by John Speed
The captain frowns at Shahu. “That farmer Maloji was tough—a real man. Took what he wanted. Chewed up his enemies and spat out the bones. Not like his son. The blood was weak in Shahji. Wagnak pushed him and he collapsed. So the Bijapuris made him a deal: just give us everything. Shahji so feared Wagnak that he surrendered all his lands, the coward.”
“Who is Wagnak?” asks the dark farang.
“The name means ‘tiger claws’. It’s the Marathi name for Aurangzeb,” the captain answers.
“You mean Viceroy Aurangzeb? The emperor’s son? Why call him that?”
The captain spits. “Aurangzeb—Wagnak—what’s the difference? He was the best general I’ve ever seen. I mean the worst. His attacks were like the mouth of hell.” The captain stares at the fire, as if ghosts surround him. “Not long ago, these lands were stained red. The coward Shahji couldn’t face Wagnak. He lost and lost, and then he ran and ran, the shit.”
“That’s not true,” Tanaji breaks in. “Shahji was a hero. He fought well—he had the Moguls on the run.”
“Shahji just sat in his fort and let his armies bleed,” the captain fires back. “And I should know. I was one who bled.
“A real man would have died fighting. All those forts! The trade routes to the sea! They all were Shahji’s. A real man would have attacked. But Shahji ran, throwing everything away, his forts, his lands. His men, abandoned in battle, dying and bleeding. But maybe you already know this.” The captain turns to the farang, nodding toward Tanaji, “I think maybe this man is a Malve. Malves thought Shahji’s shit didn’t stink.” He fixes his eyes on Tanaji. “A Malve would suck Shahji’s prick like a eunuch.”
Tanaji’s black eyes blaze. But Shahu reaches out a hand to Tanaji’s shoulder.
The captain turns away, and now faces the farang. “Shahji got a sweet deal, all right. He got rich, got a place at the Bijapuri court, and a nice new wife, soft, young and tight as a glove. All this for running away. So he gives up his army! So what? And his forts! So what? And also his wife. So what? She was God’s own bitch! And to top it off, his own child, his little rat-boy son”—the captain pretends he’s still talking to the farang—“he gave up his only son so he could live like a padshah in Bijapur. The wife gets shit and the brat gets shit. So what? It’s only his wife! It’s only his son! Why, any damned Malve would sell his wife and son for a couple of annas!”
“But this sounds like too much, captain!” the Deoga protests. “Why do they offer him so much?”
“Don’t you see? Those forts … Shahji’s forts … They were like gold to Bijapur! Add Shahji’s forts to Bijapur’s and they form an unbroken line: they cover every mountain pass to the coast. What made Bijapur so rich? It’s because every ounce of ocean trade must cross through Bijapur. Think of the taxes! Even a haji on his way to Mecca must pay his toll to Bijapur! So Bijapur threw the coward a bone, and Shahji, the dog, licked their hands.”
“You’re telling lies!” Tanaji blurts out. “Shahji was no coward. He saw he couldn’t beat the Moguls. He’d sacrificed too many men already. So he allied with Bijapur … That’s leadership, not cowardice! And he’s a commander for Bijapur now—their best general!”
The captain smirks. “He left his wife and son in a garbage dump, where nothing prowled but wolves. That’s your man, sir. I spit on a man with no honor. No wonder his son Shivaji is a thief: What else should become of that dog’s pup, stuck in a hole like Poona with no one but his mother for comfort, and her a queen bitch?”
The captain bows to Shahu. “I apologize, storyteller. You touched a nerve. I never knew Maloji, but I knew Shahji, the shit. Sorry if I disturbed your story.” He strides off.
A long quiet moment follows. Finally the caretaker speaks: “It was here, you know. In this dharmsala Shahji signed his treaty with Bijapur. He stood right there.” The caretaker nods to a spot a few yards away. “Wali Khan stood there beside him,” the caretaker whispers. “Many other nobles, too. And that monster, Afzul Khan. Do you know him, sir?”
“We ran into him last night,” Tanaji mutters. “Sri Bhisma stole his gold.”
The caretaker grins. “Your servant likes jokes, I see. Anyway, I thought it was a good story, sir,” he says. “I always like your stories, sir.”
