Daud’s duty is not over. He signals to a man who seems like a native Deccani. The man, holding a gunny bag leaps from his horse and rushes to the captured mass of people, shouting raucously in Marathi, raising his voice above their cries.
‘Your gold, silver, jewels! Quick, quick!’
Soon his bag is heavy with nose rings, trinkets, anklets, toe rings and bangles.
A young man darts across wielding a long machete and roaring a battle cry, ‘Har Har Mahadev! Har Har Mahadev!’ His lithe, half-naked body shimmers in the pale yellow lights of the lanterns. Before anyone can wink, the youngster scythes the man with the leash, again and again and then again. Finally he is left hacking just the dead meat. ‘I know you. You are one of us, you traitor,’ the youngster yells while sobbing and crying and then looks at the crowd as his eyes sparkle with strange passion.
‘Say it!’ he thunders, raising his hands as his blood streams down from his machete, ‘Har Har Mahadev! Har Har Mahadev!’
‘Har Har Mahadev!’ the villagers cry out the battle cry as loudly as possible. Death is not avoidable but they do not want the Mughal to take their lives; they want to give their lives to the enemy, as alms.
Daud nudges his horse, his sword once again out of his scabbard, its crimson blade swiftly beheading the budding display of courage. ‘That’s enough. Move!’ he shouts as loudly as possible. The night is not yet over; they have to cover one more village.
The encircling men have heard their master. A hundred of them surge forward, brandishing naked swords. The blades look new, unused, as if fresh from the blacksmith’s forge. The men advance slowly, relishing every moment as bearers of death. The villagers close their eyes and keep shouting ‘Har Har Mahadev!’, in frenzy. The loud chanting of their battle cry seems to make them martyrs. They are no longer the victims; they are courageous and are sacrificing their life for a cause.
Daud feels disappointed. He wants them to fall to their knees, to beg, to cry in horror. He wanted to see their eyes burn with hatred, and their hearts bleed with dread. Watching human weakness has always made him feel potent, but the villagers have denied him his pleasure. ‘Dogs from hell!’ he curses. Within moments the cries stop and the courtyard falls silent. The pebbled floor is flooded with blood while the tamarind tree stands mute. Even the phantoms subsisting on its branches might not have witnessed carnage such as this before.
‘The cattle,’ Daud throws a reminder.
A few horsemen break loose from the circle, unfasten the cattle and herd them away to the same place where the slave train is waiting.
At midnight, Daud and his men leave the hamlet. The deathly silence is broken by the crackle of fire that is about to swallow the barns and the fields. The slave carriers have noticed thick billows of smoke rising from the village, forming a cloud over the summer sky. The captives tied to the single rope look at the smoke, mutely, not yelling or crying, as if they have been robbed of all their tears.
A hundred slaves, a bagful of jewels and two hundred cattle. Mirza Jai Singh will be pleased with the first spoils of this Deccan war, Daud thinks as he kicks his horse into a gallop.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
1
‘The mountain mass rising a few hundred guj above the plains to our south-west is Purandar, Shivaji’s eastern stronghold. It has an upper fort with precipitous drops from all sides and is almost invincible, but not quite. Purandar has a twin called Vajragad on a ridge running out east of Purandar. Vajragad in Hindustani means “weapon”, but I can assure you that this weapon will help us cut Purandar’s jugular,’ Mirza says peering into the map drawn on a jute paper spread on a teakwood table in the midst of his tent erected for formal meetings.
Diler Khan and many others surround the table to look at the map they find fascinating. Niccolau Manucci, wearing a large tunic and tight leggings, with two pistols attached to his waist belt, remains seated on Mirza’s divan. He has already seen the map.
‘Look at this rock rising above the hill of Purandar—it is called Kandakada. It is an extension of the upper fort; the lower fort is almost three hundred guj below the peak. The girth of this lower fort is about two kos, protected by a winding wall fortified with ramparts and watchtowers that are always guarded by archers. To the north, the ledge of the lower fort widens and has barracks of the fort garrison.
‘This ledge or terrace is bound by a high hill that starts rising from the base of the steep, overhanging, north-eastern watchtower built on Kandakada, and runs about half a kos east in a narrow ridge, ending in a small flatland. That is Vajragad. There is a shallow ravine between the two forts, called Bhairavkhind.’
