“Heaven forbid! I’d never mock a man in your position; now a tiger, that’s another matter. They’re far more dangerous than men and much more fun to goad. Do you not agree, Mr. Teotokris?”
“So you’re determined to stay?”
“I didn’t come here to kill just one kala baagh,” replied Yanez. “I intend to go back to Bengal with a large number of pelts. Besides, I find it quite comfortable here in the royal palace.”
“The rajah is quite capricious. He may order you to bring him a tiger pelt every day.”
“It would be my pleasure. Have I not been appointed his chief huntsman?”
“He may also ask to see your papers so that he may determine that you are who you say you are. It’s not uncommon for an adventurer to try to pass himself off as a lord.”
This time it was Yanez who turned paled.
“That, Mr. Teotokris, is an insult.”
“Not if you aren’t who you claim to be.”
“You, sir, have crossed the line. A lord never allows an insult to go unpunished. I demand satisfaction.”
“Most certainly, provided you allow me to choose the weapons and that the duel is public.”
“By all means,” replied Yanez.
“Tomorrow then.”
“So be it.”
“The rajah and his court will be our witnesses.”
“Very well.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon.”
Chapter 11
The Play
INDIANS, LIKE EUROPEANS and the inhabitants of many other Asian nations, have a great passion for the theater. Playwrights have drawn their tales from the great epics of old and from India’s religious history and there are many plays that recount the exploits of Rama, Krishna, or Pandu or depict the great battles between gods, giants and demons.
Plays are usually performed outdoors; the stage is open on all sides and traditionally is set with few props and little furniture. It is lit by several oil lamps suspended from a wire. Actors reach the stage through a pass-way that goes right through the audience.
A typical play is about four hours long and contains music, dance, pantomime and many elaborate costumes. The audience sits on the floor, on mats, in the dark, and may smoke, eat and drink as long as it does not disturb the actors. Sometimes, an awning is erected if an important guest is in attendance.
The actors are all male. Women are not allowed to appear on stage and so it is young boys who are trained to play female roles, which they do with great ability, having been trained from a very young age in the techniques of facial expressions, body form and movement.
***
Several hours after the sun had set, the khansama informed Yanez that the play was about to begin and that the rajah was waiting for him beneath the awning that had been erected in the grand courtyard opposite the platform that was to serve as the stage.
“I can’t wait to see his face,” the Portuguese murmured, smiling wryly. “I bet he doesn’t sleep a wink tonight.”
It was a bold move, not without risk; even more caution was warranted now that he was certain the Greek was an enemy, but the Portuguese knew he could count on his men if things got out of hand. He hid his pistols and kris in his sash, ordered his men to do the same, then walked down into the courtyard trying to look as calm as possible.
All had been prepared for the performance. The stage, a simple platform, was adorned with a few porcelain vases brimming with large bouquets of flowers, and lit by a hundred multi-coloured lamps.
Soldiers and servants sat on the carpet on either side, the gentle hum of their conversation carrying over the courtyard. Opposite the stage, beneath a large brightly coloured silk awning, sat the Greek, the rajah, his ministers and senior state officials, smoking, drinking or chewing betel while they waited for the performance to begin.
The rajah was in fine spirits and bid Yanez to sit down on the chair to his right.
“I hope the show pleases you, my lord,” he said, the smell of gin heavy on his breath. “They’re the finest actors in my kingdom, I handpicked them all myself.”
“I’m delighted, Highness,” said Yanez. “I love the theater.”
“Drink, my lord,” said the rajah, handing him a cup. “British gin. There is none finer.”
“Later, Highness,” said the Portuguese, noticing that Teotokris had filled the cup. “I’m not thirsty just now.”
He set the cup down on the chair beside him, planning to accidentally knock it over later; he did not trust the Greek.
The rajah clapped his hands and fifty actors walked out onto the stage. Some were dressed as old men in princely garb; others as women and children. A sinister looking rajah stood at the centre, a young prince, who oddly resembled Sindhia, at his side. Off to the left stood a little girl in lavish clothes, about ten years old, standing next to an old warrior with a long white beard who appeared to be her father.
The Portuguese smiled.
“Perfect,” he murmured happily, “Worth every rupee.”
After a long exchange of compliments between the rajah and his guests, a large table was brought onto the stage laden with food and dishes. As they began to eat, musicians filled the air with music and a troupe of nautchni twirled onto the stage, dancing to the sounds of the gongs, dhols,[18] sitars, and sarangis.[19]
The actors continued to eat heartily, draining flasks of toddy, while they laughed and chatted loudly. Towards the end of the banquet, the rajah stood up and left his guests then reappeared moments later with several of his ministers on the balcony that overlooked the stage. He was holding a rifle; the men about him carried bottles and glasses.
Within seconds a shot rang out and one of the guests, the old white-bearded warrior, fell, and the little girl who had been sitting beside him, fled, screaming in terror.
A second shot thundered and another man fell writhing in agony. The rajah, wild eyed and smiling savagely, drained a glass of alcohol that a minister handed him, then took up another rifle and fired once more.
