Sandokan: Quest for a Throne (The Sandokan Series Book 6)

by Emilio Salgari

  “Forgive me, Excellency,” said Yanez, “I realize this breakfast is far inferior to the great meal you treated me to last night, but we’re a good distance from town and the shops have not yet opened. I hope you’ll do honour to our modest fare all the same. You look positively terrified; I hope the meal will cheer you.”

  “I’m not hungry, my lord,” stammered the poor man.

  “Take a few bites, just to keep us company.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I’m afraid my men would force you. You should never refuse the hospitality of an English lord. Come now, I can vouch for the quality of our kitchen. Take a few bites, and we’ll resume our conversation.”

  Kaksa Pharaum’s eyes went to the bowl of fish in black sauce that Kammamuri had placed before him, then back to Yanez then to the other bowls that had been set upon the table. Their contents appeared to be similar.

  At last, aware he had no choice, he picked up a fork and slowly began to eat. The others were quick to join him, devouring the contents of their bowls in minutes.

  The minister had barely swallowed a few mouthfuls, when he dropped his fork and looked at the Portuguese sharply.

  “Yes, Excellency?” asked Yanez, feigning great amazement.

  “My stomach is burning,” replied Kaksa Pharaum, his face turning pale.

  “Do you not like spicy food?”

  “Not this spicy.”

  “You’ll get used to it. Have another bite.”

  “No… no… a drink… a drink… my stomach is burning.”

  “A drink? What kind of drink?”

  “Anything. Anything! That beer will do!”

  “Oh no, Excellency. I’m afraid I could not allow it. This is English beer. You may not know this, but in England we add cow fat to our beer, it improves the flavour and speeds fermentation. You, sir, know better than I what fate attends an Indian who eats of the sacred beast. I would not want to be responsible for the pains you’d bear in the afterlife.”

  Sandokan and Tremal-Naik struggled to contain a smile, there seemed no limit to their friend’s imagination. Yanez, grave faced, filled a mug with beer and handed it to the minister resignedly.

  “Still if you insist, I do not wish to see you suffer.”

  Kaksa Pharaum shrank back in horror.

  “No… never… I could never… water… my lord… water!” he shouted. “My stomach is on fire!”

  “Water!” said Yanez. “I’m afraid there’s none about. There is no well in this pagoda and the river is quite far from here.”

  “I’m dying!”

  “Nonsense! A touch of indigestion. You’ll be fine in a moment.”

  “You’ve poisoned me! You’ve poisoned me! The fire has spread to my chest!” cried the minister. “Water! Water!”

  “Water, you said?”

  Kaksa Pharaum had risen to his feet, his hands pressed tightly against his stomach. His mouth was flecked with foam and his eyes bulged from their sockets.

  “Water… you dog!” he screamed, his voice no longer human.

  Yanez stood up.

  “Will you tell me what I wish to know?” he asked coldly.

  “No!” shouted the minister.

  “Then no water.”

  “I’ve been poisoned!”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Water!!!”

  “Kammamuri!”

  The Maratha, who had been standing just outside the door, entered the room carrying two large bottles of water and set them upon the table.

  Kaksa Pharaum, at the height of his suffering, had reached out to grab them, but Yanez quickly stayed his hands.

  “Tell me where the Shaligram is hidden and you can drink your fill,” he said. “I warn you though that you will remain in our hands until we find it, so it would be useless to deceive us.”

  “My insides are burning! Just one drop, one drop…”

  “Where is the stone!?!”

  “I do… not… know…”

  “You know,” said the relentless Portuguese.

  “Kill me then.”

  “Tell me what I want to know.”

  “Wretched scoundrels!”

  “If we were, we’d have killed you long ago.”

  “No more! No more!”

  Yanez took a glass and slowly filled it with water.

  Kaksa Pharaum watched transfixed, bellowing and roaring like a wild beast.

  “Will you speak now?” asked Yanez, once the glass was full.

  “Yes… yes…” gasped the minister.

  “Where then?”

  “In the Umananda Temple.”

  “We knew that. Where?”

