by John Speed
“We’re not done yet,” croaks Tanaji. “Eight or ten men. We’ve killed six or seven. Still two or three more to go.”
“Where the hell are they, father?” Lakshman asks.
“They could hole up here for days,” Iron replies. “But this is the last line of easy defense, these stairs here. Once we’re through that door up there, we’re set.” He nods to a narrow exit hole above them, where the stairs mount onto the floor above.
All five men look up at the square opening at the top of the stairs. “It’s one of those places, isn’t it?” Lakshman says, figuring it out. “They stand up there with swords and wait for you to come up.”
Dread falls on them like the cold rain. Water pours through the opening as the rain beats down. The afternoon light has faded, but the open square is bright compared to the darkness of the stairway passage.
“You need to look at the bright sky first,” Iron says. For the first time, Hanuman realizes that Iron is afraid. “Look at the bright sky first so you don’t shoot blind.”
“I’m out of arrows,” Hanuman says. The words cast a pall over the five men. The odds are looking worse all the time.
“I have six,” Lakshman says, offering three to Hanuman.
“You won’t need more than that,” Iron says grimly.
“Six arrows for three men?” Lakshman sneers. “You must think we’re great shots.”
“I mean you’ll have one chance to kill the swordsman up there before he kills whoever goes first.” Iron moves close to Lakshman, his face now only inches from Lakshman’s nose. “Do you understand, boy? Here’s your chance to be rid of me. I’m going up there, I’ll be first. Just shoot a half a second late, that’s all, and you’re done with me for good.”
“Not my way, old man,” Lakshman replies. “Don’t want you to die by accident, do I?”
Iron bristles, but turns again to the opening above them. “How do we work this?” he asks.
The narrow stairs are crowded, slippery with rain. Their clothes are soaked, heavy with water. The smell of wet cloth mixes with sweat and fear.
“Let’s throw them a corpse,” Lakshman suggests.
Everyone glances around, trying to see who will object to this disgusting suggestion. “Come on,” whispers Lakshman, reaching down to grab the body at their feet.
Iron swings his weight behind Lakshman’s, then they all join to hoist the corpse toward the opening. The body is cumbersome, heavier than it looks, slippery with rainwater and blood. Somehow they manage to boost it nearly to the top of the stairs. Then they grunt and hoist the corpse up through the stairway opening.
In a flash they hear a clang of swords above them, and the corpse’s head topples from its body and bounces past them down the stair. They drop the headless body and it bumps down after it.
“Well, now we know,” says Iron. “Two of them. One left, one right.’
“Get ready. I’m going to be the bait. Get ready,” Shivaji whispers.
“You’ve never done this before, Shahu,” says Iron, stepping forward. “I have. Time for you to watch and learn.” He steps to the top of the stairs, and nudges Tanaji and Shivaji, until they move reluctantly down. Then he shows Lakshman and Hanuman where to stand. Lakshman is hunched in a corner, Hanuman is lying nearly prostrate on the stairs. “Can you shoot in this position, boys?” Iron asks. The boys nod. “Then get your arrows ready. You’ll get one shot each.” As they each notch an arrow, Iron hands his battle hammer to Shivaji. “Give me the sword, Shahu. This is sword work here.” He takes Shivaji’s sword, checking its heft.
He’s delaying, trying to muster his courage, Hanuman realizes. Iron expects to be killed.
“Will you please get the hell on with it,” Lakshman bursts out.
“Give a man a chance, boy,” Iron hisses back. He stoops to look at Tanaji and Shivaji, one last look, maybe. Then he sighs and stands, gripping his sword and shouts, “One! Two! Three!”
He jumps up into the opening. There’s a clang of steel almost at once, and the twang of bows.
But Iron’s body crashes down the wet stone stairs. Then his sword clatters down, sliding stair by stair behind him. Tanaji and Shivaji watch Iron’s body slump to a stop. They turn to the twins, and from the twins to the opening.
“I got my man,” says Lakshman. “Got him through the neck. What about you?”
“Maybe,” Hanuman says.
“Shit,” says Lakshman.
“I’m going up,” says Tanaji.
“I’ll do it,” Shivaji says.
