by John Speed
With Bandal beside him, Jedhe pushes the door open gently, and the two of them duck inside. Tukoji huddles in the covers, his snores filling the room. “I’m scared,” Bandal whispers into Jedhe’s ear.
“It’s not dangerous,” Jedhe whispers back.
“Maybe. But it’s sinful.”
“Shall I do this alone?”
Silence for a moment. “No, I’m with you,” Bandal whispers.
Jedhe kneels by his father’s head. With a start, Tukoji bursts upright, his hooded eyes opening so wide the whites glisten in the lamplight. “What! Who’s there?”
“Only us, father,” Jedhe whispers. One hand slips into his pocket while the other grasps his father’s shoulder.
“Jedhe,” sighs Tukoji. “Why are you here? It’s the middle of the night!”
“We think you need a change of scene, father. Some fresh mountain air will do you good.”
Tukoji is fully awake now. “Why would I be going anywhere?”
Jedhe lifts his hand from his pocket. Tukoji sees the iron rings; he doesn’t need to see the blades. “Bandal is placing his fort under Shivaji’s control. And we’re joining him. We’re giving Shivaji our fort—Kari fort, I mean.”
Tukoji’s face goes blank. He looks to Bandal, who shrugs. “It was Jedhe’s idea, uncle,” Bandal says weakly.
“The idea is worthless.” Tukoji struggles to collect his wits. He looks at his son. “Kari isn’t yours to give.” Jedhe shrugs and glances at his hand, flexing the fingers just a little, just enough to expose the short, harsh blades between them. Tukoji pulls back. “You can’t. I’m your father, damn it!”
Now Jedhe closes his fingers tight, and the bright edges of the wagnak glisten in the lamplight. “Being your son has very little to recommend it, father. I suppose some boy somewhere might have enjoyed all your insults. I’ve grown weary of them, frankly.” The hand holding the wagnak moves slowly, until its points press against Tukoji’s side. Around his shoulder, Jedhe’s arm pulls Tukoji toward him. “It’s ending, father: now, tonight. I don’t much care how. Come with us, or stay here and bleed your guts out. It’s all one to me.”
“I don’t know you,” Tukoji whispers, his eyes wide with horror.
“Yes, you do, father. I’m your son. Remember me?”
Bandal hands Tukoji his cloak and a pair of sandals. Watching Jedhe all the while, Tukoji puts them on. “We’ll take you to Hirdas, sir. It’s not such a bad place,” Bandal whispers to him while he dresses. “My father built a summer house there for my mother.”
“You see, father? Nice and cool.” Jedhe hikes his father to his feet. “Perfect for you.” Bandal wraps Tukoji’s wrists behind him with a leather thong. Together then the three of them walk through the door. Jedhe keeps one arm on Tukoji’s shoulder as though holding him up. Horses are saddled nearby.
The young sentry steps forward, his pale face shining in the darkness. “Do you need some help?” The sentry can see Tukoji trying to catch his attention. The young man glances from face to face, and shakes his head. “I know it’s hard, sir, but there’s nothing to be done. In time it won’t be so bad.”
“He knows?” Tukoji asks, incredulous. Bandal shrugs. “Worthless scum!” Tukoji spits out. “Traitor!”
“He’s upset,” Jedhe whispers to the sentry as they guide Tukoji toward his horse. “Pay no attention. See me when I return … I’ll show my gratitude for your loyalty.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies. He watches as they struggle to help Tukoji onto the saddle … the old man’s grief seems so severe, he can hardly use his hands.
CHAPTER 18
Imbeciles! Fools!
Shaista Khan watches the chaos as the Bijapuri court explodes once again into shouts of recrimination. It’s been like this for more than an hour, ever since Wali Khan, the grand vizier, finally acknowledged—after two days of rumors—that Shivaji had captured Singhaghad and Purandhar.
It’s just the same as Agra, Shaista Khan thinks bitterly. Just as puffed up, just as useless. But Agra, at least, is quieter. No one shouts in Agra.
Shaista Khan knows why he’s been sent to Bijapur. At home, in Agra, he’s dangerous. Emperor Shah Jahan needs to put him somewhere safe: away from Agra; away from Aurangzeb—for the two of them together are like gunpowder and fire. Away from Roshanara—for in Agra gossip is like money; and a hint of their affair would be pure gold.
