by John Speed
She stares up at him, a tiny doll. At last she speaks: “Throw me down if you think I’m lying.”
He grabs her up and lifts her from the stones. As easily as one might lift a bird he holds her in midair. The look upon her face is one of ecstasy. Her legs sway in the emptiness. “Ah, ah!” she cries. “I’m dancing! Dancing!”
Shivaji whirls away from the edge, and thrusts her to ground. Then he strides off into the darkness.
After a moment, Gungama gets up, and presses her hair with her old palms, and creeps carefully down. At the bottom of the wall, she finds Maya hurrying toward her. “What happened, mother?”
“Who can tell, child? Anyway, he’s alive; that’s something. Go to him, child. Tonight of all nights he needs comfort. You, of all women, know how best to comfort him.”
Maya looks up in surprise. “He’ll just turn me away, mother.”
“Not tonight. Go to him child. Go now.”
In what seems like an instant Maya finds herself before Shivaji’s door. She knocks, and tries the latch.
It’s open.
CHAPTER 28
It had been like a cloudburst; first the tension—unbearable, fierce, heavy—then the sudden, shuddering release. As Gungama had predicted, this time Shivaji had not sent her away. But there’d been no joy in it, that first time, no pleasure, no desire, only the cloudburst, only the release.
Later, though, it was different, oh my yes. Later it had been slower, gentler, finer: eager hands stroking warm flesh, lips brushing lips, tongues darting, teeth nipping. There were moans, and gasps, and pleasure building; she had locked herself around him, felt his strong arms and hard thighs, felt his heart gallop against her breasts, felt the spasms crashing through her like waves as he burst inside her, calling out her name.
After that, she had used the skills a nautch girl knows: the whispering caresses of fingertips and eyelashes; her soft breath and moist lips teasing him, swirling him back to hardness; her tongue coiling around him until he groaned and begged for mercy. Only then did she lower her hips upon him, twisting and squeezing while her hands smoothed the tightening muscles of his belly, while her hair fell over him, while her fingers teased his nipples, until he strained against her, clutching her tight. Then the agony and rapture filled her so she could stand no more, and she fell upon him, mouth pressed against his neck to keep herself from crying out.
It had been nothing like her dream, not at all: rougher and more gentle, stronger and softer than her dream. So different from her dream. How many times? She wonders now, as she dozes, her skin still tingling, the smell of him still lingering in her hair. I lost count, she thinks, smiling. However many, it was too few.
She rolls over, and reaches out her hand, but he is gone. That jolts her awake. She sits up, alert.
At that moment there’s a knock at the door. Another knock and the door begins to move. She finds her sari and clutches it about her. Tanaji looks in, glances at her. “Where is he?” he growls. She turns away. His eyes dart around the room. “Shit,” he says, and pulls the door shut, hard.
“He wasn’t there,” Tanaji tells Hanuman.
“Damn.” His son shakes his head. “I just sent men to walk the walls.”
“You don’t think he jumped?” says Tanaji, aghast.
“I don’t know what to think. Last night when he found out about Sai Bai …” Hanuman leaves the sentence unfinished.
Tanaji decides against telling him about Maya in Shivaji’s room. “We don’t have any more time. Disperse the men into the forest now, before the Bijapuris get here. Are the cannon in place? And the bombs?”
“Yes, that’s all done. But, father, what about the signal?”
Tanaji frowns. “Same as we agreed: when Shivaji comes out of the parley tent, attack.”
Hanuman looks desperate. “What if he doesn’t show up for the parley?”
“For that matter, who’s to say that Shahu will be the one to come out of the tent and not that demon Afzul Khan? If Shahu’s gone, we’re all dead anyway. For now, we’ll follow the plan, and pray.”
“Shit,” Hanuman says, and he hurries away.
Tanaji has an inspiration. He runs to check the Bhavani temple. Empty. Then he checks the stables, even peers down the well. Nothing. Tanaji even goes to the powder hut, but no one is there but O’Neil, making still more granadas. “Seen Shivaji?” Tanaji asks.
“Not until yesterday,” O’Neil answers, not looking up.
“How many granadas are you making, Onil?”
