Sandokan: The Two Tigers (The Sandokan Series Book 4)

by Emilio Salgari

  “Do you think the Thugs will recognize me?”

  “No one could possibly imagine you’re the same man we met yesterday.”

  “It was necessary, sir. This morning I spotted several suspicious looking characters milling about my master’s house.”

  “They probably followed you,” said Sandokan.

  “I took several precautions. I left home in a covered palanquin and had them take me to the Strand where there’s always a large crowd. I got out in front of a hotel, went inside and donned my disguise. No one recognized me when I came out, not even my servants. The feal charra was docked a good distance away in the Black Town; no one could have followed me.”

  “We can never be too cautious! The Thugs know we’re your master’s friends, and they’re keeping an eye on us.”

  The Maratha’s eyes widened in fear.

  “Impossible!” he exclaimed.

  “They tried to strangle us last night, shortly after we left you,” said Sandokan.

  “What!”

  “Bah! The attack failed, they received two bullets for their efforts, one of which found its mark. However, that trap is the least of our worries. We had a suspicious visitor a short while ago. Some kind of witchdoctor came aboard and sacrificed a goat.”

  “A mahant,” said Yanez.

  Kammamuri turned pale.

  “A mahant?” he cried.

  “You know him?” asked Sandokan, a note of unease in his voice.

  The Maratha remained silent a moment as a look of fear spread across his face.

  “Tell us everything,” said Yanez, concerned by that sudden change in expression. “Who was that man? Have you seen him before?”

  “Can you describe him?” asked Kammamuri, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Tall, old, with a long white beard and dark piercing eyes.”

  “That’s him! That’s him!”

  “That’s who?”

  “The same man came to my master’s house twice to perform pooja. I spotted him a few more times after that, on our street, studying our windows. Yes, tall, thin with a white beard and dark piercing eyes.”

  “Pooja?” exclaimed Sandokan. “You’ll have to explain that, my friend. You forget we’re not Indians.”

  “It’s a ceremony performed in homes to solicit the favour of the gods. We sprinkle the rooms with a mixture of urine and cow dung[5], light several lamps and make an offering of flowers, rice and ghee.”

  “The mahant performed that ceremony in your master’s house?” asked Sandokan.

  “Yes, fifteen days ago,” replied Kammamuri. “The same man who came aboard this morning, I’m certain of it. That wretch is one of Suyodhana’s spies.”

  “He was accompanied by an Indian police officer.”

  “A police officer!” Kammamuri exclaimed in amazement. “Impossible! Mahants have no need for police. They always work alone. The Thugs have deceived you once again.”

  Kammamuri expected the Tiger of Malaysia to cry out in rage, however, the formidable pirate remained unperturbed; in fact he appeared more satisfied than disappointed.

  “Excellent,” he said. “We’ll turn that little trick to our advantage. Would you recognize that man if you saw him again, my good Kammamuri?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So would I. Did you bring the clothes I asked for?”

  “There are four full crates in the feal charra.”

  “What are you planning, Sandokan?” asked Yanez.

  “The mahant will tell us if the Thugs have hidden little Darma somewhere in the caverns of Rajmangal,” replied the Tiger of Malaysia. “We needed a Thug who could provide us with information, and now we have one at hand, and by Allah, he’ll tell us everything he knows. We just have to find him.”

  “Calcutta is a large place, little brother. It’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “It may be less difficult than you think,” said Kammamuri. “There’s a temple to Kali in the Black Town that’s well frequented by the Thugs. For the last three days, there have been celebrations there to honour Dharmaraja and his wife Draupadi. It’s one of our most popular festivals; the mahant is sure to attend.”

  “It’d be an incredible stroke of luck,” said Sandokan. “When do the festivities begin?”

  “In the evening, shortly after sunset.”

  “And in the meantime? Are you going back to Tremal-Naik?”

  “No, he’ll meet us aboard your ship later tonight, sometime between midnight and dawn, provided he can sneak past the Thugs.”

