by John Speed
“Tell your master that we are in his debt, captain,” Bala answers before Shivaji gets a chance. He calls to the sentries. “Take these guests to our dharmsala and give them every comfort.”
“You are kind, lord,” the captain says, bowing again to Shivaji.
Shivaji opens the silver message tube and breaks the seals. He unfurls the bright parchment and tosses it to Balaji. “Persian,” he says.
Balaji looks the paper over. “It’s from Aurangzeb’s ambassador to Bijapur. He says that they have rescued your father. Shahji is being given every honor a man of his greatness deserves.”
“That’s good,” Shivaji says. “That’s very good.”
“Maybe,” says Bala. “He says that he has brought five thousand imperial cavalry to Bijapur. They’re encamped at the gates of Bijapur, ready to attack if he should give the word.” Shivaji raises his eyebrows. “He says that Afzul Khan is on his way to attack you.”
“That we knew already.”
“He suggests that a Mogul foray into Bijapur would force Afzul Khan’s return. You have only to request this action.” Bala looks at Shivaji, his face serious. “He apologizes but with the siege of Golconda, a small contingent is all that could be spared on your behalf.”
“Five thousand imperial guards?” Though Shivaji shakes his head, all he can do is laugh. “A small contingent? This fixes everything!”
“Wait, lord. The note goes on to say that your presence is requested—no, it says ‘required’—in Agra. There you shall confirm your fealty to the Peacock Throne.” Shivaji’s face hardens. “They will send a hundred men to escort you, and to protect the tribute that you naturally will wish to offer to the padshah.” Bala looks up at Shivaji and rolls the parchment. “The rest is an insult, lord. Such bad manners are unforgivable.”
“What does it say?”
Balaji seems hard pressed to say the words aloud. “He suggests—that’s the word he uses, ‘suggests’—that you would wish to bring no less than nine crore hun to lay in tribute at the padshah’s feet.”
For a moment, Shivaji stares at him in silence. Then he starts to laugh, and laughs some more, and soon Balaji is laughing, too. “Well,” Shivaji says finally, lifting the silver tube, “it’s an elegant bill, I’ll say that much. Whoever thought I’d be rich enough to get a bill for nine crore hun?” He looks at Bala bitterly. “Think Shahji’s life is worth nine crore hun, Bala?”
“At least then your troubles will be over, lord. Give them what they want and live in their protection.”
“No, Bala. Our troubles would only be beginning.”
“He should have come himself,” Iron grumbles to Jedhe once they return to his house in Welhe. “I keep thinking Hanuman will be different than his father. Honor doesn’t run in their blood, Jedhe.”
They’d just returned from a war council, where they heard the message sent by Lakshman, and Shivaji’s terse note: “Prepare a defense.”
“Why didn’t you speak out, uncle?” Jedhe says.
“I tried! Weren’t you listening? Every time, he shut me up. Told me to talk to him later! Me! Iron! He tells me this! We’re outmanned and outgunned—and there sits Hanuman brimming with confidence. Truth wasn’t welcome there, Jedhe.”
“It’s true, uncle. We’re sunk.”
Iron laughs. “Take the advice of an old man, nephew. Never trust anyone completely. Never. Not even your old uncle Iron.”
“You don’t trust Shivaji, uncle?”
“In the end, what difference does it make? Unless we watch our backs, we’ll all be dead. What do you think of Tanaji’s plan?”
“You mean Hanuman’s plan, uncle?”
Iron sniffs. “I’ve seen this plan before; always the same thing. You think I don’t recognize Tanaji’s tactics?”
“But I think the two of them are hardly talking now, since the trouble over Hanuman’s marriage.”
“Then the son is just a copy of the father. Too bad. Lakshman at least thought for himself. Too bad we got the other twin as captain. As for the plan, I can’t see any part of it that doesn’t end in death.”
They talk about the plan: a series of quick feints by small squads of bowmen mounted on ponies. Hanuman expects Afzul Khan to follow the squads into the Torna valley, where the combined Marathi forces will perform a double-flanking attack, rushing down from the hills, supported by the Torna cannon. “I never heard such nonsense,” scoffs Iron. “As if Afzul Khan would follow those squads into a fortified valley. Maybe he’ll also aim his cannon at himself and shoot his own head off.”
