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

by Emilio Salgari

  “The Thugs’ ramsinga![8] It always heralds death! Señor Yanez, Captain Sandokan, we’ve got to get out of here. I’m certain it was meant for us.”

  “Run away?” asked Sandokan with a smile. “The Tigers of Mompracem never show their backs! They want a fight? Very well, we’ll give them one, won’t we, Yanez?”

  “By Jupiter!” replied the Portuguese, calmly lighting a cigarette. “We haven’t travelled this far to merely take in Indian rituals.”

  “Captain,” said Sambigliong, as he reached for the knife he had hidden in the folds of his sash, “should I kill the old man?”

  “Not yet, my good friend,” replied Sandokan. “I need him alive.”

  “Give the word, and I’ll take him prisoner.”

  “Yes, but not here. The festival is over, my friends; keep an eye on the old man and draw your weapons. Things are about to get interesting.”

  Chapter 6

  The Devadasi

  WHILE THE PRIESTS carried the statues of Kali, Dharmaraja and Draupadi back into the temple, followed by the musicians, devadasis and all those who had walked across the flames, the square began to empty.

  The mahant, playing his bin, escorted the statue towards the temple, but once he had reached the steps, he joined a small crowd of devotees, in hope that his enemies would lose sight of him. Within seconds he made his way through the tiny crowd, turned up a tiny lane that led behind the temple and set off at a run.

  But his movements had not escaped Kammamuri or the Tigers of Mompracem. The four men quickly pushed their way through the departing crowd and reached the mouth of the lane, just in time to spot the mahant trying to hide among the houses.

  “After him!” exclaimed Sandokan. “Don’t let him escape.”

  The narrow muddy street was dark and deserted, not a candle burned in the windows. Eyes trained on the old man, the three Tigers of Mompracem and Kammamuri quickened their pace.

  They were still too close to the square to attack. A cry could attract some of the spectators, or, worse, the Thugs who had taken part in the procession and were probably still by the temple.

  Though the mahant increased his speed, he could not shake his pursuers; the four men gained ground with each passing minute.

  They had gone three hundred paces from the temple, when a troop of devadasis suddenly emerged from a side street, two young torchbearers lighting their way.

  There were thirty of them in all, beautiful young women with long dark hair, dressed in fine silk saris, their bracelets and necklaces flashing in the firelight. Delirious with joy, they surrounded the four men, dancing tumultuously, rattling their tambourines, twirling their silk scarves in the air.

  “Make way! Make way!” shouted Sandokan.

  The devadasis merely laughed in reply, drawing nearer to the four men, circling about them as they danced, blocking their advance.

  “Make way!” thundered Sandokan, having lost sight of the mahant.

  “Force your way through!” shouted Yanez. “They’re trying to shield his escape.”

  They were about to rush against the devadasis when the women abruptly knelt to the ground, their brightly coloured scarves falling way to reveal a dozen men twirling black silk rumaals, nooses weighted with lead, the weapons of choice of the Indian Thugs.

  The dancers, as agile as young panthers, slipped away behind the men.

  Sandokan howled with rage.

  “The Thugs! Attack!”

  With lightning speed he drew a short scimitar and a double-barrelled pistol from his sash, sliced through four rumaals hissing towards him, then fired two rounds from his pistol at the attackers, knocking two men to the ground.

  At the same instant, Yanez, Sambigliong and Kammamuri, quickly recovering from their initial shock, drew their scimitars, levelled their pistols and fired.

  The Thugs did not even try to fight. Their first attempt having failed, they scattered, running off at full speed, the devadasis following close behind them. Within seconds the street was deserted save for the four dead bodies and a torch that one of the attackers had dropped as he ran from the volley of bullets.

  “Saccaroa!” exclaimed Sandokan. “We’ve been tricked again! And the mahant’s disappeared!”

  “A good trap,” said Yanez, calmly concealing his weapons in his sash. “I didn’t think those beautiful young women could be allied with those wretched stranglers. The cunning foxes! Twirling their scarves to hide the Thugs’ advance. It’s almost comical.”

