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  Shivaji stares at the man whose movements remind him of his own favourite stances. The man moves in perfect circles. His movements are too swift for others to judge his next attack. Handling the pata sword is an art and only few can master it. Shivaji wrenches at his reins and jerks his horse into a trot. Tanaji Malusare too has spurred his horse to start moving towards the man.

  ‘Retreat!’ Shivaji screams at his men. The man continues to swirl, moving towards the retreating enemy horsemen. Shivaji directs his horse in a circle around the man who continues to swirl and dance. It is dangerous to handle a pata swordsman. After a while of brandishing their swords, pata swordsmen lose the fear of death, making them fiercer, but also vulnerable to mistakes, almost easy targets for any other skilled pata swordsman. But in the depth of his heart, Shivaji does not want this man to die.

  ‘Halt! That’s an order. I know who you are. You are Murarbaji!’ Shivaji yells at the man.

  Murarbaji seems deaf to the outside world. Shivaji wishes he too had a pata sword. It may have been easier to stop the man then. He plans to move closer, but before he nudges his mount, like a flash, Tanaji jumps down from his horse and moves between him and Murarbaji.

  Tanaji has a pata sword in his right hand and a leather shield in his left. When Tanaji is close to the enemy, he swings his pata near the periphery of the enemy’s blade, rotating it rapidly. His hand moves in several directions, as if he knows the orbit of the enemy’s pata well in advance. Sometimes his blade flies at a tangent and sometimes the blades clash and screech, metal against metal as sparks fly between them like fireflies. Tanaji is warming up. But one wrong move and the enemy’s blade can dislodge a chunk of his body. Shivaji brings his horse to a halt, not believing the drama of pata swords unfolding before his very eyes.

  Murarbaji is furious but senses that his opponent is not an ordinary swordsman. Both spin wildly. Even before Murarbaji can grasp his moves, Tanaji suddenly stops and steps forward, spreads his hand and glides his blade to strike a horizontal forward blow. The unexpected shift startles Murarbaji and he skips back, swaying his hand that holds the shield. In a flash Tanaji moves his hand backwards in an anti-circular motion. The tip of his blade brushes against Murarbaji, tearing his angirkha over his chest. He loses his balance and tries hard not to trip. Tanaji strikes a forward blow. It lances through the shoulder of Murarbaji’s right hand that holds the sword. Blood splutters out. Murarbaji keeps spinning, but feels his energy waning. Tanaji moves closer still. One strike and it will all be over.

  ‘No, Tanaji, don’t!’ Raja Shivaji stops his commander. Tanaji leaps back, away from the reach of Murarbaji’s pata.

  Murarbaji slouches in fatigue. Despite the shooting pain that almost makes him clutch his hand and roll on the ground, his eyes rove. The man firing instructions looks like a leader. His face is familiar, someone he has heard of. He is fair, and wears a saffron turban that looks like the spire of a temple. The angirkha is of a pale colour, finely cut. His silvery sash shimmers in the yellow light of the torches. Murarbaji recognizes him, and deep hatred fills his heart, shining through his eyes.

  Shivaji dismounts and comes to stand in front of Murarbaji. ‘Where is my master?’ Murarbaji screams. ‘Your vakeel has killed my master, hasn’t he? I knew of your plan, the moment I heard the trumpets. Chandrarao Sahib had welcomed your vakeel, but he had an agenda. Randichya!’ Murarbaji calls Raghunath the son of a prostitute.

  Something snaps inside Shivaji.

  ‘Your great Chandrarao Sahib,’ Shivaji says mockingly, gritting his teeth. ‘You are either blind or choose to be so. Don’t you see that the people of your valley have become ghulams? He used them, stole from them, tortured them and murdered them at his whim. The people of the valley live like helpless goats in your pens, meek and ready to be slaughtered?’ Shivaji pauses. ‘And what did you do all your life? You made a show of your valour by terrorizing the helpless peasants, sucking them dry in the seasons of harvest, so that your master could reap benefits. Do not consider yourself a warrior. You are a petty bully, working for a depraved despot.’

  Murarbaji is speechless; nobody has talked to him like this before. He breathes heavily in rage. Blood oozes from his shoulder, drenching his clothes.

