by John Speed
Tanaji points to the mountaintop, to the battlements of Singhaghad, the Lion Fort, the most impregnable fortress in India, some say. Built on a mountain, three tall, sheer sides drop off into stomach-twisting emptiness. The fort’s only access is a broken, one-horse trail that twists and switches like a coiling snake. Only two armies have been foolish enough to attack Singhaghad, and both were beaten back with ease.
Too tall for cannon fire, no access for tunneling. The road is so twisted that elephants—even if they managed to reach the gates—would never get the momentum for ramming. The fort scarcely needs its many guns. The defenders can sit behind the fort’s locked gate as comfortable as a merchant in his strong room. No one comes in uninvited.
Of course, getting invited is the key to Shivaji’s plan.
Meanwhile, about twenty miles away, Lakshman trudges up the hill to Purandhar fort. Over the bleak road of unforgiving stones, he leads a line of a hundred bare-chested peasants. Each man balances on his head a great pile of thatch. It’s hot, hard work.
When challenged at the fort gate, Lakshman pulls from his pocket the order written by the three brothers. It’s damp with sweat. The sentry hurries off to find someone who can read, leaving Lakshman and his men standing in a long line that extends a hundred yards down the road. At length Lakshman pitches his bale to the ground and leans against it with a look of irritation. The other peasants do the same. They are too tired to talk.
“It looks all right,” a cynical sergeant says, returning with the paper. Lakshman stuffs it in his pocket. The sentries laboriously set about opening the elephant gate, working the big keys in the great locks. It takes two men to unhitch the chain—each link weighs twenty pounds.
Swinging the heavy bundles of thatch back up to their heads, the men pass into the fort, meek and weary. The sergeant shakes his head, as if the procession is yet more proof that all officers are idiots.
With the commander dead, and his sons away in Poona, discipline in Purandhar has gone to hell. Lakshman sees only three or four lookouts on the battlements. Some men play at cards, some at dice, some nap. There are women around as well, looking well paid and available, but it’s early and they’re not yet getting too much attention. One of the women glances at Lakshman; she winces when she sees his broken face and turns away.
“Who’s in charge?” Lakshman grunts.
“Sarge, I guess. Or nobody, more like. Why?”
“We’re supposed to repair the roofs. Orders.”
The sergeant ambles over. “How long is all this going to take?”
“Not long. A couple of days, maybe.”
“You’ll be staying down the mountain, at the village?” asks the sergeant.
“We’ll be staying up here, at Purandhar fort!” Lakshman bristles. “You’re supposed to provide us shelter. Didn’t you read the order?”
The sergeant fingers a gold medallion hanging from his neck by a thick black string. “I wanted to know if you had read it.”
“Do I look like I can read?” Lakshman sneers.
“All right. We’ll find someplace to put you. I suppose you’ll want food, too.”
“When’s dinner?” Lakshman says.
The sergeant glowers at him. “Do some work first.” He walks away, unconsciously fingering his gold medallion.
Lakshman watches him leave with a sneering grin. The men round up four or five rickety bamboo ladders and start to hump the heavy bales to the roofs of the buildings. The smell of meat cooking begins to rise from one of the buildings. Dinner soon, Lakshman thinks. It won’t be long now.
As they approach the towering gates of Singhaghad, Tanaji finds himself remembering the horrors of Torna. I’m getting old, he thinks. It’s not like Torna—we have Shivaji’s plan, a perfect plan. Nothing can go wrong.
But the memory of Lakshman burns in his heart; he winces every time he thinks of that knife slicing his son’s fair face. He should never have had Lakshman volunteer to go to Purandhar; he should have stopped him. Oh gods, he prays, keep Lakshman well.
Despite his doubts, Tanaji presses on. Soon he sees Shivaji nod toward the high gate of Singhaghad, flashing that brilliant, confident smile. Tanaji halts the men with a wave of his hand, lifts his head and calls to the sentries high above: “I bring a firman from the sultana of Bijapur!”
“Who the hell are you?” the sentry barks.
“I’m the one who brings the firman!” Tanaji replies.
“Who the hell are the others?”
“They are with me.”
Again a long silence. Tanaji lifts the long tube covered in black silk that Shivaji took from the feuding brothers of Purandhar. He waves it at the sentries. “This firman from the sultana is why we’ve come. Bring us to the commander, sentry. This concerns him, not you.”
