Authors: Bernard Cornwell
“Strongmen,” Gudin said, “and executioners.” The soldier who had fled from the attacking British dropped to his knees and shouted an appeal to the chamberlains. They ignored him.
Sharpe stood at the left-hand end of the line of heroes, who straightened proudly when the Tippoo himself entered the courtyard. He was escorted by six more servants, four of whom held a tiger-striped canopy above his head. The silken canopy was supported by poles with tiger finials and had a fringe of pearl drops. The Tippoo was in a green robe hung with more pearls and with his tiger-hilted sword hanging in its jeweled scabbard from a yellow silk sash. His broad turban was also green and wrapped about with more pearls, while in a plume at its crown there glittered a ruby so huge that Sharpe at first assumed it must be made of glass for surely no precious stone could be that massive, except perhaps for the big yellow-white diamond that formed the pommel of a dagger that the Tippoo wore in his yellow sash.
The Tippoo glanced at the quivering soldier, then nodded at the
jettis
.
“This is not pleasant, Sharpe,” Colonel Gudin warned softly from just behind Sharpe.
One of
the jettis
seized the terrified prisoner and dragged him upright, then half carried and half led him so that he stood directly in front of the Tippoo. There the
jetti
forced the man to make a half-turn, then pushed him down to his knees, knelt behind him and wrapped his arms around the prisoner's arms and torso so that he could not move. The condemned man called piteously to the Tippoo who ignored the plea as the second
jetti
stood in front of the prisoner. The Tippoo nodded and the standing
jetti
placed his big hands on either side of the doomed man's head. The man
screamed, then the scream was cut off as
the jetti
tightened his grip.
“God almighty!” Sharpe said in wonderment as he watched the man's head being wrung like a chicken. He had never seen such a thing, nor dreamed it was even possible. Behind him Colonel Gudin made a small noise of disapproval, but Sharpe had been impressed. It was a quicker death than being flogged, and quicker too than most hangings where the prisoners were left to dangle and dance as the rope choked them. The Tippoo applauded the
jetti's
display, rewarded him, then ordered the dead man to be dragged away.
Then, one by one, the night's heroes were led up to the tiger-striped canopy and to the short plump man who stood in its shade. Each soldier knelt as he was named, and each time the Tippoo leaned down and used both hands to lift the man up before talking to him and presenting the hero with a large medallion. The medallions looked as if they were gold, but Sharpe guessed they had to be made of polished brass, for surely no one would give away that much gold! Each of the men kissed the gift, then shuffled backward to his place in the line.
At last it was Sharpe's turn. “You know what to do,” Gudin said encouragingly.
Sharpe did. He disliked going on his knees to any man, let alone this plump little monarch who was his country's enemy, but there was no future in unnecessary defiance and so he obediently went down on one knee. The yellow-white stone in the dagger's hilt glinted at him, and Sharpe could have sworn it was a real diamond. A huge diamond. Then the Tippoo smiled, leaned forward and raised Sharpe by putting his hands under his armpits. He was surprisingly strong.
Gudin had come forward with Sharpe and now spoke to the Tippoo's interpreter in French, and the interpreter translated
into Persian, which left Sharpe none the wiser. So far as he was concerned the events of the previous night had been a shambles, but it was evident that Gudin was telling a tale of high heroics for the Tippoo kept giving Sharpe appreciative glances. Sharpe stared back in fascination. The Tippoo had gray eyes, a dark skin, and a finely trimmed black mustache. At a distance he looked plump, even soft, but closer there was a grimness to his face which persuaded Sharpe that Colonel Gudin had been right when he claimed that this man was a fine soldier. Sharpe towered over the Tippoo so much that if he looked straight ahead he found himself gazing at the huge stone in the Tippoo's plume. It did not look like glass. It looked like one giant ruby, the size of a piece of grapeshot. It was held in a delicate gold clasp, and had to be worth a bloody fortune. Sharpe remembered his promise to give Mary a proper ruby on the day he married her, and he almost grinned at the thought of stealing the Tippoo's stone. Then he forgot the stone as the Tippoo asked some questions, but Sharpe was not required to answer for Colonel Gudin did all his speaking for him. Once the questions were answered the Tippoo looked up into Sharpe's eyes and spoke directly to him. “He says,” Gudin translated the interpreter's words, “that you have proved yourself a worthy soldier of Mysore. He is proud to have you in his forces, and he looks forward to the day when, with the infidel beaten back from the city, you can become a full and proper member of his army”
“Does that mean I'll have to be circumvented, sir?” Sharpe asked.
