Sandokan: The Two Tigers (The Sandokan Series Book 4) Read online

  “Once the ceremony was completed, the rajah threw a sumptuous banquet for all his relatives, during which he drank profusely. The wretch was summoning his courage before putting his monstrous plan into effect. As I was still a child, I had been sent off to play with the other young girls.

  “Just before sunset, we heard a rifle shot, then another, followed by cries of pain and terror. I rushed to a terrace that looked out onto the courtyard and I saw... I saw...”

  The young woman’s voice trailed off, her eyes wide with horror. She began to tremble, stifling quiet sobs.

  “Perhaps you can tell me the rest another time,” Yanez said gently.

  “No…no… It’s been five years,” continued Surama, after a brief silence, “but I can still see it all as if it were happening right before me.

  “The rajah was standing on a small terrace, his eyes bulging, his face perversely contorted, clutching a smoking carbine, surrounded by ministers that kept filling his glass with some infernal beverage. In the courtyard the prince’s family, men, women and children fled for cover, crying out in terror. The wretch had sealed them in and was shooting them down, one by one, howling like a madman after every shot.

  ““Die you greedy dogs!” he bellowed. “You’ll never have my throne! You’ll never steal my riches! Bring me another drink! Bring me another drink! Or I’ll have you all beheaded!”

  “Terrified, the ministers continued to fill his glass. He would drain one after another, then turn to fire upon those unfortunates, indifferent to their pleas for mercy.

  “Bullets rained down relentlessly, for the madman had ordered several carbines brought to the terrace. His officials kept them loaded, handing him a fresh one after every shot.

  “At times a man would fall, then a woman, then a little boy or little girl; the rajah spared no one.

  “I watched my family die, one by one, never once looking away. My father was first, shot through the spine, then my mother, struck in the forehead, then both my brothers.

  “The monster had invited thirty-seven relatives to the ceremony, and within ten minutes thirty-six bodies were strewn about the courtyard in pools of blood.

  “Though struck by three bullets, one of the prince’s brothers was, miraculously, still alive. The wretch jumped about like a young tiger, diving in every direction to confuse his brother’s aim.

  “Spare me! Spare me, and I’ll leave your kingdom. I’m your father’s son. You don’t have the right to kill me!” he shouted desperately.

  “If you promise to leave this land forever, I’ll spare your life, but only on one condition.”

  “I accept! Whatever it is!” replied the young prince.

  “I’ll toss a rupee into the air, if you can strike it with a bullet from this carbine, you may set off for Bengal.”

  “I accept!” repeated the young man.

  The rajah tossed him a carbine.

  “Be warned,” howled the madman, “if you miss the coin, you’ll suffer the same fate as the others.”

  “Toss it!”

  “The rajah tossed a rupee into the air. There was a shot, but the coin fell to the ground intact. The rajah, however, slumped back in his chair, dead. Sindhia, the young prince, had quickly pointed the weapon at his brother and shot him through the heart.

  “The ministers and officials immediately prostrated themselves before the young man who had freed their kingdom from that monstrous tyrant and unanimously acclaimed him rajah.

  “But when he learned that I had also escaped death, he proved to be as dishonourable as his brother, for instead of sending me back to my father’s tribe, he had me sold in secret to the Thugs.

  “I was taken to the caverns of Rajmangal where I was taught the ways of a devadasi then sent here to serve Kali and Dharmaraja.

  “That’s my story, white sahib. I was born to a noble house, but now I’m nothing more than a miserable dancer.”

  “What a terrible tragedy!” said a voice.

  Yanez and Surama turned their heads. Sandokan and Tremal-Naik had quietly entered the cabin and listened to the woman’s tale in silence.

  “Fate has been cruel and given you more than your share of suffering,” said Sandokan, drawing nearer. “But no more. Your future is in our hands now, and the Tiger of Malaysia never abandons his friends.”

  “You’re very kind people,” replied Surama, her voice still trembling slightly.