In a moment, the small inner door of the great gate opens, and a soldier comes out—just as Shivaji had said would happen. The soldier walks slowly up to Tanaji, his left hand steadying his sword. He’s about Tanaji’s age; his leathery face is puckered and his mustache gray.
“Give me the firman,” the soldier says.
Before he answers, Tanaji looks at Shivaji. Even this look is part of the plan. “No,” Tanaji answers. “This firman is for the commander, for Ali Danyal—not a common sentry.”
The soldier looks up into Shivaji’s bright eyes, considers, then turns. “Let them pass!” They hear the clank of iron, the thud of bolts moving, and at last the gates of Singhaghad groan slowly open.
It’s like a card game. Either hand can win, Shivaji had explained. It comes down to how we play. The first step is getting inside the fort. Now that he’s managed it, Tanaji thinks that first step was the easy part.
The inner gates are every bit as formidable as the outer ones, even more so. But once inside, the path is smooth and the horses walk easily. The inner gates lead to a long, roofed corridor; dark and lit by torches whose flickering flames catch the firing slots in the walls, the holes in the arched ceiling from which hot death can be poured.
As the line of soldiers rides into the courtyard of the Lion Fort, Tanaji holds high the black firman tube. “Ali Danyal, come forward!” Tanaji shouts. “I bear a firman from Bijapur. Come forward, Ali Danyal!”
Around the courtyard, soldiers look up. The riders form a wide half circle around Tanaji and Shivaji. “Come forth, Ali Danyal. Receive the sultana’s command!” Tanaji shouts again.
“You!” Shivaji says, picking out one of the Bijapuris. “Fetch the commander at once.” The soldier glances around. Who is this fellow to order him about? “Well?” Shivaji says softly.
The soldier considers, then walks to a nearby building.
Quiet. Beneath the relentless sun, men watch each other, fingering their weapons. Tanaji can feel the perspiration sliding down his back.
In a moment, the guards at the door snap to attention and Ali Danyal emerges. He strides forward. He is younger than Tanaji expected: a stocky man with a square, pockmarked face. “I am Ali Danyal, commander of this fort,” he says as if he’d never seen Shivaji. “State your business.”
Tanaji withdraws the firman from the tube and with a flourish unrolls it, careful that its seals and ribbons can be seen by all. “Ali Danyal!” he shouts. “I bear greetings from Bijapur—this firman from Wali Khan, grand vizier of the sultana!” Tanaji lifts the parchment high and turns in a wide arc on his saddle, displaying it for all to see. “I will translate, sir: ‘To our trusty servant Mohamed Sharif Ali Danyal, greetings!’” Tanaji continues, pretending to read. “‘Know by this firman that we herewith return the custody of Singhaghad fort, its contents and environs, to its rightful master our trusty friend, Shivaji, mandsab of Poona, the son and heir of our General Commander Shahji. In token whereof we bestow on him this key of authority. Make haste to deliver up to him control as quickly as may be.’”
Now Shivaji lifts the ceremonial iron fort key high in his hand. If from this distance anyone can tell that the fort engraved upon its badge is
not Singhaghad but Purandhar, his eyes are good indeed.
“Long live the sultana of Bijapur!” Tanaji shouts at the top of his lungs. “Jai, jai Bijapur!”
Shivaji’s men lift their bows high above their heads and cheer behind him: “Jai, jai Bijapur!” Soon, as Shivaji hoped, the soldiers in the courtyard cheer as well. Ali Danyal’s eyes are fixed on Shivaji.
After a few more cheers, Ali Danyal lifts his hand, and the soldiers stumble back to silence. “Come with me,” he says. Shivaji dismounts, followed by Tanaji.
“No weapons,” Ali Danyal says. He waits while they leave their swords outside the door. Before he heaves it shut, he orders his guards to stand away. “What is this shit, sir?” Ali Danyal says quietly, taking the firman. His lips are tight against his teeth.
For a moment, Tanaji is about to answer. But it’s Shivaji’s turn now, he thinks. He wants it—let him have it. He’ll either end up a fool or a king. It’s out of my hands.
Ali Danyal waves the firman at Shivaji. “What’s this supposed to mean?”
“Read it and tell me.”