  “In a chamber beneath the statue of Matsya.”

  “Where in the chamber?”

  “There’s a stone… a bronze ring… lift it up… inside a small chest…”

  “Swear on Shiva that you’ve told us the truth!”

  “I… I… I swear… water… water…”

  “One last question. Is anyone guarding the chamber?”

  “Two sentries.”

  “You may drink now, Excellency.”

  Instead of taking the glass, the minister grabbed one of the bottles, put it to his lips and swallowed furiously. When he had drained more than half the bottle it dropped from his hands and he fell back unconscious into Kammamuri’s arms.

  “Lay him on the couch,” said Yanez. “By Jupiter, what did you put in that sauce, Kammamuri? He’s not going to die, is he?”

  “No need to worry, Señor Yanez,” said the Maratha. “It was just a bhut jolokia, a strong chili pepper common in Assam. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “You’ll guard him, and I’ll have another two men stand watch at the door. If he escapes, we’re done for.”

  “What about us?” asked Sandokan. “What’s the next step?”

  “We’ll wait until nightfall, then go steal the Shaligram.”

  “And just why do you need that little shell?”

  “Patience, little brother, patience. Trust me; I’ll tell you all in good time.”

  Chapter 4

  The Shaligram

  TWELVE OR FOURTEEN hours after Kaksa Pharaum’s confession, Yanez, Sandokan, Tremal-Naik and ten Malays and Dyaks armed with torches, ropes, axes, rifles and krises emerged from the underground pagoda, and silently began to march up the left bank of the Brahmaputra.

  The sun had set five hours earlier and not a soul could be seen walking beneath the shadows of the peepals, palm and banyan trees that lined the riverbanks.

  After traveling in silence for a few miles the squad stopped opposite a small island that stood almost in the centre of the river, at the eastern end of the city.

  “This is the place!” said Yanez. “Bindar should be nearby.”

  “Is that the Indian who’s supposed to be meeting us?” asked Sandokan. “Are you sure we can trust him?”

  “He’s the son of one of Surama’s father’s servants; she said his loyalty is without question.”

  “I wouldn’t trust anyone in these lands,” replied the Tiger of Malaysia, shaking his head. “Aside from the Malays and Dyaks we brought with us.”

  “He knows the city better than we do and he’s been inside the temple. We could use a guide and I wager he’ll be quite useful.”

  Yanez walked to a large grove of bamboo trees that grew along the river’s edge, whistled softly, paused, then whistled three more times. Seconds later they heard a soft rustle among the tall reeds then suddenly a man emerged before him.

  “Good evening, sahib,” he said.

  The newcomer was about twenty years old, well built, with the fine features common to the warrior caste. He wore a languti[3] and a small blue cotton sash from which protruded a large wide-bladed dagger with a spear-shaped tip. His body had been smeared with ash, likely taken from the nearby cremation ground, a practice common to the followers of Shiva.

  “Did you bring the boat?” asked Yanez.

  “Yes, sir,” replied
the Indian. “It’s on the other side of the grove.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, sahib, as instructed. I would have brought others had you wished it; it wasn’t easy to manoeuvre the boat on my own.”

  “My men will suffice, they’re all able seamen. We’ll set off immediately.”

  “I must warn you of one thing.”

  “Speak, quickly.”

  “There’s a funeral for a Brahmin tonight at the pagoda.”

  “How long will the ceremony last?”

  “Hard to say. An hour, perhaps two.”

  “Will our arrival arouse suspicions?”

  “I don’t think so, sahib. People often visit the island,” replied the Indian.

  “Come then.”

  “I’d prefer it if no one saw us go ashore,” said Sandokan.

  “We’ll remain aboard until the mourners have left,” said Yanez. “They won’t pay much attention to us.”

  They followed the young Indian into the bamboo, slowly opening a path among the thick towering reeds, and soon reached the riverbank. A large bagla[4] had been moored close to shore, a sturdy, mastless vessel with a thatched bamboo cover to shelter its crew from the weather.

  Yanez and his companions embarked; the Malays and Dyaks grabbed the long oars and the boat set off towards the island, in the centre of which, atop a small hill, loomed the dark silhouette of the temple.

