by John Speed
“Whichever you choose. I no longer care, you see. My days are dwindling. Soon I will be gone. Someone will be khaswajara in my stead. Why not you, brother? Why not you?”
In Alu’s mind Hing’s words are like a slender, brilliant rope thrown to a drowning man. “Let it be as you say, master.”
“Then put your knife away, and let us go together, you and I.”
Alu slips the knife into his scabbard. Hing lifts his gnarled hand and Alu grasps it with his smooth long fingers.
“Brother,” says Hing.
“Master,” says Alu.
They embrace. Alu’s hands can feel Hing’s body through his clothing like the bones of a naked skeleton.
“And there’s this, brother,” Hing says gently to Alu. “Aurangzeb must not be emperor. That would destroy us, brother, destroy our only legacy, the legacy of our power.”
Alu frowns. “But not Dara, master …,” he begins to protest.
Hing holds up his hand. “Shah Jahan—Dara. The power of the Brotherhood depends on that succession. We will play Aurangzeb for the fool he is, but Dara will be our champion. So long as I live, I swear it: Aurangzeb will not sit on the Peacock Throne.”
Alu bows his head. “So be it, master.”
In a few minutes, as they walk together in slow silence up the rough floor of the tunnel, the howling begins.
Alu shivers as the howl winds through the still air of the tunnels. A howl that chokes off in a splutter, and then starts up again. Its echo slides along Alu’s spine like wet ice.
Hing seems not to hear. Perhaps he is deaf, or deaf to some sounds.
“Master?” Alu says at last, his husky voice choked in his throat.
Hing stops and turns to Alu, his enormous eyes glimmering. “It happens sometimes. Sometimes the fall isn’t enough. Sometimes it takes a while.”
Another howl shivers through the dark.
“How long?”
“A few hours perhaps. Maybe more … a day maybe … if he decides to eat.”
CHAPTER 11
The bright green parrots squawk as they swarm around the lake, terrified by the racket of the beaters.
Though the tiger hunt is nearly a mile away, the birds feel the noise with their fragile bodies; the slap of the clapping sticks, the bang of the squibs, the shouts of the beaters and the roar of the elephants, the crack of breaking trees. The parrots fly in frenzied clusters, pivoting in midair like schools of fish, and each time they light, the clamor blares anew, and off they fly, shrieking.
At the edge of the lake stand three hundred silk tents. The largest and grandest stand twenty feet tall, as wide around as a stable, brightly colored, with pennants and banners snapping in the breeze.
Returning from his inspection, General Jai Singh rides to the second grandest tent. A great dark blue banner flutters on a silver flagpole, on its upper corner is the sacred swastika; for Jai Singh, Dara’s first general and a Rajput king, is a Hindu. His banner waves bravely in a forest of pennants bearing the crescents and swords and stars of Islam.
On the fifth hour of every fourth day Jai Singh inspects his troops. Even a royal tiger hunt is no reason to change his routine. So Jai Singh had sent regrets in response to Dara—anyone else would have dropped everything, viewing the invitation to the tiger hunt as a royal command. Still he promised to join Dara as soon as his inspection was over.
With Dara and the others gone to the hunt, Jai Singh enjoys a few moments of privacy. His heart is troubled by the letter he has just received from Shanti, his dear wife and queen. At this moment he misses her exquisitely. He wishes he were beside her, standing in the gardens of their palace in Amber fort, watching mountain eagles soar across the lake far below.
He unrolls the letter and studies it again:
My dear husband,
Bad news, they say, is never gentle, and I fear my tale will break your tender heart. Dear husband, know first that your dear son Man Singh and I are safe and happy, except that both of us long to see you soon.
The sadness is about your friend, Behram Singh. He was the most trusted of your men, the captain of the royal bodyguard. Yes, sweet husband, I say “was,” for alas, Behram Singh is no more. And I do not doubt that you will find the circumstances of his death as troubling as do I.
Two days ago I received your last letter. How I enjoyed hearing about your chess game with Aurangzeb! Of course I told Behram Singh of your good wishes as you asked. He seemed happy to hear them, husband—how extraordinary in light of what soon followed!
