Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  He presses his folded hands to his forehead, and walks silently away. “She’s too poor!” he hears her calling after him. “Do you hear me? Too poor for you!” He feels a lump of sorrow burning in his throat, and when he passes through the door, he starts to run.

  CHAPTER 23

  “If we had your Rajputs,” Aurangzeb says to Jai Singh, “we should have won by now.”

  Outside the walls of Golconda, the Mogul siege goes on. As the prince speaks, a cannon volley rocks the night air, and the sides of Mir Jumla’s extravagant war tent puff as though blown by a gust of wind. Mir Jumla chuckles, hoping to show that he enjoys Aurangzeb’s words. “You see, general, even the cannons agree with Prince Aurangzeb! And I agree with him … though what is he saying, really, eh? He’s saying I’m an incompetent old fool, eh?”

  The evening is ending up exactly as Jai Singh had dreaded: dinner with Mir Jumla. His tent is as grandiose as the food had been. The center pole supports a massive ink-blue canopy embroidered with silver stars. Silk tapestries hang on every side. They recline on brocade pillows stuffed with down, breathing air perfumed by vases of fresh tuberoses. It’s difficult to believe that Jumla’s tent is in the middle of a battlefield; it seems more suited for a royal palace.

  Naturally, Jai Singh thinks, our host has kept the guest list short—just Aurangzeb and Jai Singh, for Jumla would never think of inviting anyone less important than himself. So here they sit, pretending to be amused, in an opulence that would rival any residence in Agra. A score of half-used serving dishes rest on the thick carpet; in Jai Singh’s honor, most were prepared without meat. Aurangzeb, Jai Singh notes enviously, has taken only rice and dal, the simplest of foods.

  Can Aurangzeb truly be the man he appears to be? Is he truly a man without pride, without ambition? Jai Singh wonders, comparing Aurangzeb to the heir apparent, Dara. What a contrast. How unfortunate the accident of their births. If only Aurangzeb had been firstborn …

  When he had arrived, Alu, that young eunuch who acts as Aurangzeb’s khaswajara, sought him out at once, and led him to the prince. Aurangzeb had embraced him like a brother.

  And then Jumla had appeared. Jai Singh studies the Persian general. Has Jumla been gaining weight? Gaining weight in the middle of a siege!

  “What about it, general?” Jumla asks, setting down his wine cup and licking his long mustache. “Will you send us some Rajputs so we can end this siege and go home? Better yet, won’t you lead them yourself, so I can go home?” He winks at Aurangzeb.

  “You flatter me, general,” Jai Singh laughs politely. “Your army is powerful and dedicated. What are the Rajputs now but soldiers for hire?”

  Aurangzeb snorts. “Your people, general, are the greatest warriors that ever fought. I mean this,” says the prince, waving away Jai Singh’s protest.

  “Yet your ancestors defeated us, highness,” Jai Singh answers.

  “Only by treachery, general. The greatest army may be defeated by a single coward. When a coward leads, the army surely fails. And if a coward should gain a throne …” Aurangzeb leaves the though unspoken.

  Jai Singh turns away from Aurangzeb’s penetrating glance, wondering if the prince has read his thoughts about Dara. He sits in silence, hoping that they’ll drop the subject. At that moment another cannon booms, rattling the silver-covered tent poles and jangling the chains of the hanging oil lamps. “Do you fire the cannon all night, general?” he asks Jumla.

  “Only until midnight, general,” Jumla replies, holding out his cup for a refill. “Our men must sleep, you know. Last thing, we send a volley of flaming rockets, and then off to bed. But the Golcondans must stay up all night fighting fires. It won’t be long until they surrender.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Jai Singh nods. “As you know, Shah Jahan sent me to review your progress …”

  “You mean Dara sent you,” Aurangzeb says quietly. Jai Singh lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.

  “And how do you find things, general?” Jumla asks.

  “You have concentrated your attack on the south approach to the city, and placed great strength on the west and east sides as well.”

  “The south gate seemed to us the hardest for the Golcondans to defend,” Jumla agrees. “It is there that we have thrown the main weight of the attack.”

  “Your front to the north, however, is weak, general—weak to the point of breaking,” Jai Singh says.

  “In just a few hours visit, you saw that?”

  “Has the enemy noticed? That’s the real question.”

  “They don’t appear to have seen it yet. Your opinion of this weakness, general?” Aurangzeb asks quietly.