  “Excellent. He’ll be safer here than in his palace. Now, let’s have some lunch, later you’ll help us prepare our disguises. It’s absolutely vital the mahant doesn’t recognize us. I didn’t think I’d have such luck in only twelve hours. Once that scoundrel falls into our hands, we can begin to move against Suyodhana. Ah! What about the elephants?”

  “My master’s servants have already made enquiries; we should have them in a couple of days.”

  “The Thugs must not see them. They may guess we plan to set off for the southern jungles.”

  “They’ve been instructed to take them to Khari, a tiny hamlet on the outskirts of the Sundarbans. My master has a bungalow there.”

  “Excellent. Let’s have lunch, my friends; it’s been an eventful morning.”

  Chapter 5

  The Dharmaraja Festival

  THE SUN WAS about to disappear behind the domes and steeples of the Black Town’s pagodas, when the whaleboat pulled away from the prahu’s side and began to ascend the river. She was driven by eight mighty oarsmen, eight Malays selected from among the strongest of the crew.

  Kammamuri, Sandokan and Yanez, disguised as Kolkari Muslims, sat at the stern, alongside Sambigliong, the Marianna’s quartermaster, a skilled warrior and a veteran of the Tiger of Malaysia’s most daring campaigns. They appeared unarmed; however, a slight bulge in the loose folds of their clothing indicated that they had not left their knives and pistols behind.

  The whaleboat advanced rapidly; she coasted along the Strand, the nicest and most popular street in Calcutta, then headed towards the quays, sailing past rows of elegant palaces and bungalows surrounded by lush gardens. An hour later, they reached the Black Town.

  While the British quarter may rival the most beautiful European capitals, the native quarter is nothing more than a vast slum, with few monuments to match the grandiose Indian architecture that flourishes in Delhi, Agra, Benares and elsewhere. One passes without transition from the magnificent English villas, enormous palaces, brightly lit shops, theatres, squares and Anglican cathedrals to squalid huts, crumbling pagodas, and filthy bazaars built about a cobweb of winding muddy streets and lanes.

  The Black Town, though ancient, reeks of dirt and poverty; a more wretched place can scarcely be imagined. The natives there live in extreme misery, most in low dingy hovels made of mud or wooden planks. At night, its worst elements emerge and danger lurks behind every corner despite the constant vigilance of British and Indian police officers.

  It was eight o’clock when Kammamuri, Yanez, Sandokan and Sambigliong stepped ashore in the Black Town. The quay was crowded with sloops and fishing boats. Large numbers of Indians had come from the nearby villages to participate in the Dharmaraja festival and the jetties were bustling with activity. The celebrations must have already been underway for they could hear the deafening cacophony of tom-toms, drums, sitars and mrdangas off in the distance.

  “It’s the last night of the festival,” Kammamuri informed Sandokan. “And the most important. It’s the night of the fire walkers.”

  They joined the crowd of newcomers pouring into the Black Town’s muddy lanes. Coconut shells brimming with oil hung from the windows, their tiny flames barely illuminating the streets below them.

  Driven forward by the waves of people, twenty minutes later they found themselves in a vast square lit by a large number of torches. An ancient temple stood at one end, an ornately carved, flat-topped pyramid, i
ts many columns and sculptures black with age.

  The square was filled with Brahmins, baboos[6], sudras, farmers and fishermen. A space in the centre had been roped off where a large bed of coal had been set ablaze. Several squads of sepoys stood around it to prevent the crowd from drawing too close. The heat was almost stifling.

  “I’d hate to be the one walking across that,” said Sandokan, struggling to advance through the crowd.

  “You’re in for quite a show, Captain,” said the Maratha. “We still have a few minutes, let’s see if we can get into the temple. Our man will most likely be there.”

  Elbowing their way forward, they managed, with some difficulty, to reach the steps at the base of the temple, but once there they found their advance cut off by a thick wall of people.

  Fortunately the temple’s terrace was several feet off the ground, giving them a good view of the ceremony that was taking place before the statue that stood by the entrance.