“What do you think he’ll do, uncle?”
“What would I do if I had fifteen thousand men?” Iron laughs. “I’d break off a phalanx of cavalry. Chase down the bowmen and crush them. Make it ugly. Make an example. The main force goes straight to Poona.” Iron looks at Jedhe seriously. “That’s the goal, nephew—Poona! Why would Afzul Khan be distracted? He doesn’t want battle. He wants gold! He wants Shivaji! Both are in Poona.”
Jedhe considers this. “So what do we do?”
“I’ll keep my word. I’ll fight next to Hanuman. At least until it’s clear all hope is gone. Then I’ll decide. There’s nothing to prevent us from cutting a deal with Bijapur if it’s clear Shivaji’s doomed.”
“Then why wait? Isn’t the outcome already clear now, uncle?”
“To us perhaps. Not to my men. It’s sad that men will have to die. But if I do things my way, some will live.” Jedhe merely looks at the floor. “You’re young,” Iron says gently, “and you don’t like an old man’s plan. I understand. Don’t you think I’d rather die gloriously?”
“If you don’t like your own plan, uncle, why do it?”
“Dying gloriously is still dying. The point is staying alive.”
“Maybe it’s not so bad to die, uncle.”
“That’s the spirit! Go and die!” Iron puts a calloused hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Listen to the way an old man thinks: if you lose and live, Jedhe, you can always fight again. If you die, you’re done.”
Jedhe, for a change, has nothing witty to reply. “This isn’t how I thought that it would be, uncle.”
“When you’re young, you want a hero’s life. When you’re old, any life will do. Hanuman’s playing at being a hero. You want to die for his dreams?”
Meanwhile, across the courtyard from Iron’s house, Hanuman says to Tanaji, “How do you think it went, father?”
Tanaji tugs at his mustache, and grimaces. “About as well as you could expect. No one likes to think about facing a big army, least of all one led by Afzul Khan.”
Hanuman considers this. “What should I do?”
“You can’t do anything. In battle the plans will fall apart, and then, in all the smoke and noise, someone will take the lead. You, maybe, or Iron, or me. Jedhe, maybe. And everyone will follow in a glorious attack. Or a rout.” Tanaji sighs.
“Why doesn’t Shivaji come?” Hanuman says bitterly. “Shivaji should lead us. I no longer think he’s needed in Poona. Anybody who is going to join us has already made the move.”
Tanaji thinks this over. “Write him. Ask him to come.”
Hanuman turns to a little writing desk in the corner of the room when a servant enters. “A visitor for you,” he says. “A woman.”
As the woman steps shyly through the door, Hanuman jumps to his feet. “Jyoti!”
In the dim light her dark face seem to glow. She bows deeply to Tanaji, eyes lowered, then to Hanuman, but looking straight at him. Then she turns back to Tanaji. “I know you asked me to have no more to do with your son, sir, but something has come up. Something wonderful and strange.” Hanuman’s first thought is that Jyoti is pregnant. That would explain the way her face glows, but not her happiness.
Tanaji glowers at her. “You have heard my judgment. You have no dowry; my son and you have no future.”
“All that has changed, sir,” Jyoti says.
“Changed how?” Tanaji asks gruffly.
“Tw
o nights ago, when I lifted the covers of my bed I found a gift. A gift that I can only guess the gods sought fit to give me. A purse. A yellow purse, a purse of soft leather, tied with a golden cord. The cord was cut in two. Inside were coins—heavy golden coins I have never seen before: not hun, not rupees. I showed it to the shastri. He said the money was farang gold.”
“Farang?” gasps Hanuman.
“Yes. Suddenly I am a rich woman.” She giggles nervously. “When the shastri saw how much, he nearly piddled. He told me I should give the gold to the temple. Then the gods would give me blessings; otherwise the gold would bring evil. I refused.”
“The rich give nothing away,” Tanaji says. “That’s how they stay rich.”
“Then I am rich. Rich enough, maybe, to be worthy of your son.”