‘The point is clear: Vajragad is very close to the northern terrace of Purandar’s lower fort where the garrison resides,’ Diler Khan adds.
Mirza raises his eyebrows in appreciation, and glances at the tall Afghan with kohl-lined eyes and a long beard and says, ‘Two watchtowers, one painted black and the other white, face the terrace of Vajragad, which is at a lower level.’
‘From what I see in this map, if we can blow up these two towers and cross Bhairavkhind, we can reach Purandar’s lower fort. Vajragad is on a relatively smaller hill; it will be easy to climb and take our artillery along. My suggestion is to take Vajragad first and use it to conquer the higher and more difficult Purandar,’ Diler says with confidence.
Mirza nods. He likes it when his men say what he wants to say because then there is less resistance from the others.
‘We have some immediate tasks to tackle,’ Mirza gets to the first step of his strategy. ‘We have a sufficiently large army to besiege Purandar. Take over Vajragad while simultaneously sending flying columns to destroy villages to spread terror and also send garrisons to man our outposts.’
‘Daud Qureshi will lead eight flying columns of a thousand horsemen each to attack villages; he has already started his assignment with satisfactory results.’
Mirza stops for a few breaths and says coldly, ‘This battle must be won at any cost, and the besiegement must be impregnable. Far-flung outposts are vital in this case and those will serve as isolated obstacles. Remember the men who are responsible to defend these outposts must always hold out, even under the most adverse circumstances, with will power and willingness for self-sacrifice. Understand that these outposts are not to delay the enemy but to stop him from coming anywhere near our besiegement.’
The men nod solemnly.
‘I want complete quarantine—isolate and protect our outposts, trenches, besiegement and communications from the enemy,’ Mirza instructs.
‘Syed Abdul Azeez with his three thousand men will be posted at Niral to stop any external help from reaching the nearby forts, especially Purandar,’ says Mirza, then murmurs in a husky voice, ‘Direct each of our men to kill anything that moves including the mounts of the Marathas, hack even the dead to pieces, splatter their blood over the jungle trails and scatter their limbs around. Let fear reign! Qutbuddin Khan and seven thousand men will cover the area between Junnar in the north and Fort Lohagad in the west. The barricade will stop the Marathas from entering the Mughal territory,’ Mirza announces looking at Qutbuddin who stands next to Diler.
‘Ihtishm Khan with his four thousand horsemen will guard Pune and its surroundings. A brigade of two thousand cavalrymen has been delegated the task of watching over the narrow pass between Pune and Lohagad,’ Mirza looks into Ihtishm’s eyes.
‘Twenty thousand men will be deployed to besiege the twin forts while Diler Khan will lead six thousand soldiers and artillerymen to Vajragad to capture Purandar.’ Mirza returns to his divan and starts smoking his hookah.
‘Daud Qureshi has already started the slaughter. Tonight, sixteen more villages are going down,’ he murmurs as others watch with respect.
‘And the other hill forts?’ Diler asks impatiently.
‘In the valleys of the Deccan, haste means death by blade. We need to first test the endurance of our siege,’ Mirza says, raising his brow. ‘Senor Man
nuci, we need three long-range cannons, fifty gunners and some of your artillery experts to go with Diler Khan Sahib.’
Niccolau had finished putting a sieve over his hookah bowl. With a pair of tongs in his hand, he was now staring at the pieces of coal smouldering in an iron pot placed on a tripod. He liked to prepare his own shisha.
‘Mirza Sahib, it is true that a deep gorge separates the two targeted forts, but the Purandar side is much higher than the terrace of Vajragad. The explosives will hit only the craggy surface of the steep mountain.’ Diler Khan has a point.
Mirza glances at Niccolau and smiles, but Niccolau is busy fiddling with his hookah. The wise Italian knows when to open his mouth. In Urdu spoken with a thick Italian accent, he says, ‘Diler Khan Sahib, we will mount the cannons on wooden platforms, taking them very, very high to target even the watchtowers of Purandar. When you have Niccolau, you do not worry.’
‘Do not underrate the fort-keeper of Purandar, Murarbaji Deshpande. He has a reputation of being an aggressive warrior. Do not underestimate Shivaji’s men,’ Mirza’s words boom in the tent.
