by John Speed
“There’s more than enough blame for both of you I think.” She looks away. “Now go. I’ve heard your apology. Give me some time. About the other, I’ll speak with Hanuman. Now go.”
In the courtyard, Shivaji sees Balaji hurrying toward him. “A letter’s come from Bijapur. From Shaista Khan. He says General Shahji is still in charge. Afzul Khan is supposed to prepare the plan, but Shahji approves it.” Bala’s thick lips pull into a wide smile. “That’s good news, lord.”
Shivaji shakes his head. “Shahji will feel compelled to approve Afzul Khan’s plans. If he doesn’t, he’ll look like a coward or a traitor.”
“But even so, it means delay, lord. Both men will want to maneuver, each will seek to find a way to be superior. It will take days, maybe weeks, before they agree on a plan, longer still to implement it. In the meantime … Kalyan.” Bala’s face grows almost rapturous, as though he can feel the Bijapuri gold spilling across his fingers.
“What if the gold is a lie, Bala? What do we do then?”
“That can’t be, lord! Lakshman would not lie to us.”
“Maybe not, but Kalidas would.” He gets a foot in a stirrup and swings up over his horse’s saddle. “I’m moving to a tent in the encampment. Stay here and keep an eye on the compound.”
Just then a guardsman rides through the compound gates and rides quickly to Shivaji. “Sir, the sentries saw some activity in that copse near the main gate. It’s a merchant caravan from Surat, lord. One of them is a farang. The farang claims to know you, sir. He sent this token.” The guardsman holds up a small silver medallion that spins at the end of black string. Bala laughs, recognizing it. “Onil!”
Balaji rides with Shivaji through Poona toward the main gates. The city swarms with activity—so many have come to Poona in the past few days: soldiers, and their families, and vendors, and merchants—and all seem to be hurrying through Poona’s main thoroughfare.
Outside the city walls, Shivaji and Bala canter about a mile to the copse of trees. O’Neil waves to them. He’s dressed once more in farang clothing; his red hair glints in the sunlight. As they ride up, Onil gives them a low farang bow, waving his arms gracefully toward the earth.
“Onil, you have returned!” Shivaji says as he dismounts.
O’Neil lifts his hands Indian style. “Yes, lord, I returned. Come see what I have brought you.” He walks toward the trees, where the captain and the caravan escort scramble to their feet. The oxcart drivers try to look important as O’Neil goes to the first cart and pulls aside the tarpaulin. Four bronze cannon lie in the cart. Each of them is about five feet long, with muzzle bores about wide enough for a fist-sized cannonball. Shivaji looks at them and for a moment disappointment crosses his face. “You have others, Onil?”
“Yes, lord,” O’Neil answers. He walks Shivaji to the other two carts, four cannon in each. Shivaji looks at them in silence. Impatience and frustration seem to pour from him.
“But it’s a start, lord,” Bala whispers to Shivaji.
“A start,” Shivaji repeats tonelessly. He walks from cart to cart. Shivaji looks closely at each gun, his hand trailing gently over the smooth bronze—over places where it’s green with corrosion and places where it’s shined smooth with use. “Wheels?” Shivaji asks.
“You must make wheels, lord. These have no wheels, lord.” O’Neil’s pale face wrinkles into a frown, and he starts talking to Bala in Persian.
“These are ship’s cannon, lord,” Balaji translates. “They sit on the deck in a small wooden dolly that would be unsuitable in the field.”
“Ship’s cannon, eh, Onil?”
“Yes, lord,” O’Neil replies. “Dutch cannon, lord.”
“Ammunition?”
Now it’s O’Neil’s chance to look uncertain. Bala says a word in Persian, and then tries another, and at last O’Neil’s eyes light up. “Yes, lord. Here.” He tugs further on the tarpaulin and reveals a dozen wooden kegs, heavily padded in wool batting. “Chinese powder, lord.” He walks to another cart; here are four or five strange contraptions, like hinged buckets made of iron. When Shivaji shows no sign of recognition, O’Neil begins to talk again in Persian.
Soon Bala nods. “Molds, lord, for the cannonballs.”
Shivaji opens one, then closes it with a dull bang. “We’ll need iron, Bala.”
“We can get it, lord. We can make these things, lord, wheels and cannonballs, very quickly, lord.”