So where to send dangerous old Shaista Khan? Where else but Bijapur?
Odd, reflects Shaista Khan, that the man I most admire in Bijapur is one I’ve never spoken to. He looks across the churning mob. Only one other man merely watches from the side. General Shahji, he thinks, what an ally you might have been. If only you had chosen us instead of Bijapur.
Shahji had accomplished much, Shaista Khan thinks. He’d taken a couple of dozen forts. He might have made himself a little kingdom—if his army hadn’t fallen to pieces, feuding with itself; if the sultan of Bijapur himself hadn’t made Shahji an astonishing offer: riches, a new wife, a place at court, command of all the Bijapuri armies. This even while Shahji’s own troops were pointing their lances at each other.
I don’t blame him for that decision, Shaista Khan thinks. Any man would have done the same. Honor only gets you so far.
Maybe I should speak with him, Shaista Khan thinks. Maybe I should tell Shahji of my admiration. And my admiration for his son. Maybe I could make Shahji our ally. Even Aurangzeb hadn’t managed that.
“Please, hurry, madam. It’s getting very unpleasant out there.”
Yet again, Whisper faces the white, unwrinkled sheet that hangs like a curtain at the sultana’s door. How long has he stood there this time? Many maids sweep past him, looking at him—mocking him, he thinks—as they slip behind the white sheet into the place where he may not go. Not even he, the khaswajara!
“Madam, I beg you, hurry!”
“I will eat,” comes her voice, as if from far away.
But this is no time for eating! Whisper thinks. Sure enough, now come the serving girls: first some with salvers of water for cleansing the mouth and hands; then others carrying dishes from the kitchen wrapped in red cloth and white, all bearing the seal of the royal taster. The girls cover their noses with kerchiefs lest they even breathe upon her food. Behind the curtain, Whisper has no doubt, some other trusted servant tastes it one more time before the sultana eats. If only he could find out who!
“They will not wait much longer, madam!”
“You fret too much, khaswajara. They can do nothing without me. You only worry that you’ll miss the fun.”
At last comes the serving girl bearing besan flour. The meal must be over, Whisper thinks, it must be over now! She’ll rub her hands in flour to clean them, she’ll dip her hands in water, and then at last we’ll go.
“I’m dressing now, khaswajara,” the voice says. He knows she says it only to frustrate him.
“But we must hurry, madam. It is a crisis!”
“It is always a crisis.” Another line of maids parades past. These carry silver trays, each with some new adornment: a blouse and slip of lightest gauze, a skirt and overblouse of ivory silk shot through with gold. An overskirt embroidered with a thousand tiny roses. Then jewels: jewels for the ears and nose, jewels for the hair, jewels for the wrist and fingers, jewels for the ankles and toes. A miniature jeweled dagger in a diamond sheath. Jeweled slippers, tiny as a doll’s. A mirror ring to slip upon her thumb. Clothes no one will ever see.
Then, carried by two maids, a tray heaped high with velvet cloth, a poison green.
Why even bother with the rest, thinks Whisper. “You must hurry, madam!” But she does not answer. His scarecrow foot taps the marble floor.
At last she comes, like a tent of green silk. She lifts her covered hand to him. He must extend his arm to reach it—her velvet skirts keep him far away. The cloth tugs the floor as she sweeps across the courtyard. He can feel her fingers, small as a child’s, but the cloth drapes her hand so he cannot see. Whi
sper glances at her eyes, buried in the shadows of her veils. Are they angry? Worried? Whisper cannot tell.
The sun streams through the harem courtyard setting the fountains glittering. Laughter echoes from the marble walls: children playing before harem school begins. She does not turn.
He steals another look—does she enjoy their laughter? Resent it? Her hidden eyes give him no clue, and she lets no other part be seen. In silence they sweep past. Former wives and nautch girls bow. He nods in reply; the sultana makes no sign. “How fragile is this paradise, madam,” Whisper breathes. “We are only beggars on this earth.”
As she struggles up the steps of the main palace, she truly grips his hand. How heavy those robes must be!