Last night I was awakened in my bed. Standing over me was Mohmoud Das, captain of the Mogul imperial honor guard. In his hand was a bloody sword, at his feet was Behram Singh, stabbed through the heart.
Captain Mohmoud explained that he had seen Behram Singh enter the seraglio, and followed him to my apartments. Behram Singh had come to kill me, but Captain Mohmoud saved my life.
Captain Mohmoud says that if Behram Singh could turn traitor, the entire bodyguard was suspect. He has therefore sequestered the royal bodyguard and placed himself in charge. So now, the whole palace is carefully guarded by his troop of Mogul guards.
I long for you so to return to set things right.
I am with deepest adoration, your own,
Shanti
I have forgot to say this word of comfort, my husband: You will be glad to know that Behram Singh did not suffer. Though his clothes were soaked, there was scarcely any blood on the floor around his body. It was almost as if he had been killed elsewhere. Captain Mohmoud assures me that this is the sign of a quick and painless death.
His hands tremble as he sets the letter down. Her hints seem obvious. The captain of his bodyguard is dead, and his wife is a Mogul hostage. This is Dara’s work, Jai Singh thinks.
What must I do?
Although his blood is hot, he refuses to let emotions rule him. He sets the problem to the side, knowing it will take time to solve and in that time new elements will come to light. He wants to find out what Dara knows about the events at Amber. He wants to see Dara’s eyes when he asks him.
About a half mile from the edge of camp, near the simple cloth tepees of the camp whores, where the dhobiwallahs spread wet laundry on the tall grass, Jai Singh approaches the hunt. The noise of the beaters grows wilder as they hem their prey in an ever-shrinking circle. Birds burst into the air from the dense trees, flapping in terrified confusion. Jai Singh can’t see them yet, but he knows the drill: a slowly tightening noose of men and elephants pushes through the forest, driving any animals toward the killing field, a clearing bounded by an array of mounted hunters.
Jai Singh has often said that a hunt is like a battle: when the tiger appears, order and reason fly, and the true measure of a man appears. Now Jai Singh wants to sample the measure of the man he obeys, the heir presumptive, Dara.
This is a small hunt, quickly gathered. No more than thirty elephants are crashing through the forest. Drummers thump the huge drums slung on the elephant’s backs. Between the elephants walk men with bamboo beating sticks; behind them, noisewallahs blow trumpets or bang field drums or light firecrackers.
Just as in a battle, the men on foot have the worst of it. As the forest animals run, some grow agitated and frantic until, frenzied by the noise, they try to break through the marching line of beaters.
On horses and elephants around the killing field are Dara’s friends and courtiers. In front of them stand soldiers with bright spears pointed toward the clearing; the first line of defense. The richest courtiers sit in jeweled howdahs strapped to the backs of elephants. Those wishing to be thought brave push to the front; wily men and cowards hold back. Their elephants wait nervously, sighing loudly and rocking from foot to foot.
The grandest elephant is Prince Dara’s, a yard taller than any other. Beneath the green velvet canopy of the royal howdah ride Dara and his companion, a doe-eyed young man with a sky-blue turban.
The sun is bright, the air humid and still. The smell of smoldering beeswax f
ills the heavy air: the burning fuses of the hundred matchlock rifles. The warm wax smell mingles with the sting of smoke from the firecrackers, with the tang of forest dust, with the leafy smell of the vegetation cut to clear the killing field. The air is nearly too thick to breathe.
With the circle of beaters closing, animals begin to dash from the forest. First come the monkeys: angry, not frightened. They leap into the clearing, sharp white teeth bared in their black faces, screaming as the spearmen let them pass. Next come the mice and squirrels. Tensed for big game, however, the spearmen startle at the skittering of tiny paws across sandaled feet and the mahouts struggle to calm their elephants. Now the larger animals race from the woods: mongooses and possums and weasels, spinning and skidding into the unexpected clearing.
The real action is about to start.
A big-antlered buck and two does run from the forest. A chorus of matchlocks crack in quick succession, filling the air with smoke. One doe is shredded as a half-dozen rounds crisscross through her, while the other flips backward, like an acrobat somersaulting head over heels. The buck staggers forward, antlers down for an attack, blood spurting from its belly and neck; after a few steps, it kneels on its forelegs and topples over.
