end of the tunnel the fine droplets of blood looked like powdered rubies. The man fell, screamed and thrashed. The Tippoo, stunned by the suddenness of the bodyguard’s unexpected death, paused, and behind him a terrible roar sounded as the assaulting redcoats closed in on the mouth of the tunnel. The bodyguard turned back to face their attackers with fixed bayonets.
‘Go, Your Majesty!’ A wounded aide thrust a rifle into the Tippoo’s hands, then dared to push his monarch into the tunnel. The Tippoo allowed himself to be pushed into the shadows, but stopped close to the mouth of the tunnel and from there he stared into the vaporous darkness. Was an enemy there? He could not see because of the smoke. Behind him were the harsh sounds of volleys and curses as his bodyguard died, and as they died their bodies were making a terrible barricade that protected the Tippoo, but what waited in front of him? He peered, reluctant to go forward into the shit-stinking gloom, but then the aide snatched at the Tippoo’s elbow and dragged him deeper into the darkness. The few surviving bodyguards were defending the tunnel with bayonets, stabbing at the crazed redcoats who tried to scramble across the bloody pile of corpses.
‘Open the gate!’ the aide shouted, then he saw the shadow within the shadow at the end of the tunnel and he dropped to one knee and took aim with his jewelled rifle. He fired, and the golden tiger-mask doghead snapped forward onto the fiizzen. Sharpe threw himself to one side just as the gun fired, heard the bullet snick the wall and ricochet into the teak door, then he saw the aide pull a long pistol from his sash. Sharpe fired first, the boom of his musket echoing in the tunnel like doom’s diunder. The ball hurled the aide back into a deep pool, and suddenly there was only the Tippoo and Sharpe left.
Sharpe stood and grinned at the Tippoo. ‘Bastard,’ he said, seeing the glint of light reflected from the ruby in his enemy’s
helmet. ‘Bastard,’ he said again. He had one loaded musket left. The Tippoo was holding a rifle. Sharpe stepped forward.
The Tippoo recognized the hard, bloody face in the gloom. He smiled. Fate was most strange, he thought. Why had he not killed this man when he had the chance? Behind him his bodyguard was dying and the victorious redcoats were plundering their bodies, while in front of him was freedom and life, except for one man to whom the Tippoo had shown mercy. Just one man.
‘Bastard,’ Sharpe said again. He wanted to be close when he killed the Tippoo, close enough to make certain of the man’s death.
Behind the Tippoo the bright daylight was dulled by the swirling gunsmoke where dying men gasped and victorious men looted. ‘Mercy is God’s prerogative, not man’s,’ the Tippoo said in Persian, ‘and I should never have been merciful to you.’ He aimed the rifle at Sharpe and pulled the trigger, but the gun did not fire. In the panic of the last seconds the aide had handed the Tippoo an unloaded rifle and the flint had sparked on an empty pan. The Tippoo smiled, tossed the gun aside and unsheathed his tiger-hilted sword. There was blood on his arm, and more on his chintz trousers, but he showed no fear, he even seemed to relish the moment. ‘How I do hate your cursed race,’ he said calmly, giving the sword a cut through the smoky air.
Sharpe did not understand the Tippoo any more than the Tippoo understood Sharpe. ‘You’re a fat little bastard,’ Sharpe said, ‘and you took away my medal. I wanted that. It’s the only medal I’ve ever got.’
The Tippoo just smiled. His helmet had been dipped in the fountain of life, but it had not worked. The magic had failed and only Allah was left. He waited for the snarling redcoat to shoot, then a shout sounded in the mouth of the tunnel and the Tippoo turned, hoping that one last bodyguard would come to save him.
But no bodyguard appeared and the Tippoo turned back to face Sharpe. ‘I dreamed of death last night,’ he said in Persian as he limped forward and raised the curved blade to strike at the redcoat. ‘I dreamed of monkeys, and monkeys mean death. I should have killed you.’