Tiger Claws (59 page)
Authors: John Speed
“I did what I had to do, cousin, no more.”
“What do you think of your son, eh, Tana? He went his own way, but he has served us well, eh?” Shivaji slaps Lakshman on the back. “Tomorrow, when the army assembles, I’ll give you a robe of honor.”
“I want no gifts. I have my own resources now. In fact, I’ve brought you a gift.”
He lifts his chin, and Shivaji turns to look. Across the courtyard Shivaji sees her, her yellow sari lit by the glow of the setting sun, her face brilliant in the sunset’s luster. “There, I give her to you, cousin,” Lakshman says though Shivaji eyes him coldly. “You can’t pretend that you don’t want her! Maybe you can fool others, but I know your heart.”
Shivaji stares at him. “You know nothing,” he says at last.
Lakshman’s eye now changes, bright, mocking, amused. “I know she wants you. She dreams of you, Shahu. She moans your name when she sleeps.” For a moment it seems to Tanaji that Shivaji might strike at Lakshman, so much anger fills his stare. But he turns on his heel and strides away.
“What sort of man have you become, Lakshman?” Tanaji glares at his son. “What were you thinking?”
Lakshman lifts his face, his smile an empty sneer. “You think because I’ve lost an eye that now I’m blind? You’ve got Hanuman; you’ve got Shivaji. You don’t need another son, not anymore. I’m just a nuisance now.”
“You’re still my son,” Tanaji protests, but Lakshman shakes his head.
“Not just your son, your better son. That’s right, father; someday you’ll see this; someday you’ll understand.” He nods toward Shivaji’s closed door. “Always you cared for Shahu more than me.”
“That’s not true! What has happened to you, Lakshman? I hardly know you!”
Lakshman glares at him, and bends down to pick up his pack. “In the end, father, all the lies must stop. You’ll see it, in the end. He’s evil. He’s as greedy as his father, and he’s getting worse. You think you are his friend, but you are only his tool. In the end, he’ll betray you, just as Shahji did. Then you’ll know who loved you best. Good luck in the battle.” Without another word, Lakshman begins to walk away.
“Where are you going? The enemy is almost on us!”
“There’s the enemy,” Lakshman answers as he walks off, nodding toward Shivaji’s door.
She has tossed for hours on the bedmat. When she finally gives up trying to sleep, Maya goes to the temple.
He looked at her and looked away. She tries her best to think of other things. Where are her girls tonight? Hiding in some cave? Are they safe? Has Afzul Khan discovered them? Always though her mind returns to just one thought: He looked at her and looked away.
He’s nothing! Why do you even care? How many men have you forgotten? Forget one more, just one more! Still that image burns. His face so angry. What has she done to deserve such treatment? At last she rises from her bed, ties her sari, and slips into the courtyard.
In front of her, spreading through the courtyard, are the snoring, sleeping bodies of several hundred soldiers. So many still here, she thinks, even though most have gone to the foot of the mountain to cut a new road to the fort.
She tries to find a path through the sleeping bodies. Sometimes her bare foot bumps against an arm or leg, but no one wakes. As though some other power wills it, she finds that her footsteps bring her right past Shivaji’s house.
A few yards from his door, she stops. Is he alone? Asleep? The high window in the wall flickers, as if a lamp burns inside.
She looks away. The temple, not this door, she whispers to herself.
Across the moonlit courtyard a few lights still burn in the stone lampposts of the temple. As she enters the shadowed, dark pavilion, her memory flashes back to her dancing temple in Adoli. I’m sure it’s destroyed now, she thinks sadly. The sudden appearance of Lakshman there still troubles her. I should not have left, she thinks, not with him. I should not have come here, she thinks.
Then she notices: the temple doors are not locked, as they should be. How can this be? she wonders. She hesitates. From within the
murti
’s room, a lamplight wavers. She tiptoes forward. Her eyes have opened in the darkness. She sees the bright eyes of the goddess staring at her. The air here chills her and she starts to tremble.
murti
’s room, a lamplight wavers. She tiptoes forward. Her eyes have opened in the darkness. She sees the bright eyes of the goddess staring at her. The air here chills her and she starts to tremble.