  “Your days as a dancer have ended; you’ll never live among the Thugs again.” Then changing tone he asked, “As far as you know, do the Thugs have any ships?”

  “I don’t know, sahib,” replied the young woman. “When I was on Rajmangal, I saw several launches plying the canals of the Sundarbans, but never any ships.”

  “Why do you ask, Sandokan?” asked Yanez.

  “Two ghrabs arrived a few minutes ago. They’ve dropped anchor near us.”

  “What’s so extraordinary about that?”

  “They’re manned by large crews. Excessively large. It looks suspicious.”

  “I got the same impression,” said Tremal-Naik. “I’ve never seen a ghrab in these waters armed with a pair of meriams[9].”

  “We’ll keep an eye on them,” replied Yanez. “You both may be mistaken. Are they carrying any cargo?”

  “No,” replied Sandokan.

  “Even supposing they did belong to the Thugs, there’s nothing they can do to us here, not as long as we’re within sight of Fort William. We’ll keep an eye on them for now and make plans for our expedition. Surama has regained her strength; she’ll take us to the old pagoda.”

  “Yes, sahib; we can go whenever you wish.”

  “Is it very far up river?” asked Sandokan.

  “About seven or eight miles from the outskirts of the Black Town.”

  “It’s already six o’clock; we should set off immediately so we can prepare an ambush for the Thugs. The two launches are ready and several carbines have been stowed beneath the thwarts. Time to go.”

  He offered Surama a large, dark, hooded silk cape and the four of them went up on deck.

  The two launches had already been lowered and twenty-four men, Malays and Dyaks, sat with oar in hand, awaiting the order to cast off.

  “What do you make of them?” Sandokan asked Yanez, pointing to the two ghrabs that had dropped anchor two paces from the prahu, one off her port and the other off her starboard side.

  The Portuguese quickly scanned the two ships. Though a little smaller than the Marianna, they were well built; they had sharp pointed bows, three tall masts, and high sterns; their large lateen sails had not yet been reefed. Each was manned by an Indian crew, their numbers much too large for such small vessels.

  “There may be something suspicious about those ships after all,” said Yanez. “Bah, we’ll deal with them later if need be.”

  They climbed down into the largest launch and rowed off, the second, commanded by Tremal-Naik and Sambigliong, quickly following behind it. The two boats rapidly made their way among the ships, past the British and Indian quarters, heading north, up the sacred river.

  Two hours later, Surama, her eyes fixed on the right bank, pointed to a flat-topped pyramid partially visible among a grove of coconut trees on the outskirts of a vast bamboo jungle.

  The area was deserted, not a single hut or ship could be seen on either riverbank. A few dozen marabous walked about the mangroves, grumbling softly, snapping at the air with their large beaks.

  Once assured they were alone, the twenty-four pirates and their captains quickly went ashore and drew out the carbines they had hidden beneath the thwarts.

  “Hide the boat among the mangroves,” said Sandokan to his men. “You four will stand guard here. The others will come with us.”

  “Surama,” said Yanez, “how are you feeling?”

  “Fine, sahib,” replied the young woman.

  “When is the sati going to take place?”

  “Towards midnight.”

  “So we have an hour to
make our preparations and set the trap for the mahant.”

  They entered a grove of coconut trees and twenty minutes later emerged in a clearing before the old pagoda. Save for the central pyramid, it was almost entirely in ruins.

  “We’ll hide in there,” said Sandokan, spotting a doorway.

  They were about to enter the old structure when they spied several bright dots in the jungle advancing towards them.

  “The Thugs!” exclaimed Surama.

  “Inside,” commanded Sandokan, rushing into the pagoda. “We made it just in time. Draw your weapons and stand ready to grab the mahant.”

  Chapter 8

  Sati

  DESPITE BRITISH EFFORTS to eradicate it, the barbaric custom of widow burning continues to survive in pockets throughout India. Though the practice has become quite rare on most of the Subcontinent, a considerable number of sati are still performed in Bengal and the Northern Provinces. The parents of the deceased take great precautions to outmanoeuvre the authorities and the police are not always able to intervene in time.