“They’re my boys,” Tanaji replies and he moves to the top of the stairs before Shivaji can stop him.
“Arrows ready?” he asks. The boys hardly have a chance to nod before he too shouts, “One, two, three,” and dashes up the stairs.
The twins don’t move; there’s no one there to shoot at. Shivaji follows up the stairs behind Tanaji, now holding Iron’s battle hammer in his hand.
They step out onto an open stone roof, the rain blustering in sheets around their feet. Tanaji, a few steps away from the stairway opening, sees Shivaji, points to a spot not far from where Shivaji stands, and continues a low sweeping prowl across the roof.
They’re in the heart of the fort now; there are no more tricky defenses. Past this point it will be hand to hand. Shivaji looks where Tanaji indicated. There’s a dead man splayed on the stones, an arrow through his eye.
Lakshman steps up the stairs now, arrow drawn. He looks at the corpse that Shivaji shows him. “I thought I hit him in the neck,” he whispers, as rain pours down his face. “That leaves one more; the one that Hanuman missed. Maybe two.”
“Yes, the cook; the sick cook,” Shivaji says. “Where’s Hanuman?”
“Went to look at Iron. Poor bastard.”
Tanaji has found another staircase on the other end of the roof. He signals to Shivaji, then, mace held high before him, he crab-steps down the stairs to the central courtyard of the fort.
Shivaji is about to follow when Lakshman taps his shoulder. In the fading afternoon light, they can just make out a patch of red slowly dissolving into the rain; a few steps beyond it is another patch, and then another; these small and dense, fresher. Lakshman and Shivaji take slow, careful steps, following the bloodstains to a rush-roofed storage hut.
A few steps farther on, they find an arced scimitar lying on the stones beside a pool of blood, the wide blade bent and deeply notched, as though it failed to cut through something hard. Holding Iron’s battle hammer, Shivaji moves toward the hut, Lakshman at his heels, arrow notched and ready. The hut is windowless, its door but a stoop hole. Shivaji creeps up and stands beside the low opening, Lakshman now at his side. The light is so dim that the inside of the hut seems night black. The two of them listen but all they hear is the pounding rain and whistling wind.
Shivaji flashes an unexpected grin at Lakshman, then ducks through the hut’s low door.
There won’t be room enough to swing a mace in there, Lakshman thinks.
But in a moment, Shivaji creeps back. “There’s a body in there.”
“Dead?” asks Lakshman.
Shivaji glares at him. “Yes, dead.”
“That’s it then,” Lakshman glances at Shivaji’s troubled face. “What’s wrong, Shahu? We wiped them out.”
“He didn’t have any wounds. So where did these bloodstains come from?”
Lakshman stifles a groan. “You can always find something wrong, can’t you? Why can’t you ever just be happy? We’ve won!”
At that moment, Tanaji comes toward them, mace gripped tight.
“You can relax,” Lakshman says. “They’re all dead.”
“That’s it, then, I guess,” he whispers hoarsely. “The lower fort is deserted. I guess we got them all.”
“I thank the goddess for this victory,” Shivaji says, raising Iron’s mace above his bowed head.
Lakshman laughs. “Hey, Shahu, your turban’s running in the rain. There’s orange all over your shirt.”
“His karma finally caught up with him,” Lakshman laughs. “Why do you think I’m uninjured?”
“Don’t tempt the gods,” Tanaji warns. Sometimes he can’t believe that Lakshman is his son. Then Tanaji sees Hanuman running up the stairway.
“Iron!” pants Hanuman. “He had a helmet wrapped beneath his turban. The metal’s sliced clean through, and part of his scalp is gone. I thought he was dead, but he started breathing again. He’s still unconscious. Maybe he broke something, falling down the stairs.”
“What’s it take to kill that son of a bitch?” Lakshman says. He leans against the hut, away from the others, shaking his head.
“Shut up, Lakshman,” Hanuman snaps. “He saved our lives.”
“He saved shit—” Lakshman starts to say, but a hand grabs him from behind and pulls him off his feet. Lakshman shouts as he falls; his bow skitters across the roof.