  The boat had not yet traveled halfway across the river when the small band of men caught their first glimpse of the mourners: a dozen torches burning brightly about the tiny cove that served as a dock for all visitors to the island.

  “There are more of them than I thought there would be,” said Yanez to Tremal-Naik. “Let’s hope it doesn’t cost us too much time.”

  “It’s ten o’clock now,” said the Indian, “it’ll be over by midnight. Since the ceremony is for a Brahmin, it’ll be longer than usual; Brahmin’s are entitled to special rites. If the deceased were of common caste, all would proceed more quickly. They’d lay his body upon a wooden board, fix a lantern by his feet and set him adrift. The current would carry him off to the Ganges, provided of course that the crocodiles and marabou didn’t get to him first.”

  “I don’t imagine many bodies make it to the Ganges intact,” said Sandokan, sitting at the edge of the boat.

  “You’re right,” said Tremal-Naik. “Once it floats past the outskirts of the city, the beasts descend upon it and pretty much pick it clean.”

  “What are these special Brahmin rites?” asked Sandokan.

  “When a Brahmin enters his final hours, a spot is chosen on the ground and smeared over with cow-dung and strewn with darbha grass. A new cloth is spread over the spot and the dying man is then laid upon it. Once in place, he gives his permission for the sarva prayaschitta to begin.

  “Sarva prayaschitta? What’s that?” asked Yanez.

  “A rite of preparation and purification.”

  “I thought Brahmins were pious holy men.”

  “What happens during that ceremony?” asked Sandokan.

  “The purohita, the priest conducting the ceremony, pours a few drops of pancha-gavia into the dying man’s mouth. That’s a mixture of milk, curds, ghee[5], cow urine and cow dung.”

  “What a concoction,” said Yanez. “What does that do?”

  “It purifies the body.”

  “And then what happens?” asked Sandokan, intrigued.

  “The dying man recites a few prayers, then a cow is led up to his side, he takes it buy the tail and offers it to another Brahmin as a gift.”

  “A last act of generosity?” asked Yanez.

  “Not quite. After they have ceased to live, all men must cross a river of fire before they can enter Narracka, our underworld, where Yama, Lord of Death and Justice lives. The cow will help him cross without being touched by the flames.”

  “And then what?” asked Sandokan.

  “You’re about to see for yourself,” said Tremal-Naik. “Do you see that woman running along the riverbank desperately waving her arms? That’s the man’s widow.”

  “Did you hear that? A splash! Did someone just jump into the river?”

  “That would be the Brahmin’s eldest son. Tradition dictates that he must don his finest clothes, jump into the river, then shave off his hair and beard.”

  “To purify himself for the ceremony?” asked Yanez.

  “Exactly.”

  The bagla drew up into the tiny cove, Bindar dropped anchor, and the vessel came to a halt about fifteen paces from the shore.

  Fifteen or twenty people, friends and relatives of the deceased, a pourohita, and a few Brahmin priests had gathered about a bamboo litter ornamented with flowers, green leaves, and coloured cloths upon which rested a corpse dressed in a large yellow silk dhoti. Each mourner carried a burning torch, enabling Yanez and his companions to watch what was happening.

  Once the eldest son had stepped out from the water his head and beard were quickly shaven. His mother had also had her hair shaven and, as a widow, would not be allowed to grow it back for the remainder of her life. Together they approached the litter and stood there for a moment. Then the Brahmin’s wife removed her mangalsutra, the necklace a groom ties about his bride’s neck on their wedding day, and laid it upon her husband’s body.

  The son placed a handful of flowers upon the corpse, then signalled for the litter to be carried to a shallow pit about two metres long and one metre wide. The pourohita chanted some prayers, and sprinkled the pit with ceremonial water, while the son threw several small coins into it.