  “It was a narrow escape, my dear Yanez. Those nooses grazed my neck twice; I thought they’d strangle us at any moment. What do you make of all this, Kammamuri?”

  “The mahant took advantage of the attack to escape.”

  “He’s not a fool!”

  “We could try to pick up his tracks,” said Sambigliong. “He may not have gotten very far.”

  “Who knows where he is now. Very well, the game’s over, we’ve lost and the only thing we can do is go back to our prahu,” said Sandokan.

  “And go to sleep,” added Yanez.

  “We’ll find that old fox,” said the Tiger of Malaysia, clenching his fists. “He’s essential to our plans, especially now that we know he’s a Thug. We won’t leave Calcutta until he’s in our hands.”

  “Let’s go, Sandokan. It isn’t safe here; the Thugs could return at any moment.”

  Sandokan picked up the torch that still burned on the ground. He was about to turn back towards the square when a groan stopped him in his tracks.

  “Someone’s here,” he said, drawing his scimitar.

  “We should take him captive,” said Yanez. “A prisoner could prove useful. We may be able to get some information from him.”

  “You’re right, my friend.”

  There was a second groan.

  It had come from a side street, from where the devadasis had first appeared.

  “The two of you remain here, reload your pistols and stand ready,” said Sandokan, turning to Kammamuri and Sambigliong.

  He walked towards the mouth of the lane with Yanez and spotted a devadasi lying on the ground against the wall of a house, struggling to stand.

  She was a beautiful young woman with light bronze skin, dark eyes and long hair braided with mussaenda flowers and blue silk ribbons. She must have been struck by a bullet during the skirmish for blood was seeping from beneath her gilded wooden breastplate, darkening her pink silk sari.

  At the sight of the two Tigers of Mompracem, the devadasi covered her face and whispered, “Mercy.”

  “Ah! What a beautiful young lady!” exclaimed Yanez. “Say what you will about the Thugs, you can’t fault their taste.”

  “There’s no need to worry,” said Sandokan, kneeling beside the dancer and drawing his torch closer to get a better look at her. “We do not kill women. Where are you injured?”

  “Here… in the chest… sahib. A… bullet…”

  “Let’s have a look. We’ve treated a good number of bullet wounds; rest assured, you’re in safe hands.”

  A bullet had struck the young woman a few inches below her heart. Fortunately, it had only grazed a rib; and though it caused her much pain her life was not in danger.

  “You’ll be fine in about eight days, young lady,” said Sandokan. “It’s just a matter of stemming the blood.”

  He drew a fine leather handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it tightly about the dancer’s chest. “That should do for now. Where would you like us to take you? The way the Thugs scattered, I doubt they’ll come back for you.”

  The young woman did not reply. She studied Sandokan then Yanez with her beautiful dark eyes, amazed perhaps that the two men who she had tried to escape from had not killed her but had instead tended to her wound.

  “Well,” said Sandokan. “You must have a home, a family, someone who takes care of you.”

  “Take me with you, sahib,” said the devadasi, her voice trembling slightly. “Don’t take me back to the Thugs.”

  “Sa
ndokan,” said Yanez, who had kept his eyes fixed on the dancer throughout the entire time. “This young woman may have some useful information. We should take her with us.”

  “You’re right. Sambigliong!”

  “Yes, Captain,” replied the Malay, running up to join them.

  “This young woman’s been injured; we’re going to take her back to the ship.”

  Careful of her wound, the Malay gently took the dancer up in his strong arms.

  “Let’s go,” said Sandokan, picking up the torch. “Draw your weapons and keep your eyes open.”

  They cautiously made their way through several streets and lanes, without encountering a soul and reached the river shortly after one o’clock, emerging a few paces from where they had left the Malays guarding the whaleboat.

  Sandokan had the devadasi set down at the stern; she had not uttered a word throughout the journey. He fixed the torch against the bow then signalled his men to cast off.