“Make three hundred yesterday. Now fifty more. Enough?” O’Neil studies Tanaji’s face. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing. If you see Shivaji, say that I am looking for him.” Tanaji strides off. Near the main gate, he catches up with Jedhe. “Seen him?”
“No. No luck?”
Tanaji snorts. “I think he’s left us.”
“No!” Jedhe gasps. “What are we doing, uncle? Without Shivaji, what’s the use?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” He glances at the sun, reckoning the time. “No! He’ll come back—he must come back!” Tanaji sighs. “This is a bad day, Jedhe.” Tanaji walks away, and Jedhe feels more afraid even than at the camp of Afzul Khan.
The Bijapuri war elephants, with armor glistening in the morning sunlight, plod to the front of the line. In the clearing around them stand several thousand men, spears and helmets gleaming. Into their midst lumbers the huge war elephant of Afzul Khan.
Afzul Khan, dressed in robes of green, lifts his legs over the railing of the howdah, and slides to the ground. Without missing a step he strides to the head of the line. The cart that carries the captain in his bamboo cage trundles a few yards behind.
The captains bow as he approaches. “Report,” Afzul Khan commands.
“You can see where the parley tent is being raised,” the young captain says, lifting his hand to the promontory at the top of Pratapghad. “All will be ready by noon.”
“What about this road, captain?” Afzul Khan asks, with a hard, steady look, as if testing him.
“It’s new, lord. Looks like they built it for our convenience.”
“‘For our convenience,’” Afzul Khan repeats. “And what do you think?” he says, turning to the older captain.
“I think it’s a trap.”
“But you think everything’s a trap, captain!” Afzul Khan laughs. The other captains join him.
“I say it’s a trap because it is one, general.”
Afzul Khan eyes blaze. “Of course it’s a trap. You think I don’t know a trap?”
“Then what are we doing, lord?” the young captain asks. The others stand impassive, eyes glued on Afzul Khan.
“You’re the captain. You’re the one who marched us into this trap. So, captain, what’s your plan?”
The young captain gulps. “I place my trust in you, general. Whatever you may order will be best for all.”
Afzul Khan throws a heavy arm across his shoulders. “You hear how he answers? This is why I’ve chosen him to be leader!”
The old captain spits. “Let’s get out of here, general. We’re like tigers driven toward the ring. It’s madness.”
“Why? If you were Shivaji, what would be your plan?”
Simon jumps in. “If he is Shivaji, he is now shitting his pants.” Afzul Khan laughs, and the others laugh, too.
“If I were Shivaji, I’d have you right where I want you,” the old captain answers. “I’d get you in that tent and hold you.”
“How?” smiles Afzul Khan. “How would you hold me?”
“I’d think of a way. Then I’d launch a flying attack down this new road. Horsemen at full speed. Cannon from the fort for cover. Archers there and there.” The older captain points to some nearby rises.
“Do you see any archers, captain?” Afzul Khan asks. “No. Why? Too obvious. Besides he has not got enough men.” The other captains chuckle. “Still, I agree with some of what you say. He will try to hold me at the tent, and then he’ll th
row everything he can at us. That’s what this road is for. He thinks he’s got us where he wants us.”
“So then you’ll move us back to cover, lord?” the captain asks.
“Do I look like a coward?” Afzul Khan replies. His eyes are empty, and his tone flat.
“It isn’t cowardice to protect your men.”
Afzul Khan walks slowly around the circle of captains, looking carefully at each. “Simon, what do you say?”
“Shivaji is a fool. He is not a good leader. His men are very rude. We should have not a worry with him, lord.”
Afzul Khan nods. “That’s right. We have an army here, not a bunch of farmers waving pitchforks. Shivaji is a coward and the son of a coward. I will bring that mountain rat home in a cage.” He turns to Simon. “Your men have their instructions?”
“They make tent just as you say, lord,” Simon answers, bowing.
“No, captain, he may try, but Shivaji shall not hold me. Rather I shall do the catching.” He smiles at the old captain. “But what about this road? How to keep them from flying down upon us, waving their pitchforks?”
The young captain’s face brightens. “We could block the road, lord!”
“Ahcha!” says Afzul Khan, now grinning like a jackal about to feed. “We could block the road! How could this be done?”