“You can’t please everyone; a storyteller learns that early on.” The caretaker lights a couple of tapers, and Shahu and Tanaji head for their rooms.
“Why did you tell that story?” Tanaji grumbles. “Anyway, you know it’s a lie.”
“It just occurred to me to tell it. And it is half-true.”
“Which half?” Tanaji replies.
Around them, night birds are calling; bat wings glint in the firelight. Shahu looks around the courtyard of the dharmsala warily. “You know that mark? The three dots? The captain’s got that mark,” he whispers.
“You’re sure? The one cooking the vegetables had dots, too.” Tanaji strokes his mustache. “What do you think is going on?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not sleeping tonight. Something’s up.”
Tanaji considers this. “Wake me at midnight. We’ll split the watch.”
CHAPTER 6
From his travel roll Tanaji takes his battle mace—a weapon of steel, roughly the size and shape of a sword, and with a hilt and a handle like a sword: a weighted, clublike bludgeon welded to its end, forged with knifelike edges. Tanaji’s mace is brutally simple: It swings with the speed of a sword, splintering bone and flesh; if extra damage is needed, a quick twist of the bludgeon mangles the wound into a bloody crater. This weapon suits Tanaji’s style; he hurtles into battle, screaming his war cry.
Tanaji places his mace at the bottom of the bed, settles himself on the bed fully dressed, and slips into a soldier’s easy sleep.
After what seems like only a moment, he bolts up, blinking in the guttering light of the oil lamp. His room echoes with a huge bang. It takes him a moment to realize what the sound means.
His door has been bolted—from the outside.
He hears Shahu yelling through the thick walls. “I’m locked in!” He hears cries outside, and the ring of steel on steel. That sound awakens him fully. He seizes his mace and lurches from the bed. He shakes the door, but it holds fast. “Hang on, Shahu! I’m coming!” he yells through the walls.
Tanaji kicks the door. Nothing. Through the wall he hears Shahu trying the same thing. He slams his mace against one of the door panels. It shivers encouragingly. Again he pounds it, and again. Splinters fly.
With a few more blows he has banged a hole big enough for his arm and shoulder to push through. He stretches, fumbling for the outside bolt, feeling with his fingers. The door is only bolted shut, not padlocked. His fingers claw at the bolt. He manages to slide it, and the door pops open—but now he can’t free his arm from the hole he has made.
One of the caravan guards races straight toward him, brandishing a sword. His arm still trapped in the door, Tanaji swings his mace wildly and deflects the blade, which drives into the door just inches from Tanaji’s head. The force of the blow swings the door outward and Tanaji—still stuck—with it.
Now they struggle: Tanaji trying to release his arm even as the guard tries to tug his sword free. The door jerks back and forth with their efforts. Tanaji swings his mace wildly: the guard lurches away so violenty he stumbles to the ground, his sword still stuck in the door.
Ignoring the pain, Tanaji jerks his arm from the splintered door. The guard scrambles to his feet, a punch dagger in his hand. Tanaji swings, but the bludgeon misses, heaving past an inch short of the guard’s nose.
The guard’s face displays that strange expression of terror and delight seen only in battle, the astonishment of a man who has seen death miss by inches. He stares at Tanaji, too shocked to move.
Calmly, Tanaji swings the mace backward with both hands.
The guard’s face explodes as the bludgeon tears off his jaw.
A gurgling scream rises from what used to be a mouth. The guard clutche
s his head, choking as blood pours into his throat. He’s drowning: with his jaw gone, the blood pours from his broken face, down his throat, over his naked tongue, through his clutching fingers, soaking his sleeves.
Tanaji turns away as if the guard no longer existed. The evening campfire is roaring, about twenty feet away: someone has poured oil on it so its flames leap shoulder high. The dark farang circles the firepit holding two men at bay: the captain and another guard. Stabbing over the flames, the farang has his hands full. Across the courtyard, Tanaji can make out the other farang, swinging his sword against an opponent that Tanaji can’t see.
Tanaji reaches Shahu’s door, and slides the outer bolt.
Shahu bursts out, sword in hand, eyes full of fire. “What’s going on?”
“That man,” he says, pointing to the guard who now is writhing incoherently a few feet away, “attacked me.”