“But where did the purse come from, Jyoti?” Hanuman says “How did it come to be in your bed? Had someone been to the temple that day?”
“No. Only the regular villagers been there that day, other than your father,” she says, turning to Tanaji. Tanaji braces himself with a big frown. “Did you see anyone around that night, someone who might have had a bag of farang gold?”
Tanaji harrumphs. “There was no one there but me.”
Jyoti seems confident now, strong. “You can’t deny, sir, that I’ve answered your objection now.”
Tanaji shakes his head. “You’re right. I’ll talk to Nirmala.”
“My prayers are answered, father,” Hanuman says.
“Is the letter to Shivaji finished?” Tanaji snaps, turning so no one can see his face.
“Nearly,” Hanuman sits back at the small desk, writing hurriedly, and Jyoti watches him, beaming. She doesn’t notice Tanaji wiping at his eyes.
When Hanuman is finished, Tanaji takes the letter. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says. But Hanuman isn’t looking at him, nor is Jyoti. “I’m leaving now,” Tanaji says, louder.
The moment he is gone, they fall into each other’s arms.
An hour later, the servant calls through the door. “A messenger has come, sir. The Bijapuri army has been spotted.”
The sun shines hot and bright on the Bijapuri plain, on the heads of the thousands marching toward the mountains like a swarm of carrion beasts. Ahead the mountains loom like teeth thrust out of the earth, with black flanks dark beneath the shadows of huge clouds.
The howdah of Afzul Khan’s great war elephant rocks like a boat in a turbulent sea. Through a fog of dust, Afzul Khan sees his cavalry spread across the plain, bright lances gleaming. Ahead of them ride the ten banner-bearers, carrying on silver-studded flagpoles the dark green flags of Bijapur, snapping in the breeze.
Behind him tramp war elephants heavy with armor, trunks upraised. In the rear, their faces streaked with dust-stained sweat, follows an ocean of soldiers. In the distance, oxcarts strain beneath the weight of weapons and supplies, and behind them, high-wheeled cannon tugged by man and ox alike. Trailing away behind, hidden by clouds of dust, the servants and cooks, the fletchers and smiths and whores straggle slowly, slowly onward.
The swath the army cuts across the plain is wide: crops and huts are crushed beneath its heavy step. The peasants grab what things they can and flee. From the dust clouds that hang around them like a war god’s chariot, the music of destruction blares: the pounding of the battle drums; the blasting of war trumpets as tall as men.
The track of the army moves across the plateau like a stain.
Rocking in his howdah, the general of all, Afzul Khan, sweats in the noontime heat, propped on silk and velvet cushions. With each step sounds the clunk of the elephant’s armor, iron bossed with leather, that covers its flanks.
The sun is so hot that the mahout, who half-kneels, half-sits on the beast’s wide head, must ladle water on its war helmet; otherwise the elephant’s brain would surely bake beneath the bronze. The water sizzles into steam.
A man rides up on an energetic Bedouin. Dust streaks fall in lines along its flanks, and strings of foam hang from its lips. The man spurs his mount to walk beside the elephant, and calls to Afzul Khan. “Nearly time for prayers, general.”
Afzul Khan points to the mountains. “No more stops for prayers. When I pray next, I’ll be in Poona. I’ll use Shivaji’s skin for my prayer rug. Not until then, captain, will I stop for prayer.”
“But, general!” the captain protests, until he sees the face that lowers at him from the howdah. “As you say, general.” He hesitates. “But sir … the men. I mean, we’re going into battle soon, and the men …”
“Captain, which way are we facing?”
“West, sir.”
“Which way’s Mecca?”
“West, sir.”
“So anyone may pray. Pray in your saddle. Pray on your feet. Trust me, Allah will understand.” Afzul Khan stares at the mountains, and points to the pass. “We must be there tonight, captain. I want to eat my dinner in Welhe.”
“But, sir, those mountains are fifteen miles away! And it’s another eight miles through the pass to Welhe.”
“You heard me, captain.” And with that Afzul Khan heaves himself back amidst his velvet cushions.
