Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  Then the trap is sprung.

  The captain lies on his back. Something’s in front of his eyes; he can’t see what. The bamboo slats of the cage press against his limbs. He’s in a sort of lattice cross, his torso and his limbs twisted painfully. The bamboo is loose in places, tight in others; his head for example, can move forward but not side to side. He pulls his head back far enough to see what’s in front eyes.

  Bamboo spikes. Sharpened.

  Probably there are others hidden from his sight. It’s not just a cage, the captain realizes. It’s an instrument of torture.

  “Well, what do you think, captain?” The heavy, jowled face of Afzul Khan comes into his sight as the general stoops beside him, grunting with the effort. “Now, this part here, around the head and eyes, that was my idea.”

  Perhaps he’s only testing me, thinks the captain. “Ingenious, sir,” he whimpers.

  “Ingenious, yes. You have no idea,” Afzul Khan laughs. “For one thing, you’re upside down.”

  No, I’m not, the captain thinks. But in that instant, the general grabs the side of the contraption and flips it over.

  It takes all the captain’s strength to stop his head from hurtling to the spikes before his eyes. Now he sees the ground below him, and inches from his eyes, those spikes, sharp and terrible.

  “Now you understand,” the general chuckles.

  “How do I get out?” the captain gasps. Or maybe he just screams.

  “You don’t, captain. I thought that was clear?” Afzul Khan turns to the Abyssinian. “Make a sign: ‘He disobeyed.’ Put him and the cage upon a cart and drive him around the camp. Let all know what happens to those who disobey. Then make another cage; this one for Shivaji. I approve of the design.”

  The captain, struggling to keep his head from falling forward, hears the crunching of the general’s thick-soled shoes as he leaves. He can no longer contain himself. “Allah!” he screams. His eyes, just inches from the blinding spikes, are suddenly wet with weeping, and mucous and saliva pour from his nose and mouth. As if in answer to his wailing, he hears the footsteps of the general’s return, and his growling voice. “Don’t do this, captain. Don’t weep like a woman. Show some courage. You weren’t much good as a captain, after all. Just think of all the good you’ll do as an example. Before you were but one captain among many. Now you are unique. You’ll give each man incentive to obey.”

  “Don’t let me die this way, general!” the captain wails.

  Afzul Khan considers this. “Am I not known for being merciful?”

  “Yes!” the captain sobs. “Afzul Khan the merciful!”

  “Very well. Stay alive until we capture Shivaji, and I’ll let you go. By then the men will have no more need of your example.”

  The captain gasps. “I will pray for our quick victory, general!”

  “Allah attends to desperate prayer, captain.”

  Tanaji rides into the courtyard of the Rang Mahal, struck by the quiet hanging over Poona. Where have the children gone? he wonders. People walk through the courtyard silently. And no one sits outside—the verandahs are empty. It’s as though a cloud hovers overhead.

  The cloud, thinks Tanaji, of war approaching.

  When he enters his doorway, Nirmala gives him a long, desperate embrace. It’s been a long time since she has thrown herself against him so. He pats her, whispering softly to her.

  Then he sits, and listens to her, while (of all things) she unwraps his turban and combs his thick black hair. “It came to me to do this, husband,” is all she’ll say. But he must admit, it feels good, her hands soothing him, the ivory comb whispering through his hair. They talk of many things, but of course it isn’t long before they speak of Hanuman, and of Jyoti, and of Jyoti’s sudden wealth.

  “Shivaji!” she cries when she hears it. “This is his doing!”

  “Maybe,” her husband says. “But he was in Poona the whole time. And he promised you, didn’t he? To you, at least, he has always kept his word.”

  “Hmmph. There’s always a first time. Besides, who else could it be?”

  “Who else had a bag of farang gold?” Tanaji asks, as if he has no idea. “She’ll be a servant girl no more, I’d guess. She’s rich enough now to buy a town.”

  At the door of the palace, Jijabai greets Tanaji. She starts to speak to him when Sambhuji runs in and hugs him hard around his legs. Tanaji tousles his hair and Sam runs off.

  Jijabai shakes her head. “He’s been like that for days. Shivaji gives him nothing. He sits with that sick wife of his, as though he can make up for years of neglect. Shameful what he did to her—but what he’s doing now is even worse. He should be with his army!”