Something is moving in there, just beyond the door. A spy, she thinks. Mice. A dog. One of the brahmins. She sees the shadow now, someone in the corner, some dark form. A Bijapuri. Lakshman. Shivaji. She inches forward. “Come in,” she hears—just a whisper, but it echoes.
“Who is it?” Maya whispers back. Screwing up her courage, she steps up to the goddess’s threshold, and stoops until her head touches the worn wood. Any moment she expects to feel a knife thrust into her neck, but when she lifts her head, the shadow has not moved. “Who is it?” she hisses again.
“She couldn’t sleep, so I came to keep her company,” the whisper answers. The words strike Maya strangely; it occurs to her that the voice might be speaking of the goddess, or of Maya herself. The voice whispers again, “Come in. You took so long. I thought you’d never get here.”
“Mother!” Maya cries out. “Mother, is it really you?”
“Yes, child,” answers Gungama, her old eyes beaming. “Did I not say that we would meet again?”
They hug each other, and then they laugh, and they hug each other again and then they cry. The goddess near them stares into the distance while the small stone room rings with sobs and laughter and whispers.
It isn’t long before she’s told Gungama about the attack on the Adoli temple, how she sent the girls away. Then she tells of Lakshman’s strange arrival, and of how they fled from the Bijapuris. She even tells of that vivid dream she’d had.
“Is that so,” is all Gungama says.
“What’s wrong with me, ma?” asks Maya. “Why is he always in my thoughts? I don’t even like him!”
“He is not one to like or dislike. His role is only to disturb everyting, as he has disturbed you.”
“You said once that our fates were intertwined.”
Gungama strokes her cheek with her soft palm, her eyes tender. “How that is to be, I cannot see. I only know that you are here for him, just as I once was. You’re stuck with him!” Then she looks at her anxiously, as if telling her some hard secret. “But now you start to sense his purpose. And your own purpose, which is tied with his. How it all works out I can’t
imagine. Somehow all will be well.” Gungama peers into Maya’s gold-flecked eyes. “He’s come to stand the earth upon its head, child. And he starts with you.”
imagine. Somehow all will be well.” Gungama peers into Maya’s gold-flecked eyes. “He’s come to stand the earth upon its head, child. And he starts with you.”
Bandal has found some words to drive his men: “If you want to live, then cut.” It gets the point across succinctly. He tried explaining, and cajoling, and pleading and threatening, but now he merely points to the west, to the dust cloud hovering in the air that surges ever closer.
“If you want to live, then cut.” The men slash furiously through the vines and trees. They push great heaps of brush beside the new-made road. The sun has passed its zenith, but the air is cool. And to everyone’s amazement, the road is nearly finished: a clear, wide track that leads directly to a promontory a few hundred yards from the fort’s first gate. It looks as if some god has taken a razor to the forest and shaved a swath down to the bare soil.
In truth, Bandal feels a little perturbed. In the morning, Iron gave him orders. Hanuman too, was telling him what to do. At noon Shivaji came riding down the new road, Tanaji behind him, picking his way through the half-cleared places, and the men had cheered.
Shivaji then shouted out his plan. Afzul Khan will march his men along this new road, Shivaji told him. The Marathis will hide in the forest on either side, and attack. The Bijapuris on the road will die like dogs.
The men cheered. That smile of Shivaji’s, so confident and certain, made them feel that anything is possible.
It is Bandal who sees them first, the riders from Bijapur.
A half-dozen horsemen burst into the wide clearing at the foot of the mountain, riding quickly. Even from this distance, it’s easy to see that they ride expensive Bedouins and fly dark green pennants from their lances.
Bandal finds a jug of water, splashes his face and hands, and slaps the dust from his clothes. “Keep working,” he growls as the men stop to look. “We must finish the road by sundown.” He reaches the foot of the mountain road just as the riders get there.
Bandal blinks when he sees them; dark men with crosses branded across their faces. Except for one: blindfolded, gagged, hands tied behind his back—his cousin Jedhe.
