than anything produced in medieval Europe. The wan yellow light of his lantern washed across caparisoned elephants, fierce gods and marching armies, all made of stone.
He climbed the steps to the central shrine, passed between its vast, squat pillars and so went into the sanctuary. The roof here, beneath the temple’s high carved tower, was fashioned into lotus blossoms. The idols stared blankly from their niches with flowers and leaves drying at their feet. The Colonel placed the lantern on the flagstone floor, then sat cross-legged and waited. He closed his eyes, letting his ears identify the noises of the night beyond the temple’s walls. McCandless had come to this remote temple with an escort of six Indian lancers, but he had left that escort two miles away in case their presence should have inhibited the man he was hoping to meet. So now he just waited with eyes closed and arms folded, and after a while he heard the thump of a hoof on dry earth, the chink of a snaffle chain, and then, once again, silence. And still he waited with eyes closed.
‘If you were not in that uniform,’ a voice said a few moments later, ‘I would think you were at your prayers.’
‘The uniform does not disqualify me from prayer, any more than does your uniform,’ the Colonel answered, opening his eyes. He stood. ‘Welcome, General.’
The man who faced McCandless was younger than the Scot, but every inch as tall and lean. Appah Rao was now a general in the forces of the Tippoo Sultan, but once, many years before, he had been an officer in one of McCandless’s sepoy battalions and it was that old acquaintanceship, which had verged upon friendship, that had persuaded McCandless it was worth risking his own life to talk to Appah Rao. Appah Rao had served under McCandless’s orders until his father had died, and then, trained as a soldier, he had returned to his native Mysore. Today he had watched from the ridge as the Tippoo’s infantry had been massacred by a single British volley. The experience had made him sour, but he forced a grudging courtesy into his voice. ‘So you’re still alive, Major?’ Appah Rao spoke in Kanarese, the language of the native Mysoreans.
‘Still alive, and a full colonel now,’ McCandless answered in the same tongue. ‘Shall we sit?’
Appah Rao grunted, then sat opposite McCandless. Behind him, beyond the sunken courtyard where they were framed by the temple’s gateway, were two soldiers. They were Appah Rao’s escort and McCandless knew they must be trusted men, for if the Tippoo Sultan were ever to discover that this meeting had taken place then Appah Rao and all his family would be killed. Unless, of course, the Tippoo already knew and was using Appah Rao to make some mischief of his own.
The Tippoo’s General was dressed in his master’s tiger-striped tunic, but over it he wore a sash of the finest silk and slung across his shoulder was a second silk sash from which hung a gold-hilted sword. His boots were red leather and his hat a coil of watered red silk on which a milky-blue jewel gleamed soft in the lantern’s flickering light. ‘You were at Malavelly today?’ he asked McCandless.
‘I was,’ McCandless said. Malavelly was the nearest village to where the battle had been fought.
‘So you know what happened?’
‘I know the Tippoo sacrificed hundreds of your people,’ McCandless said. ‘Your people, General, not his.’
Appah Rao dismissed the distinction. ‘The people follow him.’
‘Because they have no choice. They follow, but do they love him?’
‘Some do,’ Appah Rao answered. ‘But what does it matter? Why should a ruler want his people’s love? Their obedience, yes, but love? Love is for children, McCandless, and for gods and for women.’
McCandless smiled, tacitly yielding the argument which was not important. He did not have to persuade Appah Rao to treachery, the very presence of the Mysorean General was proof that he was already halfway to betraying the Tippoo, but McCandless did not expect the General to yield gracefully. There was pride at stake here, and Appah Rao’s pride was great and needed to be handled as gently as a cocked duelling pistol. Appah Rao had always been thus, even when he was a young man in the Company’s army, and McCandless approved of that pride. He had always respected Appah Rao, and still did, and he believed Appah Rao returned the respect. It was in that belief that the Colonel had sent a message to Seringapatam. The message was carried by one of the Company’s native agents who wandered as a naked fakir through southern India. The message had been concealed in the man’s long greasy hair and it had invited Appah Rao to a reunion with his old commanding officer. The reply had specified this temple and this night as the rendezvous. Appah Rao was flirting with treachery, but that did not mean he was finding it either easy or pleasant.
‘I have a gift,’ McCandless said, changing the subject, ‘for your Rajah.’
‘He is in need of gifts.’
‘Then this comes with our most humble duty and high respect.’ McCandless took a leather bag from his sporran and placed it beside the lantern. The bag chinked as it was laid down and, though Appah Rao glanced at it, he did not take it. ‘Tell your Rajah,’ McCandless said, ‘that it is our desire to place him back on his throne.’
‘And who will stand behind his throne?’ Appah Rao demanded. ‘Men in red coats?’
‘You will,’ McCandless said, ‘as your family always did.’
‘And you?’ the General asked. ‘What do you want?’
‘To trade. That is the Company’s business: trade. Why should we become rulers?’
Appah Rao sneered. ‘Because you always do. You come as merchants, but you bring guns and use them to make yourselves into taxmen, judges and executioners. Then you bring your churches.’ He shuddered.
‘We come to trade,’ McCandless insisted equably. ‘And what would you prefer, General? To trade with the British or be ruled by Muslims?’
And that, McCandless knew, was the question that had brought Appah Rao to this temple in the dark night. Mysore was a Hindu country and its ancient rulers, the Wodeyars, were Hindus like their people, but the Tippoo’s father, the fierce Hyder Ali, had come from the north and conquered their state and the Tippoo had inherited his father’s stolen throne. To give himself a shred of legality the Tippoo, like his father before him, kept the old ruling family alive, but the Wodeyars were now reduced to poverty and to ceremonial appearances only. The new Rajah was scarce more than a child, but to many of Mysore’s Hindus he was still their rightful monarch, though that was an opinion best kept secret from the Tippoo.
Appah Rao had not answered the Scotsman’s question, so McCandless phrased it differently. ‘Are you the last Hindu senior officer in the Tippoo’s army?’
‘There are others,’ Appah Rao said evasively.
‘And the rest?’
Appah Rao paused. ‘Fed to his tigers,’ he eventually admitted.
‘And soon, General,’ McCandless said softly, ‘there will be no more Hindu officers in Mysore and some very fat tigers. And if you defeat us you will still not be safe. The French will come.’
Appah Rao shrugged. ‘There are already Frenchmen in Seringapatam. They demand nothing of us.’
‘Yet,’ McCandless said ominously. ‘But let me tell you what stirs in the wide world, General. There is a new French general named Bonaparte. His army sits on the Nile now, but there is nothing in Egypt that interests Bonaparte or the French. They