“It’s a double cross,” Shahu concludes. “The guards locked us in. They’re ambushing the farangs, and they wanted us out of the way.”
“So, whose side are we on?” Tanaji asks.
“The farangs,” Shahu replies.
“Damn,” Tanaji snorts. “In that case we’ve got our work cut out. I’ll take the fire; you take the guesthouse,” Figuring the captain for the toughest of the lot, Tanaji hopes to give Shahu the easier part.
Shahu sprints toward the guesthouse. As he moves to the fire, Tanaji does the arithmetic. There’s the captain, also four guards. On their side, two farangs (three if the leper is strong enough to fight), and now him and Shahu. He’s knocked off one guard. So now it’s a fair fight, he thinks—two against two at the fire; two against two at the guesthouse.
But Tanaji has miscalculated. He hears a thin voice screeching to his right, and sees the caretaker carrying a spear so large he can barely lift it. Rising and falling as he runs with his one short leg, the spear bounces every which way. Tanaji crouches, gauging his situation. He doesn’t want to kill an old lame man. Instead, as the caretaker comes in range, Tanaji deflects the spear with his mace. But it all goes wrong: the caretaker stumbles and buries the point of the spear into the ground; the shaft slams against his body in mid-stride. He lurches forward, past Tanaji, past the farang, and with a thin scream, stumbles into the flames.
The old man struggles to his feet, reaching out with a flaming arm. Oil has soaked his clothes: His pants are burning, his shirt. The caretaker’s screams grow shrill as the stink of his burning hair and flesh fills the air.
A movement to his side makes Tanaji realize that he has miscounted again: He has forgotten the groom who is now running straight for the farang, silent except for the padding of his bare feet, his sword raised. Only Tanaji sees him coming—the others have stopped their fight to stare at the caretaker—but the groom, apparently expecting Tanaji to be locked harmlessly in his room, doesn’t notice him.
The groom’s sword is a few inches from the farang’s head when Tanaji’s bludgeon catches him in the spine. The force is so great the groom is lifted from his feet, his sword flying into the air like a child’s toy. He collapses at the farang’s feet, his torso twisted around his broken back.
Tanaji sees the sword glinting in the firelight, flipping end over end; then it falls, whirling through the air. By the time he figures out what’s about to happen, Tanaji can’t even speak. He watches open-mouthed and helpless as the sword, glittering like one of Indra’s lightning bolts, hits the farang’s right shoulder, and slices through his arm. The farang screams and drops to his knees, grabbing at his shoulder as if he might somehow reattach his arm, while dark blood stains his white shirt.
But now the captain and the guard have seen Tanaji. They ignore the farang whimpering by the fire, the caretaker collapsing in flames: their eyes narrowed like wolves’, they shuffle toward Tanaji, swords waving in lazy circles. Now they are only a few feet away, close enough to strike.
Unequal odds frighten Tanaji. He knows that it is his nature only to think of one thing at a time; two opponents place him at a disadvantage. So he attacks. Taking his punch dagger in his left hand, he knocks at the point of one sword, then the other, clang, clang, just so. The men step back, but keep close together. Tanaji lunges at the captain with his dagger. The captain leaps away. Then Tanaji drives the mace toward the guard; he moves just enough to dodge the blow. But now, at least, they are apart.
Then Tanaji senses the captain behind him and he turns to see his death descending—the captain’s sword swinging in a long, horrible arc.
Tanaji pays no attention to the sword. Instead he looks into the face of his death: the captain’s face, with eyes as black and hot as a jackal’s.
Tanaji now sees every whisker, every pore. He cannot move, not even when he hears the blade whistle toward his head like a black wind. He wonders how his head will feel when the cap of his skull spirals into the darkness, when the cold night air whispers over the wet surface of his exposed brain. He hopes it will not take too long to die. And all the while he thinks these thoughts, he stares at the solemn beauty of these last sights: the languid dance of a string of spittle slipping from the captain’s lips; the yellow teeth licked by his coated tongue.
Then some magic begins: Tanaji watches enchanted as a small dot appears on the captain’s forehead, just over the right eye. From this dot a rose begins to blossom.
The captain seems puzzled to discover that a flower would burst from his head. His head snaps sideways in surprise, and twists on his neck, like a broken puppet’s. As Tanaji watches fascinated, the captain’s sword whispers harmless past his ear, falling from the captain’s hand. He watches the captain drop like a cut tree, his body landing heavily on the ground.
