Prithviraj leaned forward and rang a tiny hand bell to draw the god'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 god.
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 bloody 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 bastard 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.
Scraps 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 bloody wonder, Sharpe thought. So kick the
naked bugger 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 bugger!” 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 anticipating 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 bugger and have done with it?”
Sevajee smiled.
“This crowd will accept the result of a fair fight, Ensign. They might not like it if I
simply rescue you. Besides, you don't want to be in my debt, do you?”
“I'm in your debt already,” Sharpe said, 'up to my bloody eyeballs." He turned and looked
at Prithviraj who was waiting for a sign from Jama.
“Hey! Goliath!” Sharpe shouted.
“Here!” He threw the tulwar at the man, keeping the spear.
“You want a fair fight? So you've got a weapon now.”
The pain seemed to have vanished and even the thirst had gone away.
It was like that moment at Assaye when he had been surrounded by enemies, and
suddenly the world had seemed a calm, clear-cut place full of delicious opportunity.
He had a chance now. He had more than a chance, he was going to put the big bastard down. It
was a fair fight, and Sharpe had grown up fighting. He had been bred to it from the gutter,
driven to it by poverty and inured to it by desperation. He was nothing if he was not a
fighter, and now the crowd would get the bloody sport they wanted. He hefted the spear.
“So come on, you bastard!”
Prithviraj stooped and picked up the tulwar. He swung it in a clumsy arc, then looked
again at Jama.
“Don't look at him, you great ox! Look at me!” Sharpe went forward, the spear low, then he
raised the blade and lunged towards the big man's belly and Prithviraj made a clumsy parry
that rang against the spear blade.
“You'll have to put more strength into it than that,” Sharpe said, pulling back the spear
and standing still to tempt thejetti forward.
Prithviraj stepped towards him, swung the blade and Sharpe stepped back so that the
tulwar's tip slashed inches from his chest.
“You have to be quick,” Sharpe said, and he feinted right, spun away and walked back to the
left leaving Prithviraj off balance. Sharpe turned and lunged with the spear, pricking the
big man's back and leaving a trickle of blood.
“Ain't the same, is it, when the other fellow's got a weapon?” He smiled at the
jetti.
“So come on, you daft pudding. Come on!”
The crowd was silent now. Prithviraj seemed puzzled. He had not expected to fight, not
with a weapon, and it was plain he was not accustomed to a tulwar.
“You can give up,” Sharpe said.
“You can kneel down and give up. I won't kill you if you do that, but if you stay on your
feet I'll pick you apart like a joint of bloody meat.”
Prithviraj did not understand a word, but he knew Sharpe was dangerous and he was
trying to work out how best to kill him. He glanced at the spear, wishing he had that weapon
instead of the tulwar, but Sharpe knew the point should always beat the edge, which was why
he had kept the spear.
“You want it quick or slow, Sevajee?” Sharpe called.
“Whichever you prefer, Ensign,” Sevajee said, smiling.
“It is not for the audience to tell the actors how the play should go.”
“Then I'll make it quick,” Sharpe said, and he pointed at Prithviraj with his free hand
and motioned that thejetti could kneel down.
“Just kneel,” he said, 'and I'll spare you. Tell him that, Sevajee!"
Sevajee called out in an Indian language and Prithviraj must have decided the offer
was an insult, for he suddenly ran forward, tulwar swinging, and Sharpe had to step
quickly aside and parry one of the cuts with the spear's staff. The blade cut a sliver of
wood from the shaft, but went nowhere near Sharpe.
“No good doing that,” Sharpe said.
“You're not making hay, you great pudding, you're trying to stay alive.”
Prithviraj attacked again, but all he could think to do was make great swings with the
blade, any one of which might have slit Sharpe into two, but the attacks were clumsy and
Sharpe backed away, always circling around to the middle of the courtyard so that he was
not trapped against its edges. The crowd, sensing that Prithviraj might win, began to urge
him on, but some noticed that the Englishman was not even trying to fight yet. He was
taunting thejetti, he was evading him and he was keeping his spear low.
“I thought you said it would be quick,” Sevajee said.
“You want it over?” Sharpe asked. He crouched, raising the spear blade, and the motion
checked Prithviraj who stared at him warily.
“What I'm going to do,” Sharpe said, 'is cut your belly open, then slit your throat. Are
you ready?" He went forward, jabbing the spear, still low, and Prithviraj backed away,
trying to parry the small lunges, but Sharpe dragged the spear back each time before the
parry could connect, and Prithviraj frowned. He seemed hypnotized by the shining blade
that flickered like a snake's tongue, and behind it Sharpe was grinning at him and taunting
him, and Prithviraj tried to counter-attack once, but the spear slashed up to within an
inch of his face and he went on stepping backwards. Then he backed into the blinded jettt
who still crouched on the flagstones and Prithviraj staggered as he lost his balance.
Sharpe came up from the crouch, the spear lancing forward and the wild parry came far too
late and suddenly the blade was punching and tearing through the skin and muscle of the
jettfs stomach. Sharpe twisted the leaf-shaped steel so that it did not get trapped in the
flesh and then he ripped it out, and blood washed across the temple floor and Prithviraj was
bending forward as if he could seal the pain in his belly by folding over, and then the
spear sliced from the side to slash across his throat.
The crowd sighed.
Prithviraj was on the stones now, curled up with blood bubbling from his sliced belly and
pulsing from his neck.
Sharpe kicked the tulwar from the jettt's unresisting hand, then turned and looked at
Jama.
“You and your brother did business with Captain Torrance?”
Jama said nothing.
Sharpe walked towards the shrine. The guards moved to stop him, but Sevajee's men raised
their muskets and some, grinning, jumped down into the courtyard. Ahmed also jumped down
and snatched the tulwar from the flagstones. Prithviraj was on his side now, dying.
Jama stood as Sharpe reached the steps, but he could not move fast with his limp and
suddenly the spear was at his belly.
“I asked you a question,” Sharpe said.
Jama still said nothing.
“You want to live?” Sharpe asked. Jama looked down at the spear blade that was thick with
blood.
“Was it Torrance who gave me to you?” Sharpe asked.
“Yes,” Jama said.
“If I see you again,” Sharpe said, “I'll kill you. If you go back to the British camp I'll
hang you like your brother, and if you so much as send a message to Torrance, I'll follow
you to the last corner on God's earth and I'll castrate you with my bare hands.” He jabbed
the spear just enough to prick Jama's belly, then turned away. The crowd was silent, cowed by
Sevajee's men and by the ferocity they had witnessed in the temple courtyard. Sharpe
tossed away the spear, pulled Ahmed towards him and patted the boy's head.