Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  “I’ve seen them run, you mean.”

  “Exactly! Not a warrior in the bunch! Cowards all!”

  “Even a coward will kill if pressed, lord,” the grizzled captain says, staring hard at Jedhe.

  “Not these men, general. Not these farmers! When they see Bijapur’s might, they will surrender!”

  “Why haven’t they surrendered already, then?” the captain asks.

  “They think Shivaji will protect them. They think he’s on some mission from his goddess. They are fools.”

  “There, captain,” Afzul Khan says. “That’s why I drive my men with fear. A leader may inspire his army for a little while, but in the end, a coward will lay down his arms unless forced to fight.”

  “I see you are a man of wisdom, general,” Jedhe answers. “Kill Shivaji and you end this foolish rebellion in one stroke!” Again Afzul Khan drains his cup; again the eunuch fills it. “Shivaji hopes to make a deal, lord,” Jedhe says. The young captain’s eyes flash when Jedhe calls Afzul Khan “lord,” not “general.” Jedhe presses on. “Pratapghad is a difficult place.”

  “That much at least is true,” the grizzled captain says. Afzul Khan nods for Jedhe to continue.

  “Shivaji quakes at the mention of your name. Everyone knows your power and fears it. Shivaji most of all! He was raised by his mother, lord. He thinks like a woman.”

  “At least his father was a fighter.” Afzul Khan leans back, drinking slowly from his cup.

  “This man should not be trusted,” the grizzled captain protests. “With his own mouth he admits his treachery.”

  “Silence,” Afzul Khan replies. Again he drinks, his eyes focused on Jedhe. “What do you say, traitor?”

  “You call me traitor, lord. That name is often given to men of initiative. I won’t deny that I have ambition. I’ve been told that you are generous, lord.” Afzul Khan nods. “I tell you, lord—go to Pratapghad. Meet with Shivaji. If you plan things right, you’ll have Shivaji in your palm.”

  “What of our lord’s honor, eh? Are you suggesting he should take Shivaji by deceit?” The grizzled captain spits.

  “Is it dishonorable to use a lie to strike a liar?” Jedhe answers.

  Afzul Khan licks his lips. “Send word that we accept Shivaji’s parley.”

  “I will ride to Shivaji and tell him, lord,” says Jedhe, bowing.

  “I don’t think so.” Afzul stirs in his cushions, his face suddenly alert, full of malice. “I need someone I can trust, not a traitor.” He nods to his Abyssinian sentries. “You want to go back to Shivaji? Very well. I’ll send you. In chains. I should kill you myself, and send your hands to Shivaji. But much better if he hears your treason from your own lips.”

  The general rises and turns to the young captain. “Send my Simon to Pratapghad to set up the parley. Send this traitor with him.”

  Afzul Khan steps from the fire and goes to the cage, where he looks at the tearstained face of his former captain. “Did I misjudge you, captain? Was I too harsh?” He stares at the captain’s quivering limbs, at his face now wild with lack of sleep, lost in some endless waking nightmare, staring at sharp spikes just inches from his eyes. “Don’t sleep captain; you’ll just hurt yourself. Here—let me help!” Then Afzul shakes the cage fiercely and stomps off, while the captain’s whimpers fill the night.

  As soon as they saw the Marathi force approaching in the distance, Tanaji and Bandal began the long trip down the Pratapghad fort road. The narrow, rocky path clings to the edge of the mountain, rough and broken, so their ponies take steps haltingly.

  The vegetation grows thick and verdant. Huge trees bend beneath the weight of vines. Vine and branch combine to form a living, woven wall. It is not only the mountain’s steepness that protects the fortress high above them, but this extraordinary forest.

  Together Tanaji and Bandal have prepared as best they could, gathering into the fort all the food that they can scrounge from the villages below. And as a consequence, the people of the outlying towns have made their way up to the fort, to huddle in the doubtful safety of those stone walls. Bandal at first was wary of letting in so many, but where else, asked Tanaji, were they supposed to go? Better to let them join us, he said; at least we all might die together.

  It will not be the Bijapuris that defeat us, thinks Bandal, but hunger. Even so, he opens the gates. He wonders if they’ll end up eating rats. He’d heard it often came to that during a siege. That, and worse.