  Yanez had sat down on the thwart opposite the young woman. He was studying her closely, admiring, perhaps unintentionally, the beauty of her face and the light in her dark sparkling eyes.

  “By Jupiter!” he murmured. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful woman. How could she have ended up in the hands of those fanatics?”

  Having guessed his friend’s thoughts, Sandokan turned to address her.

  “Are you one of Kali’s followers?” he asked.

  The devadasi shook her head and smiled sadly.

  “Well, then, how did you end up among those scoundrels?”

  “I was sent to them after my family was murdered,” replied the dancer.

  “Sent to them to be a devadasi?”

  “They need dancers for their rituals.”

  “Where did you live?”

  “In the temple, sahib.”

  “Voluntarily?”

  “No.”

  “Why did the dancers appear in the street back then?”

  “To prevent you from following the mahant.”

  “Ah! You know that old witchdoctor?” asked Sandokan.

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “Is he a Thug leader?”

  The young woman looked at him without replying, her beautiful face marked with anguish.

  “Tell me!” commanded Sandokan.

  “The Thugs kill those who betray their secrets, sahib,” replied the young woman, her voice trembling slightly.

  “You’re among people who will defend you against every Thug in India. Now tell me everything you know about the man we were following. He’s vital to our plans.”

  “Are the stranglers your enemies?”

  “We’ve come to India to destroy them,” said Sandokan.

  “They are evil,” replied the young woman, “Savage murderers.”

  “Tell me about the mahant.”

  “He’s their High Priest’s most trusted advisor.”

  “Suyodhana!” exclaimed Sandokan and Yanez in unison.

  “You know him?”

  “We hope to make his acquaintance soon,” said Sandokan. “Yanez, that man’s even more vital to our plans; we must capture him before we leave for the Sundarbans. We’ll make him talk, I assure you, even if I have to tear a confession out of him.”

  The devadasi looked at the Tiger of Malaysia with a mixture of fear and admiration; she was undoubtedly asking herself who this man, that was brave enough to confront the formidable power of the Kali cult, could be.

  “Yes,” said Yanez. “I agree. Tell us, young lady, has Suyodhana returned to the caverns of Rajmangal?”

  “I don’t know, sahib,” replied the devadasi. “I’ve heard speak of the return of the Son of the Sacred Waters of the Ganges, but I have not been told where he is.”

  “Have you ever been in those caverns?” asked Sandokan.

  “I lived there for a few months while they taught me to be a devadasi,” replied the young woman, “before I was sent here to serve in Kali’s temple.”

  “Do you know where we can find the mahant? Does he live in the temple?”

  “I’ve only seen him in there a few times, but you’ll have another chance to see him fairly soon.”

  “Where?” asked Sandokan and Yanez.

  “There’s going to be a sati on the shores of the Ganges three days from now. The devadasis are going to take part in the procession; the mahant will most certainly attend.”

  “What’s a sati?” asked Sandokan.

  “A widow burning. A Thug leader passed away recently; they’re going to cremate him and burn his wife alongside him.”

  “Alive?”

  “Alive, sahib.”

  “And the police are going to allow this?”

  “No one is going to inform them.”

  “I thought the British had put a stop to that horrible tradition.”

  “They’re still practiced in great number. Tradition is tradition, regardless of British law. They burn a lot of widows along the Ganges.”

  “Do you know where the sati is going to take place?”

  “Near the ruins of an old pagoda on the outskirts of the jungle.”

  “And the mahant is going to attend that dismal ceremony?”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “You’ll be able to walk in three days and you’ll take us there. We’ll set a trap for that old witchdoctor, let’s see if he’s smart enough to escape us a second time. My dear Yanez, luck seems to be turning in our favour.”

  The whaleboat pulled up beneath the prahu’s stern.

  “Lower the ladder!” shouted Sandokan, addressing the men on watch.

  He quickly climbed up on deck where he was embraced by a man waiting for him at the top of the ladder.

  “Tremal-Naik!” exclaimed the formidable pirate captain.

