Tippoo finally let the tiger organ fall silent. ‘I suspect the man is a spy,’ he said suddenly.
‘Then kill him,’ Appah Rao said.
‘A failed spy,’ the Tippoo said. ‘You say he is a Scot?’ he asked Gudin.
‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’
‘Not English, then?’
‘No, sire.’
The Tippoo shrugged at the distinction. ‘Whatever his tribe, he is an old man, but is that reason to show him mercy?’
The question was directed at Colonel Gudin who, once it was translated, stiffened. ‘He was captured in uniform, Your Majesty, so he does not deserve death.’ Gudin would have liked to add that it would be uncivilized even to contemplate killing such a prisoner, but he knew the Tippoo hated being patronized and so he kept silent.
‘He is here, is he not?’ the Tippoo demanded. ‘Does that not deserve death? This is not his land, these are not his people, and the bread and water he consumes are not his.’
‘Kill him, Your Majesty,’ Gudin warned, ‘and the British will show no mercy on any prisoners they take.’
‘I am full of mercy,’ the Tippoo said, and mostly that was true. There was a time for being ruthless and a time for showing mercy, and maybe this Scotsman would be a useful pawn if there was a need to hold a hostage. Besides, the Tippoo’s dream the night before had promised well, and this morning’s auguries had been similarly hopeful, so today he could afford to show mercy. ‘Put him in the cells for now,’ the Tippoo said. Somewhere in the palace a French-made clock chimed the hour, reminding the Tippoo that it was time for his prayers. He dismissed his entourage, then went to the simple chamber where, facing west towards Mecca, he made his daily obeisances.
Outside, cheated of their prey, the tigers slunk back to the courtyard’s shadows. One beast yawned, another slept. There would be other days and other men to eat. That was what the six tigers lived for, the days when their master was not merciful.
While up in the Inner Palace, with his back to the canopied throne of gold, Colonel Jean Gudin turned the tiger’s handle. The tiger growled, the claws raked back and forth across the wooden, blood-painted flesh, and the redcoat cried aloud.
Sharpe had not meant to cry out. Before the punishment had begun he had been determined to show no weakness and he had even been angry with himself that he had flinched as the first blow fell, but that sudden pain had been so acute that he had involuntarily shuddered. Since then he had closed his eyes and bitten down on the leather, but in his head a silent scream shrilled as the lashes landed one after the other.
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