They pass through the harem gateway, into the world of men. A dozen guards appear to march on either side of her. Across the palace courtyard stands a massive, guarded door. Even closed they can hear the shouts within. Footmen swing the door at their approach, and the tumult floods out.
The herald strides from the door to the center of the hall. Gongs and drums and trumpets clamor in a deafening blare. With the fading of their echo, the hall grows silent.
Whisper enters first, for she is so formidable in her elaborate costume that she must come through the door alone. But he feels her fingers tighten around his hand, and looks back.
For an instant he sees them, her eyes: anxious, frightened, terrified. For just a moment he sees the court through her eyes: a hundred angry, greedy men; each twice her size; not one of them her ally. For a moment, he understands.
Even so, he leads her to the dais, to the silver throne. He leads her there, and then he walks away.
She has her fate, Whisper thinks, as do we all.
With Afzul Khan in the lead, the angry nobles of Bijapur stride to the silver-railed dais of the sultana. Bolstered by the men around him, trying to appear as if he comes reluctantly, Afzul Khan steps forward to face the veiled queen of Bijapur. The attendants with their horsehair whisks have withdrawn to the shadows; only Wali Khan, the vizier, and Whisper, her khaswajara have the courage to stand by her.
“It is time to face facts, your highness,” Afzul Khan shouts. “How can you allow your armies to be led by a traitor?” His followers begins to shout and shake their fists. Wali Khan glances helplessly to General Shahji, as if imploring him to speak on his own behalf, but the general only stares away.
Whisper looks into Afzul Khan’s brutal, bloated face. “What are you suggesting, lord?” The eunuch’s voice is barely audible. A few of the mob now wave their hands for silence.
Afzul Khan approaches, towering over him. “Of course it’s obvious, khaswajara. But it’s not up to me to say.” He fixes his fierce eyes on Whisper, but the eunuch stares back unperturbed. In time Afzul Khan snorts and turns away.
But the mob notices; for they want to end up on the winning side, and Afzul Khan, for all his bluster, still stands outside of the silver rail. Whisper, on the other hand, has stood inside that railing longer even than the sultana. “You’re right, lord,” Whisper agrees. “It isn’t up to you. Do you suggest that Shahji be accountable for the actions of his son?”
With the uncertain look of a bear being led toward a trap, Afzul Khan frowns.
“Don’t try to confuse him, Whisper. It’s too easy.” The voice is muffled, coming from behind the dark veil of the sultana. Whisper bows and moves back to the sultana’s side.
“General Shahji!” the sultana’s muffled voice calls. “I ask you: If I order you to attack Shivaji and retake the forts that he has stolen, will you do it?”
“Yes, madam,” Shahji answers firmly. “I’ll do my duty, and if it is the will of the gods, I shall return victorious. But madam, I am your military adviser as well, and I therefore recommend against this course.”
To this the nobility responds with sounds of exasperation, some pleading directly to the sultana to be allowed to speak. Wali Khan bangs his baton on the floor, demanding order. “I would suggest, madam, that a battle between the forces of a father and son must invariably be a source of ruin. Both armies will become dispirited and desperate, the action horrible, the resolution without honor.”
“So you recommend what, general? That we abandon all these forts to your son?”
“No, madam. I recommend that you replace me as your commander.”
At first unprepared, the nobles realize what Shahji has said. They begin to applaud, then to cheer. “Afzul! Afzul!” someone yells, and soon everyone is shouting.
“Silence!” Wali Khan pounds the floor with his staff until they stop.
“If not you, General Shahji, whom would you recommend as the queen’s commander? Who can save us from the threat of Shivaji?” Wali Khan asks.
“Shivaji is a small threat. Bijapur’s greater threat comes from the east. Compared to the eastern threat, Shivaji is a nuisance, nothing more. If steps had been taken earlier, as I suggested, things might be different. As it is, we must now defend both borders, east and west.”
“Surely you don’t think, general,” says Shaista Khan, stepping forward with a sweep of his cloak, “that the Mogul is your enemy?” Wali Khan nods gravely to Shaista Khan, and raises a questioning eyebrow to Shahji. One might think that he was smiling.
“I never said so, Lord Ambassador,” Shahji replies. “But let me ask you, as one soldier to another … where is Bijapur more vulnerable? From the single road that leads across the mountains of our western border—or from the Golcondan plain that is our border to the east?”
