Sharpe's Fortress Part 49

"I've killed a lot of men," he said again.

"And Naig was one," Jama said.

"He deserved to die," Sharpe said.

Jama sneered at that answer.

"If my brother deserved to die then so did the British who traded with him."

That was probably true, Sharpe thought, but he said nothing. He could see some pointed helmets at the back of the crowd and he guessed that some of the Mahratta hors.e.m.e.n who still roamed the Deccan Plain had come to see his death. Maybe the same Mahrattas who had bought the two thousand missing muskets, muskets that Hakeswill had supplied and Torrance had lied about to conceal the theft.

"So now you will die," Jama said simply.

Sharpe shrugged. Run to the right, he was thinking, and grab the nearest musket, but he knew he would be slowed by the pain. Besides, the men on the cloister would jump down to overpower him. But he had to do something. Anything! A man could not just be killed like a dog.

"You will die slowly,"Jama said, 'to satisfy the debt of blood that is owed to my family."

"You want a death," Sharpe asked, 'to balance your brother's death?"

"Exactly so,"Jama said gravely.

"Then kill a rat," Sharpe said, 'or strangle a toad. Your brother deserved to die. He was a thief."

"And you English have come to steal all India," Jama said equably.

He looked again at Sharpe's wounds, and seemed to get satisfaction from them.

"You will soon be pleading for my mercy," he said.

"Do you know what jet tis are?"

"I know," Sharpe said.

"Prithviraj," Jama said, gesturing towards the taller jetti who was bowing before the small altar, 'has castrated a man with his bare hands.

He will do that to you and more, for tonight I have promised these people they will see the death of a hundred parts. You will be torn to pieces, Englishman, but you will live as your body is divided, for that is a jettfs skill. To kill a man slowly, without weapons, tearing him piece by piece, and only when your screams have a.s.suaged the pain of my brother's death will I show you mercy. "Jama gave Sharpe one last look of disdain, then turned and walked back to the shrine's steps.

Prithviraj leaned forward and rang a tiny hand bell to draw the G.o.d's attention, then put his hands together and bowed his head a last time.

The second jetti, the one with the spear, watched Sharpe with an expressionless face.

Sharpe forced himself to stand. His back ached and his legs were weak so that he tottered, making the crowd laugh at him. He took a step to his right, but the closest guard just edged away. A carved stool had been fetched from the shrine and Jama was now sitting at the top of the steps. A huge bat flickered in and out of the torchlight. Sharpe walked forward, testing his legs, and was amazed he could stand at all. The crowd jeered his faltering gait, and the sound made Prithviraj turn from his devotions. He saw that Sharpe posed no danger and so turned back to the G.o.d.

Sharpe staggered. He did it deliberately, making himself look weaker than he really was. He swayed, pretending that he was about to fall, then took some slurred sideways steps to get close to one of the guards. Seize a musket, he told himself, then ram its muzzle into Jama's face. He swayed sideways again, and the closest guard just stepped back and levelled the bayonet at Sharpe. The dozen sentries plainly had orders to keep Sharpe inside thejettfs killing ground. Sharpe measured the distance, wondering if he could get past the bayonet to seize the musket, but a second guard came to reinforce the first.

Then Prithviraj stood.

He was a b.l.o.o.d.y giant, Snarpe thought, a giant with an oiled skin and upper arms as thick as most men's thighs. The crowd murmured in admiration again, and then Prithviraj undid his loincloth and let it fall so that he was naked like Sharpe. The gesture seemed to imply that he sought no advantage over his opponent, though as the huge man came down from the shrine the second jetti took care to stay close beside him.

Two against one, and the second had a spear, and Sharpe had nothing.

He glanced at the burning torches, wondering if he could seize one and brandish it as a weapon, but they were mounted too high. Christ, he thought, but do something! Anything! Panic began to close in on him, fluttering like the bat which swooped into the flame light again.

He backed away from the jet tis and the crowd jeered him. He did not care. He was watching Prithviraj. A slow-moving man, too musclebound to be quick, and Sharpe guessed that was why the second jetti was present. His job would be to herd Sharpe with the glittering spear, and afterwards to hold him still as Prithviraj tore off fingers, toes and ears.