  Shivaji removes his hand from the hilt and starts pacing. This is a man he can use. He just needs him on his side. He suddenly stops and says, ‘You have another duty, a very noble one. You and your goons tax the merchants coming from Konkan as per your whim. If they protest, you slaughter them and feed them to the wolves. You do not even spare the Lamani gypsies and their oxen who work for your merchants. The ridges of the cart tracks going down to the coast are covered with the shards of their bones. Is that not true?’

  Murarbaji does not reply—in defence or otherwise.

  ‘There is another world beyond the hill to the east, the world of the Adilshahi. And there is another world far away from the northern boundaries of this valley, the world of the Mughal empire. These emperors of the north and kings of the southern sultanates have built forts, palaces, gardens, mausoleums and baths from the sweat and blood of our peasants. Their armies are fed by our soil. And they don’t care if these peasants live the distressed, disdainful life of ghulams, under men like Chandrarao Sahib Morey. And men like Morey don’t even care if they live at all!’

  Raja Shivaji turns his gaze on Murarbaji and asks, his voice barely a whisper, ‘And do you?’

  Murarbaji avoids meeting his gaze.

  ‘No, you don’t care either. And how does your master dare to perform such vile acts? It is only because he has people like you—you, a noble soul of Jawali!’

  The night is almost over. Dawn is seeping over the horizon. The main gate is shut. The watchtowers over the ramparts of the wall teem with Shivaji’s archers. The leader of the Marathas looks at Murarbaji who sways with fatigue, his hand fixed into the pata sword that now dangles loose. The pool of blood has swelled, and as the sun throws its first rays over the sky, Murarbaji faints and collapses in a heap.

  ‘Get him out of here, I want him alive,’ Shivaji says swinging around, his voice loud and clear.

  Shivaji turns to look at Tanaji. ‘Let the womenfolk and the children of the house go wherever they want to. Send escorts with them. And remember, the valley is swarming with Morey’s men. Clear the nearby forest and hack the branches of large trees that block our view. Keep our best archers at the ramparts day and night. Our squadrons gone deeper in the valley must have attacked the enemy garrisons in the night. Inform all those who surrender that Murarbaji has already joined our military.’

  The last sentence brings a smile to everyone’s lips.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  1

  It has been just a week since Aurangzeb reached Hyderabad, having travelled one-hundred-and-seventy-five kos south-east from Aurangabad to reach the city. But a farman has already arrived for him, as if his father, Emperor Shah Jahan, has been keeping a watch on his son. Aurangzeb waits on the banks of the Musi for the ceremonial camel to arrive. His memories churn. He recalls when his father, then known only as Prince Khurram, had been a mere fugitive.

  Aurangzeb was ten. His family had been camping in the northern parts of the Deccan. Shah Jahan had become the target of his stepmother, Nur Jahan’s wrath. Emperor Jahangir, always high on opium, had become her royal toy. Aurangzeb, his brothers, sisters and parents had everything that the royalty could have, but all of them were constantly under watch. Nur Jahan wanted to destroy them. It was a night to remember. The forest around had turned pitch dark. They had been waiting for the imperial soldiers to arrive from Agra. Aurangzeb was old enough to understand that it was a matter of life and death.

  Nur Jahan was Aurangzeb’s mother’s aunt. Emperor Jahangir had cast aside all his other wives, declaring her as his empress. It was rumoured that Nur Jahan secretly ground opium and added it into the emperor’s food, poisoning his mind against her stepson, Prince Khurram. Her daughter from a previous marriage was wedded to Prince Sh
ahryar, Emperor Jahangir’s youngest son from one of his wives. Nur Jahan planned to make him the next emperor. Shah Jahan, the eldest of Emperor Jahangir’s sons, had been accused of rebelling against the emperor. The empress had demanded Shah Jahan’s two sons as hostages in exchange for sparing his life. Aurangzeb was not afraid of being a hostage, because he was not quite sure what it meant to be one. But something else had nagged him incessantly. While he had been sitting waiting for people to come and fetch Dara bhai and him, he had watched his father fussing over Dara bhai, tousling his hair, kissing his head repeatedly. Aurangzeb’s other siblings, fourteen-year-old Jahanara, twelve-year-old Shuja, eleven-year-old Roshanara and three-year-old Murad, had been sitting around their mother, silently gazing at her face. She had looked oblivious of them and had stared into nothing. It was the first time he had felt jealous of Dara bhai. A question had haunted him: Why had the empress chosen Dara bhai and him as hostages? Why not the others? What was so special about them? Much later, when Dara bhai and he were put under house arrest in Nur Jahan’s palace at Lahore, he had discovered the truth.