  All Indian temples have at least two statues of their primary deity: one placed outside where people can make their offerings, the other is kept in an inner chamber, the garbhagriha, where only priests are allowed to enter.

  Before important ceremonies and festivals the priests wash the statue with cow’s milk or coconut oil then lavishly adorn it with garlands of flowers. They then invoke the spirit of the deity to enter the statue and parade it through the streets in elaborate processions. For Hindus, just catching a glimpse of a statue filled with a deity will bring great blessings.

  A larger number of torches had been lit about the statues of Dharmaraja and Draupadi; bands of performers pounded furiously on drums, tabors and gongs while numerous pairs of devadasis[7] spun and danced, their gold and silver veils twirling gracefully in the air.

  Kammamuri and his companions stopped for several minutes and scanned the crowd in hope of spotting the old mahant. Quickly realizing it would be impossible to find him in that bustling sea of spectators, they turned back and attempted to make their way towards the center of the square.

  “Let’s try to find a place close to the fire,” the Maratha said to Sandokan. “There’s going to be a procession to honour Kali. If that old mahant really is a Thug, he’s certain to be a part of it.”

  “Isn’t this the Dharmaraja Festival?” asked Yanez.

  “Yes, but since this is Kali’s temple, they’re going to bring out her statue as well.”

  Pushing forward, the four men soon reached the center of the square. A group of Indians now stood round the bed of burning coals, fanning the flames with palm leaves.

  “Is that for Dharmaraja’s followers?” asked Yanez.

  “Yes, for the fire walking ceremony.”

  “Fire walking? A test of faith?”

  “They’ll earn a place in Kailas.”

  “Kailas?”

  “Paradise, sir.”

  “I’m not sure it’d be worth scorching my feet,” the Portuguese replied with a smile.

  Loud trumpets announced the procession was leaving the temple; the test of fire was about to begin. Immediately, a wide path opened through that enormous crowd to make way for the devadasis, torchbearers and musicians.

  “Stand firm, no matter what happens,” said Kammamuri. “We can’t afford to lose our spots.”

  The crowd pressed against them, but the four men remained rooted to the ground, eyes turned towards the temple.

  The procession made its way down the steps and advanced towards the center of the square, the devadasis and musicians leading the way, followed by a score of Brahmin priests chanting praises in honour of Dharmaraja and Draupadi.

  Two statues of the god followed, one of stone, the other of gilded copper, on a palanquin borne by several dozen devotees. Then a last statue, of blue stone, wreathed in flowers, made its way through the crowd: the goddess Kali, the protector of the temple, Shiva’s wife, the goddess of destruction.

  Black skinned and red eyed, her tongue hung down to her chin. Her four arms stretched out before her, one held a sword, another a severed head. She wore a girdle of hands about her waist and a garland of human skulls about her neck that reached to her feet.

  A giant lay beneath her, two thin long haired servants stood at her side. One clutched a human skull close to her lips, drinking with relish as a crow looked on expectantly; the other was feasting on a human arm, a wolf standing by her side, patiently awaiting its share.

  “Is that the goddess of the Thugs?” whispered Sandokan.

  “Yes, Captain,” replied Kammamuri.

  “They couldn’t have created anything more frightening.”

  “She’s the goddess of slaughter and destruction.”

  “Yes, a goddess to be feared.”

  “Keep your eyes open, sir. If the mahant is here, he’ll probably be close to her statue. He may even be one of those bearers.”

  “Are all those men about the goddess Suyodhana’s Thugs?”

  “Most likely, and I just noticed something that confirms my suspicions.”

  “What?”

  “The majority of them are wearing shirts; almost all the other bearers are shirtless.”

  “To hide their tattoos?”

  “Yes, Captain and… there he is! That’s him! I was right!”

  The Maratha grabbed the pirate’s arm and pointed to an old man marching before the statue, playing a bin, an Indian instrument made from two gourds, a bamboo tube and seven or eight strings.

  Sandokan and Yanez stifled an exclamation of surprise.

  “That’s the man who came aboard our prahu,” said the former.

  “And that’s the same man who performed the ceremony in my master’s home,” said Kammamuri.