  Fortunately the walls of Pratapghad are tall and wide, and the space inside is large; and the cannon are numerous, and the shot and Chinese powder plentiful. They could hold out a long time inside those walls.

  But who, Bandal wonders, would break the siege, if it came to that? Maybe Shivaji has a plan.

  By the time they’ve reached the mountain’s foot and had a little lunch, the sun has passed its zenith. They rest at the side of the road. A mile or two down the road, they know, the Marathi vanguard approaches, but the trees are so thick that there is nothing to see. At last, they see two horsemen trotting toward them: Shivaji and Hanuman. “What news from Poona?” Shivaji asks straight away.

  “None, lord,” Bandal answers. “Did you expect some?”

  “Maybe,” Shivaji shakes his head. Then he explains how he sent Jedhe to Afzul Khan. “I wonder if that bastard has taken the bait.”

  Tanaji shakes his head. “I tell you, Shahu, he’ll never accept your parley. He’ll think it’s a trap.”

  “That’s exactly why he will accept it, Tana,” Shivaji says.

  “Either way he comes here,” Hanuman says. “He’ll either come here first, or he’ll go to Poona first and then come here. Either way he comes here, because this is where Shahu is. Am I right?”

  “The difference,” Bandal tells him quietly, “is whether he first kills Lord Shivaji’s family. And your family too, cousin. He’ll leave no one alive. He is a demon, Afzul Khan.”

  Hanuman seems taken aback. “The fort is prepared, Shahu,” Tanaji says. “We’re as ready as we’re going to be.”

  “If he comes here directly,” says Shivaji, “he’ll be here by tomorrow night.” It occurs to Hanuman that Shivaji never says “they’ll be here” or “if they come”—always it’s: “he’ll be here” or “if he comes.” The realization begins to gnaw at him, and he finds a fear growing inside him.

  “We can hole up in that fort for a long time, Shahu,” Tanaji says, nodding toward the mountain.

  “No. We’re not going inside the fort. We’ll fight him here.”

  The others share glances. This is something no one expected.

  “There is no here, Shahu,” Tanaji says. “This is a road, not a goddamned battlefield!” Hanuman has never heard his father take this tone with Shivaji. “What’s the point of coming all this way if you don’t mean to use the fort?”

  “We must use the fort,” Bandal says, coaxing him. “They have fifteen thousand men. We have three. What other defense do we have, lord?”

  “We won’t have a defense,” Shivaji says quietly. “That’s just a slow death. We’ll attack before they ever get there.”

  “But he would never make it up this road, Shahu!” Tanaji sputters.

  “I do not mean for them to reach this road. I mean to build another.” Shivaji points to the fort. “I mean to make a road from there, straight up to the ridge below the outer wall.” The others look where he’s pointing. If not for the forest, a straight road might be built. If not for the wall of trees and vines. The notion is absurd.

  “A hundred men might do it, lord, if you gave them a month.”

  “How long then for three thousand men?” Shivaji replies.

  Hanuman begins to work this out, but before he can answer, Bandal says “This is madness, lord! Let us make a last stand in the fort. Why not die with honor?”

  “I don’t mean to die, Bandal. I mean to win. If you have doubts, then leave.”

  Bandal’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’ve never heard such words from you before, l
ord.”

  “We have no time for doubts. The enemy is at our back.”

  Shivaji then unfolds for them his final, desperate plan.

  “Your plan has a lot of ifs, Shahu,” Tanaji remarks.

  “Have you a better plan, uncle?”

  “If it’s what you want, lord,” says Bandal, “I’ll stay here with Hanuman, and help him.”

  About a half mile from the summit, beneath the black stone walls that bristle with cannon, the road spreads out upon a promontory. A small stone building, about the size of a doll’s house, is there. Shivaji jumps from his horse and steps toward the tiny temple. A fresh garland of tuberoses hangs around a lead-red rock inside.

  “It is a self-born Ganesha,” Tanaji tells him. “The villagers revere it.” Shivaji peers inside. The round rock bears a surprising resemblance to the god; a curving bulge sweeps across it like a trunk; cracks resemble ears. Eyes are painted on it, and it is ringed around with cut flowers.

  “This is a good sign, uncle,” Shivaji says. “It is here that we will have the parley.”

