by John Speed
Around him, the battle boils: dust and smoke, the crack of matchlocks and the boom of bombs, the screams of elephants and horses, and of men. Around his pony’s feet, shrub grass smolders; burning trees spew sparks into the breeze like swarms of fiery insects.
“Stand fast!” Hanuman cries, his long sword waving. “Stand fast and form a line!” His voice can’t be heard for the roar of O’Neil’s granadas. Hanuman swings around to see Jedhe ride up. Blood streaks Jedhe’s face. “They’re running like rats!” he shouts to Hanuman.
“Where’s Iron?” Hanuman shouts back.
“About a half mile behind us.”
“Pull back!” Hanuman shouts, spurring his horse. “Tell everyone to pull back!” He drives his pony over the bodies of dying men. A bullet rips his pant leg. On he rides. “Fall back!” he cries. One by one the archers see him, eyes wide with terror. “Fall back!” he screams.
“Onil!” one shouts to Hanuman. “He’s still up there!” The air flashes, and Hanuman sees a lone figure on a rise a hundred yards ahead. The man hurls something toward the Bijapuris and throws himself onto the ground.
The granada’s roar blasts the air. Hanuman peers into the smoke. He glimpses the army of Afzul Khan, sees the silhouettes of elephants and horsemen. And a strange, unearthly sight: a man suspended in a bamboo cage. For a moment Hanuman thinks the man is floating over the lurching cart. Hanuman spurs his pony to O’Neil, and hauls him onto the saddle. The pony dashes madly into the darkness, racing from the noise and fire.
Iron sits next to a tree, holding his head in his hands.
“What’s happening?” Hanuman asks, as he jumps from his horse. O’Neil dismounts and goes to look for water.
Iron looks up, his white mustache stained with soot. “The men are running! I said no good would come from attacking at night!” Iron scowls. “The gods are set against us. We’re finished!”
“Keep your voice down, uncle!” Hanuman whispers.
“What I’m saying everyone already knows,” Iron says, but he lowers his voice. “Surrender. It’s useless to go on.”
Jedhe interrupts. “Forget surrender, Hanuman. Fall back. Collect the men. Make a plan!”
Iron glares at him. “Why should more men die?”
“You surrender then, old fool,” Jedhe spits. He turns back to Hanuman. “We’re no good here. Move fast! A retreat is better than a rout.”
“All right,” Hanuman replies. “We’ll fall back to the Poona road. Leave the cannon if we must.”
Without waiting another moment Jedhe races toward a cluster of men, shouting the order to fall back.
“What about Torna?” Iron grunts. “You mean to abandon it?”
“Torna can hold out a long time.”
“Against ten thousand men? With no relief?” Iron’s face creases. “You are more a coward than your father is!”
“Fine! Stay here and die. Or come with me and fight. I don’t give a shit.” With all the strength he can muster, Hanuman strides away.
“Wait!” Iron cries, catching up. “I know the men in Torna, nephew,” he says, suddenly looking very old. “What you ask is hard for me.” He lifts his hands to his face and his whole body seems to shake. Then he turns to Hanuman eyes cold as death. “By the gods, I’ll triumph or I’ll die.”
Afzul Khan clambers down the elephant ladder. His captains sit on a carpet spread on the bare ground. Not far away, the forest burns, spreading a ghostly light across the clearing. “Where is my best captain?” he shouts, and of course the others know exactly who he means. In a moment an oxcart rolls into the clearing. Lashed to the cart is a swaying bamboo cage, and in the cage is Afzul Khan’s captain. The sign HE DISOBEYED bounces against his chest. His legs are stained yellow and brown.
The men around the circle cannot help but stare. They fear the prisoner will look at them, but he focuses only on the twin blades of bamboo mere inches from his eyes, his face nearly mad with concentration.
“How goes it, captain? Still alive?” Afzul Khan laughs. He reaches out and shakes the cage; the leather lashings squeak as the bamboo flexes, and the captain’s face grows pale.
“I’m having six more made, just in case,” says Afzul Khan, his eyes moving from face to face. It doesn’t take the men too long to count seven faces in the circle, and one of those is Afzul Khan’s. “Let’s have reports.”
An Abyssinian is first to speak. “We met very little resistance, general,” he says. “They are very bad fighters.”
