivaji looks around the circle, and the others nod agreement. “Please, lord,” says Jedhe. “Do us this favor. We’d all rather face Afzul Khan than stay here with Jijabai.”
 
 
Hanuman almost doesn’t say goodbye to his mother. Ever since Lakshman came back injured, she acts so worried. His thoughts turn then to Jyoti. Shahu told him that he tried to make the arrangements, but that Nirmala had not been pleased. “She made me promise not to give Jyoti any money,” Shahu told him.
“Can’t you do something? She’d never let me marry a woman with no
dowry,” Hanuman replied. But Shahu refused to disobey Nirmala’s wishes.
Hanuman sees Nirmala stirring rice and dal over the fire in the back kitchen. The warm smell of wood smoke mixes with the heavy scent of spices. He sees that her waist has grown thicker, and her shoulders smaller, that the braid along her back is longer now, and streaked with gray. When did she get old? he wonders. But her eyes are just as bright as ever.
“Are you just going to stand there?” Nirmala says.
Embarrassed to be caught staring, Hanuman says “I came to say goodbye. I’m off to join father at Welhe.”
“Well, if you’re going, go,” she answers, turning back to her cooking. The pot of food is far too large for a woman who will be eating all alone.
“I’ll be back,” he says. She just goes on stirring. “We’ll all be back.”
“She’s not good enough for you, Hanuji,” Nirmala says softly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were lonely? Now I know you’re interested, I’ll find someone suitable. You had only to say something.”
“Never mind, mother.”
She turns, and her face is full of hope and sadness, as though her heart is splitting open. “I forbid you to see her anymore,” Nirmala tells him. “I didn’t raise my son marry some nautch girl’s maid.”
“Her heart is full of love.”
“You may say as much of any beggar. Your father has raised this family out of poverty. You’re important now. You need a suitable wife. Don’t you want your mother to be happy, Hanu?” she asks.
“Don’t you want me to be happy too, mother?”
She turns away, and begins to stir the pot once more. “Maybe things will be better when you return.” She puts down her wooden spoon, and spreads her arms to him. Finally she pulls back, clutching his arms. “Want what I want, son,” she whispers. “Is that so hard? Want what I want.”
He presses his folded hands to his forehead, and walks silently away. “She’s too poor!” he hears her calling after him. “Do you hear me? Too poor for you!” He feels a lump of sorrow burning in his throat, and when he passes through the door, he starts to run.
 
 
“If we had your Rajputs,” Aurangzeb says to Jai Singh, “we should have won by now.”
Outside the walls of Golconda, the Mogul siege goes on. As the prince speaks, a cannon volley rocks the night air, and the sides of Mir Jumla’s extravagant war tent puff as though blown by a gust of wind. Mir Jumla chuckles, hoping to show that he enjoys Aurangzeb’s words. “You see, general, even the cannons agree with Prince Aurangzeb! And I agree with him … though what is he saying, really, eh? He’s saying I’m an incompetent old fool, eh?”
The evening is ending up exactly as Jai Singh had dreaded: dinner with Mir Jumla. His tent is as grandiose as the food had been. The center pole supports a massive ink-blue canopy embroidered with silver stars. Silk tapestries hang on every side. They recline on brocade pillows stuffed with down, breathing air perfumed by vases of fresh tuberoses. It’s difficult to believe that Jumla’s tent is in the middle of a battlefield; it seems more suited for a royal palace.
Naturally, Jai Singh thinks, our host has kept the guest list short—just Aurangzeb and Jai Singh, for Jumla would never think of inviting anyone less important than himself. So here they sit, pretending to be amused, in an opulence that would rival any residence in Agra. A score of half-used serving dishes rest on the thick carpet; in Jai Singh’s honor, most were prepared without meat. Aurangzeb, Jai Singh notes enviously, has taken only rice and dal, the simplest of foods.
Can Aurangzeb truly be the man he appears to be? Is he truly a man without pride, without ambition? Jai Singh wonders, comparing Aurangzeb to the heir apparent, Dara. What a contrast. How unfortunate the accident of their births. If only Aurangzeb had been firstborn …
When he had arrived, Alu, that young eunuch who acts as Aurangzeb’s
khaswajara,
sought him out at once, and led him to the prince. Aurangzeb had embraced him like a brother.
And then Jumla had appeared. Jai Singh studies the Persian general. Has Jumla been gaining weight? Gaining weight in the middle of a siege!
“What about it, general?” Jumla asks, setting down his wine cup and licking his long mustache. “Will you send us some Rajputs so we can end this siege and go home? Better yet, won’t you lead them yourself, so I can go home?” He winks at Aurangzeb.
“You flatter me, general,” Jai Singh laughs politely. “Your army is powerful and dedicated. What are the Rajputs now but soldiers for hire?”
Aurangzeb snorts. “Your people, general, are the greatest warriors that ever fought. I mean this,” says the prince, waving away Jai Singh’s protest.