“Where is headman?” barks the lead rider.
“I am Bandal. I’m in charge. Why have you bound my cousin?”
The rider laughs. “I am Simon, messenger of Afzul Khan. I come to see Shivaji.”
“Release that man and I’ll take you to him.”
“You are quite rude,” the rider answers. “I bring this man to Shivaji, not to you. Take me now to Shivaji.” Suddenly the other riders lower their lances, though Bandal saw no sign from the lead rider.
“Let him go.” Around him he hears his men stop their work, can feel them approaching though he does not turn.
“Don’t ask for death, fellow. Take me now to Shivaji.”
Bandal looks things over, does the math in his mind. For a moment, looking at Jedhe, he considers fighting. His muscles cry out for violence. But instead, he calls out “Bring me my pony.”
“Let’s go,” Bandal growls when he has mounted. The riders lift their lances.
“Keep working!” Bandal calls to the men. He spurs his pony, and the riders follow him up the new-built road.
“You know this traitor, fellow?” the lead rider calls to him. “My master says he is traitor. I say this right? Means ‘stinking liar’?” Bandal grits his teeth. “You do not answer me, fellow? Is that not rude?” Again Bandal says nothing. The rider says something in a language that he does not understand, and the other riders laugh.
By the time the riders reach the main gate, Shivaji stands before it, with Iron, Hanuman, and Tanaji at his side.
The Bijapuris form a crescent, with the captain at the center, next to Bandal. Bandal dismounts and walks back to Jedhe. He sees that his hands are not tied but wrapped in chains, his wrists raw and bleeding. “Don’t, fellow!” the lead rider calls. “He is not for you.”
“What is your business?” asks Shivaji.
“You are Shivaji? I am the messenger of Afzul Khan. He sends me to make arrangements. I say this right?”
“Go on.”
“Afzul Khan is not far. You see?” The captain nods toward the west, where the dust cloud of the army now seems only a few miles off.
“Why is my man treated so?”
The captain chortles. “Is traitor. I say this right? Means ‘stinking liar.’ He try to sell you to Afzul Khan. Say you are coward. You are coward, Shivaji?”
“Shivaji is our lord,” Hanuman calls out. “He is no coward.”
“This rude fellow talk for you, Shivaji?” The captain sneers.
“Let him go,” Shivaji answers.
“Sure.” The rider holding Jedhe’s horse shoves Jedhe so hard he falls from his saddle. Bandal manages to break his fall, and sets to work, pulling off his blindfold and gag.
“Take him inside,” Shivaji says to Bandal, as he helps Jedhe to his feet.
The captain throws a key at Shivaji’s feet. “In my land we kill such a man.”
Shivaji doesn’t move. Bandal leads Jedhe into the fort as again the captain snorts. “Say your business and be gone,” Shivaji orders.
“You don’t be rude. You send messenger, Afzul Khan sends messenger.”
“I would not send back a messenger in chains.”
The captain frowns. “But I am not traitor. I come to arrange this parley. I say this right?” Shivaji nods. “I find place for parley. Then comes Afzul Khan. Tomorrow. Noon, maybe. For parley. I find place.”
“We will parley in the fort. A place has been prepared”
The captain laughs out loud. “I think not inside that fort. I think not inside is good idea.”
“Then where?”
The captain looks around him, considering. He clearly has something in mind. “You make nice road. Is for Afzul Khan very nice. All army can come up this road very fast. Why you do this?” The captain studies Shivaji, sizing him up. Shivaji stares back until the captain starts to squirm. “Something here is not right,” he says. He turns and whispers with the man beside him. Then he looks back at Shivaji. “Back there. At place road ends.”
“There?” Shivaji asks, looking shocked. “That’s no place for a parley.”
“Yes, fellow. That place only.”
Shivaji’s eyes narrow, and now it is he who stares at the captain. “All right. I’ll make the arrangements.”
“No!” the captain answers. “I make arrangements. Also I make rules. I only, or no parley. I do this.”
Shivaji nods. “I’m listening.”
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