  Tanaji snorts. “If he agrees to parley.”

  “He’ll agree.”

  “Maybe. It won’t be easy to defend you here in any case, particularly if things go wrong.”

  “If things go wrong, what difference will it make?”

  Tanaji shakes his head. “You think you’ve got this all figured out. The gods will have their surprises. Always there’s a scorpion hiding in the flowers.”

  “What choice do we have?” As their horses walk on, they see more rice drawings, swastikas, and mangoes traced on the ground, and dozens of tiny clay lamps.

  “Dewali already,” Tanaji says. “The village women are putting out lamps.”

  “Not much of a festival this year, I’m afraid.”

  “People always find a reason to celebrate, even when all seems dark. That’s what Dewali’s about, right? Set out light against the darkness?”

  As they pass below the massive basalt walls, watchmen on the battlements call down and wave. By the time the two men ride through the small horse door of the fort gates, word has spread of their arrival. A hundred villagers watch as they enter. The children shout, old men wave their walking sticks. But the disappointment on the faces is clear: They had wanted a superman, but what they see is just a man, only a man. So much more will be needed—if Afzul Khan should come.

  Tanaji rides with Shivaji round the wall’s perimeter; Bandal’s men have set the cannons gleaming, piled shot and kegs of Chinese powder on the shoulders of their bezels. Near each redoubt a fire smolders for the fuses, over it a caldron of water boils against a seige. They see armories of matchlocks, lances, arrows, swords.

  When Shivaji and Tanaji complete their circuit, it is nearly night. In the main courtyard, Bandal’s men have formed two uncertain lines. Shivaji dismounts and walks between them. Most have the sun-worn faces and grizzled stubble of men who only shave when they go to town, but they stand tall, with exaggerated stiffness, pulling back their shoulders and puffing out their chests. Many are barefoot, and their clothes, though clean, are ragged. Most have bare swords hanging from their belts, others carry only long knives used for cutting underbrush.

  When he reaches the end of the line, Shivaji turns and calls out, “How many here have been in battle?” A scattering of men raise their hands. “How many here have killed?”

  “You mean, killed a man?” a voice calls from the rear.

  “Yes. How many?”

  A few more raise their hands than last time.

  “Before we’re through, we’ll all be lifting our hands,” Shivaji tells them. “The time has come to take back what is ours!”

  “Shivaji ki jai!” a voice shouts, and soon a hundred men shout “Shivaji ki jai!”

  “Have we no flag to fly?” Shivaji calls. From his pony, Tanaji shakes his head. “Who will give me a flag?” Shivaji asks the men. They glance at each other, wondering what to make of the question.

  Shivaji strides back along the line of men. Their turbans come in a rainbow. At last he stops in front of a tall man wearing a saffron turban. “Will you give me your turban, soldier?”

  Instantly the tall man unwinds his turban hands it to Shivaji, bowing his head. He’s shiny bald.

  “Take this to the main gate. Have the watchmen hang it from the flagpole.” The soldier nods and races for the gate. “We fly a saffron flag! Just as a sanyasi puts on saffron clothes, our flag is saffron, for we dedicate this battle to the gods! Har, har, mahadev!” And the men pick up the cry: “Har, har, mahadev! Har, har, mahadev!”

  Tanaji steps over to Shivaji, pumping his arm in the air as he joins the cry. “Bandal has made a place for you, Shahu,” he says into Shivaji’s ear. Tanaji leads him to a house of brick and stone; the residence of the fort commander.

  Near the door is a dark man with the cap of a haji. He lifts his hands to his head and greets Shivaji, but it takes Shivaji a moment before he recognizes the broken face. “Lakshman,” he says, as if trying to appear pleased.

  “As you see, Shahu.”

  “You did well in Bijapur, cousin,” Shivaji says, placing his hands on Lakshman’s narrow shoulders. He seems to have grown thin since Shivaji saw him last. And his face looks devious now, like an old snake.

  “I did what I had to do, cousin, no more.”

  “What do you think of your son, eh, Tana? He went his own way, but he has served us well, eh?” Shivaji slaps Lakshman on the back. “Tomorrow, when the army assembles, I’ll give you a robe of honor.”