“Yet your ancestors defeated us, highness,” Jai Singh answers.
“Only by treachery, general. The greatest army may be defeated by a single coward. When a coward leads, the army surely fails. And if a coward should gain a throne …” Aurangzeb leaves the though unspoken.
Jai Singh turns away from Aurangzeb’s penetrating glance, wondering if the prince has read his thoughts about Dara. He sits in silence, hoping that they’ll drop the subject. At that moment another cannon booms, rattling the silver-covered tent poles and jangling the chains of the hanging oil lamps. “Do you fire the cannon all night, general?” he asks Jumla.
“Only until midnight, general,” Jumla replies, holding out his cup for a refill. “Our men must sleep, you know. Last thing, we send a volley of flaming rockets, and then off to bed. But the Golcondans must stay up all night fighting fires. It won’t be long until they surrender.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Jai Singh nods. “As you know, Shah Jahan sent me to review your progress …”
“You mean Dara sent you,” Aurangzeb says quietly. Jai Singh lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.
“And how do you find things, general?” Jumla asks.
“You have concentrated your attack on the south approach to the city, and placed great strength on the west and east sides as well.”
“The south gate seemed to us the hardest for the Golcondans to defend,” Jumla agrees. “It is there that we have thrown the main weight of the attack.”
“Your front to the north, however, is weak, general—weak to the point of breaking,” Jai Singh says.
“In just a few hours visit, you saw that?”
“Has the enemy noticed? That’s the real question.”
“They don’t appear to have seen it yet. Your opinion of this weakness, general?” Aurangzeb asks quietly.
“Excellent, your highness.” The Rajput’s eyes are bright. “It is wise—brilliant!” Jai Singh continues—“To contrive a weakness for your enemy to spot. It gives your enemy a foolish hope; hope that guides them to their ruin. If you smoke the cobra in his hole, he’ll coil and wait for days. But give the old snake an exit and he’ll run for it. Stand there with your bag and you shall have him. This show of weakness is a masterstroke.”
“It was Aurangzeb’s doing,” says Jumla, smiling.
“The inspiration was your siege at Lodi, general,” says Aurangzeb giving a nod to Jai Singh. “But Jumla is too kind, I may have made a suggestion here or there, but the planning all was his.”
“In any case, gentlemen, I see that the endgame approaches. Is the bag ready when the cobra runs?”
Jumla nods. “We have hidden cannon here, here and here,” he says, drawing an imaginary diagram on the floor. When the servants come in bearing a salver full of cakes floating in rose-petal syrup, they must set them down elsewhere so as not to disturb the diagram.
“Let’s discuss this later, gentlemen,” Jumla says. He nods to a servant, who brings a hookah forward, lighting it with a burning coal before he hands it to his master. “You won’t join me, either of you?” Jumla asks, sucking on the mouthpiece, setting the pipe bubbling. The smell of spiced tobacco mixes with the perfume of the rose syrup.
“So, general, what’s the news at court?” Jumla asks expansively.
Jai Singh begins to tell of entertaining scandals: cuckolded husbands, enterprising eunuchs, devious wives. But soon, the night grows darker and Jai Singh’s tales grow darker, too. The cannon volleys stop, and outside the tent the chatter of the camp grows quiet. “You know that Dara has sent out letters, of course,” Jai Singh says, looking disturbed.
“What letters?” Jumla asks.
“To all the generals. Demanding that they confirm their loyalty to the throne.”
Jumla glances at Aurangzeb. “I never got such a letter.”
Jai Singh looks at him steadily. “Neither did I. I thought I was the only one. Everyone else seemed to have received one.”
“Did you ask Dara about it?” Aurangzeb says softly.
“No.” Now Jai Singh, like Aurangzeb, stares at the carpet, eyes forward, head still.
“Surely Dara felt that your loyalty is beyond question,” Aurangzeb whispers.
“What about mine?” Jumla asks. “Am I not loyal?” A small trail of hookah smoke drifts from his mouth.
“Since you didn’t get a letter, general, Dara must have thought so. No one can doubt your loyalty to my father.”
Jai Singh looks up, troubled. “You know that the letter had nothing to do with your father, highness.” Jai Singh studies Aurangzeb’s face. Is he any better than his brother? Are any of his family to be trusted? “You know about what happened to my family in Amber?”
“Some difficulty with your bodyguard, I heard,” Jumla answers. “Is there more than that?”
Jai Singh strokes his beard with his small, neat fingers. “The guard’s captain died—was killed, they tell me—while trying to assassinate my wife and son.”
“Betrayal is reprehensible,” Aurangzeb says.
“Now my wife is guarded by a Mogul bodyguard,” Jai Singh continues. “The captain of the guard is Dara’s man.”
“Ahcha,” Jumla nods, understanding Jai Singh’s worried tone.
“General,” says Aurangzeb softly. “I hear the question that you must not ask, and that I must not answer.” Aurangzeb leans forward. “He thinks he has you, general. Because of your wife, he thinks he has you.”