  The funeral pyre was erected and the corpse was placed upon it, then the son took a small ball of dry cow-dung, set fire to it and placed it upon the hollow of his father’s stomach. Once the flame had died, the son placed a half rupee in his father’s mouth. Then the mourners came up one by one and put a few grains of rice in the dead man’s mouth alongside the coin. When each had had their turn, the closest relatives approached and removed the Brahmin’s jewels and dhoti and the body was covered with small splinters of wood which the son sprinkled with pancha-gavia. The son then walked round the funeral pyre three times and sprinkled the corpse with water from a clay pot that he carried on his shoulder.

  “Are they going to set fire to the body now?” Yanez asked Tremal-Naik.

  “Not yet. There’s one more thing the son has to do.”

  When the son had completed his third turn of the pyre, he took the clay pot and smashed it against his father’s head.

  “The wretch!” exclaimed Yanez. “What was that for?”

  “To free the soul,” replied Tremal-Naik.

  The relatives gathered in a circle about the body and at a signal from the pourohita touched their torches to the pyre. A large flame shot up, illuminating the night, and quickly engulfed the corpse.

  The holy men began to chant, the hum of their voices mingling with the crackle of wood. The Brahmin’s son and widow wailed in mourning, while the relatives rolled on the ground and beat their chests in agony.

  “A little harder and they’ll crack their ribs,” said Yanez. “I wager they’ll all spend the day in bed tomorrow.”

  The fire burned for fifteen minutes; once the corpse had been consumed the relatives gathered the bones and ashes and scattered them in the river, then walked to the forest without uttering a word and disappeared among the trees that covered most of the island.

  “Can we go ashore now?” asked Sandokan, turning to Bindar who had watched the ceremony in silence.

  “Yes, sahib,” replied the Indian. “The temple’s gurus have all retired for the night. They’ll all be asleep before long.”

  “Itching to flex your muscles, little brother?” asked Yanez.

  “Yes,” replied the Tiger of Malaysia. “I’ve been idle for far too long.”

  The Malays and Dayaks began to row towards shore, Bindar letting out more anchor cable as they advanced.

  “The two of you will stay behind to guard the
boat,” said Yanez, pointing to a pair of his men once the vessel had touched ground. “If all goes well, we’ll be back shortly.”

  They picked up their weapons, silently stepped ashore and quickly headed into a forest of tara palms and bamboo trees.

  Bindar led the way with Yanez at his side. Despite the assurances he had given Sandokan, the Portuguese did not fully trust the Indian and wanted to keep an eye on him.

  The pagoda was less than two rifle shots from the cove, about a twenty-minute walk up a small hill. Though not a soul was in sight, the small band advanced cautiously, trying to avoid being seen. When they emerged from the forested slopes they found themselves before a large clearing dotted with groups of small plants.

  The Umananda Temple towered before them, a large beehive-shaped structure adorned from top to bottom with sculptures and carvings of gods and beasts from Hindu mythology. A gopuram, a large rectangular tower that narrowed as it rose, stood at its entrance; its walls as ornate as the great stone building behind it. A lamp burned in one of its windows about twenty feet from the ground.

  “That’s where we go in, sahib,” said Bindar, turning to Yanez, who had frowned at the sight of that light.

  “Is there a sentry up there?” asked the Portuguese.

  “No, sir. There’s always a lamp burning in that window at night. If this were a holiday there would be four of them.”

  “Where is the statue of Matsya?”

  “In the main sanctuary inside the temple.”

  Yanez turned to his men.

  “Any volunteers to climb up to the window and throw us down a rope?”

  “Why don’t we just force the doors?” asked Sandokan.

  “We wouldn’t have much luck,” said Tremal-Naik. “They’re made of thick heavy bronze; we’d never be able to smash through them. Your men should be able to make that climb with ease, simple work for a seaman.”

  “True,” said Yanez.

  He pointed to a Malay and a Dyak, the two youngest men in the group.

  “Gentlemen, if you’d do the honours.”

  The two men immediately stepped forward and began to make their way towards the window, gripping statues and carvings as they climbed. For those men, accustomed to scrambling up masts and scaling the enormous trees of the Bornean jungle, that ascent posed little challenge. They reached the windowsill in less than half a minute, fastened their ropes about a pair of iron brackets in the wall, and cast them to the men below.