Diler glances at Niccolau who takes his first big hit from the pipe to get the coals going. He has plans to linger on after others have gone. His white skin allows him special privileges.
2
The planned devastation of villages begins. Daud Qureshi and his men start bringing hundreds of slaves and cattle into the camp. The besiegement of the twin fort is in place, with Mirza constantly inspecting the entrenchments of the besieging army. The Marathas are not quiet either; their attacks on dark nights, blocking of roads and passes and setting fire to jungles are killing many imperial horsemen and making it hard for the Mughals to move about. At ground zero, Diler and Niccolau Manucci’s artillerymen plan continuous shelling of Vajragad from a hill across the fort, and the ceaseless bombardment for fourteen days demolishes a bastion of Vajragad. A hundred Mughal soldiers have died and an equal number have been seriously injured. Diler does not wait and orders his men to climb the hill to plant the Mughal flag while Mirza deploys hundreds of coolies to take three large guns to the top. Within a few days, the Mughals reach the fort enclosure and drive the Maratha garrison away.
It has been more than a month since the Mughal besiegement moved closer to Purandar.
Some shallow-crawl trenches dug on the ridge of Vajragad are very close to the edge of Purandar where the white and black watchtowers stand more than three hundred guj above the trenches. The soil from the excavation is used to make mud parapets for extra protection, but that is not enough because the enemy is still far above them. In the beginning, they had thought that the noose was finally getting tighter, but nothing spectacular has happened since then. Every time the Mughals have tried to get closer, the Marathas have showered them with an array of missiles from above. Many of their soldiers have been gravely injured by lighted naptha balls, crude granado blasts and stones. At least four times in the last month, the Marathas had managed to climb down to Vajragad from the watchtowers with the help of ropes and cross the shallow Bhairavkhind. They had even made sorties to drive away the men hiding in trenches, killing many in the bargain. In one of those attacks, Mirza’s officer Bhupat Singh, a middle-ranking mansabdar, was slain, and Mirza’s son Kirat Singh was injured.
The besiegement is tight and Mirza has made sure that supplies do not reach the Maratha garrison in Purandar. The summer is almost over but the enemy has survived and that means they must be getting food and water from outside somehow. Mirza wonders if the Marathas are surviving on mountain air!
Late one night, Mirza, Diler and Gaud Qureshi, along with some guides and armed guards, are out on the flat glades at the top of the newly conquered Vajragad to get a closer look at the newly erected wooden scaffoldings. Mirza is impatient. He wants to experiment. He wants to reach for the twin towers. It is dark and it is also dangerous to light a torch because the Marathas on those watchtowers never seem to sleep. The men walk silently till they reach a high wooden platform of logs and planks erected behind the trenches facing the black and white towers. The massive scaffoldings are more than three hundred guj high. Three large guns have been mounted on them and the gunners and musketeers sitting on the scaffolds are excited to see Mirza; they have started whispering loudly.
‘Pursue the enemy wisely and blow one or both the watchtowers.’
‘Inshallah!’ someone replies from the scaffolds.
Mirza looks up. The structure is almost invisible in the dark but its shadow looms above him, rising above the Purandar towers.
If only those towers are demolished . . . If one cannonball lands on one of those towers, can it blow up the storehouse of the explosives? Diler thinks wistfully.
Tonight the guns will be fired, aimed at the white tower.
‘I do not think it will ever work. It may take a long time, months perhaps,’ Daud Qureshi, who has been called back from the field to watch over the siege for a few days, whispers. Diler Khan is tempted to reply, but thinks otherwise. Sometimes he suspects that Mirza and Daud Qureshi are secretly helping the Marathas.
‘Daud Khan,’ Mirza says evenly. He does not want a fight to break between the two. ‘I think you must go back to what you were doing—destroying villages. This time, you go for the villages at the foothills of Rajgad, home of Shivaji.’
Mirza has noticed that Daud Qureshi is happiest while raiding villages. Saying this, Mirza starts walking away from the scaffolds and towards the forts enclosure. It is an upward climb.