“Move the army up the road,” the captain answers “Elephants at the head, then infantry. Archers at the rear.”
“And what’s wrong with that plan, eh?” Afzul Khan asks, lowering his face over the captain like a vulture.
“Those cannon … But they’ll overshoot the road,” the young captain beams proudly. “Look—they’ll never manage the angle!”
“Yes,” Afzul Khan agrees. “The mountain rat has miscalculated. His cannon overshoot the road! Would he aim cannon at his own troops?”
“But what if Shivaji holds you, somehow, in that parley tent?” the old captain asks.
Afzul Khan’s face grows cold. “You’ve outgrown your usefulness. I think you might be growing cowardly.”
The captain sets his jaw and stares back. “Then, with all respect, general, I resign from your service.”
“No one quits me, captain.” Afzul Khan smiles his terrifying smile. “I was going to make you my bodyguard for this parley, but you stink of fear. Instead, I’ll place you at the front of the attack. Let’s see if you still have any balls.” The captain stands mute. “Arrange the troops. Push to the very top of the road. Place yourself at the front of the charge.”
“Yes, lord,” the captain says stiffly.
“No one is to move except upon my order. Upon my order only, captain, do you hear? Unless you hear the word from me, you do not move. Not one inch, except when I give the order!”
“Your command is clear, lord.”
“Let me be bodyguard, general,” Simon offers. “I will not fail you like some coward.”
“I’ll take the boy,” Afzul Khan replies, nodding toward the young captain. “He’s faithful. Besides, I have a special order for you, Simon. If this fellow moves before I say, if he even blinks, put him in a cage.”
Tanaji has given up looking for Shivaji. He watches the Abyssinians set up the parley tent. It is a rich affair, tall and wide, silver tent poles, carpets on the floor, sides of woolen cloth, ropes wrapped with silk.
Below him, the army of Bijapur has begun to move up the newly built road. It’s wide enough for three elephants to walk side by side. Tanaji watches as they trudge up its length, groaning as the mahouts kick their ears. Behind them comes an army, a real army, with gleaming lances and shining shields. He thinks of his son’s troops, ill-equipped, untested—men who stepped off the farm a few days ago. Now they’re hiding in the trees and underbrush along the road. What do they think when they see that army? How can they face an enemy like this?
Where the hell is Shivaji?
In his anxiety, Tanaji begins to pace beside the parley tent. The Abyssinians pay no attention to him. They bring carpets now, and a strange, folding camp table. Seems too big for that tent, thinks Tanaji. He shakes his head. Why am I watching these fools? I should be making preparations. I should be sharpening my mace. I should be praying.
Praying … Suddenly he remembers the tiny Ganesha shrine, a few yards from where the tent is being raised. Before he knows it, he stands before its open door. He kneels so he can peer inside, and it seems to him he sees a shape stretched around the red-painted stone. He’s here. The great leader! Sleeping! Clutching the murti the way a child might clutch a doll!
Crawling into the tiny shrine, Tanaji reaches in and jostles Shivaji roughly by the shoulder. “Come out, damn it.”
“Hello, uncle,” Shivaji says as he crawls through the tiny doorway. His long hair falls over his bare shoulders; he’s not even wearing a shirt. Tanaji glares at him. They walk past the tent, but the Abyssinians don’t recognize him—they scarcely look up. Tanaji glares up at the surprised sentries standing on the wall, and lifts a finger to his lips.
Once inside the gate, Tanaji wheels on Shivaji. “What were you doing?” he shouts.
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”
“Quiet!” He pulls close to Shivaji. “Goddamn it, it matters!” Shivaji shrugs, and starts to walk off. “Where do you think you’re going?” Tanaji shouts. “You’ve got to get ready!”
“I’ll be at the temple,” Shivaji answers blandly, not even looking back. Tanaji watches as Shivaji ambles off, and then runs to Shivaji’s room. It’s empty; Maya’s gone. He rummages through Shivaji’s bag; finds clean clothes, a turban, a jeweled katar. Shivaji’s farang sword hangs from a hook on the wall; Tanaji grabs that, too.
