Authors: John Speed
Tiger Claws (54 page)
Tanaji harrumphs. “There was no one there but me.”
Jyoti seems confident now, strong. “You can’t deny, sir, that I’ve answered your objection now.”
Tanaji shakes his head. “You’re right. I’ll talk to Nirmala.”
“My prayers are answered, father,” Hanuman says.
“Is the letter to Shivaji finished?” Tanaji snaps, turning so no one can see his face.
“Nearly,” Hanuman sits back at the small desk, writing hurriedly, and Jyoti watches him, beaming. She doesn’t notice Tanaji wiping at his eyes.
When Hanuman is finished, Tanaji takes the letter. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says. But Hanuman isn’t looking at him, nor is Jyoti. “I’m leaving now,” Tanaji says, louder.
The moment he is gone, they fall into each other’s arms.
An hour later, the servant calls through the door. “A messenger has come, sir. The Bijapuri army has been spotted.”
The sun shines hot and bright on the Bijapuri plain, on the heads of the thousands marching toward the mountains like a swarm of carrion beasts. Ahead the mountains loom like teeth thrust out of the earth, with black flanks dark beneath the shadows of huge clouds.
The howdah of Afzul Khan’s great war elephant rocks like a boat in a turbulent sea. Through a fog of dust, Afzul Khan sees his cavalry spread across the plain, bright lances gleaming. Ahead of them ride the ten banner-bearers, carrying on silver-studded flagpoles the dark green flags of Bijapur, snapping in the breeze.
Behind him tramp war elephants heavy with armor, trunks upraised. In the rear, their faces streaked with dust-stained sweat, follows an ocean of soldiers. In the distance, oxcarts strain beneath the weight of weapons and supplies, and behind them, high-wheeled cannon tugged by man and ox alike. Trailing away behind, hidden by clouds of dust, the servants and cooks, the fletchers and smiths and whores straggle slowly, slowly onward.
The swath the army cuts across the plain is wide: crops and huts are crushed beneath its heavy step. The peasants grab what things they can and flee. From the dust clouds that hang around them like a war god’s chariot, the music of destruction blares: the pounding of the battle drums; the blasting of war trumpets as tall as men.
The track of the army moves across the plateau like a stain.
Rocking in his howdah, the general of all, Afzul Khan, sweats in the noontime heat, propped on silk and velvet cushions. With each step sounds the
clunk
of the elephant’s armor, iron bossed with leather, that covers its flanks.
clunk
of the elephant’s armor, iron bossed with leather, that covers its flanks.
The sun is so hot that the mahout, who half-kneels, half-sits on the beast’s wide head, must ladle water on its war helmet; otherwise the elephant’s brain would surely bake beneath the bronze. The water sizzles into steam.
A man rides up on an energetic Bedouin. Dust streaks fall in lines along its flanks, and strings of foam hang from its lips. The man spurs his mount to walk beside the elephant, and calls to Afzul Khan. “Nearly time for prayers, general.”
Afzul Khan points to the mountains. “No more stops for prayers. When I pray next, I’ll be in Poona. I’ll use Shivaji’s skin for my prayer rug. Not until then, captain, will I stop for prayer.”
“But, general!” the captain protests, until he sees the face that lowers at him from the howdah. “As you say, general.” He hesitates. “But sir … the men. I mean, we’re going into battle soon, and the men …”
“Captain, which way are we facing?”
“West, sir.”
“Which way’s Mecca?”
“West, sir.”
“So anyone may pray. Pray in your saddle. Pray on your feet. Trust me, Allah will understand.” Afzul Khan stares at the mountains, and points to the pass. “We must be there tonight, captain. I want to eat my dinner in Welhe.”
“But, sir, those mountains are fifteen miles away! And it’s another eight miles through the pass to Welhe.”
“You heard me, captain.” And with that Afzul Khan heaves himself back amidst his velvet cushions.
They don’t make Welhe by the evening, though the captain sets the lash to many. It’s just too far and too hot. They’ve barely reached the foothills as the sun goes down. The captain looks at the rugged, narrow road that winds into the heights, curses, and calls a halt. It takes a quarter hour before the word has spread, before the whole ragged force, stretched for miles across the Bijapuri plain, stops to collapse exhausted on the hot ground.