They barely reach the enclosure when they hear a blast. The men look back in astonishment, thinking that their gunmen have started firing in haste, earlier than planned. What they see makes them freeze. The structure of the scaffolds is on fire, with an inferno rising several guj above it. The fire has come from the towers, those pale-looking shadows, benign and harmless. The noise of the explosion is followed by the agonizing screams of the Mughal gunners and musketeers. Mirza, Daud Qureshi and Diler watch human figures on fire, falling down, limbs flailing, as the scaffold collapses.
* * *
Several nights later, Diler, sleeping in the enclosure of Vajragad, is awakened by the sound of hammering. He gets up and the hinges of his rickety charpoy creak and groan. He staggers into the courtyard, dimly lit with a few lanterns. The floor is littered with his sleeping and snoring men.
Following the sound of hammering, Diler walks steadily towards the main doorway, carefully avoiding stepping on the limbs of sleeping men. The entrance opens between the two bastions and there is no security at the gate. Diler takes the gritty stairs to reach an open mountain table where a robust moon rains silvery light on the rocky terraces. At the far end of the western side, in the direction of Purandar, torches flicker behind a high wooden platform where Manucci’s men are at work. He marvels at their suicidal persistence. In the last seven days, the Marathas firing from the Purandar watchtowers have destroyed several scaffoldings even before they could mount the cannon. The Italian has also lost some of his men.
In the bright moonlight, craggy ridges of Purandar Hill loom over Diler Khan. The watchtowers from the other side are clearly visible from his position. With those towers teeming with archers and those ramparts loaded with cannon, it is impossible to cross the gorge and reach Purandar. Within twenty days, these clear skies, the mountaintops and the towers will be covered under thunderclouds, Diler thinks with regret and spreads his hands towards the sky praying, Allah, let the scaffoldings survive and the cannons be mounted, even if for a brief period.
The artillerymen are surprised when they notice the huge figure coming towards them, for no one has ever visited them in the dead of the night. They take some time to recognize the man who has come barefoot, wearing an ankle-length kaftan. Diler allows them some time for their shock to wane and declares, ‘Do not wait. As soon as the scaffolding is restored, mount the cannon and fire the guns. Every moment is precious.’
So just before the first rays of the sun can hit the ground, huge can
nons are placed at the highest levels on the scaffolds. Niccolau Manucci’s men have made sure that they have the latest bombards and granados fitted with adjustable fuses. The men are quick in loading the muzzles of the cannon with explosives. The Marathas from the watchtowers have realized what has happened. They fire at the scaffolds that collapse yet again, heaving down the cannons, crushing some artillerymen. Their agonizing cries rise above all other sounds. Diler who is watching from a distance feels disheartened and is about to turn to go back into the enclosure to call his men for help when he hears another deafening sound; he swings around and notices an explosion near the twin watchtowers. An inferno rises and the sky is covered with an orange blaze. Diler watches something quite unbelievable. He sees limbs and heads of the enemy archers and scouts from the blown twin towers flying in all directions, one severed leg landing just a few guj away from him.
Some of Diler’s guards sitting in trenches run to inform him that perhaps explosives stored by the Marathas in one of the watchtowers caught fire and exploded, taking the twin towers down and killing or seriously injuring the Maratha archers and scouts who were keeping the Mughals away from Purandar. Diler is not aware of how the explosives caught fire and he doesn’t care. All he sees is that the towers are gone and so are the Purandar defenders. The way to the lower fort of Purandar is open to the Mughals! They have to just cross the shallow ditch between the hills!
Diler leaps towards the enclosure where his soldiers are. The time has come to lead his men to their next destination!
A few hours later, thousands of Mughal soldiers are ready to cross Bhairavkhind and reach the ruins of the Purandar watchtowers. Diler is ecstatic; this is his victory and soon Purandar will be in his hands. He gazes at his contingent with pride; they are his men. As he inspects them before the attack on Purandar, he wonders how perfect they looked with chain mail hanging from their metal headgear on either side of their faces. Diler quickly concludes his inspection and orders them to start moving. They march—the thousands of swordsmen with their curved scabbards, followed by a contingent of archers with double-curved bows and quivers loaded with arrows. However, surprisingly, the battle energy that usually runs through their veins making them lethal is missing. They feel that asking them to clash with some obscure rebel tribesmen is akin to a farce.
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