  “I’ve been anxiously awaiting your return for quite some time,” replied the Bengali.

  “Good news, my friend. We’ll have our man in three days. Come to my cabin. There’s much to discuss.”

  Chapter 7

  Surama’s Tale

  THE YOUNG DEVADASI was carried into one of the cabins below and promptly tended to by Sandokan and Yanez. She recovered swiftly and three days later, as the Tiger of Malaysia had predicted, though not completely healed, she had regained enough strength to lead her protectors to the old pagoda where the sati was to take place.

  During her convalescence, she had appeared quite happy to find herself in that elegant, comfortable cabin with her new guardians. Informed of their plans, she had embraced their cause with great enthusiasm, telling them all she knew of the bloodthirsty cult. However, she could not provide them with any information on little Darma, the new Priestess of the Eastern Temple, for she had never heard speak of the young girl.

  She also appeared particularly grateful towards Yanez, whom she called the white sahib. The Portuguese had volunteered to be her nurse, glad for any opportunity to converse with the beautiful young woman.

  Her English was almost perfect and her speech and manner suggested she was well educated, rare traits among devadasis. The way she carried herself had even impressed Tremal-Naik, who as a Bengali, was quite familiar with the temple dancers of India.

  “This young woman,” he told Sandokan and Yanez, “is of high caste. Her fine features, her light brown skin, her small hands and feet suggest a noble family.”

  “I’ll try to find out,” replied Yanez, “I’d wager she has an interesting story to tell.”

  That afternoon, while Sandokan and Tremal-Naik were choosing the men for the expedition, Yanez paid a visit to their patient.

  They young woman appeared to be in perfect health. Lying on a soft comfortable divan, she seemed immersed in a daydream, at least judging by the tenderness in her eyes and the smile upon her lips. At the sight of the Portuguese, she sat up and fixed her eyes upon him.

  “It always makes me happy to see the white sahib,” she said sweetly. “I owe you and the bronze sahib my life and freedom. But you, white sahib, are especially kind and g
enerous.”

  “The bronze sahib, as you call him,” Yanez replied with a smile, “is just as kind and generous as I am, even more so. You do not owe us anything, we were glad to help. How’s your wound?”

  “The pain is gone, sahib, thanks to your skilled touch.”

  “Do you realize you’ve yet to tell us your name?” said Yanez.

  “It’s Surama,” the devadasi replied with a smile.

  “Are you from Bengal?”

  “No, sahib. I’m Assamese, from Goalpara.”

  “You said your family had been murdered.”

  The young woman fell silent; her brow darkened and her eyes filled with sadness.

  “Yes,” she said bleakly.

  “By the Thugs?”

  “No.”

  “The British?”

  Surama shook her head sadly.

  “My father was the uncle of the Rajah of Goalpara, leader of a tribe of mighty warriors.”

  “So, then, who murdered your family?”

  “The rajah,” replied Surama, “in one of his moments of madness.”

  She remained silent for a moment, as if expecting another question, then added: “I was still a little girl then, no more than eight years old, yet everything is as clear as if it happened yesterday.

  “My father, like all our relatives, had fallen under the rajah’s suspicion. His nephew had started to believe that all were conspiring to steal his crown and divide his riches. He took to living in the mountains, away from court.

  “As his fears increased, the rajah began to drink more and more. He indulged every vice, and rumours began to spread that he committed all kinds of atrocities upon his servants and courtiers.

  “I remember my father telling me that the monster had executed his prime minister for attempting to prevent him from beating a slave who had inadvertently spilled a drop of wine on his clothes.”

  “A tyrant,” said Yanez, listening with great interest.

  “When Assam was struck by famine, the Brahmins, gurus, and priests, convinced the rajah to perform a grandiose ceremony to placate the anger of the gods. The prince readily agreed and insisted that all his relatives had to attend. My father, of course, was invited and immediately set off for the capital with my mother, my two brothers and myself. We were received with the honours due our rank and assigned rooms in the royal palace.