  “That’s why I’ve come.”

  “Good. Talk some sense into him. It does us no good for him to wait there in the dark, watching her die.”

  “Is there no hope for her, then?”

  “We must all die, Tana.” She shows Tanaji to a small room, and goes to get her son. The narrow steps seem steeper these days, her legs shorter. By the time she reaches the top, she must press her hand against a wall to catch her breath.

  When Jijabai enters, Sai Bai’s eyes move to her, but nothing else. Shivaji sits up, startled. His hair hangs down around his shoulders. “Tanaji is downstairs,” Jijabai hisses. “Make yourself presentable.”

  Shivaji slumps when she says this. He presses Sai Bai’s hand. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Jijabai closes the door as Shivaji leaves, and sits at the edge of Sai Bai’s bed. “Well?” she says.

  “I’m feeling much better, mother,” Sai Bai answers, but her eyes are wide and dark and her face is thin.

  “This lingering illness of yours is more than a nuisance. It’s dangerous. He sits by your side when he should be commanding armies. Your indulgence may cause many to die.” Jijabai stares angrily at Sai Bai. Slowly however, she grows softer. She touches a single finger to Sai Bai’s hand. “A woman’s lot is never easy. Much less a queen’s.”

  “I’m not a queen, mother,” Sai Bai whispers.

  “You must act like one.”

  “But how, mother? You can’t mean for me to die.” Sai Bai’s eyes now seem filled with fear.

  “Not to die. But you must free my son to do his duty. You must let go his hand. You must be braver than he.”

  “But how can this be done?”

  So Jijabai tells her.

  Servants bring in butter lamps, and their golden flames casting flickering shadows on the plaster walls. Soon Balaji and Trelochan join Tanaji in the darkening room. As they wait for Shivaji, the smells of evening drift through the high windows; the dusky smell of dung fires, the tang of oil on hot metal pans, the golden smell of chapatis being fried.

  A servant comes to the door, and shows a cloaked figure into the room. “Bandal!” Bala exclaims, as the visitor takes off his cloak.

  “I thought you were at Pratapghad,” Tanaji says, rising to greet him.

  “I just came from there. Where’s Shivaji?”

  Trelochan chuckles. “That’s what we all wish to know.”

  “Now you have your wish,” Shivaji says, stepping through the door.

  Tanaji tells of the situation in Welhe. “All in all, not good,” he says. “We’re outnumbered five to one. Our men have had no training.”

  “But what about the Bijapuris, uncle?” Balaji puts in. “An army that size, gathered in a short time. They won’t have had much training either.”

  Tanaji shakes his head. “Afzul Khan’s armies live in fear; he stands behind them with a whip. Death at the hands of an enemy is better than living to face Afzul Khan’s displeasure.”

  “We’ve heard all this before,” says Bandal. “Whether they’re trained or not, what difference does it make? They have five men for every one of ours. And he has elephants. And Abyssinians.” Bandal turns earnestly to Shivaji. “You send untrained men against Afzul Khan, led by an untried captain, and what do you think will happen? Disaster!”

  Ta
naji bristles. “You agreed to the plan. And it’s not like Hanuman’s alone. Iron is there.”

  Bandal snorts. “I don’t trust him, cousin,” he says to Shivaji. “I’m guessing that Iron will go his own way; he always has.”

  “We’ll discuss Iron later,” Shivaji says wearily. “We have another problem to solve.” He nods to Bala.

  So Bala tells Bandal of the letter from the Mogul ambassador, the offer of support and the demand for nine crore hun.

  “What are we to do about this, Shahu?” Tanaji demands.

  “Nothing,” Shivaji says flatly.

  “But they’ll attack us!”

  “We’re already under attack. Afzul Khan isn’t writing letters; he’s here in force, today. The Moguls are far away.”

  “But the Moguls have Shahji. He’s practically a hostage!” Trelochan says. “What about your father?”

  Shivaji shakes his head. “Do the Moguls mean to use my father to control me, like the ring in a bullock’s nose?”