  “Excellent, your highness.” The Rajput’s eyes are bright. “It is wise—brilliant!” Jai Singh continues—“To contrive a weakness for your enemy to spot. It gives your enemy a foolish hope; hope that guides them to their ruin. If you smoke the cobra in his hole, he’ll coil and wait for days. But give the old snake an exit and he’ll run for it. Stand there with your bag and you shall have him. This show of weakness is a masterstroke.”

  “It was Aurangzeb’s doing,” says Jumla, smiling.

  “The inspiration was your siege at Lodi, general,” says Aurangzeb giving a nod to Jai Singh. “But Jumla is too kind, I may have made a suggestion here or there, but the planning all was his.”

  “In any case, gentlemen, I see that the endgame approaches. Is the bag ready when the cobra runs?”

  Jumla nods. “We have hidden cannon here, here and here,” he says, drawing an imaginary diagram on the floor. When the servants come in bearing a salver full of cakes floating in rose-petal syrup, they must set them down elsewhere so as not to disturb the diagram.

  “Let’s discuss this later, gentlemen,” Jumla says. He nods to a servant, who brings a hookah forward, lighting it with a burning coal before he hands it to his master. “You won’t join me, either of you?” Jumla asks, sucking on the mouthpiece, setting the pipe bubbling. The smell of spiced tobacco mixes with the perfume of the rose syrup.

  “So, general, what’s the news at court?” Jumla asks expansively.

  Jai Singh begins to tell of entertaining scandals: cuckolded husbands, enterprising eunuchs, devious wives. But soon, the night grows darker and Jai Singh’s tales grow darker, too. The cannon volleys stop, and outside the tent the chatter of the camp grows quiet. “You know that Dara has sent out letters, of course,” Jai Singh says, looking disturbed.

  “What letters?” Jumla asks.

  “To all the generals. Demanding that they confirm their loyalty to the throne.”

  Jumla glances at Aurangzeb. “I never got such a letter.”

  Jai Singh looks at him steadily. “Neither did I. I thought I was the only one. Everyone else seemed to have received one.”

  “Did you ask Dara about it?” Aurangzeb says softly.

  “No.” Now Jai Singh, like Aurangzeb, stares at the carpet, eyes forward, head still.

  “Surely Dara felt that your loyalty is beyond question,” Aurangzeb whispers.

  “What about mine?” Jumla asks. “Am I not loyal?” A small trail of hookah smoke drifts from his mouth.

  “Since you didn’t get a letter, general, Dara must have thought so. No one can doubt your loyalty to my father.”

  Jai Singh looks up, troubled. “You know that the letter had nothing to do with your father, highness.” Jai Singh studies Aurangzeb’s face. Is he any better than his brother? Are any of his family to be trusted? “You know about what happened to my family in Amber?”

  “Some difficulty with your bodyguard, I heard,” Jumla answers. “Is there more than that?”

  Jai Singh strokes his beard with his small, neat fingers. “The guard’s captain died—was killed, they tell me—while trying to assassinate my wife and son.”

  “Betrayal is reprehensible,” Aurangzeb says.

  “Now my wife is guarded by a Mogul bodyguard,” Jai Singh continues. “The captain of the guard is Dara’s man.”

  “
Ahcha,” Jumla nods, understanding Jai Singh’s worried tone.

  “General,” says Aurangzeb softly. “I hear the question that you must not ask, and that I must not answer.” Aurangzeb leans forward. “He thinks he has you, general. Because of your wife, he thinks he has you.”

  “Because of my wife, he does.”

  “You can always get another wife, general,” Jumla laughs. But Jai Singh does not.

  At that moment, Alu enters, and turns to Aurangzeb. “I’m sorry to disturb you, highness, but a dispatch has come.” He opens a rough leather tube and draws out a letter.

  “Who sent it, Alu?” asks Aurangzeb.

  “It comes from Poona, lord.”

  “Where the hell is Poona?” Jumla asks.

  “It’s in the Malve, general,” Jai Singh answers, trying to be polite. “A small city in Bijapur territory.”

  Aurangzeb reads the letter, then reads it again before speaking. “It’s from some Marathi chieftain calling himself Shivaji,” Aurangzeb tells the others, without looking up. “He claims he’s taken a number of Bijapuri forts.” He looks up at Jai Singh. “Is this possible? He says that he has captured the bulk of the Bijapuri allotment from the Kankonen.”

