his right, but the closest guard just edged away. A carved stool had
been fetched from the shrine and Jama was now sitting at the top of the
steps. A huge bat flickered in and out of the torchlight. Sharpe
walked forward, testing his legs, and was amazed he could stand at all.
The crowd jeered his faltering gait, and the sound made Prithviraj turn
from his devotions. He saw that Sharpe posed no danger and so turned
back to the god.
Sharpe staggered. He did it deliberately, making himself look weaker
than he really was. He swayed, pretending that he was about to fall,
then took some slurred sideways steps to get close to one of the
guards. Seize a musket, he told himself, then ram its muzzle into
Jama’s face. He swayed sideways again, and the closest guard just
stepped back and levelled the bayonet at Sharpe. The dozen sentries
plainly had orders to keep Sharpe inside thejettfs killing ground.
Sharpe measured the distance, wondering if he could get past the
bayonet to seize the musket, but a second guard came to reinforce the
first.
Then Prithviraj stood.
He was a bloody giant, Snarpe thought, a giant with an oiled skin and
upper arms as thick as most men’s thighs. The crowd murmured in
admiration again, and then Prithviraj undid his loincloth and let it
fall so that he was naked like Sharpe. The gesture seemed to imply
that he sought no advantage over his opponent, though as the huge man
came down from the shrine the second jetti took care to stay close
beside him.
Two against one, and the second had a spear, and Sharpe had nothing.
He glanced at the burning torches, wondering if he could seize one and
brandish it as a weapon, but they were mounted too high. Christ, he
thought, but do something! Anything! Panic began to close in on him,
fluttering like the bat which swooped into the flame light again.
He backed away from the jet tis and the crowd jeered him. He did not
care. He was watching Prithviraj. A slow-moving man, too musclebound
to be quick, and Sharpe guessed that was why the second jetti was
present. His job would be to herd Sharpe with the glittering spear,
and afterwards to hold him still as Prithviraj tore off fingers, toes
and ears.
So take the spearman first, Sharpe told himself, put the bastard down
and take his weapon. He edged to his left, circling the courtyard to
try and position himself closer to the spear-carrying jetti. The crowd
sighed as he moved, enjoying the thought that the Englishman would put
up a fight.
The spear followed Sharpe’s movements. He would have to be quick,
Sharpe thought, desperately quick, and he doubted he could do it.
HakeswilPs kicking had slowed him, but he had to try and so he kept on
circling, then abruptly charged in to attack the spearman, but the
weapon was jabbed towards him and Prithviraj was much faster than
Sharpe had expected and leaped to catch him, and Sharpe had to twist
awkwardly away. The crowd laughed at his clumsiness.
“Accept your death,” Jama called. A servant was fanning the merchant’s
face.
Sweat poured down Sharpe’s cheeks. He had been forced towards that
part of the courtyard nearest the temple’s entrance where there were
two stone flights of stairs leading up to the cloister. The steps,
jutting into the yard, formed a bay in which Sharpe suddenly realized
he was trapped. He moved sideways, but the spear-carrying jetti
covered him. The two men knew he was cornered now and came slowly
towards him and Sharpe could only back away until his spine touched the
cloister’s edge.
One of the spectators kicked him, but with more malice than force. The
jet tis came on slowly, wary in case he suddenly broke to right or
left.
Prithviraj was flexing his huge fingers, making them supple for the
night’s work. Scraps of smouldering ash whirled away from the torches,
one settling on Sharpe’s shoulder. He brushed it off.
“Sahib?” a voice hissed from behind Sharpe.
“Sahib?”
Prithviraj looked calm and confident. No bloody wonder, Sharpe
thought. So kick the naked bugger in the crotch. He reckoned that was