Shivaji nods. “Not much for a forest of teak, Onil.”
“No teak, lord. Gift. My give.” Shivaji looks quizzically at O’Neil. “Teak very good, lord. Lots of want. But no cannons on … on …” He stumbles and mutters some words to Bala.
“They wouldn’t give him cannons only for his promise, lord,” Balaji says for him.
“No for promise,” O’Neil says, nodding seriously. “For bring teak, then cannon. For promise teak, nothing only.”
“So where did these cannon come from, Onil?”
O’Neil seems embarrassed. “From buying, lord. From gold. From buying.”
“Whose gold, Onil?”
“My gold, lord. These cannon come from Dutch ship, all wet ship lord. In water, lord, under, you understand?”
“Sunk,” Bala suggests, and then says a word in Persian.
“Yes, sunk, lord,” O’Neil says, nodding. “I buy, lord. I have some small gold, so I buy for you. Because you are good friend to Onil, lord. Save my life. Also I think you are to be king.”
Shivaji looks carefully at O’Neil. O’Neil stares back uncomfortably. “I need many cannon, Onil. Not twelve, many. Five hundred, maybe. A thousand, maybe.”
“I know, lord,” Onil answers sadly. “I have only small gold, lord.”
Bala asks O’Neil something in Persian. After O’Neil’s long, slow answer, Bala turns to Shivaji. “He gave them everything and went into debt for the rest.” Shivaji looks at O’Neil with a look that seems to mix gratitude and pity. Bala leans close to Shivaji and whispers, “He doesn’t have enough to pay the caravan captain, lord.”
Shivaji nods. Then he walks over and takes O’Neil by the shoulders. “The gods have blessed me, Onil.”
“Gods don’t give you enough guns, though,” O’Neil says miserably.
“They’ve given me something better, Onil. They have given me friends.”
“I’m telling you, sir, it can’t be done!” Rao, who used to be Shahji’s captain of the artillery shouts even when he means to whisper, so deafened is he from cannon fire.
“Why can’t it be done, Rao?” Shivaji yells into Rao’s ear.
“I’m not deaf you know!” Rao shouts back. He hobbles around the cannon, which have been laid out in a shed near on the edge of the encampment, near the place where the blacksmiths have set up shop.
“Look here!” Rao shouts. “Here are five molds. Which molds go to which cannon, eh?” Rao nods toward O’Neil derisively. “Don’t ask him. That farang has no answer.” He opens the wooden, boxlike mold. “This mold is for a six-inch ball. None of these cannon have a bore over five inches. So this one is no good.” He nods toward the others. “The others are too close to tell until we cast a few. Some may fit … who knows.”
“Why should that take a week to figure out, Rao?” Tanaji bellows.
“Where’s the other equipment, eh? The ramrods, the muzzle brushes, the swabs, the fusers, eh? Wheels, hammers, aiming blocks—you think you just point these things and they shoot?”
“We can build these things, Rao!” Bala shouts.
“Yes, you can build them. How long will it take though, eh? You’ll need all of it before we can sound the cannon. Likely they were honeycombed to begin with, or those farangs would never have sold them. Likely they’ll all blow up first time we try.”
“But even this can’t take a week, Rao,” Tanaji insists.
“They must be tested for aim.” Rao hobbles around the cannons. “Crews must be trained. How long do we have?”
Tanaji looks at Hanuman. “We move for t
he pass in two days.”
Rao makes him shout a half-dozen times before he shakes his head and limps slowly toward Shivaji. “All right,” he says as quietly as he can. “Two days. It’s impossible, but I will do it out of respect for General Shahji. Your father saved my life once.” Rao looks at Tanaji. “I want fifty men. We’ll train night and day. My command is law. Agreed?”
Shivaji nods toward Hanuman. “Agreed!” Hanuman shouts. He shouts it twice before Rao pretends to hear.
Two nights later, Sai Bai watches from the shadows of Shivaji’s tent as the war council convenes one final time. The army will break camp tomorrow morning. She wishes she could speak to Shivaji’s war council, but that is not her fate. She tries not to reveal her fear while the men bluster and preen. How she hates this foolishness.
Outside, the encampment is deathly quiet. All day long soldiers have been stowing their gear, getting ready for the morning; by now everything is packed away in saddlebags, and the tents are empty except for the soldiers trying anxiously to sleep.