Terrified, the guests fled in all directions. They dashed behind the table, hid behind chairs, tried to shield themselves with trays and dishes or whatever was at hand, filling the air with screams of fear and pleas for mercy.
The rajah, unmoved, continued to fire. Shots thundered one after the other; the old men were the first to die, then the women, then the children, until at last only two guests remained: the young prince who resembled Sindhia and the young girl who had been sitting next to the old warrior.
Yanez glanced at the rajah. The smile had vanished from the ruler’s lips; his face had hardened and turned pale and a deep frown now lined his brow.
Better than I expected, thought the Portuguese. Wait until the end, my friend. The best is yet to come.
He turned his eyes back towards the play. The shots had stopped; the rajah had taken another cup and was studying his victims, counting them one by one.
The young prince, standing in the centre of the stage surrounded by the dead, fell to his knees, his hands clasped in desperate supplication.
“Spare me! Spare me, and I’ll leave your kingdom! I am your brother! We’re of the same blood!”
The rajah hesitated for a moment as he took in those words. His features softened and he almost smiled, then he tossed one of his carbines onto the stage.
“I’ll spare you,” he shouted, “if you strike this rupee before it hits the ground. Fail and you’ll suffer the same fate as the others.”
“I accept!” cried the young prince.
He picked up the carbine; the coin was cast, a shot thundered through the air and the rajah fell back in his chair, shot through the heart.
The dead tyrant’s ministers rushed down into the courtyard and threw themselves at the young prince’s feet, but the young man ignored them, grabbed the little girl who was weeping over her father’s body, and cried out:
“Take her away! Sell her as a slave!”
Several fierc
e looking Indians suddenly rushed onto the stage clad in little more than a yellow loincloth and turban. Each had a yellow silk rumaal fastened about his waist and a tattoo of a woman with a coiled serpentine body upon his chest. One could tell at a glance that they were thugs, bloodthirsty stranglers feared throughout all of India.
They grabbed the girl, stuffed her into a large sack and carried her off, ignoring her pleas and screams.
Yanez cast another glance at the rajah. His frown had darkened, his brow was bathed in sweat, and his lips were parted as if he were about to cry out, but not a word came forth.
“He doesn’t dare,” murmured the Portuguese.
The actors retired and moments later a few gongs began to sound, then sitars and dhols added their notes and the music swelled into a triumphal march. Suddenly twenty warriors stormed onto the stage with scimitars unsheathed, followed by a palanquin born by eight bearers carrying a beautiful young princess wearing a royal crown.
The rajah could contain himself no longer. He let out a roar like a wild beast and would have given even greater voice to his displeasure had he not been startled by a cry of pain.
The audience sprang to their feet. Even the rajah had risen and was looking at his ministers in bewilderment. It had been a man of high rank that had cried out, his lips were flecked with foam and he swayed slightly as the officials by his side tried to support him.
“What happened?” shouted Sindhia.
“Highness… I’m dying!” the minister replied, his voice little more than a whisper.
Yanez glanced about him and suddenly turned pale. The cup of gin he had been offered was now empty.
“That was meant for me,” he murmured.
Panic and confusion had spread beneath the awning. Everyone was shouting and trying to help the poor man who had begun to vomit blood. The royal doctor was immediately summoned, but when he reached the minister’s side he could tell with a glance that there was no hope.
“This man has been poisoned,” he said.
The rajah turned, his eyes sweeping every face beneath the awning, his gaze filled with anger.
“There is a murderer among us!” he shouted. “Find him or I’ll behead you all! Am I understood? That poison was meant for me!”
“Or me, Highness?” said Yanez.
The rajah looked at him in amazement.
“You, my lord?”
“I’m almost positive. I didn’t drink my glass of gin. It’s empty now. It could have been poisoned.”
“Where’s that glass, my lord?”
Yanez turned to pick it up, and gave a cry of rage.
“It’s gone!” he exclaimed.
“We shall find the guilty party, my lord, you have my word.”
“Thank you, Highness.”
“And the culprit will be executed,” he said coldly. Then he raised his voice and added, “The show is over. Everyone to their quarters. Even the guilty shall have one last night of rest.”
The ministers, still stunned by what they had seen, quickly drew back to give him room to pass.
The rajah shook hands with the Portuguese and then walked off towards the palace, a dark look upon his face. The Greek, as the rajah’s favorite, was about to follow, but Yanez quickly put up a restraining hand.
“A word, Teotokris.”
“Tomorrow, my lord,” replied the Greek. “The rajah awaits me.”
“I merely wished to thank you, sir.”
“Thank me? For what?”
“For being so obvious,” smiled Yanez. “I thought Greeks were clever; I gave you too much credit.”
“My lord!” the rajah’s favourite exclaimed hoarsely. “You think I was behind this? I swear I—”
“Spare me your empty claims of innocence. I’ve just seen one performance I have no need to watch another. We’ll settle this tomorrow! Go get some rest.”
The Greek looked at him evenly for a moment then turned and hurried away. Yanez watched him go, muttering a ‘go to hell you rascal’ under his breath. He summoned his Malays and walked out from beneath the awning.