Now Lakshman is staring at a familiar-looking knife. The point of his own black serpent blade hovers over Lakshman’s left eye, held by an unknown hand, set to plunge into his brain. The other men stand like statues.
“Put down the knife,” Shivaji says to Lakshman’s captor, advancing inch by inch. “Put down the knife and live.”
“Throw down your weapons or he dies,” the man replies. Lakshman smells the sour, sick odor of the man’s breath as he speaks.
“We can make a deal,” Hanuman says.
“Nice words after you kill my friends.” The man half-drags Lakshman toward the stairway opening. The Bijapuri’s eyes are wild; full of crazy energy. He sits behind Lakshman, his back near the stairway opening, and raises the black serpent blade just inches from his captive’s face. Rainwater fountains along the edge of the knife, streaming onto Lakshman’s chest.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” Tanaji says.
“Well, I don’t want to hurt him,” the man replies. “But I will. I might be a cook, but I still know how to kill.” He flicks the knife like lightning at Lakshman’s eyebrow, sending blood streaking down Lakshman’s wet face. “Sharp knife,” he says. “Cooks say a sharp knife will never cut you.” He flicks the knife point again, making a tiny bleeding “X.” “Another lie.”
The cook leans back, though he still holds the knife to Lakshman’s eye. “Say, come here, you,” the cook says to Hanuman. Hanuman moves with slow steps. “Closer.” Hanuman understands, and brings his face close to that of his twin. He can feel Lakshman’s, anxious breath on his wet skin.
“You look the same,” the Bijapuri says, faintly amused, glancing from face to face. “Almost.”
“He’s my brother,” Hanuman says. “Let him go, and …”
“Brothers? Twins?” the cook says. “Not quite the same, though.” With unimagined quickness the cook swings the serpent blade. Hanuman screams, pushing himself away, his hands over his eye.
“Now you look the same,” the cook says. Hanuman lurches back and Tanaji pulls his son’s blood-drenched hand away from his eye to check the damage. The rain spills across his eyebrow, over a fiercely bleeding “X,” just like the one carved on Lakshman. “That’s just to let you know that I can do whatever I want,” the cook says. Lakshman whimpers.
“Tell us what you need,” Shivaji says. “To go free? Done. Release him. There are horses outside the gate. Take one and go.”
“Don’t know what I want,” the cook replies, suddenly thoughtful. He licks his lips as though savoring the taste of the rain on his tongue. “Might want something more. Don’t know. Might want a lot more. Might want something from his brother, too.” The man leers, his eyes glittering and rolling back in his head so they see the bloodshot whites.
He slides the knifepoint down over Lakshman’s face, gently dragging it along the skin, hard enough that it leaves a stark white track on the cheek and neck, but not deep enough to cut. He slides the serpent blade along the chin, the jaw, bringing it at last to the bottom of Lakshman’s ear.
The Bijapuri looks to the three men that watch him, as if inviting them to pay attention. Suddenly the long serpent blade swings in his hand. Tanaji grimaces, sure the cook means to plunge the point into his poor son’s throat. Instead the cook stops with sudden precision, and flicks the razor-smooth blade outward with a snap of his wrist.
Lakshman’s earlobe flies through the air to land at Hanuman’s feet.
“Stop!” Tanaji yells. “Take me instead! Do what you want to me!”
“You the daddy?” the man asks, his glittering eyes suddenly full of understanding. “You the daddy of these sweet boys?” Pulling Lakshman’s head upward, he takes the knife and now presses its point under Lakshman’s chin until a tiny drop of blood wells up. “Your sweet boy’s peeing his pants, daddy. I can feel it. It’s warm.”
“Let him go or die,” Shivaji says, glancing up behind the cook.
“You can’t fool me like that, friend,” the cook replies, his gap-toothed grin widening. “I know there’s nothing there behind me.”
“You’re wrong, boy,” says Iron’s voice. He staggers up the stairway opening. His turban gone, blood drips along his forehead from underneath the headpiece of the torn helmet he still wears. The cook doesn’t look around, so he can’t see Iron weaving on his feet. “Drop the knife.”
“Or what?” the cook replies. “Or what?” he says, sliding the blade up over Lakshman’s face again.