  Though the Anglo-Indian government passed rigid laws against sati in the early 1800s, the number of sacrifices continued to multiply. In 1817, seven hundred of those terrible executions were performed in Bengal alone.

  In 1829 the practice was banned throughout British India but continued for a time in the princely states. Many Brahmins and others of high caste claimed the ceremony was only performed if the widow accepted her fate voluntarily.

  Reality was often quite different. Standing before the flames, many women would often try to escape, only to be forced back by her husband’s relatives and at times even bound to his corpse.

  Some were rescued at the last minute by an untouchable, who, taken with their beauty, would save them from the flames. Despised by all castes, the poor wretches find no dishonour in marrying a widow.

  The plight of Indian widows is such that many prefer to die. They lose status, and if childless, they are looked upon with disdain. They must shave their heads once a month and mourn their husbands until their death.

  They may no longer wear jewels or white clothing; they may not chew betel or take part in family celebrations. What more? They become friendless outcasts; no Hindu will eat with them, enter their homes or give them assistance. People flee at the sight of them for Indians believe widows bring bad luck.

  Women who remarry are treated worst of all, for they are despised by all castes with the exception of course, of the poor untouchables.

  The procession advancing through the jungle was comprised of about forty people. It was led by four musicians playing khols, a type of cylindrical clay drum. They were followed by several mussalki[10] then a group of men carrying a palanquin, upon which lay the deceased dressed in sumptuous robes. The poor widow came last, a priest supporting her on each arm. She was surrounded by her closest relatives; each carried a container of fragrant oil to splash upon the pyre. Two paces in front of her, the old mahant walked among the priests, reciting prayers as they advanced.

  The widow was a beautiful young woman, about fifteen years old; her head had been shaved and she no longer wore the jewel pendent about her neck to indicate she was married.

  She barely managed to stand; shouting in desperation as the tears streamed from her eyes, she cursed her fate, while the priests at her side encouraged her to be strong, promising her that her name would be honoured for all eternity. They assured her of the happiness to come, that she would live in paradise as the wife of a god in reward for her virtuous sacrifice.

  She did not offer the least bit of resistance, allowing herself to be dragged forward without protest. More than likely, she had been given a great quantity of bang[11] to dull her senses and prevent her from escaping.

  When the procession arrived at the clearing before the pagoda, several men armed with cutlasses quickly cut down several large bamboo trees, piled them in a mound about a half-metre high and doused them with coconut oil. Once those preparations had been made, the body of the deceased was laid upon it while the mussalki went to stand at the four corners, their torches lit, ready to set the pyre ablaze.

  The drums continued to thunder as her husband’s family and his relatives, with tears in their eyes, sang the widow’s praises, assuring her of eternal bliss.

  The mahant, with a torch in one hand, walked up to the pyre, while the young woman, her voice broken by sobs, turned to her relatives and said her final goodbyes.

  Suddenly, flames shot up and engulfed the body of the deceased. The mahant had set fire to the oil-soaked bamboo: it was time to begin the sacrifice.

  The priests began to drag the widow towards the flames. The drums grew louder, beating wildly; the mourners urged her on, howling at the top of their voices.

  The poor woman advanced submissively, but when she found herself before that bed of flames her desire to live suddenly returned.

  “No! No! Mercy!” she cried.

  Then with unexpected strength, she knocked down one of the two priests and drew back several steps, straining desperately to free herself from her second captor’s grip.

  The mourners ran to assist the priest. The mahant had picked up a burning piece of wood and was about to rush towards the victim and set fire to her clothes, when a voice thundered:

  “Stop or we’ll shoot you down like dogs!”

  The Tiger of Malaysia had suddenly appeared at the entrance to the pagoda, surrounded by his men, their rifles pointed at the crowd.