The captain spasms and shivers, and then stops forever. Tanaji pushes himself to his feet. Behind him he sees what has saved him: the farang struggling for breath; in his left hand, a smoking pistola.
I’ll think about that later, Tanaji decides, and turns his mace on the guard. He doesn’t have time to aim, but with a mace that doesn’t matter. The bludgeon clips the guard on the hip and before the guard has finished spinning, Tanaji has swung again and splintered his skull.
Without a look behind him, Tanaji now walks toward the guesthouse, panting from the exertion of his killing. When he reaches the verandah, he can hear shouting and the clang of steel but can’t find where it comes from.
“Inside,” whispers a voice from below him. It is the other farang, the spotty one, collapsed beneath the body of a guard, barely alive. The farang nods weakly toward the door of the leper.
Despite his fear of disease, Tanaji kicks open the door and bursts in, ready to kill or die. Within he finds Shahu and the last living guard stepping in cautious circles, facing each other in the tight space between the bed and the wall. On the low bed Tanaji sees the farang leper still wearing the wide-brimmed hat and dark veil that the caretaker described. The farang is squeezed against the wall with fright, head buried between his drawn-up knees.
The guard tries a feint and then a lunge, but the space is too small; his blows glance against the wall and Shahu steps calmly away. Tanaji assumes that the guard is more of a chopper than a swordsman. In this small space he’s at a disadvantage. But Shahu is a fencer; it’s a pleasure to watch him feint and dodge.
The guard looks up to see Tanaji, and his face falls. What does it mean that he stands alone against two men—men thought to be harmless, to be locked safely in their rooms? Where are his friends? Why doesn’t anyone come to help him? The more he considers, the more his face tightens. “Put down your weapon and live,” says Shahu quietly.
“Look, your friends are all dead,” Tanaji tells the guard, as if trying to be helpful. “There’s no need to join them.”
The guard looks from Shahu to Tanaji. Suddenly resolution appears in his eyes, and he leaps up onto the low table by the bed. The oil lamp clatters down, and spilled oil slides across the floor. Soon a ribbon of black smoke rises from the flame that dances along its surface.
&n
bsp; The guard brings his sword-edge at the neck of the farang. “Let me go or I kill him,” he says.
“Go ahead and kill him,” answers Tanaji. “What the hell do I care? Put the damned leper out of his misery.”
The guard’s eyes flick from Tanaji to Shahu; the point of his sword traces small erratic circles near the farang’s ear. Flames ripple on the surface of the lamp’s spilled oil. The farang seems too terrified to move.
Suddenly Shahu thrusts. His blade whips the air, but the guard is just out of reach. With sudden agility the guard swivels away from the point of Shahu’s sword.
Shahu had planned for his sword to hit solid flesh, but instead it sails through thin air, pulling him off balance. He pitches forward and the sword point digs into the wall; his full weight falls onto it, and the blade snaps. The point clatters to the floor beside the bed.
Shahu holds the rest shattered in his hand.
Tanaji realizes he needs to help, but the room is too small for him to swing his mace. He considers his punch dagger, but Shahu stands between him and the guard, and there’s no way to squeeze through.
The flames from the oil lamp lick the far wall; the room fills with damp smoke.
Time in the room stands still. Here is the guard, on the table, wild with terror, sword in hand, flames inches from his feet. Here is Shahu with a pitiful, broken sword, as if guarding the farang. There is Tanaji, uncertain of how to proceed. Nothing can be done, so nothing is done.
Then Shahu takes a fearsome lunge. Perhaps he slips on the spilled oil: his feet slide out from beneath him and he crashes to the floor.
The movement triggers the guard and he leaps over Shahu with a shout, swinging his sword at Tanaji, who blocks the door. Tanaji raises his punch dagger in front of his face to ward off the guard’s sword blow. The guard collides into him, and they collapse to the floor. Tanaji lies under the guard, his right arm pinned beneath him, his fingers pinched on the grip of his now useless mace. The guard lifts himself, pressing his forearm across Tanaji’s windpipe. He looks around while Tanaji squirms beneath him gasping for breath.