The minister’s body had been set down on a carpet in the centre of the grand courtyard and a half dozen servants had gathered about it. The poison had worked quickly, killing the man in the prime of his life.
The Portuguese, more moved than he expected, removed his hat, and fixed his eyes upon the dead man’s face.
“Thank you for saving my life,” he whispered under his breath. “You shall be avenged.”
He turned and walked back towards his apartment, his Malays following close behind him. But just as he was about to ascend the stairs, a man grabbed his arm and then dropped to his knees before him. It was the sutradhara, the leader of the acting troupe.
“Save us, sahib,” he pleaded, “We’ll all be dead tomorrow.”
“What?” Yanez asked surprised.
“My troupe and I have but hours to live. The play caused quite a stir. The rajah was furious and vowed to cut off our heads at dawn.”
“Who told you that?”
“The rajah’s favorite.”
“Would you like some advice?”
“Absolutely, sahib.”
“You and your troupe must leave the palace immediately. Head for Bengal; you’ll be safe there. Kechik!”
The head of the Malay escort came forward.
“Give this man another five hundred rupees,” said Yanez. “Is that enough to get you and your troupe to the border?”
“Far more than enough, sahib,” replied the actor. “Thank you, you are most generous!”
“Here, take a couple hundred more. Best to be safe.”
“I’ll build a great theater in your honour, sahib. You’ll always be welcome.”
“As you wish, hurry now, you don’t want to get caught before sunrise.”
“The rajah will never find us, sahib. If I can ever be of service to you, do not hesitate to contact me.”
“Thank you, now go. Time is of the essence.”
Yanez climbed the stairs and entered his apartment where he found the khansama waiting for him.
“Bar the door,” he instructed his Malays once they were all inside, “and keep your rifles near. Anything can happen, we may even be attacked.”
“Yes, captain,” replied Kechik. “Rest easy, sir. No one will get past us. Should we inform Sandokan of what has happened? I can have one of our men relay a message.”
“Not just yet. Now then, you may go, I wish to speak with the khansama.”
He sat down at the table, uncorked a bottle of gin, sniffed it, then filled a glass and handed it to the khansama.
“Would you be afraid to drink this?” he asked.
“Why, my lord?” the khansama replied in surprise.
“Have you not heard? One of the rajah’s ministers has just been poisoned.”
“I heard, sahib,” said the khansama. “He was the rajah’s treasurer.”
“But did you know that he died because he drank a glass of gin that had been offered to me?”
“What, my lord!” exclaimed the Indian, astonished.
“It’s true.”
“Someone tried to poison you?”
“Apparently,” Yanez replied coolly.
“But who would do such a thing?”
“You tell me, khansama, who would have reason to dispose of me?”
The khansama fell silent.
“The rajah?” asked Yanez.
“Impossible, my lord!” cried the Indian. “You’re the rajah’s guest and he owes you a great debt. You brought back the Shaligram and killed the kala baagh; why would he want you dead?”
“Who then?”
“The other white man.”
“The favorite?”
The Indian hesitated for a moment.
“Yes,” he answered frankly
“I thought as much,” said Yanez.
“He may fear that you could take his place, my lord.”
“Could this gin be poisoned as well?
”
“No, my lord. I drew these bottles from the rajah’s private cellars. They have not been tampered with.”
“Drink then.”
“To your health, my lord.”
The khansama drained his glass in one shot.
“It’s excellent, my lord.”
“Then I’ll drink as well,” said Yanez, filling another glass. “‘Go rest now: I’ll call if I need you.”
The khansama bowed and withdrew. Yanez emptied another glass and lit a cigarette.
“First move to Teotokris,” he said, exhaling a mouthful of smoke. “But it will take more than that to trap me in his web. Tomorrow I’ll put an end to him.”
Chapter 12
The Duel
SEVERAL KNOCKS ON his bedroom door awakened Yanez the next morning. He had slept soundly, but could easily have rested for another hour. He opened his eyes and bid the person to enter; it was the khansama accompanied by one of the rajah’s officials.
“My lord,” said the servant, as the official bowed politely, “the rajah is expecting you.”
“Give me five minutes,” Yanez replied with a yawn.
Once the two men had left, he got up, slowly put on his clothes, tucked his pistols in his sash and went into the drawing room.
Morning tea had been prepared and set upon the table, the khansama and the official stood patiently, waiting for his lordship to appear. Yanez picked up the pot and poured himself a cup.
“What does his Highness desire of me this morning?” he asked as he put the cup to his lips.
“I do not know, my lord,” replied the official.
“Is he in a good mood or a bad mood?”
“He appears troubled, my lord. He’s had an argument with his favourite.”
“Ah! Mr. Teotokris!” Yanez said almost absently. “He’s always in a bad mood.”
“True, my lord!”
“What do the people think of him?”
“Everyone fears him.”
“What about me? Do they fear me as well?”
“Oh no, my lord. All admire you; many would gladly see you take his place.”
Good to know, thought the Portuguese.
He quickly drained the cup, summoned his Malays, and followed the official out of the room.
Sandokan: Quest for a Throne (The Sandokan Series Book 6) Page 11