  “That would be a fortune, highness,” Jai Singh says. “I suppose it’s possible, but …”

  “Read it yourself, general,” Aurangzeb hands the parchment to Jai Singh. Jumla slides near, peering at the dispatch in the dim light.

  “The fellow’s Persian is quite presentable,” Jumla says.

  “I don’t know what that proves,” Jai Singh snorts. “Any fool may speak Persian.” Jumla glares at him as he continues to read. “What’s this? He wants you to save his father!”

  Aurangzeb smiles. “I thought that would interest you.” He looks at Jai Singh. “Shahji … Do you remember him? He used to be quite a nuisance during the Ahmednagar wars. And now the son appeals to me. The wheel turns, general.” He turns to Alu. “How did this arrive?”

  “Some courier. A bumpkin. Strangely dressed, highness, on a stolen horse that bears a Bijapuri brand.”

  Jumla snorts. “It’s a Bijapuri trick.”

  Alu turns to him. “Believe me, the rider’s not from Bijapur. He looks like a lost dog.”

  “‘Bumpkin’ … Where have I heard that word recently?” Aurangzeb shakes his head and turns back to the letter. “So what are we to make of this Shivaji fellow? If we save his father, he’ll become a Mogul ally.” The prince looks amused. “How ironic. Asking old General Wagnak to rescue Shahji, his fiercest enemy.”

  “We all know Shahji, of course,” Jai Singh replies. “I seem to remember he had a son. Shahji was made commander of Bijapur’s armies. How did he come to be arrested?”

  “Obvious, isn’t it?” grunts Jumla. “The kid takes the gold; Bijapur takes the father.”

  “The Kankonen allotment … what would that be worth?” Aurangzeb wonders.

  “A fortune, highness,” Alu says in his soft, husky voice. He looks at Jai Singh strangely. Like a nautch girl sizing me up, thinks Jai Singh with surprise. Then his big smoky eyes turn back to Aurangzeb. “Bijapur’s gotten rich by taxing the sea trade.”

  “Where is Poona, exactly?” Jumla asks Jai Singh.

  “Just to the east of the ghats,” Jai Singh answers curtly. “The entire area is peppered with forts. Shahji had quite a run against us.”

  “And this new fellow, Shivaji?” Aurangzeb’s eyes light up. “I remember. Fetch that dispatch of Shaista Khan’s.”

  “Yes, highness,” says Alu, who glides silently from the tent.

  “You’re not really taking this seriously?” asks Jumla.

  “You think the Peacock Throne needs no more allies, general?”

  Alu returns with a parchment. Aurangzeb glances through it quickly. “This dispatch came from Shaista Khan, who is acting as my father’s emissary to Bijapur. He mentions that Shivaji has taken a couple of Bijapur’s forts. That was only two or three weeks ago. Shahji’s son has been busy.”

  “He’s trying to pick up where his father left off,” Jumla suggests. Aurangzeb falls silent.

  “You should send a letter to Bijapur, highness,” Alu says. “Have Shaista Khan deliver it. He can be quite persuasive.”

  “Shaista Khan is not in Bijapur,” Jai Singh says. “He was called to Agra for an urgent consultation.” Jai Singh says this as one announces a death. “Called back by Dara, highness.”

  Alu glances at Jai Singh and lifts an eyebrow. Jai Singh turns away, embarrassed. Such a glance might mean anything!

  At last the prince lifts his head. “How many men are actively employed in this siege, general? How many would be available for a second line of attack, should the need arise?”

  Jumla seems rattled by the question. “Well, there’s fifty thousand, total. But at this point—digging trenches, waiting—I suppose only eight or ten thousand are active.”

  “Could five thousand men be spared, general?” interrupts Aurangzeb.

  “Of course they could be spared, highness, if that is your wish,” Jai Singh puts in. Jumla glares at him. Let him glare; I outrank him, thinks Jai Singh.

  “If you think it might be done, general,” Aurangzeb says with quiet deference, though of course he could order anything he wished. “Jumla, please give orders that a company of five thousand be set upon the western road by noon.”

  Jumla’s eyes bulge for a moment, but he recovers himself and inclines his head respectfully. “As you wish, highness. But you can’t mean for them to attack Bijapur …”

  “Of course not, general. But they’ll put some steel behind our words. Alu,” he says. The eunuch looks up, alert. “Draft a letter to the sultana telling her it is our wish that General Shahji be set free. Make it clear that he is the father of an honored ally, Shivaji, and we would regard any injury to him as an injury to our own person.”