They don’t make Welhe by the evening, though the captain sets the lash to many. It’s just too far and too hot. They’ve barely reached the foothills as the sun goes down. The captain looks at the rugged, narrow road that winds into the heights, curses, and calls a halt. It takes a quarter hour before the word has spread, before the whole ragged force, stretched for miles across the Bijapuri plain, stops to collapse exhausted on the hot ground.
The captain screws up his courage and rides back to Afzul Khan. “I had to call a halt, general. There was no way to bring the army through that pass at night. Our men are exhausted. The road’s a mess and probably protected.” He shouts this in a rush, waiting for the heavy sword to fall and split his head in two.
“You did what you had to, captain,” the general says at last.
“I know you said that we must …”
“But of course, we could never have made Welhe, could we? Clever of you to work that out. We’re here, at least, by sundown. That’s something.” Afzul Khan twists his face, and it occurs to the captain that he’s trying to smile. “Come and meet me in an hour. I have something I wish to discuss with you.”
The captain bows as a man condemned bows to his judge. “But first,” says Afzul Khan, “spread the word among the men. No tents. We sleep beneath the stars tonight. Tomorrow we break camp at dawn.”
An hour later the captain returns to find the general seated by a bright fire in a camp chair of wood and leather, talking with a small man he’s never seen before. Not far away he sees servants fluttering around a dinner table; a table set—the captain notices—for one.
“Ah, captain,” says Afzul Khan, standing at his approach. “I’ve been waiting. Come and look at this.”
The captain joins him. When the small man lifts his head, the captain sees the deep brown scars where a cross has been branded into his face; one ragged scar from forehead to lips, the other where his eyebrows must have been. An Abyssinian, the captain thinks. He hates them, but the general is fond of them. Most of them are Christians, and all of them are soulless, their shifty eyes like jackals’ hunting for an unsuspecting prey.
“This man, Simon, has been helping me,” Afzul Khan explains. The captain inclines his head in greeting. The Abyssinian merely squints in reply. He holds an oiled leather thong, twisting it tightly around his fingers and untwisting it.
“Come and see, captain,” says Afzul Khan. Despite his bulk, the general slides easily between some carts parked end to end to form a private area. The captain follows. Behind him comes the Abyssinian. He can smell the oil and onions on his breath.
Two torches driven into open ground between the wagons light up a messy heap of long bamboo poles, and nearby a small pile of oiled leather thongs. Propped up against a tool box rest a wooden mallet, a thin saw, and a two-handled drawknife.
“Sim
on’s weaponry.” Afzul Khan chuckles, nodding at the toolbox. As if in response, the dark man moves silently to the tools and begins to cut a bamboo pole.
The captain notices that the poles form some sort of assembly: an open framework bound with leather thongs. “Simon’s handiwork,” says Afzul Khan. “He’s an expert, you know. A master of his craft.”
“What is it?” the captain asks. Afzul Khan lifts his chin, encouraging the captain to pick up the assembly. When he lifts it from the ground, it expands: the poles drop down on leather hinges with a clack, forming a box.
A cage.
“Are you hunting, then, sir?” the captain ventures, though suddenly his blood runs cold.
“Trapping,” Afzul Khan says, taking a step closer.
The captain tells himself to calm down. What are you afraid of? But then he smells oil and onions, and spins around to see the Abyssinian inches from his back, the thin leather thong twisting in his hands.
“I had my Christian build this cage for Shivaji. It’s based on my ideas, but the execution is all his own, and I must say, it is superb.” The Abyssinian nods his head. “In this cage I shall bring Shivaji to Bijapur. In this cage I shall parade him as a prize. In this cage I shall watch him as he dies.”
The Abyssinian swiftly lashes the sides and corners together, the contraption takes form, like a pair of flat, oddly shaped boxes, both but a few inches high. Soon he stands back, puffing slightly from the effort.
“I don’t understand,” says the captain, walking around the assembly. “How is this a cage? How can it hold anything?”
“I agree, it’s difficult to appreciate without a—well, a specimen to demonstrate.” Afzul Khan looms over him. “Would you care to volunteer?” Before the captain has a chance to answer, before he has a chance to move or even think, Afzul Khan has reached his thick arm around his head, squeezing his skull until it would seem to burst. Then he throws him effortlessly down.