“Casualties?” grunts Afzul Khan.
“On their side, hard to tell. They pull the bodies from the field.”
“What about us?”
Silence as the captains glance nervously at one another. At last one of them speaks; the oldest, small and wiry, with a grizzled beard. “Not so good.” Afzul Khan’s eyes narrow as he turns to face him. “We lost six, seven hundred men, maybe, mostly wounded but a lot of them dead.”
“Wounded is worse than dead,” Afzul Khan says, with a voice smooth as oil. “How many Marathis fell? How many bodies on the field?”
Again the grizzled captain glances around the circle. He might as well already be dead. “Maybe fifty.”
The captain in his cage takes just that moment to moan. Everyone looks up, and then looks away. Except, of course, for Afzul Khan. “So, tell me, captain,” he says, leaning in, so great folds of flesh well up over his chin, “how we lost fifteen times as many men as those mountain rats.”
“Granadas, general. Farang bombs. Most times they only hurt the men who throw them. That’s why we don’t use them. But this farang, he was a crazy man. He stood maybe twenty yards from our line, lighting them and throwing them and never thinking twice. Blew up a hell of lot of men, and a hell of a lot of horses.”
When the captain stops speaking, Afzul Khan stares at his grizzled face very quietly, for a very long time, as though sizing him up, then leans back. “Fine. We can afford to lose a few men. They cannot. Things are good.”
“Yes, general,” the captain says, and the others nod and mumble along.
“Well, what’s your advice, my captains? Shall we rest here for a while? Or should we pursue them while their trail is hot?” Afzul Khan’s eyes flit from face to face. “Well?” No one speaks.
A young captain gulps. “We should do, general, whatever you say.”
There’s silence for a moment. Around the circle everyone hesitates; no one even breathes. “You see?” Afzul Khan says. “When is a fool not a fool? When he obeys me. And you, captain, are no fool.”
“Thank you, general,” the young man gasps.
“We’ll rest here for the day.” He places a heavy hand on the young captain’s shoulder. “You will be my new aide,” he says. “Prepare the men to leave at dawn. We move up the Poona road, capture the city, and Shivaji. And of course, the gold.” Afzul Khan eyes the captain. “Cheer up. Not all my aides end up in cages. You might return a hero.”
“Thank you, sir,” the young man manages to say.
“You,” Afzul Khan says to the Abyssinian. “Get fifty volunteers. I have a special project they’ll enjoy.”
“What sort of project is it, general?” asks the Abyssinian.
“Light work,” says Afzul Khan, his face glowing. “Tell them each to bring a hammer. And torches. And we’ll need a cannon too, I think.” He gives the cage another violent rattle and stalks back to his tent.
Bandal, Tanaji, and Shivaji have stopped to rest. With their ponies stumbling so often in the dark, they give up and wait for dawn. No one says much: they each feel the bitter hopelessness of their situation
Shivaji, lying on his blanket stares into the sky, to the cold light of the stars. Soon he is asleep.
He wakes with a start. He’s seated before a doorway. Its shape reminds him of the gateway of a fort.
The wooden doors swing open, and a figure glides toward him. At first he thinks it’s Maya. Her dress is stiff, colored the deep green of old ivy leaves, but her skin is pale gold like
the youngest grass, and she has many arms.
I know you, he thinks.
There is no sound when it happens; no crash, no cry. Just her hand breaking off at the wrist and flying through the air. The stump that’s left is dry and white.
Her eyes implore him as the rest of her arm explodes in a shower of shards.
Great dents sink silently into her body. Her dress begins to shatter.
A great white gash appears where her nose once was. Then half her face flies off.
Help me, she mouths.
Her head explodes into a powder, leaving a broken neck, white as snow.
Shivaji wakes with a scream. “What is it?” shouts Bandal, sword in hand. Tanaji scrambles for his mace.
“We must hurry,” Shivaji answers. “Afzul Khan. He’s destroying Adoli temple.”
A makeshift camp has sprung up near the turnoff of the Poona Road. A few sentries stand up wearily as they hear the sound of their approaching ponies. “Hanuman!” one of them shouts. “We thought you must be dead!”