The black smoke begins to swirl off. Even the smoke from these few shots makes horses cough, and men wipe their tearing eyes. The beaters are now only yards from the clearing. Their elephants thrust trees aside. The trunks snap, the trumpets blare, the drums boom, the beaters shout and clack their sticks. The noise reverberates through the clearing.
Jai Singh sees shadowy forms prowling at the clearing’s edge. Two cats. Maybe three. One tiger dashes into the clearing; Jai Singh sees its bright coat and dark stripes, sees it whirl and disappear back into the shadows. But there is no safety left. Suddenly two tigers slide raging into the clearing. A third follows. Then, unexpectedly, a frightened-looking bear.
At last the beaters reach the clearing and their thunder stops. The air seems flooded by the sudden silence. Everyone’s ears are ringing. Jai Singh can barely hear the hunters’ shouts of orders and encouragement. The men on the howdah beside him begin to sing a drunken song. Idiots, he thinks.
From his jeweled howdah high above the others, Prince Dara calls out, “Hold! Hold!” This is Dara’s party; it is his right to take the first shot.
The tigers wheel madly, testing the line, hoping to find some place of weakness. But the men drive their spears into their path.
For a moment, the tigers seem to give up. They start a slow, prowling walk, snarling, roaring. Jai Singh stares; they are so powerful, so grand. The bear sits in the midst of the clearing, scratching its chest, looking calm, even stupid, except for his wild, flashing eyes.
The sun beats down on the ring of men and animals. For a moment all is quiet, even peaceful. But, just as in a battle, the silence is misleading. The breeze turns, and now the smell overwhelms the circle: the smell of big cats, of urine and blood and meat eaten raw. The elephants stamp and moan, rocking the passengers in the howdahs.
What is Dara waiting for? wonders Jai Singh. Take your shot, and let’s go home. These tigers could turn at any moment.
He squints to see Dara’s arm draped over his companion’s shoulder, his face close to the young man’s cheek, instructing him on the aiming of the matchlock. Dara’s fancy boy is trying to follow the prowling of the tigers, and as time passes, the cats move faster and the shot grows harder.
Think of those men facing the tigers with nothing but spears, Jai Singh wants to shout, and take the damned shot!
Then it happens.
The biggest of the cats, a gangly, hungry-looking male, unexpectedly whirls and attacks. But the line holds firm; the men whip their spears to stop him. The tiger skids and reverses course, his feet splaying. He drives headlong toward the beaters on the other side of the circle.
Dara sees the danger, and shouts for his friend to fire. His companion’s doe eyes seem about to pop. The long rifle booms, belching a cloud of smoke. The round misses its mark, tearing past the tiger, drilling into the flank of an elephant on the other side of the circle. Mad with pain, the elephant rears, blood spurting from the wound. Its mahout falls and scrambles away.
The tiger coils and leaps in an astonishing arc, grabbing the hurt beast’s trunk. Throwing its head to shake off the cat, the bellowing elephant flails around the circle, straight into the line of beaters. Some are lucky; the elephant crushes them at once. From beneath the clinging tiger’s claws, blood pours in rivulets down the elephant’s trunk.
Now the bear ambles over to paw through the wounded men, tearing off chunks of flesh which he swallows with a toss of his head. Oh, he’s hungry, thinks Jai Singh stupidly. The other elephants lurch away; in their howdahs the marksmen and matchlocks heave from side to side. Some drop their rifles; unintended shots get fired as sparks fall from the fuses into the firing pans. Black smoke pours into the clearing.
The other two tigers see the break in the line and make a dash. A hundred matchlocks now blast away. The air is filled with the shouts of the hunters and the groans of the injured, with elephant’s bellow and tiger’s roar.
Jai Singh has to wheel his Bedouin away from the elephant beside him; for the big beast is crabbing sideways. In the howdah its drunken passengers spill first to one side and then the other. A matchlock falls from the howdah, striking Jai Singh’s shoulder and nearly knocking him from his horse. The fuse keeps burning despite the fall. Gods, thinks Jai Singh, it’s loaded! I might have been killed! He sets the stock on his knee, pointing the barrel upright. He considers snuffing out the fuse, but seeing the confusion all around him, decides it might be better to be armed.