  “I want no gifts. I have my own resources now. In fact, I’ve brought you a gift.”

  He lifts his chin, and Shivaji turns to look. Across the courtyard Shivaji sees her, her yellow sari lit by the glow of the setting sun, her face brilliant in the sunset’s luster. “There, I give her to you, cousin,” Lakshman says though Shivaji eyes him coldly. “You can’t pretend that you don’t want her! Maybe you can fool others, but I know your heart.”

  Shivaji stares at him. “You know nothing,” he says at last.

  Lakshman’s eye now changes, bright, mocking, amused. “I know she wants you. She dreams of you, Shahu. She moans your name when she sleeps.” For a moment it seems to Tanaji that Shivaji might strike at Lakshman, so much anger fills his stare. But he turns on his heel and strides away.

  “What sort of man have you become, Lakshman?” Tanaji glares at his son. “What were you thinking?”

  Lakshman lifts his face, his smile an empty sneer. “You think because I’ve lost an eye that now I’m blind? You’ve got Hanuman; you’ve got Shivaji. You don’t need another son, not anymore. I’m just a nuisance now.”

  “You’re still my son,” Tanaji protests, but Lakshman shakes his head.

  “Not just your son, your better son. That’s right, father; someday you’ll see this; someday you’ll understand.” He nods toward Shivaji’s closed door. “Always you cared for Shahu more than me.”

  “That’s not true! What has happened to you, Lakshman? I hardly know you!”

  Lakshman glares at him, and bends down to pick up his pack. “In the end, father, all the lies must stop. You’ll see it, in the end. He’s evil. He’s as greedy as his father, and he’s getting worse. You think you are his friend, but you are only his tool. In the end, he’ll betray you, just as Shahji did. Then you’ll know who loved you best. Good luck in the battle.” Without another word, Lakshman begins to walk away.

  “Where are you going? The enemy is almost on us!”

  “There’s the enemy,” Lakshman answers as he walks off, nodding toward Shivaji’s door.

  She has tossed for hours on the bedmat. When she finally gives up trying to sleep, Maya goes to the temple.

  He looked at her and looked away. She tries her best to think of other things. Where are her girls tonight? Hiding in some cave? Are they safe? Has Afzul Khan discovered them? Always though her mind returns to just one thought: He looked at her and looked away.

  He’s not
hing! Why do you even care? How many men have you forgotten? Forget one more, just one more! Still that image burns. His face so angry. What has she done to deserve such treatment? At last she rises from her bed, ties her sari, and slips into the courtyard.

  In front of her, spreading through the courtyard, are the snoring, sleeping bodies of several hundred soldiers. So many still here, she thinks, even though most have gone to the foot of the mountain to cut a new road to the fort.

  She tries to find a path through the sleeping bodies. Sometimes her bare foot bumps against an arm or leg, but no one wakes. As though some other power wills it, she finds that her footsteps bring her right past Shivaji’s house.

  A few yards from his door, she stops. Is he alone? Asleep? The high window in the wall flickers, as if a lamp burns inside.

  She looks away. The temple, not this door, she whispers to herself.

  Across the moonlit courtyard a few lights still burn in the stone lampposts of the temple. As she enters the shadowed, dark pavilion, her memory flashes back to her dancing temple in Adoli. I’m sure it’s destroyed now, she thinks sadly. The sudden appearance of Lakshman there still troubles her. I should not have left, she thinks, not with him. I should not have come here, she thinks.

  Then she notices: the temple doors are not locked, as they should be. How can this be? she wonders. She hesitates. From within the murti’s room, a lamplight wavers. She tiptoes forward. Her eyes have opened in the darkness. She sees the bright eyes of the goddess staring at her. The air here chills her and she starts to tremble.

  Something is moving in there, just beyond the door. A spy, she thinks. Mice. A dog. One of the brahmins. She sees the shadow now, someone in the corner, some dark form. A Bijapuri. Lakshman. Shivaji. She inches forward. “Come in,” she hears—just a whisper, but it echoes.

  “Who is it?” Maya whispers back. Screwing up her courage, she steps up to the goddess’s threshold, and stoops until her head touches the worn wood. Any moment she expects to feel a knife thrust into her neck, but when she lifts her head, the shadow has not moved. “Who is it?” she hisses again.