As he runs for the temple, Bandal and Jedhe hurry toward him. “What do we do?” Bandal calls. “Afzul Khan will be here any minute!”
“He’s back,” Tanaji answers. “He’s gone to the Bhavani temple.” Bandal’s eyes grow wide. “He’s not even dressed!”
“What the hell’s going on, uncle?”
Tanaji shakes his head. “Can you find a mail shirt?” Jedhe nods. “Bring one to the temple. Hurry!”
“Don’t forget the honor guard, uncle!” Jedhe says. “The ten men. Shivaji never chose them! We need them now!”
Tanaji mutters curses. “Here, take this stuff to the temple. Shivaji’s there. Get him dressed. Get the mail shirt; make sure he wears it. Do whatever you must to get him ready I think Shivaji’s gone crazy.”
“You want him to meet Afzul Khan if he’s crazy?”
“I don’t know, all right? One step a time. First we get him ready, then we figure out a plan!” He thrusts the clothes and sword into Jedhe’s hands. “I’ll fetch men for the honor guard.”
“What are we doing, uncle?” Jedhe calls after him.
At the temple Jedhe sees Shivaji seated before the image of the goddess. A strange old woman kneels beside him, whispering in his ear. They do not see Jedhe as he enters.
“It is that time,” Jedhe hears the woman say. “The wick of righteousness burns low; once more the gods take birth as men. Once more do demons wear the skins of men to halt the flame of truth. Your time has come, my darling. You must now take on the yoke you have been born to.”
Shivaji doesn’t move. “Who is that approaching?” the old woman asks. Then she smiles. “Oh, it’s you.” Jedhe blinks; he’s never seen her before. “Shivaji’s ready for you, darling,” the woman says. “Dress him here.”
Jedhe stops short, realizing what the woman has said. “Here?”
“Here before the goddess, yes,” she says.
“In front of you?”
“Am I not his mother?” She laughs when she sees Jedhe’s reaction. “Never mind, I’m leaving.” She kisses Shivaji’s forehead, and hurries off.
At that moment, Bandal hurries up, a dark bundle in his hands. Taking Shivaji’s shoulder, Bandal shakes him. “Come on, Shahu. Let’s go. It’s time. He’s coming. You’ve got to dress.”
“Do it here,” Jedhe insists. Ba
ndal starts to argue, and sighs. Then he shakes out his bundle, revealing a shirt of fine steel rings, and a narrow, tight-fitting helmet.
“First the mail,” Bandal slips the metal shirt over Shivaji’s head. “Now the helmet.” The helmet fits tight, like a cap.
Jedhe slips a white cotton shirt over the mail. Then he takes the long turban cloth and wraps it over the helmet. Shivaji’s eyes never leave the goddess.
“Isn’t he ready yet?” calls Tanaji, hurrying toward them.
“Almost done,” Jedhe says. He wraps the sash belt around Shivaji, and then begins to fasten the jeweled katar dagger.
“No,” Shivaji says, breaking his silence. “I’ll take no weapon. I have sworn it,” Shivaji repeats, eyes focused on the goddess.
“Damn it, pay attention!” Tanaji yells. “You’re meeting a killer! You’ll take weapons, damn it, or you’ll die.”
“What good are weapons against a demon, uncle?” Shivaji asks, turning for the first time to look at them.
“Don’t be a fool. He’s flesh and blood same as you.”
Bandal steps forward. “Take these, at least, Shahu,” he says, holding out his wagnak.
“Yes, yes!” Tanaji says. “Tiger claws. Take them Shahu! At least then you’ll be able to defend yourself.”
Shivaji ignores him. Bandal bows his head. “Please take these, lord,” he says, again holding out the tiger claws. “As your bodyguard, I insist. Even if you’re searched, they’re easy to conceal.”
“I gave my word. And the goddess has told me to go unarmed.”
“The goddess is crazy,” Tanaji snarls.
Shivaji laughs. “I’m crazy, too.” He bows to the murti. “Come on. Let’s see what fate the gods hold for us.”
As they walk across the courtyard, they see O’Neil carrying a cloth sack carefully in front of him. “You are going, lord?” O’Neil says. “I hope is good. No dying, now!” he adds, smiling.