“It means you are extraordinarily grateful to His Majesty, as I shall now tell him,” Gudin said and duly did so, and when that statement had been translated, the Tippoo smiled and turned to an attendant, took the last of the medallions from its silk-lined basket, and reached up to put it round
Sharpe's neck. Sharpe stooped to make it easier, and blushed as the Tippoo's face came close. He could smell a pungent perfume on the monarch, then Sharpe stepped back and, just like the other soldiers, he lifted the medallion to his lips. He almost swore as he did so, for the thing was not made of brass at all, but of heavy gold.
“Back away,” Gudin muttered.
Sharpe bowed to the Tippoo and backed clumsily to his place in the line. The Tippoo spoke again, though this time no one bothered to translate for Sharpe, and then the small ceremony was over and the Tippoo turned and went back into his palace.
“You are now officially a hero of Mysore,” Gudin said drily, “one of the Tippoo's beloved tigers.”
“Don't deserve to be, sir,” Sharpe said, peering at the medallion. One side was patterned with an intricate design, while the other showed a tiger's face, though the face seemed to be cunningly constructed from the whorls of an intricate script. “Does it say something, sir?” he asked Gudin.
“It says, Sharpe,
âAssad Allah al-ghalib,'
which is Arabic and it means “The Lion of God is victorious.'”
“Lion, not tiger?”
“It's a verse from the Koran, Sharpe, the Muslim Bible, and I suspect the holy book does not mention tigers. It can't, otherwise I'm sure the Tippoo would use the quotation.”
“Funny, isn't it?” Sharpe said, peering at the heavy gold medallion.
“What is?”
“The British beast is the lion, sir.” Sharpe chuckled, then hefted the gold in his hand. “Is he a rich bugger, the Tippoo?”
“As rich as can be,” Gudin said drily.
“And those are real stones? That ruby in his hat and the diamond in his dagger?”
“Both worth a king's ransom, Sharpe, but be careful. The diamond is called the Moonstone and is supposed to bring ill luck to anyone who steals it.”
“I wasn't thinking of thieving it, sir,” Sharpe said, though he had been thinking exactly that. “But what about this?” He lifted the heavy medallion again. “Do I get to keep it?”
“Of course you do. Though I might say you only received it because I somewhat exaggerated your exploits.”
Sharpe unlooped the medallion. “You can have it, sir.” He pushed the heavy gold toward the Frenchman. “Really, sir! Go on.”
Gudin backed away and held up his hands in horror. “If the Tippoo discovered you had given it away, Sharpe, he would never forgive you! Never! That's a badge of honor. You must wear it always.” The Colonel pulled out a Breguet watch and clicked open its lid. “I have duties, Sharpe, and that reminds me. Your woman will be waiting for you in the small temple beside Appah Rao's house. You know where that is?”
“No, sir.”
“Go to the north side of the big Hindu temple,” the Colonel said, “and keep walking. You will come almost to the city wall. Turn left there and you will see the temple on your left. It has one of those cows over the gate.”
“Why do they put cows over the gates, sir?”
“For the same reason we put images of a tortured man in our churches. Religion. You ask too many questions, Sharpe.” The Colonel smiled. “Your woman will meet you there, but remember, Corporal, guard duty at sundown!” With those words Gudin strode away and Sharpe, with one final glance at the somnolent tiger, followed.
It was not hard to find the small temple that lay opposite
an old gateway that led through the western defenses. It was these walls that McCandless had warned against, but Sharpe, staring at them from the temple entrance, could see nothing strange about them. A long ramp ran up to the firestep and a pair of soldiers were struggling to push a handcart loaded with rockets to the ramparts where a dozen great guns stood unattended in their embrasures, but he could see nothing sinister, no trap to destroy an army. One of the Tippoo's sun-blazoned flags flew on a tall staff above the gatehouse itself, flanked by two smaller green flags that showed a silver device. The wind lifted one of the flags and Sharpe saw it was the same calligraphic tiger head that was engraved on his medal. He grinned. That was something to show Mary.