The war council sits around campfire. Their faces, tight and grim, are lit by the flames. All of them wear weapons now; some have helmets wrapped beneath their turbans. They boast and laugh, but from the shadows, Sai Bai sees through that. Her eyes wander over the flame-lit faces: Iron and Tanaji, huddled next to each other; Hanuman nearby looking nervous; Bandal and Jedhe in their opulent armor; and sitting at Shivaji’s right in a place of honor, O’Neil, who brought those awful cannon.
Lakshman rode away earlier. She saw him leave. His eye fell upon her, and when it did, Sai Bai grasped her tiny amulet against his evil eye. Since Lakshman has returned from Welhe, she wears it all the time. Maybe he isn’t really capable of cursing her, but now she’s carrying a child, better safe than sorry.
Lakshman is gone, she thinks, but where are Trelochan and Bala? Why aren’t they here as well? Without them, the mood in the tent is unrelenting in its harshness. They’re like a pack of dogs chasing a bitch, she thinks as she looks at them. And the bitch is war.
Only Shivaji seems thoughtful, his dark eyes darting from face to face in the dancing firelight.
Onil leans close to Shivaji. “Your sword. It is new, lord, yes? New?”
“Yes, Onil,” Shivaji answers. “My sword is new.” The sword rings as he pulls it from its scabbard, and its bright edge flashes.
O’Neil takes the blade.
“It’s a very good sword,” O’Neil says. He struggles to find the words to tell them about it. “It’s German. German is a kind of farang. Very good sword is German. Very costly. Like for kings.”
“Oh, for kings, is it?” says Iron, winking at Shivaji. “Now we know, eh, Shahu? You’ve got the sword—the rest should be easy, eh?”
“Is from Solingen, lord,” O’Neil continues. “Best city for steel. Very nice. Make much hurting.” O’Neil studies it more closely. The blade has the elaborate tracery of vines typical of Solingen blades, but this blade has two elements O’Neil hasn’t seen before—wild looking dogs among the leaves, and in background, tiny six-pointed stars. Something about the design strikes a chord with Onil, but no matter how he tries, the thought remains obscured.
O’Neil hands it back, smiling. Shivaji grins. “Of course a farang would like a farang sword.” He takes it and sets it at his side and looks around the circle. “Do we all understand the plan? Do we all agree?” he asks.
Hanuman answers for them all: “I think we’re ready, lord. Tomorrow we break camp. I will take three hundred men and six cannon to the Vyasa Pass. We’ll hide there and wait for the caravan from Kalyan. Lakshman will send word from Kalidas when it is expected. We’ll ambush the caravan when it comes through the pass.”
“Will you go with Hanuman to the pass, Shahu?” Iron asks.
Shivaji nods. At least he’ll be safe, thinks Sai Bai. Safer, she corrects herself. For she fears most the dangers that Iron and Tanaji will face.
“Jedhe and Bandal will wait here for their men to arrive from the north,” Hanuman continues.
“How many men will come?” Shivaji asks, turning to Bandal.
“Maybe six hundred, lord. That’s as many as we can mount on such short notice.”
“I thought you two had thousands,” Tanaji mutters.
“We’ll make do,” Hanuman says. “Tomorrow morning, Iron and Tanaji will lead the two thousand men camped here to Welhe. And with you go the five remaining cannon that Onil has brought.”
“Only five?” says Tanaji in surprise.
“One exploded this afternoon, father,” Hanuman says. “Three men were wounded. Not badly.”
“It’s to be expected,” Shivaji says quickly, but the faces around the table grow grim, and O’Neil seems in pain.
“Our men will bring another dozen cannon from Kari,” Jedhe puts in.
“Let’s hope they hurry,” Tanaji mutters.
Hanuman continues: “Iron and Tanaji will disperse men along the Bijapur road. The bulk of the force will stay near Torna, to be joined by the men from Kari.”
From the shadows, Sai Bai looks at the faces around the circle, all trying to look so brave. They are so foolish. How can they have any hope if Bijapur comes against them? Oh, they think the money will make all the difference. Will it, she wonders? Will armies materialize from nowhere? Will forts suddenly switch allegiance? Will money change anything at all? My unborn baby will be orphaned, she thinks. What good is money then?