The captain screws up his courage and rides back to Afzul Khan. “I had to call a halt, general. There was no way to bring the army through that pass at night. Our men are exhausted. The road’s a mess and probably protected.” He shouts this in a rush, waiting for the heavy sword to fall and split his head in two.
“You did what you had to, captain,” the general says at last.
“I know you said that we must …”
“But of course, we could never have made Welhe, could we? Clever of you to work that out. We’re here, at least, by sundown. That’s something.”
Afzul Khan twists his face, and it occurs to the captain that he’s trying to smile. “Come and meet me in an hour. I have something I wish to discuss with you.”
Afzul Khan twists his face, and it occurs to the captain that he’s trying to smile. “Come and meet me in an hour. I have something I wish to discuss with you.”
The captain bows as a man condemned bows to his judge. “But first,” says Afzul Khan, “spread the word among the men. No tents. We sleep beneath the stars tonight. Tomorrow we break camp at dawn.”
An hour later the captain returns to find the general seated by a bright fire in a camp chair of wood and leather, talking with a small man he’s never seen before. Not far away he sees servants fluttering around a dinner table; a table set—the captain notices—for one.
“Ah, captain,” says Afzul Khan, standing at his approach. “I’ve been waiting. Come and look at this.”
The captain joins him. When the small man lifts his head, the captain sees the deep brown scars where a cross has been branded into his face; one ragged scar from forehead to lips, the other where his eyebrows must have been. An Abyssinian, the captain thinks. He hates them, but the general is fond of them. Most of them are Christians, and all of them are soulless, their shifty eyes like jackals’ hunting for an unsuspecting prey.
“This man, Simon, has been helping me,” Afzul Khan explains. The captain inclines his head in greeting. The Abyssinian merely squints in reply. He holds an oiled leather thong, twisting it tightly around his fingers and untwisting it.
“Come and see, captain,” says Afzul Khan. Despite his bulk, the general slides easily between some carts parked end to end to form a private area. The captain follows. Behind him comes the Abyssinian. He can smell the oil and onions on his breath.
Two torches driven into open ground between the wagons light up a messy heap of long bamboo poles, and nearby a small pile of oiled leather thongs. Propped up against a tool box rest a wooden mallet, a thin saw, and a two-handled drawknife.
“Simon’s weaponry.” Afzul Khan chuckles, nodding at the toolbox. As if in response, the dark man moves silently to the tools and begins to cut a bamboo pole.
The captain notices that the poles form some sort of assembly: an open framework bound with leather thongs. “Simon’s handiwork,” says Afzul Khan. “He’s an expert, you know. A master of his craft.”
“What is it?” the captain asks. Afzul Khan lifts his chin, encouraging
the captain to pick up the assembly. When he lifts it from the ground, it expands: the poles drop down on leather hinges with a clack, forming a box.
the captain to pick up the assembly. When he lifts it from the ground, it expands: the poles drop down on leather hinges with a clack, forming a box.
A cage.
“Are you hunting, then, sir?” the captain ventures, though suddenly his blood runs cold.
“Trapping,” Afzul Khan says, taking a step closer.
The captain tells himself to calm down. What are you afraid of? But then he smells oil and onions, and spins around to see the Abyssinian inches from his back, the thin leather thong twisting in his hands.
“I had my Christian build this cage for Shivaji. It’s based on my ideas, but the execution is all his own, and I must say, it is superb.” The Abyssinian nods his head. “In this cage I shall bring Shivaji to Bijapur. In this cage I shall parade him as a prize. In this cage I shall watch him as he dies.”
The Abyssinian swiftly lashes the sides and corners together, the contraption takes form, like a pair of flat, oddly shaped boxes, both but a few inches high. Soon he stands back, puffing slightly from the effort.
“I don’t understand,” says the captain, walking around the assembly. “How is this a cage? How can it hold anything?”
“I agree, it’s difficult to appreciate without a—well, a specimen to demonstrate.” Afzul Khan looms over him. “Would you care to volunteer?” Before the captain has a chance to answer, before he has a chance to move or even think, Afzul Khan has reached his thick arm around his head, squeezing his skull until it would seem to burst. Then he throws him effortlessly down.