“Not dead, just slow!” Hanuman urges his pony forward. In the clearing are a cluster of soldiers. Some look up as he passes; some wave their fists; some shout his name; some boo. “Who’s in charge?” Hanuman asks.
“Him, maybe,” the soldier answers, pointing. “I don’t a give a shit.” In the center of a crowd, Hanuman sees Jedhe, arguing with some men. The words are unclear, but not the tone; the voices loud and full of blame.
“Here comes Hanuman!” Jedhe shouts.
Soon a dozen men surround him. “What’s going on?” asks Hanuman.
“Mutiny,” Jedhe whispers calmly, but the worry shows in his face.
Just then Iron strides into the circle. “You’d think they’d never seen a battle,” he growls.
“Most of them haven’t,” Hanuman answers. “Not until tonight.”
“You’re going to have to act fast,” Iron tells him. “A lot of them are leaving.”
“One battle! One battle and they quit!” Jedhe spits. “Cowards.”
“It isn’t cowardice to run from certain death,” Iron says. He turns to Hanuman, face taut. “These men are ready to kill you.”
“Why?” Hanuman looks baffled.
Iron slaps him on the back. “Part of the pleasure of command. Win, and they’ll follow you through fire. Lose, lose even once, and they turn on you like jackals. You’ve started off losing. Nothing’s worse than that.”
Hanuman looks at the faces of the soldiers in the camp lit by fire glow. They’re drawn and serious, and some are wild with anger. He turns, and turns, and sees not one friendly face, until he’s made the whole circuit and looks back at Iron. “What should I do now, uncle? They’re starting to wander off! I must get them back!”
“How? How do you mean to do it?” Iron asks, staring at him levelly.
“I don’t know, uncle. I need to think.”
“You don’t have time.” Iron frowns. “Fortunately, I came prepared. I can get an hour for you, maybe. Expect no more! And watch out for tiger claws.” With that he strides into the hostile crowd.
Jedhe shrugs. “He’s right about the tiger claws, cousin. A lot of these men are angry. I wouldn’t stand too close.”
From somewhere Iron has scrounged a black cauldron. Soon the smell of frying mustard seed and coriander floats through the air. As Iron cooks, he sings: a song about a soldier with a woman in every town—Lakshmi in Adoli whose ass was roly-poly, Parvati in Welhe, whose slit was kind of smelly—on and on. Soon a circle forms. Iron stirs the pot, and waves his ladle in the air to keep the beat.
As Iron sings, Hanuman moves to the edge of the crowd, where exhausted men sit at a distance. “Wait a little while,” he says, reaching out to touch an arm or shoulder. “Get some food.” He nods toward the fire, toward the steam from the boiling dal, toward the laughter. Some of the men ignore him; others shrug at one another and amble over to join the others.
In the dawn light, Hanuman sees just how exhausted the men look. Their heads droop forward as they eat.
Jedhe catches up with him. “Iron says it’s up to you. You’ve got to say something. You’ve got to inspire them. Otherwise they’ll just go.”
Iron is finishing the song about the man whose lingam was so long it needed a shoe when Hanuman steps to his side. The men who had been laughing grow suddenly silent. Then from the rear comes a long boo, and another, and soon the air is filled with booing.
A voice shouts out, “Let’s hear what the bastard has to say!” Soon there’s shouts of “Quiet down!” The crowd readies itself to listen.
“Men,” he starts off, “our lands are under attack!”
“Your lands,” says a heckler. “My land’s just fine!” The boos begin again.
“Look here,” shouts Iron, rising to his feet. “Do you call yourselves men? You’re acting like goats! This man’s an officer, isn’t he? So give him some room!” With that he lumbers back to his seat.
Hanuman tries again. “Should we just lie down like dogs while that jackal Afzul Khan insults us? Should we run away? What about our honor?”
From the back the heckler calls again: “Ain’t no honor when you’re fucking dead, captain!”
Jedhe leaps up. “Who said that? Step forward and show yourself.” But now the men close ranks, hiding the heckler, and boos and shouts of anger start again to fill the air.
“He’s right!” comes a clear voice, calling loudly.
They all turn to see Shivaji on his pony, followed by Tanaji and Bandal. The crowd opens a pathway for him.
“What good is honor anyway? Who should die for honor?” Shivaji looks around the circle. “Can you eat honor? Can you spend honor?”