“It’s a fake! A forgery!” Shivaji says nothing. “Suppose I send to Bijapur for confirmation, eh?” Again Shivaji says nothing. So Ali Danyal tries another tack. “I thought we had a deal! One lakh hun! Are you going back on your word?”
“I stand by the deal, Ali Danyal.”
“Do you? Haven’t you forgotten a small detail? The gold?”
Shivaji turns coolly away, and starts a slow circuit of the commander’s room. As Ali Danyal follows Shivaji’s movement, Tanaji quietly takes a pair of blackened tiger claws from his pocket and threads the thin black blades between his fingers. When he drops his hand, only the black rings show—the blades of the wagnak are hidden by his fingers.
Shivaji stops at Danyal’s desk. “I have not come empty-handed, Ali Danyal. On my horse and Tanaji’s are twelve bags of gold: the lakh of hun. Take the gold, sir. Take the horses too if you wish.”
This is the moment, Tanaji thinks. The gold is in the fort, ready for the taking. Does Ali Danyal shout for his guards—or does he take the gold and flee? His hand grips the wagnak tightly.
Ali Danyal walks toward Shivaji, no longer pretending to be civil. “What if I order you killed?” he asks.
“Do you think your soldiers would obey? We are emissaries of the sultana—you heard the cheers. Do you think they’d kill us now?”
Ali Danyal considers his situation. “Suppose I just kill you myself, and keep both the money and the fort?” His hand moves toward his dagger. Before his fingers even touch it Tanaji has slipped across the room. He places his left hand heavily on Ali Danyal’s shoulder, and his right hand clenched, so the black wagnak blades protrude. Ali Danyal turns to see the points emerging like claws. He licks his lips.
“Ever seen these, commander?” Tanaji asks softly. “Very messy way to die. Nasty. Blood and shit everywhere. One of those ugly, painful deaths; a dirty wound that festers and leaks and smells. You don’t want to die that way, commander. Trust me.”
“Go ahead!” Ali Danyal spits out, defiantly. “You think you’d leave alive? My men would have their vengeance! Go ahead—test their loyalty.”
“A lakh of hun will buy a lot of loyalty, commander,” Tanaji answers, giving Ali Danyal’s side a little jab.
“Death or gold, sir,” Shivaji says softly. “Which shall it be?”
Back in Purandhar, a boy steps to the mess hall door and clangs the dinner bell. From the rooftops, from the courtyards, the peasants from Poona stop working and stare hungrily as the Bijapuri soldiers amble toward the mess hall. Some of the peasants move hopefully toward their ladders.
“Back to work, you lot!” the sergeant calls out. The peasants stop. “You heard me … back to work!”
Some turn to Lakshman, uncertain. Lakshman swings down the ladder and looks the sergeant in the face. “We’re hungry,” Lakshman says. “A few vegetables, some chapatis … is that too much to ask?”
The sergeant looks almost pleased by Lakshman’s discomfort. “Your hunger is not my concern,” he declares. “Maybe later, after we’re through. If anything is left.” The glare of Lakshman’s good eye, however, unnerves him. “There’s usually something left,” he mumbles as he turns away.
“How long is this going to take?” Munna asks as he sits in Dadaji’s room.
“Not long,” Dadaji replies, opening a notebook and dipping a reed pen in a bottle of ink. “Your brothers have been most helpful.”
“How will you make your choice, uncle?” the young man asks. “How will you know who is most deserving?”
“Shivaji will decide who most deserves the fort.”
Munna eyes Dadaji suspiciously. Something in the old man’s tone rings false. “I want to see my brothers. Take me to them!”
“Not until we’re done.” Dadaji’s eyes have narrowed. “Or shall I tell my master that you no longer accept his judgment?”
A minute passes, maybe more, as Munna weighs his options. “Let’s be fast, then, uncle,” Munna says at last.
Dadaji nods and sets the pen to the paper. “Your full name?” Munna starts to talk, trying to ignore his unnamed fears, but as Dadaji writes and questions him, his agitation grows.
Facing the mounted men of Poona, the soldiers of Singhaghad now stand in the courtyard in a long, straight line. With Ali Danyal at his side, Shivaji walks along the line of Bijapuris, giving some a nod, others a smile, here and there asking a question. Ali Danyal has a look of agitated impatience, as though he needs very much to take a shit.