  “Yes, highness. To be signed how?”

  “As Viceroy of the Deccan. In fact, don’t request it, order it, by the authority of the Peacock Throne. Let them mull that over.”

  “They’ll never free him, highness,” Jai Singh says.

  “That’s all one to me, general,” Aurangzeb replies. “It’s the son I want, not the father.” He turns again to Alu. “Send copies to Shivaji … have that ‘bumpkin’ bring them.”

  “Yes, highness,” Alu answers, rising. Jai Singh again finds the eunuch glancing at him.

  “Do we have any sources in the Malve, general, who can assess the credibility of this chieftain?” Aurangzeb asks.

  Jai Singh thinks this over. “Traders, perhaps, or farangs. Let me see what I can find.”

  Aurangzeb stands. “Things are coming quickly to a head, I think. As Jai Singh says, we approach the endgame. I trust that both of you are ready.”

  Jai Singh bows again as Aurangzeb slips out, wondering how ready he needs to be. He thanks Jumla, bows to him, and walks back toward his tent. His sentries jump to their feet as he approaches. “There’s someone waiting for you, sir,” one of them says.

  In the firelight, Jai Singh sees a graceful shadow standing by the entrance to his war tent. It is Alu, his dusky eyes glowing by the light of the flames. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come, uncle,” he says in a murmuring whisper.

  With any other eunuch, Jai Singh would be abrupt, but this one is the subject of many stories. Everyone in Agra talks about him, and the tales are strange. “Forgive me, Alu. I’m tired and morning comes soon.”

  Alu smiles. “Whatever did you think I meant, uncle?” Jai Singh wonders if he got the wrong idea. “It’s only that I never got the chance to tell you of my admiration for you, uncle. You have always been a favorite of mine.”

  “Really?” Jai Singh answers, trying to appear pleased.

  Alu steps closer, as close to Jai Singh as a woman might stand, though still polite, with his long hands folded together beneath the sleeves of his dark silk jama. “Among the mukhunni you are much respected uncle. You have always dealt fairly w
ith the brothers.”

  “Thank you,” Jai Singh answers. His head comes scarcely up to Alu’s shoulder, and he can feel the eunuch’s breath, warm and sweet.

  Alu slowly moves one hand from under his robe and places it tentatively on Jai Singh’s chest, the long fingers resting gently on his shoulder, the palm on his breast. “You will find us helpful, uncle, should the need arise. Pliant. You need only make a sign … the subtlest sign, and you shall have us.”

  Jai Singh’s lips don’t seem to work. Alu’s hand moves, rustling the stiff silk of Jai Singh’s robe. “Dark times approach, I fear. And in the darkness, one wants a friend, yes?” Jai Singh nods, not sure where things are leading.

  “But you told me you are tired, uncle.” Again, silently, Jai Singh nods, and Alu smiles knowingly. “Some other time when you feel more rested we must speak again. Longer. Much longer.” He slides into the shadows, his fingers trailing across Jai Singh’s chest as he departs.

  A few weeks ago Maya had been a nautch girl, her life filled with softness and scents, with silk and serenity. Now she is the guru to a dozen devadasis in training, and every moment of her day is busy. The change came so quickly that she sometimes wonders if she would one day wake and find that it had all been but a dream.

  Her head covered with the end of her sari, she slips across the torchlit courtyard to the steps of the Bhavani temple. The night air feels crisp, and above her the canopy of stars explodes in splendor. The courtyard is silent, and the temple carvings, touched by silver moonlight, seem about to breathe.

  She almost bumps against him, he sits so quietly at the top of the temple steps. When he raises his bearded face, she sees thin gleams of light reflecting on his cheeks. It is Tanaji, looking older than she remembers.

  “What’s wrong, father?” Maya asks.

  “You should not call me ‘father.’” His eyes, damp and dark, look at her for just a moment. “What have I done to deserve such an honor, eh?”

  Maya sits beside him. The stone floor of the temple feels cold through her thin cotton sari; Tanaji slides over slightly to give her room. “Look at me. How many men have I killed, eh? How many men mutilated by my hand? You’d think I’d feel some regret. It never crosses my mind. Yet when I think of how I’ve failed my boys, how I’ve failed you, I blubber like a baby. I’ve been a fool.”