“But the forces of the Moguls now protect your eastern border from Golconda.”
“And what protects us from the Moguls?” replies Shahji. “As you are a man of honor, tell the queen!”
Shaista Khan feels Shahji’s dark eyes burning into him. “In all honesty, majesty, your eastern flank is more vulnerable. Vulnerable from Golconda, I mean, of course. That is one reason why we Moguls march against them, to assure your peace.”
Shahji laughs. “The Moguls will come against us, madam, if Golconda falls. As the ambassador well knows.”
“You’re not going to insist again that we send armies to support Golconda, are you, general?” The queen’s voice from behind her veil sounds thin. “Say that you are not. I find the matter tedious, and wish to hear no more.”
“Then let me answer for him, madam,” Shaista Khan calls out. “A Mogul victory against Golconda is inevitable. But if, for some reason, Aurangzeb should fail, then beware. Golconda will remember that you left them hanging, and they will attack you. I agree with Shahji: You should send troops east—but to be allied with the Moguls, not with Golconda.”
“What is this?” Afzul Khan roars. “Are we now to have all our strategies designed by foreigners?” He strides threateningly close to Shaista Khan. “What business is it of yours, jackal?” Afzul Khan’s thick fingers move slowly for the jeweled handle of his katar, but Shaista Khan merely stares up at him, as if measuring the man’s fat chest to find the perfect spot to thrust a knife.
Afzul Khan spins on his heel. “Remember my words—if these two say look east, I say look west! Can’t we see through their lies? The west is where the danger rests!”
“I am certain the ambassador was concerned for our safety, Afzul Khan,” says the vizier. “For the second time I ask, General Shahji—if not yourself, who should be commander?”
“I would divide our forces into two armies, lord vizier, an eastern and western part. Many captains have the skill required to lead them. I’d suggest Razoul Khan and Ali Sharif, though others on my staff are just as capable.”
“But to command those two, general, to be the commander-in-chief? Who for that post, eh?”
“For that post I would recommend you, lord vizier.” Shahji stares levelly at Wali Khan. From the crowd of nobles comes a hubbub of whispers. Afzul Khan looks stunned. A youngish noble pats his broad back sadly. Shaista Khan hears Shahji’s answer with surprise.
“I asked my question seriously, general. Pray don�
��t trifle with me,” Wali Khan replies.
“I have answered you honestly, lord,” Shahji says, looking genuinely hurt.
“Some might wonder, general,” Whisper says, and at his soft voice the room becomes quiet, “some might wonder why you failed to name another. Would you tell us why you did not name our Lord Afzul Khan? I’m sure her majesty would wish to know as well.”
Before the queen can even nod, however, Afzul Khan strides forward, his face aglow with rage. “I insist,” he says in a voice as soft as Whisper’s, but full of violence.
Shahji looks back at him easily, more comfortable with open anger than with the covert agendas of the court. “As you wish. I did not name you, sir, because you seek glory. A commander must not desire battle, but find ways to avoid it. He must seek the harder path that leads to peace. Much as he might want a battle,” Shahji adds, turning to face Afzul Khan, “the queen’s commander must not say so. He must protect the queen. No battle is without cost, sir, and no country, not even Bijapur, is rich enough to bear the cost of endless victories. Bijapur must choose her battles wisely, and win the battles that she chooses.”
Afzul Khan seems almost ready to explode. “Coward!” he bellows. The nobles shout and wave their fists at Shahji, and struggle to keep Afzul Khan from attacking him.
“Bloated fool,” Shaista Khan whispers, unheard by anyone.
“Silence! Silence!” Wali Khan commands. As the crowd of nobles settles down, Whisper leans close to the sultana and murmurs in her ear.
“Hear my words and obey,” says the sultana quietly. One by one the nobles lower their heads. “I will do as General Shahji suggests: divide our forces into two parts. I place Afzul Khan in charge of the western army. The combined forces will remain under the command of Shahji. General, name anyone you will to lead the eastern army; except our trusty servant Wali Khan; we need his full attention as vizier.”
Afzul Khan seems uncertain whether to regard this decision as a vindication or an insult, but the nobles around him, eager for his approval, bow and whisper their congratulations.