Just as in a battle, order has dissolved into men concerned first with saving their own hides and only second with doing their duty. The uninjured beaters try to save their fallen comrades. More get trampled, adding to the screams. Shots blast out, aimed at who knows what. Stinging smoke drifts across the clearing.
Then through the smoke Jai Singh sees an amazing sight: In the center of the madness, armed with only a spear, is Prince Dara.
The wounded elephant, the tiger clinging still to its trunk, drags its bloody head to the ground in hopes of scraping off the cat. The huge copper drums on its sides clatter and boom as it turns. Dara moves toward the tiger clinging to its bleeding trunk. Oh gods, thinks Jai Singh, he wants to be a hero. Dara slides his feet like a fencer, eyes on the tiger, spear held firm.
The elephant shakes its head in a violent spasm, throwing off one of the tiger’s paws. The striped arm is bright red with blood. In a last gasp, the elephant runs blindly, straight for Dara. The tiger paws the air with his bloodred arm. Which is, miraculously, exactly what Dara might have wished.
As the elephant pitches toward him, Dara is perfectly placed: facing the tiger’s dripping jaws, staring into its fright-crazed eyes. He holds his spear in form—hands opposing, elbows in, shoulders down. With unerring accuracy, he drives the long spear into the neck of the astonished tiger.
In awe, Jai Singh watches through the fog of smoke. Dara moves as in a dance, smooth and fluid, and with unearthly speed.
As the bright metal bites through his throat, the tiger’s roar turns into an unearthly squeal, like a burning child. Blood and bile pour over its black lips. Its heavy, muscled body writhes and twists on the spear that runs through its neck like a pin.
Dara jams the shaft of the spear into the ground, and the elephant’s forward motion impales the tiger on its point.
Before Jai Singh has a chance to respond, his smarting eyes notice a darkness swirling in the clouds of dust and smoke. Like a bad dream, the black bear steps suddenly forward.
The bear. He had forgotten.
Blood streams from its snout, for the bear’s nose has been shot off. It staggers forward on its hind legs, arms spread, mouth open, eyes rimmed with white, mad with pain. In one paw it clutches a partially eaten hand, a ring still on the thumb.
The bear is heading
right for Dara.
Dara doesn’t see his danger. The mad bear approaches from behind like a rakshasa in fury. “Shoot, shoot!” Jai Singh shrieks.
It can’t be up to me, he thinks, hoisting the fallen matchlock. Jai Singh’s bad marksmanship is legendary. The matchlock’s barrel is cold, and so heavy that the sight sinks slowly downward as he starts to aim.
The bear is nearly on Dara.
As the fuse clip flips to the strike pan, it occurs to Jai Singh that the barrel might be obstructed from its fall. I’m going to die, he thinks.
There is a terrific boom and a belch of smoke.
The bear collapses as though a carpet had been pulled from under its feet. Dara looks up from the struggling tiger to see the bear behind him, flailing and bellowing on the ground. In an instant his sword flashes and the bear’s head rolls from its body in a spray of dark blood. Dara stares at Jai Singh lowering his matchlock. Then he turns around and pierces the squirming tiger through the eye. That way, he knows, makes the best trophy.
From a half dozen voices around the circle, Dara hears a feeble cheer. No one else has seen what happened. “Bring the hakims!” Dara shouts. “Men are hurt here!”
Jai Singh slips off his horse and begins to move among the bloody men. Some are struggling to their feet; Jai Singh urges them back to the camp, and focuses instead on the bodies lying on the cleared ground. He turns the dead on their faces and the injured on their backs for easy identification. Some of the men marked as dead thrash desperately, trying to turn themselves on to their backs.
Dara is doing the same task. All too many men are being turned facedown. What a waste, thinks Jai Singh. Dara approaches him, his handsome face blood-spattered and beaming. “What a hunt!” he says. Jai Singh can’t find the heart to answer. “General, I owe you my life.”