So take the spearman first, Sharpe told himself, put the b.a.s.t.a.r.d down and take his weapon. He edged to his left, circling the courtyard to try and position himself closer to the spear-carrying jetti. The crowd sighed as he moved, enjoying the thought that the Englishman would put up a fight.

The spear followed Sharpe's movements. He would have to be quick, Sharpe thought, desperately quick, and he doubted he could do it.

HakeswilPs kicking had slowed him, but he had to try and so he kept on circling, then abruptly charged in to attack the spearman, but the weapon was jabbed towards him and Prithviraj was much faster than Sharpe had expected and leaped to catch him, and Sharpe had to twist awkwardly away. The crowd laughed at his clumsiness.

"Accept your death," Jama called. A servant was fanning the merchant's face.

Sweat poured down Sharpe's cheeks. He had been forced towards that part of the courtyard nearest the temple's entrance where there were two stone flights of stairs leading up to the cloister. The steps, jutting into the yard, formed a bay in which Sharpe suddenly realized he was trapped. He moved sideways, but the spear-carrying jetti covered him. The two men knew he was cornered now and came slowly towards him and Sharpe could only back away until his spine touched the cloister's edge.

One of the spectators kicked him, but with more malice than force. The jet tis came on slowly, wary in case he suddenly broke to right or left.

Prithviraj was flexing his huge fingers, making them supple for the night's work. Sc.r.a.ps of smouldering ash whirled away from the torches, one settling on Sharpe's shoulder. He brushed it off.

"Sahib?" a voice hissed from behind Sharpe.

"Sahib?"

Prithviraj looked calm and confident. No b.l.o.o.d.y wonder, Sharpe thought. So kick the naked b.u.g.g.e.r in the crotch. He reckoned that was his last chance. One good kick, and hope that Prithviraj doubled over. Either that or run onto the spear and hope the blade killed him quickly.

"Sahib!" the voice hissed again. Prithviraj was turning sideways so that he would not expose his groin to Sharpe, then he beckoned for the other jetti to close in on the Englishman and drive him out from the wall with his spear.

"You b.u.g.g.e.r!" the voice said impatiently.

Sharpe turned to see that Ahmed was on hands and knees among the legs of the spectators, and what was more the child was pushing forward the hilt of the tulwar he had captured at Deogaum. Sharpe leaned on the cloister edge and the crowd, seeing him rest against the stone, believed he had given up. Some groaned for they had been antic.i.p.ating more of a fight, but most of the watching men just jeered at him for being a weakling.

Sharpe winked at Ahmed, then reached for the tulwar. He seized the handle, pushed away from the stone and turned, dragging the blade from the scabbard that was still in Ahmed's grasp. He turned fast as a striking snake, the curved steel silver-red in the courtyard's flame light, and the jet tis thinking he was a beaten man, were not prepared. The man with the spear was closest, and the curved blade slashed across his face, springing blood, and he instinctively clutched his eyes and let the spear drop. Sharpe moved to the right, scooped up the fallen spear, and Prithviraj at last looked worried.

The guards raised their muskets. Sharpe heard the clicks as the dog heads were hauled back. So let them shoot him, he thought, for that was a quicker death than being dismembered and gelded by a naked giant. Jama was standing, one hand in the air, reluctant to let his guards shoot Sharpe before he had suffered pain. The wounded jetti was on his knees, his hands clutched to his face which was streaming blood.

Then a musket fired, its sound unnaturally loud in the confines of the courtyard's carved walls. One of the guards flinched as the musket ball whipped past his head to chip a flake of stone from one of the decorated arches. Then a voice shouted from the cloister by the temple entrance.

The man spoke in an Indian language, and he spoke to Jama who was staring appalled as a group of armed men pushed their way to the very front of the crowd.

It was Syud Sevajee who had fired, and who had spoken to Jama, and who now grinned down at Sharpe.

"I've told him it must be a fair fight, Ensign."

"Me against him?" Sharpe jerked his chin at Prithviraj.

"We came for entertainment," Syud Sevajee said, 'the least you can do is provide us with some."

"Why don't you just shoot the b.u.g.g.e.r and have done with it?"