  Nur Jahan wanted the two boys dead, but they were protected by Jahangir’s grand wazir, their maternal uncle Abu Talib, alias Shaista Khan, who had always loved his sister’s sons. He had watched over them, had inspected the food given to them and had kept his personal guards to keep vigil at nights. Once when they were chatting, Shaista Khan had unwittingly revealed that the empress had demanded Dara bhai and any other child of the family. Uncle had said that it was common knowledge that Dara bhai was the apple of his father’s eyes. The words had shattered little Aurangzeb. The truth had hit him like an arrow. He was regarded by his father as an expendable commodity. He was the one his father would throw to the wolves to save the others in the family! Aurangzeb had tucked away this bitter truth in his heart. He had hoped that his father might change. At the age of ten, any disturbing emotion can be turned into hope—or hate.

  The memory brings a bitter smile to Aurangzeb’s face. All his life he has sought his father’s love, and if that was not possible, at least his approval. The forty-year-old Aurangzeb suddenly feels a bit faint. The strong stench of burning human flesh and sandalwood churns his stomach. The northern banks of the Musi have turned into a cremation ground for his dead Rajput soldiers. Under the morning sun, flames of countless pyres look pale and lifeless while the dark columns of smoke rise above them, robust and conspicuous. He might have lost three thousand men, but his army has slaughtered seventeen thousand Hyderabadi soldiers. A harsh rattling sound makes him glance to his left.

  ‘My prince, the emperor’s farman has arrived,’ Aurangzeb hears a slave announce.

  He looks northwards as drumbeats echo above the din of the carts. Narrowing his eyes, he sees a camel, surrounded by drummers, appear on the horizon. Soon the procession stops at a distance, waiting for him to make his next move as per imperial protocol. Taking cue, Aurangzeb strides towards the camel, alone. The warm river breeze gently blows eastwards as the morning sun cruises in all its winter glory towards the middle of the sky. The cremation ground, burning pyres, trenches, cannon carts, the fort, its bastions—nothing matters any more. Like a little boy seeking parental approval, he is eager to read what his father has written. It is crucial now, more than ever before, as Shah Jahan is getting old and weak.

  A milling crowd gathers at a distance to watch him. He first performs kurnish, by placing the palm of his right hand on his forehead and then bending his head forward, as if cradling his head in his palm. It is the way the emperor is saluted, an act of putting one’s mind, which is the seat of one’s intellect, into the humility of one’s hand.

  From the rider, Aurangzeb takes the robe-of-honour offered to him and then the epistle. Father has finally recognized his credentials. He holds the epistle as if it is a copy of the Holy Quran, touches it fervently with his forehead and walks away from the camel taking backward steps, all the way to the place from where he had started.

  Shaista Khan, meaning the ‘cultured one’, has deliberately avoided the ceremony. Instead, he waits patiently near his nephew’s tent. Shaista Khan is the subhedar of the Khandesh region. The city of Burhanpur on the banks of the river Tapti is his headquarters. He has come to help Aurangzeb take over the Golconda kingdom. After his arrival at Hyderabad, he had noted the celebrations over the conquests. Mir Jumla, Muhammad Sultan and the other officials had let their guard down. After four nights of feasting and revelry, the men had finally got back into their battle spirit. But his nephew, Aurangzeb, had stayed put in his tent in the military camp, praying, reading the Holy Quran and ruminating. Aurangzeb had always been so, even as a young man—always grave, never caught laughing aloud. It was as if his youth had met an untimely death unnoticed by anyone.

  Shaista, too, is curious to know the contents of the emperor’s decree. The sudden sound of footsteps interrupts his thoughts. It is Aurangzeb, his face flushed, striding towards the tent. He goes in without bothering to look at his uncle. Shaista Khan follows him, apprehensive and worried.

  Shaista loves his nephew like his own son, despite the fact that Aurangzeb is a staunch Sunni and he an austere Shia. And despite the fact that Aurangzeb is almost forty and he just ten years older. There are reasons for the affection he feels for his lonely nephew forsaken by his own father. Shaista Khan hates his brother-in-law; hence he loves his sister’s son even more. Outside, one thousand cannon carts have taken their allotted positions. The artillerymen wait for orders from Mir Jumla who in turn waits for Aurangzeb. The air is heavy with intangible energy. Thousands of swordsmen crouch in the trenches and brave the scorching sun, eagerly looking forward to explosives smashing the wall of the Golconda Fort.

