Salim was impressed by the chieftain’s nerve, doubting his own ability to say anything with such clarity with a blade pricking his Adam’s apple. Two of the other Maratha chieftains grumbled agreement, while the others maintained a facade of indifference.
The neutrals were either better at schooling their expressions or were genuinely unconcerned that Shahaji might kill Koyaji, it was hard to tell.
“No free Maratha here agreed to serve Aurangzeb! Just because you and your band of th—” Again Koyaji’s tirade was stopped by another movement of Shahaji’s blade. This time the richly dressed man laid the blade along his companion’s cheek, point resting on the soft flesh just beneath the eye.
Salim, grateful that his men obeyed him better than Shahaji’s brother chieftains, remained still.
The careful hunter bided his time, waiting for an opportunity to strike. If this squabbling was not some ruse, then his position was far stronger than he’d expected. The chieftains did not seem to care that he was watching, which could mean they were trying to deceive him for some reason, but Salim couldn’t figure out what advantage they might gain by it.
“Say what you will of me, Koyaji, but you know better than to insult my men in my presence.”
One of the impassive chieftains spoke: “My wife’s cousin spoke out of turn, Shahaji. His injuries make him short of temper.”
Shahaji turned his head to level a gimlet stare at the speaker without lifting his blade from Koyaji’s face. Indeed, the blade did not betray so much as the tiniest tremble.
“And you think we should make allowances for his clumsiness?” Shahaji asked in honeyed tones.
The cheek not covered with the blade lifted in a snarl, but Koyaji made no other reply.
“He was injured playing his part in your plan, Shahaji,” the other man said with a shrug.
“Had he not charged in, he would not have lost any men nor fallen from his horse.”
“I don’t have to explain my actions to the likes of you,” Koyaji grated.
“Did someone ask you to explain, Koyaji? I think not. I know what you and your clansman think of me and mine. The fact remains that had you followed my commands you would not have been injured nor lost any men. You but reaped the whirlwind of your own greed. No, what you’re really angry about is that while my people and I have prospered in service to Aurangzeb you have…well, not. Did you not lose one of your clan’s redoubts to the Bhoite?” he asked with a glance at one of the other men who had yet to speak.
Salim would’ve thought it impossible for someone to look even more angry, but Koyaji managed the feat.
“You prattle about how Maratha do not serve,” Shahaji continued, “and I tell you this: there is much to learn from our enemies. You complain about the gains the Bhonsle have made under my leadership, calling us lapdogs and worse, but only beyond our hearing.”
The man’s thin smile held nothing of humor as his voice rose in deadly serious tones. “And that is all right with us because, you see, while you spend your breath in idle complaints, we act. While you fight amongst yourselves for the scraps from one another’s tables, we conquer. While you rush in foolishly, we prepare.”
“I’ve been told olive oil can help with that,” Salim said, having picked his moment with care.
“What?” Shahaji’s expression was the very picture of surprise as he turned to face Salim, unconsciously lifting the knife from Koyaji’s face.
“Well, while I have no personal experience of such acts, I’ve heard that if you bend over and oil up, it’s easier for your master to have his way with you.”
“Dog!” Shahaji shouted as he bolted to his feet. Forgetting Koyaji entirely, he reached for his sword.
Salim rolled away, scrambling to his feet but keeping his hands well away from his weapons.
Koyaji, for his part, had certainly not forgotten Shahaji. The older chieftain, having risen to his feet, appeared to punch Shahaji several times in the back. So fast were the man’s movements that it was only when Shahaji turned to face his attacker that Salim could see the blood staining the Maratha’s back and realized Koyaji had a knife in his hand.
“Dog!” Shahaji repeated. The sword he’d thought to cut Salim down with rose and fell. Koyaji deflected it with the knife, drawing his own sword.
“Hold!” Salim shouted at his own men in Urdu, retreating a few steps from the combat with his arms up and spread wide in hopes of appearing nonthreatening enough to preserve the pretense of a truce.
The other Marathas scrambled back, forming a circle that gave the combatants room.
Salim could hear shouts from their respective camps, but it would be some time before anyone was able to get to them. Things between the rival chieftains would be concluded long before anyone was able to interfere.
Shahaji launched a series of slashes the older man deflected or dodged. The bladework of both men was commendable. All other things being equal, Salim would’ve picked Shahaji as the victor. Things were not equal, though—Koyaji had seen to that with his first blows.
The spreading stain of Shahaji’s blood now soaked his robes to the hips, more than making up for any stiffness or bruises Koyaji suffered from his earlier mishap.
Koyaji feinted twice and struck at his opponent’s exposed thigh.
Shahaji rolled his wrist and parried at the last instant, following through with a straight punch. Weighted with his sword pommel, Shahaji’s fist crushed Koyaji’s aquiline nose with a crunch audible some distance away.
Koyaji’s head snapped back. He staggered, nearly losing his feet.
Instead of following up on his success Shahaji reached back with his off hand and felt at the wounds.
The older chieftain steadied, glared at Shahaji and snuffled through his broken nose.
“You’ve killed me,” Shahaji said in disbelief, rubbing thumb and forefinger together in the blood wiped from his back.
“True Maratha do not serve any but the gods!” A gobbet of blood fell from