  “Yes, it’s the mahant!” exclaimed Yanez.

  “Do you recognize him, Sambigliong?”

  “Yes, that’s the old man who sacrificed the baby goat,” replied the quartermaster. “There’s no mistaking him.”

  “Well, my friends,” said Sandokan, “now that we’ve found him, let’s make sure he doesn’t escape.”

  “I won’t let him out of my sight, Captain,” said Sambigliong. “I’ll chase him across the hot coals if need be.”

  “Let’s join the procession.”

  With irresistible force they pushed through the crowd and joined the devotees surrounding the statue of Kali.

  The mahant was only a few paces in front of them, and as he was taller than most of the others, he was easy to keep in sight.

  Music thundering, the procession circled the large bed of blazing coals, then came to a stop before the temple, forming a square as they carefully rested the statues upon the ground.

  Sandokan and his friends took advantage of the confusion to come up behind the mahant. The old man paid them no notice, his eyes fixed on the statue of Kali that had been set down a few feet from him.

  At a sign from the Brahmin leading the ceremony, the devadasis stopped their dancing and the musicians fell silent.

  Minutes later, forty men, mostly fakirs, naked save for their loincloths and a palm leaf in each hand, came forward and advanced towards the fire. Determined to purge themselves of their sins, not a trace of fear appeared on their faces as they fixed their eyes on the blazing coals before them.

  They paused for a moment to invoke the protection of Dharmaraja and his wife then rubbed their foreheads with ash and rushed barefoot onto the coals as the tom-toms, drums and flutes resumed their music.

  Several ran across the burning embers at full speed, others walked slowly without showing any signs of pain. Yet they must have felt something for the stench of seared flesh wafted through the air.

  “Are they mad?” exclaimed Sandokan, dismayed by the sight before him.

  At the sound of that voice, the mahant, who was standing in front of the pirate, quickly turned around.

  He fixed his eyes on Sandokan and his companions for an instant, then calmly turned back to watch the performance. Had he recognized the Maratha and the prahu’s two commanders desp
ite their disguises? Or had he merely turned about by chance?

  That inquisitive look had not escaped Sandokan’s noticed. He squeezed Yanez’ hand and whispered in Malay, “Careful! I think he’s recognized us.”

  “I doubt it,” replied the Portuguese. “Look how calm he is; he would have tried to move away from us if he had even the slightest suspicion.”

  “That old man’s a cunning wolf. I’ll grab him if he tries to run.”

  “Have you gone mad, little brother? We’re surrounded by fanatics; this crowd would descend upon us in an instant. We’d have no chance; the few sepoys about wouldn’t be of much help.”

  “Well, now that we’ve found him again, we can’t let him escape.”

  “We’ll follow him and take him prisoner at the first opportunity, I assure you. But we must be cautious or we’ll ruin everything.”

  Meanwhile, some of the spectators had come forward and were advancing across the burning coals, cheered on by the crowd and the holy men who had promised eternal joy and happiness to all who dared to face the flames.

  Most of those poor souls made it across, panting from the heat, their feet so charred they could barely stand. They made great efforts to hide their pain, forcing themselves to smile. Some, in their excitement, turned about and ran back, jumping and dancing upon the coals with renewed vigour.

  Sandokan, Yanez, and their two companions had turned their attention upon the mahant, fearing perhaps, that he would vanish at any moment.

  The old man had not moved, apparently absorbed in the ceremony, however, something must have troubled him, for he had started to sweat and his hand trembled nervously every time he wiped the drops from his brow.

  The festival was drawing to an end when Sandokan and Yanez, who were the closest, noticed him draw the bin up to his chest. As a lull fell over the crowd, the mahant struck the steel cords, and three sharp notes sounded over the square. The men surrounding the statue of Kali quickly looked about.

  Sandokan nudged Yanez.

  “A signal?” he asked.

  “Ask Kammamuri.”

  The Maratha was about to reply to Yanez’ question, when a trumpet sounded three times from inside the temple, breaking the silence that momentarily reigned over the crowd.