  “But, Shahu,” Tanaji says quietly, “if you accepted their offer—if the Moguls would move against Bijapur …”

  “That’s nothing but smoke, uncle,” Shivaji replies. “Five thousand men against Bijapur? Do you seriously believe that they’d attack?” Tanaji shrugs. “Anyway, how would that stop Afzul Khan?”

  The circle is silent for a moment. “Well then,” Tanaji says at last, “if that’s how it is, we must gather all our strength. Shahu, you must lead the battle in Welhe.”

  Bandal shakes his head. “To go to Welhe is a fool’s errand. We can’t defeat Afzul Khan in open battle!” He leans close to Shivaji. “Why should we fight on a flat field? Our strength comes from our mountains! Those Bijapuris come from the plains. They ride Bedouins, not mountain ponies! How can they hope to win, if we choose the place of battle?”

  “The battle plain is chosen, Bandal,” Tanaji says firmly. “The plan is to face them in Welhe!”

  But at the moment, the door opens, and Sai Bai enters. The argument is forgotten as the men look up in wonder. Yes, it is she, Sai Bai, in a bright blue sari, with golden earrings, with kohl around her eyes and vermilion along the part of her braided hair. She sweeps across the floor, a tray of toddy cups in her hands.

  “I thought you might be thirsty, husband,” Sai Bai says, lowering herself gracefully to him.

  “But can this be?” Shivaji asks, eyes wide.

  “I am feeling much better, husband,” Sai Bai laughs, moving around the circle. “Yes, much better now.” She stands, and maybe a look of pain steals across her face, but in an instant it is gone and her smile returns.

  “My heart is glad to hear it,” Shivaji answers.

  When he starts to rise, Sai Bai shakes her head. “You have business, husband. Do what you must do. See, I am well now, by the goodness of the goddess!”

  “It is a miracle,” says Bala quietly. Sai Bai nods, her dark eyes beautiful and deep, and shuts the door behind her.

  Outside, Jijabai takes the tray from Sai Bai before it tumbles from her hand, and takes her arm before she falls. Sai Bai collapses against her. A servant girl moves to help, but Jijabai glares at her. “What are you looking at, eh? This doesn’t concern you!”

  Grunting and scolding, Jijabai helps Sai Bai up the stairs. She’s surprisingly light. Behind them the bright blue sari’s train sweeps across a trail of drops: dark red blood, freshly fallen on the wooden floor.

  The flames of the butter lamps flicker as the door closes, and then burn bright once more.

  “I will join the battle,” Shivaji announces.

  “Excellent!” says Trelochan. “Sai Bai’s recovery is a sign. Soon all will be well. Shivaji’s sword will lead us!”

  Bandal leans forward intently. “The battle’s better joined at Pratapghad than in Welhe. We can put the Bijapuris where we want them. In Welhe, we have no advantage.”

  “If Welhe falls, then Poona must fall as well,” Bala answers. “Afzul Khan will march straight for Poona. The treasure will be lost.”

  “I disagree. He wants vengeance more than treasure. He’ll follow Shahu.” Bandal looks earnestly at Shivaji. “Pratapghad’s perfect, Shahu. The place is a fortress. I can’t imagine how those tribals did it. The fort was empty when we got there; the gates still barred from the inside. Inside, nothing: no sign of life, no bodies. Nothing but ghosts.”

  “How did they do it?” Bala says.

  “As I say, I have no idea. Pratapghad’s impregnable. There’s a long road leading to it, narrow, twisting. Deep forests on each side. A perfect place to stage an ambush.”

  “The time has come for battle, not for ambush,” Trelochan insists. “Win in open battle. Don’t win by deceit!”

  Shivaji smiles. “Since when has lying ever failed me?”

  “But what of the Moguls, lord?” asks Bala.

  “Delay. Tell the captain I’m considering their request,” Shivaji says. “Who knows what the morrow may bring?”

  “With any luck, we’ll all be dead by then,” Tanaji says, trying to make a joke, but no one laughs.

  Shivaji turns to Bandal, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Shall we go to Pratapghad?”

  “Yes, lord,” he answers. “I’ll die at your side.”

  Shivaji collects his gear, and straps on the sword Bhavani. He glances around the room, fixing it in his memory. He’s about to visit Sai Bai, but Jijabai stops him at the door. “She’s sleeping, Shahu.”