He went into the temple, but Mary had not yet arrived. Sharpe found a patch of shade in a niche to one side of the open courtyard from where he watched a stark-naked man with a white stripe painted across his bald pate who was sitting cross-legged in front of an idol that had a man's body, a monkey's head, and was painted red, green, and yellow. Another god, this one with seven cobra heads, stood in a niche that was littered with fading flowers. The crossegged man did not move. Sharpe could swear he did not even blink, not even when two other worshipers came to the temple. One was a tall slim woman in a pale-green sari with a small diamond glinting in the side of her nose. Her companion was a tall man dressed in the Tippoo's tiger-striped tunic with a musket slung on one shoulder and a silver-hilted sword hanging at his side. He was a fine-looking man, a fitting companion for the elegant woman who crossed to a third idol, this one a seated goddess with four sets of arms. The woman touched her joined hands to her forehead, bowed low, then reached forward and rang a tiny handbell to attract the goddess's attention. It was only then that Sharpe recognized her. “Mary!” he called, and she turned in alarm to see Sharpe
standing in the deep shadows at the side of the shrine. The look of terror on Mary's face checked Sharpe. The tall young soldier had put a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Mary,” Sharpe called again, “lass.”
“Brother!” Mary called aloud, and then, almost in a panic, she repeated the word. “Brother!”
Sharpe grinned, disguising his confusion. Then he saw there were tears in Mary's eyes and he frowned. “Are you all right, lass?”
“I'm very well,” she said deliberately, and then, in an even more stilted voice, “brother.”
Sharpe glanced at the Indian soldier and saw that the man had a fiercely protective look. “Is that the General?” he asked Mary.
“No. It's Kunwar Singh,” Mary said, and she turned and gestured toward the soldier and Sharpe saw a look of tenderness on her face, and all at once he understood what was happening.
“Does he speak English?” Sharpe asked, and then, with a grin, “sister?”
Mary threw him a look of pure relief. “Some,” she said. “How are you? How's your back?”
“Mending all right, it is. That Indian doctor does magic, he does. I still feel it now and then, but not like it was. No, I'm doing all right. I even won a medal, look!” He held the gold toward Mary. “But I need to talk to you privately,” he added as she leaned close to peer at the medallion. “It's urgent, love,” he hissed.
Mary fingered the gold, then looked up at Sharpe. “I'm sorry, Richard,” she whispered.
“There's nothing to be sorry for, lass,” Sharpe said, and he spoke truthfully, for ever since he had seen Mary in her sari he had sensed that she was not for him. She looked too sophisticated, too elegant, and the wives of common soldiers
were usually neither. “You and him, eh?” he asked, glancing at the lean and handsome Kunwar Singh. Mary gave a tiny nod.
“Good for you!” Sharpe called to the Indian and gave him a smile. “Good girl, my sister!”
“Half-sister,” Mary hissed.
“Make up your bloody mind, lass.”
“And I've taken an Indian name,” she said. “Aruna.”
“Sounds good. Aruna.” Sharpe smiled. “I like it.”
“It was my mother's name,” Mary explained, then fell into an awkward silence. She glanced at the man with the white stripe on his head, then tentatively touched Sharpe's elbow and so led him back into the shaded niche where he had been waiting. A ledge ran round the niche and Mary sat on it, facing Sharpe with her hands held modestly on her lap. Kunwar Singh watched them, but did not try to come close.
For a second neither Sharpe nor Mary had anything to say. “I've been watching that naked fellow,” Sharpe said, “and he ain't moved an inch.”
“It's one way to worship,” Mary said softly.
“Bloody odd though. The whole thing's odd.” Sharpe gestured around the decorated shrine. “Looks like a circus, don't it? Can't imagine it at home. Painted clowns in church, eh? Can you imagine that?” Then he remembered Mary had never seen England. “It ain't the same,” he said weakly, then jerked his head toward the ever watchful Kunwar Singh. You and him, eh?” Sharpe said again.
Mary nodded. “I'm sorry, Richard. Truly.”
“It happens, lass,” Sharpe said. “But you don't want him to know about you and me, is that it?”