“You can’t fuck honor either!” shouts the heckler, and everybody laughs.
“No,” Shivaji says. “So why die for honor?” His face grows hard. “Why die for anything?” He pulls out his sword; its bright blade whistles through the morning air. “Why do I even have this sword? Is nothing worth dying for?” Shivaji glares at the men, one by one, as if challenging them.
“Your own life?” comes the heckler’s voice, now uncertain.
Shivaji shrugs.
“What about your family?” shouts another man. Shivaji shrugs again. “What about to defend your home, lord?” shouts a voice from the back.
Shivaji looks up. “Would you die to defend your home?”
“Yes, lord,” the man replies.
“Good for you!” Shivaji waves to the man. “Step forward, fellow.”
The man shuffles forward, a tubby barefoot fellow with a disheveled turban and a greasy beard. An old bare sword bangs against his thick legs. He stands before Shivaji as though expecting to be struck.
“But would you let me fight with you?” Shivaji asks. “Would you let me die with you—to defend your home?”
“Sure!” the man answers, looking stunned.
“Swear that you will let me join you!” Shivaji says, his eyes on fire. “Swear it, that we may be brothers!”
“Well, sure you can join me!” He looks around at his comrades, enjoying the stupid joke. “Of course I swear it!”
“Then let it be so, brother,” Shivaji answers, looking pleased. “Give my brother here a decent sword.” Instantly, Jedhe unsheathes his own sword, and hands the jeweled hilt to the startled farmer.
“Anyone else?” Shivaji calls out. The faces turned up toward him are full of consternation. “Who else will let me join him? Who else will let me stand beside him, until death takes me? Who will have me for a brother?”
“I will, lord!” a voice calls out. “And me!” “And me!” soon the crowd is clamoring, calling out “Lord!” and “Shivaji!” and “Brother!”
“Then I will join you all!” he cries. “My sword ever ready at your side! My life to stand beside you! I will be your brother if you’ll have me!” The crowd erupts with cheers. Soon they all are yelling, and the chant begins: “Har, har, mahadev! Har, har, mahadev!” Soon the men are shuff
ling in a silly dance, waving their weapons in the air: Har, har, mahadev!”
Suddenly Shivaji’s voice cuts through the air. “But hold!” The chanting stops. “Would you do the same for me? Will you stand beside me against a murderer? Against a jackal who would kill me and all my family? Against a brute who means to crush our gods beneath his heel?” He wheels his pony, sword aloft, looking at them all. “Will you help me, brothers?”
“Yes!”
And now the bedlam cheering starts, the swords and lances flash in the morning sun. Shivaji raises the sword Bhavani high above his head. And if he says more, no one knows, for the morning skies now ring with cheers: “Har, har, mahadev! Har, har, mahadev!”
Outside the doorway of the upstairs room in the Rang Mahal in Poona, Trelochan stands with Bala. The incense in the air cannot hide the smell of dying. The door cracks open, spilling light into the corridor, and Sambhuji steps out, his face pale. Bala spreads his arms. The boy runs to him and buries his face against his chest. “Why did I have to kiss her, uncle? She was fast asleep! She’ll never know I kissed her.”
“She’ll know,” Bala tells him, holding him tight. Then through the door walks Jijabai, calm and stately. She looks at them and shrugs.
“What’s wrong with her? What’s wrong with mother?” Sambhuji cries.
“She’s gone away, Sam,” Trelochan says softly.
“Don’t coddle him,” says Jijabai. “Your mother is dead.”
“It’s your fault!” the boy cries. “You killed her.”
“No, child. She just died,” Jijabai replies. “Now you must be a man and face it.” But he wails and runs away. Bala looks to Jijabai, offering to catch him but she shakes her head.
“She never stirred,” she says, annoyed. “Not even to say goodbye to her own child.”
“The gods grant her peace,” Bala whispers.
Jijabai snorts. “She’ll have more peace than we will, Balaji.”
“I will tell Shivaji, madam,” says Trelochan.
“No, I’ll go,” Bala insists.
“Fools,” says Jijabai. “I need you here. We’ll send a courier. Anyway, what difference does it make?” She walks slowly through the shadowed corridor and down the narrow staircase, suddenly looking very old indeed.