  “Good. She hasn’t slept for days, not really.”

  “As you say, Shahu. This is good news. It is the sleep of healing.”

  “Her recovery is a miracle.”

  Jijabai walks him to the courtyard. By the light of torches, they see Tanaji and Bandal already mounted, with Shivaji’s pony at the ready. Nirmala stands nearby, covering her mouth with the end of her sari.

  “Tell her I said goodbye.” Shivaji hoists himself onto the saddle.

  Jijabai bows as they ride off. Men can be so foolish, she thinks.

  CHAPTER 26

  The stone walls of Adoli temple shake like the kettle of an elephant drum.

  Through the columns, Maya sees the night sky flash, and then, a moment later, she hears the thundering blast. A great, deep-throated roar rips the air like the laughter of a rakshasa. The mountains flash, the smoky air glows, and eerie shadows swirl.

  An hour ago her nose began to sting with the smell of gunpowder smoke. Now tears stream from her burning eyes. She leans against the stone wall of the inner temple. Inside that room sleeps Bhavani. Its doors are locked, and the brahmins have taken the key. Who will wake the goddess in the morning? she wonders.

  I should have left, I should have left, I should have left! They told her to leave—the shastri’s wife begged her, Jyoti in tears, but she had broken free. At last they fled the temple for the hills, and left Maya behind.

  Her fingers tighten on the handle of a sickle. She had suddenly felt the need of a weapon, and the sickle was the only sharp thing she could find. Her butter lamp is guttering: the flame sputters and all is dark. The air flashes again. For a moment she sees clearly, and then her world dissolves in blackness.

  No, she tells herself. She thought—she must have been mistaken—she thought she saw a man standing in the doorway. She raises the sickle. A series of flashes sputters through the darkness. The shadow has moved.

  A man.

  Maybe the shastri has come back for her.

  Then the sky flashes again, and she sees now only steps away a haji cap, a grizzled beard, the wild look of a fakir. She lifts the sickle over her head. In another burst of light, the fakir waves his hand. As he does, the sickle flies from her grasp. The clatter of it echoes from the walls.

  The lights flare again, and Maya sees who it is. “Hanuman!”

  “No,” the man answers. And in the next roaring flash, she sees the ragged scars, the moisture seeping from the flat and empty eyelid. “Recognize your handiwork?” Lakshman asks, with a voice like acid.

  S
uddenly Maya is utterly alone; no gods, no friends, just her and this half demon. When the light flashes again: there he stands, one eye bright and evil, and in his hand, he now holds her sickle.

  “How did he do that?” Lakshman asks in a harsh falsetto. “I’m so frightened! Oh dear! I’m alone with a magician!”

  “What do you want?” she whispers.

  “What do I want, indeed? For I can have anything. Anything at all.”

  She flinches as she feels his cold touch in the darkness. “Do it and get it over with. I’ve had so many. Another man, what difference will it make?”

  She hears his ragged breathing in the darkness. “When I take you, you’ll know. You’ll never be the same.” The cold hand moves to her neck. “You think that I’m the same as other men? No more. No more.” The hand creeps down her shoulder, the fingers slide across her breasts. Through the thin fabric of the sari, Lakshman pinches Maya’s nipple.

  “I’ve come to take you out of here,” he says, lifting his hand, just so, as if he’d never touched her. “Afzul Khan is coming. He’s going to destroy this temple. Because it is Shivaji’s goddess.” The words hang in the air, like the echo of a gong. “You think your precious Shivaji would come to save you? You poor bitch. He’s sitting on his ass in Poona. He doesn’t care a shit. Bastard.” He takes her upper arm, firmly, not rough as she expected. “We’ve got to get going. Afzul Khan is almost here.”

  “I won’t leave the goddess. Someone needs to protect her!”

  “It’s your own safety you should think of, not hers. She’s just a piece of rock. So what if Afzul Khan breaks her: imagine what he would do to you! Come. It’s me or death.” A flare streaks light on his dead-white scars. “Come on, I’ll take you to him. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Beneath his grip she stumbles, driven blind into the darkness.

  “Stand fast! Stand fast!” Hanuman screams into the night, as his pony wheels and bucks beneath him.