“Because of my wife, he does.”
“You can always get another wife, general,” Jumla laughs. But Jai Singh does not.
 
 
At that moment, Alu enters, and turns to Aurangzeb. “I’m sorry to disturb you, highness, but a dispatch has come.” He opens a rough leather tube and draws out a letter.
“Who sent it, Alu?” asks Aurangzeb.
“It comes from Poona, lord.”
“Where the hell is Poona?” Jumla asks.
“It’s in the Malve, general,” Jai Singh answers, trying to be polite. “A small city in Bijapur territory.”
Aurangzeb reads the letter, then reads it again before speaking. “It’s from some Marathi chieftain calling himself Shivaji,” Aurangzeb tells the others, without looking up. “He claims he’s taken a number of Bijapuri forts.” He looks up at Jai Singh. “Is this possible? He says that he has captured the bulk of the Bijapuri allotment from the Kankonen.”
“That would be a fortune, highness,” Jai Singh says. “I suppose it’s possible, but …”
“Read it yourself, general,” Aurangzeb hands the parchment to Jai Singh. Jumla slides near, peering at the dispatch in the dim light.
“The fellow’s Persian is quite presentable,” Jumla says.
“I don’t know what that proves,” Jai Singh snorts. “Any fool may speak Persian.” Jumla glares at him as he continues to read. “What’s this? He wants you to save his father!”
Aurangzeb smiles. “I thought that would interest you.” He looks at Jai Singh. “Shahji … Do you remember him? He used to be quite a nuisance during the Ahmednagar wars. And now the son appeals to me. The wheel turns, general.” He turns to Alu. “How did this arrive?”
“Some courier. A bumpkin. Strangely dressed, highness, on a stolen horse that bears a Bijapuri brand.”
Jumla snorts. “It’s a Bijapuri trick.”
Alu turns to him. “Believe me, the rider’s not from Bijapur. He looks like a lost dog.”
“‘Bumpkin’ … Where have I heard that word recently?” Aurangzeb shakes his head and turns back to the letter. “So what are we to make of this Shivaji fellow? If we save his father, he’ll become a Mogul ally.” The prince looks amused. “How ironic. Asking old General Wagnak to rescue Shahji, his fiercest enemy.”
“We all know Shahji, of course,” Jai Singh replies. “I seem to remember he had a son. Shahji was made commander of Bijapur’s armies. How did he come to be arrested?”
“Obvious, isn’t it?” grunts Jumla. “The kid takes the gold; Bijapur takes the father.”
“The Kankonen allotment … what would that be worth?” Aurangzeb wonders.
“A fortune, highness,” Alu says in his soft, husky voice. He looks at Jai Singh strangely. Like a nautch girl sizing me up, thinks Jai Singh with surprise. Then his big smoky eyes turn back to Aurangzeb. “Bijapur’s gotten rich by taxing the sea trade.”
“Where is Poona, exactly?” Jumla asks Jai Singh.
“Just to the east of the ghats,” Jai Singh answers curtly. “The entire area is peppered with forts. Shahji had quite a run against us.”
“And this new fellow, Shivaji?” Aurangzeb’s eyes light up. “I remember. Fetch that dispatch of Shaista Khan’s.”
“Yes, highness,” says Alu, who glides silently from the tent.
“You’re not really taking this seriously?” asks Jumla.
“You think the Peacock Throne needs no more allies, general?”
Alu returns with a parchment. Aurangzeb glances through it quickly. “This dispatch came from Shaista Khan, who is acting as my father’s emissary to Bijapur. He mentions that Shivaji has taken a couple of Bijapur’s forts. That was only two or three weeks ago. Shahji’s son has been busy.”
“He’s trying to pick up where his father left off,” Jumla suggests. Aurangzeb falls silent.
“You should send a letter to Bijapur, highness,” Alu says. “Have Shaista Khan deliver it. He can be quite persuasive.”
“Shaista Khan is not in Bijapur,” Jai Singh says. “He was called to Agra for an urgent consultation.” Jai Singh says this as one announces a death. “Called back by Dara, highness.”
Alu glances at Jai Singh and lifts an eyebrow. Jai Singh turns away, embarrassed. Such a glance might mean anything!
At last the prince lifts his head. “How many men are actively employed in this siege, general? How many would be available for a second line of attack, should the need arise?”
Jumla seems rattled by the question. “Well, there’s fifty thousand, total. But at this point—digging trenches, waiting—I suppose only eight or ten thousand are active.”
“Could five thousand men be spared, general?” interrupts Aurangzeb.
“Of course they could be spared, highness, if that is your wish,” Jai Singh puts in. Jumla glares at him. Let him glare; I outrank him, thinks Jai Singh.
“If you think it might be done, general,” Aurangzeb says with quiet deference, though of course he could order anything he wished. “Jumla, please give orders that a company of five thousand be set upon the western road by noon.”

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