  A cry of fear erupted from the Thugs and they scattered, leaving the widow where she had fallen.

  “Catch the mahant!” shouted Sandokan, rushing forward.

  The old witchdoctor, perhaps the only person to have recognized the commander of the prahu, was the first to run into the jungle.

  Nevertheless, Sandokan and Tremal-Naik were upon him in a flash, while Yanez had the pirates fire into the air to further frighten the mourners fleeing through the coconut grove.

  “Stop, old scoundrel!” shouted Tremal-Naik, pointing the barrel of his carbine at the witchdoctor’s chest as the mahant attempted to draw a dagger from his sash.

  Sandokan grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to his knees.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” shouted the mahant, attempting, unsuccessfully to free himself from the Tiger’s powerful grip. “You’re not sepoys or policemen, you can’t arrest me!”

  “Who am I? Have you gone blind, old man?” asked Sandokan, drawing the prisoner to his feet. “Don’t you recognize me?”

  “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Three nights ago you tried to have me strangled in an alley behind Kali’s temple. Forgotten that, have you?”

  “That’s a lie!” howled the old man.

  “Then you’re not the man who sacrificed a baby goat aboard my prahu?” asked Sandokan, a note of irony in his voice.

  “I’ve never been aboard your prahu. You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

  “Come with us, mahant.”

  “Mahant!?! I’m not a mahant!”

  “You’ll find someone in the pagoda who can claim otherwise.”

  “What do you want of me?” cried the old man.

  “First you’ll show us your chest,” said Tremal-Naik, knocking the mahant to the ground and pressing a knee against his stomach. “Sandokan, have someone bring us a torch.”

  It was an unnecessary request. Yanez and Sambigliong, after pretending to give chase, were walking back towards them. The Malay carried a torch he had picked up off the ground that one of the mussalki had dropped while fleeing.

  “Got him?” asked the Portuguese.

  “He won’t escape,” replied Sandokan. “How’s the widow?”

  “She’s safe and quite happy to still be alive. We took her into the pagoda.”

  “Bring the torch here, Sambigliong,” said Tremal-Naik, slicing through the linen cloak covering the prisoner’s chest with a swipe of his dagger.

  The mahant cried out in rage
and attempted to cover himself, but Sandokan quickly grabbed his arms.

  “Hiding something?”

  “Just as I thought,” said Tremal-Naik.

  The Indian’s chest bore a tattoo of a Naga surrounded by several mysterious symbols.

  “The mark of the stranglers,” said Tremal-Naik.

  “So?” shouted the mahant, “What’s it to you if I’m a Thug? I haven’t killed anyone.”

  “Get up,” said Sandokan.

  The old man did not wait to be told twice. Though he appeared nervous and preoccupied he continued to glare at his captors, his eyes blazing with hatred.

  Sandokan despatched several men to the outskirts of the temple, then gathered the remainder around him and led the mahant to the pyre. Most of the body had turned to ashes and the flames were slowly dying.

  “Surama,” asked Yanez as the devadasi came out of the pagoda, “Do you know this man?”

  “Yes,” replied the young woman. “He’s the mahant, Suyodhana’s most trusted advisor.”

  “Vile dancer!” shouted the old man, casting a hate-filled look upon the devadasi. “You betray your brethren.”

  “I’ve never worshipped the goddess of death and destruction,” replied Surama.

  “Now that we’ve confirmed you’re one of Suyodhana’s wretches,” said Tremal-Naik, “you’ll tell me where the Thugs are hiding. Have they returned to Rajmangal?”

  The mahant studied the Bengali for a moment.

  “If you think I’m going to tell you where they’re hiding your daughter, you’re sadly mistaken. Kill me now, I will not talk.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Admirable. I wonder how long it’ll take to break you.”

  The mahant turned pale.

  “What?” he whispered.

  “You’ll know soon enough.”

  He turned to Sandokan and whispered something.

  “Really?” asked the Tiger of Malaysia, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

  “He won’t be able to resist.”