  All depends on what the emperor’s farman says.

  Shaista Khan gazes out from the window as the wind kicks up the dust from the mounds of earth piled near the trenches. As the dusty clouds rise above the battlefield, his mind flits from the past to the present to the future. Every Mughal emperor’s sons have fought for the throne, blinding or murdering their brothers. Even Shah Jahan had either slaughtered or poisoned his brothers. Shaista Khan’s late sister’s bones may be resting in the Taj Mahal but her sons cannot escape their destiny. Only one of them will become the emperor and the other three will be killed or thrown into the dungeons.

  Shaista takes the present into consideration. Dara Shikoh, the forty-two-year-old eldest prince, has been given the viceroyalty of several rich provinces, and all he does is sit in his libraries, translate Hindu scriptures to Persian and hold seminars with Hindu pundits or Sufi saints. Shah Shuja, the second prince, is the subhedar of Bengal and a man of battles. He is into women, hundreds if not thousands, most of them captured from the villages of Bengal; the others have been gifted to him by the kings of Persia and Europe. Aurangzeb, the third prince, the subhedar of the Deccan, is silent and religious. He has spent most of his life in the battlefields, surrounded by death and decay. The emperor regards him as the competition to his favourite son Dara Shikoh. Murad Baksh, the fourth prince, is the subhedar of Gujarat. His senses are blunted by wine, and his mind blinded by flatterers.

  ‘We cannot fight this battle,’ says Aurangzeb, his voice cracking. Shaista turns around, walks towards a wooden divan kept near Aurangzeb’s charpoy and asks, ‘Why, son? What does it say?’

  ‘Read it for yourself.’ Aurangzeb hands over the farman. He can trust his maternal uncle, his mama jaan; in fact, he is the only one left in the family whom Aurangzeb can trust.

  It is a short letter. Shaista frowns as he reads drawing the paper closer to his eyes. The letter reads:

  My son, it is proper for the emperors and their sons to have lofty spirits and to display courage and military might to take on new frontiers. Time is of the essence. The Deccan kingdoms had declared their vassalage years ago. They are technically the vassals of the empire, our tributary states and are under our protection. This is not the right time to annex the Qutbshahi. I am in touch with Abdullah
Qutb Shah and have promised him cessation of hostilities from our side. They will pay revenue, and that money must directly come to the central treasury at Agra. Retreat immediately and cancel all your future battle plans.

  ‘Strange . . .’ murmurs Shaista, wiping his brows with his stole.

  ‘What do you think, Mama Jaan?’ Aurangzeb asks anxiously.

  Shaista waits before answering. He has lived all his life with the imperial family. His father and grandfather have been the grand wazirs of the empire. His aunt, Nur Jahan, was Emperor Jahangir’s queen consort, his sister, Anjuman Banu, Emperor Shah Jahan’s queen consort. But what he has been seeing is unbelievable. Dara Shikoh has been given a glorifying yet unprecedented title of Shah Bulund Iqbal, the king of lofty fortunes. Never before had any of the past emperors allowed their sons to sit in their courts on a golden chair, kept only at a small distance away from the throne. For Aurangzeb, the rules are decidedly different. He has been kept away from Agra and Dilli for twenty-two years now, and transferred from one difficult province to another. The emperor has made sure that his third son is always short of reinforcements and funds. Aurangzeb’s transfer to the Deccan for the second time too was a deliberate conspiracy. The Mughal-occupied areas of the Deccan give Aurangzeb less than one crore rupees a year as land revenue. Corruption is rampant and the collection a hassle. It is a poor region. In the beginning, Aurangzeb had required support from the central treasury even to sustain his army, leave alone equip them with better arms. The treasurer at Agra had reported to Dara Shikoh who was quick to blame Aurangzeb for arrears. If now Aurangzeb annexes the Golconda kingdom and adds it to the imperial dominations, his income will increase several-fold. The financial autonomy will set Aurangzeb free to develop his army. And with his aptitude for battle and war strategy, he will be able to build the strongest force as compared to all his brothers.