Hanuman sees the world around him moving in awful slowness. He sees Iron’s sword whirling in an axlike arc, whistling through the air as Iron slams it home. As Iron swings his sword, the cook slides the point of the serpent blade in a ragged trail along his brother’s quivering face.
Hanuman sees the cook’s head burst beneath Iron’s heavy sword. The skull splits like a block of wood. The halves cave away, flopping to his shoulders like a melon split in two.
The serpent knife flies from the cook’s senseless hand and slides across the puddles and the stones, but its awful work is done. Lakshman lifts his head. As Hanuman stares, the razor cut across his face begins to ooze red. He watches horrified as the sliced skin slides apart. Lakshman’s eye spills out like jelly, gushing down the gash of the deep and perfect cut the blade has made. Blood and rain bubble from his wound.
Hanuman is clutching his brother’s face, frantically trying to scoop the streaming jelly back into Lakshman’s socket. The screams he hears are Lakshman’s and his own.
Iron is swaying over Lakshman and the man he killed, looking down at them in anguish. “Lakshman! Lakshman!” he moans, his face held up into the pelting rain. “This is my fault! What have I done?”
Tanaji’s face grows pale and his eyes dart from son to son. His battle mace clatters from his hands and he sinks to his knees.
He looks up to Shivaji and the rain pours down his face. “Is this is my reward, Shahu? So your have your fort—is it worth the price? Tell me, is it worth the price?”
Around their feet the blood-red puddles swirl.
CHAPTER 14
More rain! So much rain! thinks Bala. Nowhere does so much rain fall as in these Purandhar hills. How do people stand to live here in all this rain?
Looking up from his morning prayers, Bala’s gaze turns to the dark hills where Torna fort lies hidden by low clouds. I wonder what it’s like for them up there, he thinks. The plan is to send a company up the mountain today. If all has gone well, the raiding party should be in charge to welcome them, and the Poonis can occupy the fort. If not, well, they’ll find that out soon enough. Either way, Bala will have work to do today.
For it will fall to him to explain to Bijapur what they have done, either way. Yesterday, with very little ceremony, Shivaji appointed him ambassador. In truth, all Shivaji actually said was, “I’m sending you to Bijapur.” But Bala understood. And by the light in his ey
es he knew that Shivaji understood as well. Torna fort was going to be just the beginning. What’s happening up there, he wonders, as he squints at the hidden mountain.
As Bala walks he sees the farang O’Neil, saddling a Bedouin, a traveling bag at his feet. “Good morrow, Onil. Thou’rt preparing for a journey?” Bala asks in Persian, the tongue they both speak fluently.
O’Neil bows. His red hair is tied into a bushy queue. “I must away for Surat. My lord Shivaji has given me leave to barter for his teak.”
Bala’s eyebrows lift—actually his bald forehead where his eyebrows would be, if he had any hair. “This is good news, Onil. Dost know about Torna?”
“A little, maybe. Wouldst tell me more?”
Bala explains how the raiding party left yesterday afternoon to recapture Torna, how Shivaji is legally the rightful master of the fort.
“Bijapur will be angry, Balaji,” O’Neil says.
“Less, maybe, than thou thinkest. Bijapur cares little for forts. They want only the taxes. Just give them their allotment, which they believe to be their proper due—and thou mightst then keep any fort.”
“And if he does not pay, Balaji?”
“Then I think an army of elephants will thunder through these hills, with guns and cannons blazing.”
“So he must pay, Balaji!”
“I do not think he likes to pay. In any case I will go to Bijapur, Onil. Maybe I can soothe them with my words. Wouldst come with me?”
“I go to Surat first, master. I must tell the Portuguese of the death of their man, Da Gama. And I must seek out the Dutch and speak to them of teak.” O’Neil mounts the wooden saddle. Bala walks beside him.
As they reach the gate, the wind shifts, now from the north, cool and dry, blowing the haze from the sky. O’Neil points to the peak of Torna mountain, to the gray walls of the fort. Floating high above the walls, a saffron-colored banner, long, thin, billows on the breeze.
“A saffron flag!” whispers Bala. Bala forgets about O’Neil and runs back into the temple. “They’ve done it!” he shouts. “They’ve taken Torna fort!”