Shivaji’s doing what he’s seen his father do a hundred times—grabbing the loyalty of a group of soldiers through the simple act of walking past them. When he reaches the line’s end, Shivaji gives Ali Danyal a boost onto his saddle. “Go ahead and look,” he tells him.
His fingers feel as thick as sausages as Ali Danyal fumbles with the ties of the saddlebag. He throws back the flap and sees inside six canvas sacks. Choosing one at random he tears at the opening, exposing a jumble of silk-wrapped cylinders. Thrusting his hand into the sack he feels for one—not the top one, that would be too easy, he reasons. He scrapes the silk wrapper. The afternoon sunlight just touches it; he sees the glint of gold.
Ali Danyal looks up almost in tears. “You’re a rich man now, Ali Danyal.” Shivaji turns to the line of soldiers. “Your commander goes in honor to Bijapur to receive the thanks of a grateful queen! Tomorrow, once the handover of the Lion Fort is completed, you shall go there, too. You’ll find a special reward awaits you!” The soldiers of Singhaghad who have until now seemed tentative, once more start to cheer.
“Jai, jai Ali Danyal!” shouts Tanaji. “Jai, jai Ali Danyal!” the soldiers yell.
Ali Danyal turns his horse toward the gate, held open now by two of Shivaji’s men. “I expect you’ll shoot me as I leave,” he whispers.
“When have I done a single thing that you expect?” Shivaji replies.
All through dinner, the sergeant remembered that look on Lakshman’s face, that single eye so full of rage. He finds himself fingering his medallion, something he does when he senses danger. Maybe he should just tell the cook to make a meal for the peasants. How hard would that be? Again he finds his hand toying with his gold medallion. What’s wrong with me? Maybe I’ll just see how things are going, he thinks. But when he steps through the door of the mess hall, the sergeant finds the two sentries trussed like captured wolves, whimpering through cloths stuffed into their mouths.
Above them stands Lakshman, an arrow notched in a short bow. All the peasants are there. All of them with bows drawn. They wear belts now, and from the belts hang swords and quivers full of arrows.
They hid the weapons in those bales of thatch, the sergeant realizes. As usual, too late.
Hopelessly, he stares into Lakshman’s burning eye. Slowly he kneels. The arrow aimed at his heart quivers with the force of Lakshman’s hand upon the bowstring. As the sergeant stretches prostrate, his gold medallion
drops against the floor. Face in the dirt, hands curled upward inches from Lakshman’s sandaled feet. “Mercy,” the sergeant says. He lifts head to look into that horrid, pitiless eye. “Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.”
Lakshman reaches for his knife.
The three brothers cross the courtyard. Above them the moon glints behind a silver cloud. They’ve been awakened in the middle of the night, summoned urgently to Dadaji’s room. “Something is wrong,” Munna whispers.
“Show some courage!” says Ahmed. “Our fate is in the hands of Allah.”
As they approach they see a figure striding from Dadaji’s door; a fierce-looking peasant who glares at them with one relentless eye. He frightens them even more than the sight of Dadaji, wearing a formal robe and large white turban pinned with a jewel. In the middle of the night, what can be happening? Two guards slip behind them. Dadaji sits gravely before them, like a judge. “I deliver now Shivaji’s judgment. He finds that none of you are worthy. The fort, therefore, is forfeit.”
The brothers look at each other. “I don’t understand!” Kurshid says.
Munna shouts, “I told you! I said we couldn’t trust them!”
“Quiet!” Ahmed shouts. He has seen the guards touch their swords.
Dadaji lifts his chin for silence. “My master says he finds the lot of you despicable. Brother ready to murder brother … and for what? A clod of earth; a chip of rock. In his beneficence, my master offers you a choice. Stay and face the punishment your treachery deserves, or go back to Bijapur, to your own people, to be judged by them as they see fit.” Dadaji’s eyes move slowly from face to face. “Well? Which do you choose?”
“We choose neither,” Ahmed says, sneering. “We shall return to Purandhar.”
Dadaji shakes his head wearily. “Even now our men have captured it.”
Ahmed begins to laugh. “The hell with you, uncle.”
Dadaji turns and lifts something from a nearby table. He dangles it before Ahmed’s eyes; a gold medallion spinning on a thick black thread still moist with blood. “Your men are dead, sir. You may join them if you wish. You have five minutes.” Dadaji stands, but this time does not bow. “After that, I’ll set the guards upon you.”