As if he has read her mind, Shivaji begins to speak. “Who thinks that we will win against Bijapur?” The men glance at one another, and one by one they raise their hands. Shivaji places his sword with its point toward Iron and its ram’s head hilt near his crossed legs.
“When I was a youth, I took a vow to drive the Muslims from this land. Others joined me, as you know.” Shivaji nods toward Hanuman. “For good or ill, it is that vow that drives me. Not gods, not goodness, not money. Nothing drives me but my own determination.” Shivaji’s voice sinks to a whisper. “I think a warrior’s word is all he truly has to give. I will be true to my word.”
“That’s right,” Iron grunts.
The lamplight casts a flickering gleam in Shivaji’s coal-dark eyes. “Tonight I name this sword. I call my sword Bhavani, and I consecrate it with a vow.” He takes the sword by its bright sharp blade. “Before you all I vow to win the freedom of my people. And I vow this as well—never to fail you, my friends.” Shivaji’s voice grows hoarse. “In war, I shall stand beside you. In peace, I shall keep you close by. While you breathe you shall lack for nothing, and your children, if you die, will be my children.”
From the flickering shadows another hand grasps the blade. “I too take this vow,” says Bandal in a husky voice.
“And I,” says Hanuman, placing his hand between the others.
Iron stretches out his hand, his jaw clenched. Then Jedhe reaches forward, and last of all, biting his lip, Tanaji. They sit like that for a while, hands touching as they hold the blade.
From the shadows, Sai Bai watches, and in the dim and flickering light, she has a frightening vision. She sees their faces dead and dying, the skulls stripped of flesh.
Instantly she looks away. Oh goddess, she begs, help me.
Sai Bai holds Shivaji close all night. They lie awake but neither speaks.
When Shivaji rises at the rooster’s crow, she wonders if she should tell him of her horrible vision. Before she can decide, he has dressed and quietly gone outside. Did he think that she was asleep? She gets up, swallowing back her morning nausea, dressing quickly as she can. The room seems to spin.
Outside the first rays of the sun paint the clouds with red streaks as dark as blood. Men mount their grumbling ponies. Many have tied saffron pennants to their lances.
Sai Bai finds herself one of hundreds of women who watch in frightened silence as the long line begins to form. She walks swiftly to the front of the line, where Shivaji waits on his Bedouin, talking with Iron and O’Neil. She’d like to run, but propriety and her
nausea hold her back. Hanuman’s horse trots past. She calls to him, but her voice blends into the river of voices crying out farewells.
She sees her husband nodding, hears Hanuman give the order to proceed, hears the bellowing of sergeants down the line of horsemen as the order is repeated. The army starts to move.
He’ll be gone before she gets to say a word! She dashes for the city gates. The sentries let her pass of course, and mount the narrow stairs to the battlement. “Shahu, Shahu!” she cries out. Shivaji turns—maybe he’s heard her!—but he turns back without making a sign. What about me? she thinks as he rides into the dawn. What about your vow to me?
“You see, your father is gone,” says a voice beside her, dry as stones. Sai Bai looks around to discover Jijabai nearby, and standing next to her, Sambhuji. “Bite back your tears and be a man,” Jijabai tells him, but she lets the boy bury his face in her sari, and pats him as he sobs.
Sai Bai is crying, too. She’s too woozy even to comfort her son. A hand presses her shoulder, and Sai Bai raises her wet face to see Jyoti standing near her. “Did he say goodbye to you?” Jyoti sniffs. Sai Bai shakes her head. “Neither did Hanuman,” Jyoti says. “None of them did. Two thousand men, and not one of them said goodbye.”
CHAPTER 21
Kalidas offered Lakshman food. He offered him a woman. But Lakshman had come to Kalidas’s hideout for only one reason.
Kalidas wants to hear Shivaji’s response to his offer. Lakshman tells him, in a rush, just so, no more, for his thoughts are elsewhere.
Kalidas understands, of course: Had he not once felt the same desire? So Kalidas led Lakshman to Kali in her cloud of flies.
It’s not like last time, thank the gods. She doesn’t move, her eyes don’t roll. She’s just a statue. But this time, she laughs. Lakshman hears her clearly. He realizes that Kali’s gaping mouth and hanging tongue are locked in a delighted endless laugh. She is the queen of laughter.