Then the trap is sprung.
The captain lies on his back. Something’s in front of his eyes; he can’t see what. The bamboo slats of the cage press against his limbs. He’s in a sort of lattice cross, his torso and his limbs twisted painfully. The bamboo is loose in places, tight in others; his head for example, can move forward but not side to side. He pulls his head back far enough to see what’s in front eyes.
Bamboo spikes. Sharpened.
Probably there are others hidden from his sight. It’s not just a cage, the captain realizes. It’s an instrument of torture.
“Well, what do you think, captain?” The heavy, jowled face of Afzul Khan comes into his sight as the general stoops beside him, grunting with the effort. “Now, this part here, around the head and eyes, that was my idea.”
Perhaps he’s only testing me, thinks the captain. “Ingenious, sir,” he whimpers.
“Ingenious, yes. You have no idea,” Afzul Khan laughs. “For one thing, you’re upside down.”
No, I’m not, the captain thinks. But in that instant, the general grabs the side of the contraption and flips it over.
It takes all the captain’s strength to stop his head from hurtling to the spikes before his eyes. Now he sees the ground below him, and inches from his eyes, those spikes, sharp and terrible.
“Now you understand,” the general chuckles.
“How do I get out?” the captain gasps. Or maybe he just screams.
“You don’t, captain. I thought that was clear?” Afzul Khan turns to the Abyssinian. “Make a sign: ‘He disobeyed.’ Put him and the cage upon a cart and drive him around the camp. Let all know what happens to those who disobey. Then make another cage; this one for Shivaji. I approve of the design.”
The captain, struggling to keep his head from falling forward, hears the crunching of the general’s thick-soled shoes as he leaves. He can no longer contain himself. “Allah!” he screams. His eyes, just inches from the blinding spikes, are suddenly wet with weeping, and mucous and saliva pour from his nose and mouth. As if in answer to his wailing, he hears the footsteps of the general’s return, and his growling voice. “Don’t do this, captain. Don’t weep like a woman. Show some courage. You weren’t much good as a captain, after all. Just think of all the good you’ll do as an example. Before you were but one captain among many. Now you are unique. You’ll give each man incentive to obey.”
“Don’t let me die this way, general!” the captain wails.
Afzul Khan considers this. “Am I not known for being merciful?”
“Yes!” the captain sobs. “Afzul Khan the merciful!”
“Very well. Stay alive until we capture Shivaji, and I’ll let you go. By then the men will have no more need of your example.”
The captain gasps. “I will pray for our quick victory, general!”
“Allah attends to desperate prayer, captain.”
Tanaji rides into the courtyard of the Rang Mahal, struck by the quiet hanging over Poona. Where have the children gone? he wonders. People walk through the courtyard silently. And no one sits outside—the verandahs are empty. It’s as though a cloud hovers overhead.
The cloud, thinks Tanaji, of war approaching.
When he enters his doorway, Nirmala gives him a long, desperate
embrace. It’s been a long time since she has thrown herself against him so. He pats her, whispering softly to her.
embrace. It’s been a long time since she has thrown herself against him so. He pats her, whispering softly to her.
Then he sits, and listens to her, while (of all things) she unwraps his turban and combs his thick black hair. “It came to me to do this, husband,” is all she’ll say. But he must admit, it feels good, her hands soothing him, the ivory comb whispering through his hair. They talk of many things, but of course it isn’t long before they speak of Hanuman, and of Jyoti, and of Jyoti’s sudden wealth.
“Shivaji!” she cries when she hears it. “This is his doing!”
“Maybe,” her husband says. “But he was in Poona the whole time. And he promised you, didn’t he? To you, at least, he has always kept his word.”
“Hmmph. There’s always a first time. Besides, who else could it be?”
“Who else had a bag of
farang
gold?” Tanaji asks, as if he has no idea. “She’ll be a servant girl no more, I’d guess. She’s rich enough now to buy a town.”
farang
gold?” Tanaji asks, as if he has no idea. “She’ll be a servant girl no more, I’d guess. She’s rich enough now to buy a town.”
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