Sandokan: The Tigers of Mompracem (The Sandokan Series Book 1)
Page 29
Selected by Julia Eccleshare as one of the 1001 Children's Books You Must Read Before You Grow Up.
“One of Salgari’s most amazing novels.” ~Riccardo Colombo
Chapter 1
A Game of Chance
“SEVEN!”
“Five!”
“Eleven!”
“Four!”
“Zara!”[6]
“By the Devil’s teeth! Fortune favours you, Sir Perpignan! I’ve never seen anyone so lucky at dice. Every toss brings me nothing but misery! Eighty gold ducats in two nights! Inconceivable! If my luck doesn’t turn soon, swear to me you’ll put a bullet in my chest, better you than one of those wretched heathens when they take Famagusta.”
“If they take it, Captain Lazinski.”
“You doubt the Turks will win, Sir Perpignan?”
“I know the worth of our men. Our Slavs will defend these walls to the last; the Republic knows how to choose her soldiers.”
“Bah, aside from myself, there’s not a Polish warrior among the lot.”
“What are you saying, captain? Do you doubt their ability?”
“Perish the thought, sir, perish the thought! But a few Poles would add might to our ranks, we are after all the most renowned warriors in Christend—”
An angry murmur of voices quickly rippled through the room, the sound of mail and metal jingling as arms reached for their swords.
“Easy! Easy!” he said with a smile, rapidly changing tone. “You know I love to jest, my friends. You know I love to jest! Four months we’ve been fighting side by side, keeping those heathen dogs at bay. I know your worth! You’re all fine warriors to a man! Sir Perpignan, what say we resume our game? I still have twenty ducats that I’d like to grow into a fortune now that the Turks are leaving us be.”
As if to contradict the captain’s words, a cannon thundered darkly.
“Scoundrels! What I’d give for just one night of peace,” complained the Pole. “Bah! There’s still time for a throw or two, what do you say, Sir Perpignan?”
“By all means, Captain Lazinski.”
“Roll the dice.”
“Nine!” shouted Sir Perpignan, rolling the dice on the wooden bench the two men were using as a gaming table.
“Three!”
“Eleven!”
“Seven!”
“Zara!”
Captain Lazinski cursed as laughter burst out around him.
“By the beard of the prophet!” exclaimed the Pole, throwing two ducats onto the bench. “You must have made a pact with the devil, Sir Perpignan.”
“Nonsense, captain; I’m too good a Christian.”
“I’ve never met anyone so lucky, except maybe Captain Tempesta. Tell me, Sir Perpignan, did the captain teach you how to cheat?”
“The captain and I often play together, but I can assure you neither of us cheats. He’s always been a proper gentleman.”
“Gentleman! Huh!” replied the captain, a note of bitterness in his voice. “I wouldn’t use that word.”
“What do you mean? I’ve never heard anyone question his valour. Everyone here holds him in the highest regard; he’s an extraordinary young man.”
“Young man indeed…”
“What are you getting at, captain? I doubt he’s more than twenty.”
“You misunderstand me, Sir Perpignan. Bah! It’s no matter. Shall we resume our game?”
“You haven’t lost enough?”
“I need to recoup my losses. I never go into battle without a few coins in my pocket. What would happen to me if I were slain? Everyone knows you’ve got to pay the ferryman to cross the Styx. I couldn’t face Charon empty handed.”
“The Styx!” laughed Sir Perpignan. “You’re certain of going to hell?”
“Absolutely,” replied Lazinski, picking up the dice and shaking them angrily. “Two more ducats.”
The men were in a large tent that served as both barracks and tavern. A large number of mattresses had been stacked against one end, and numerous barrels lined the other, defended by a tavern keeper, a stout, middle-aged fellow, who sat upon a table, sipping a jug full of Cyprian wine.
A Murano glass lamp hung from the main tent pole; the two men had been playing dice beneath it, surrounded by a circle of about fifteen Slavs, mercenary soldiers that the Venetian Republic had gathered from its Dalmatian colonies and sent to the Middle East to fight the Turks.
Captain Lazinski was a large muscular man, in his forties, with blonde spikey hair, small beady eyes, a large red nose, and an enormous bushy moustache that drooped over his mouth and chin. His heavy iron breastplate and the huge broadsword that hung from his side gave him the look of a sell-sword—a mercenary who pledged his blade to the highest bidder.
Sir Perpignan was about ten or fifteen years younger than the Polish captain. He was a typical Venetian, tall and wiry, with black hair and pale skin. He was dressed in the elegant Venetian attire of the time: an embroidered tunic that hung down just below his hips, striped hose and leather boots. His head was crowned by a blue toque adorned with a pheasant’s feather. He was armed with a light sword and a small dagger and, all in all, he looked more like the doge’s[7] page than a warrior.
The men resumed the game, the Slav soldiers looking on with great interest, standing in a circle around the wooden bench. Off in the distance, the cannon continued to thunder from time to time, the lamp’s flame flickering with each dark blast.
No one, however, seemed to take much note of those discharges, not even the tavern keeper, who continued to sip wine from his jug.
The Polish captain had already lost another half dozen ducats amidst a flurry of curses, when the tent flap rose. A figure wrapped in a large black cloak and wearing a helmet adorned with three blue feathers strode into the barracks.
“Hard at work I see,” the newcomer said ironically. “Are you planning to buy off the Turks with your winnings, Captain Lazinski? Or maybe you were so engrossed in your game you didn’t hear the cannons. We need to defend the wall. Come.”
The Slavs picked up their halberds, maces and battle-axes, but the Pole, who was in a foul temper due to his heavy losses, fixed the newcomer with an angry look.
“The great Captain Tempesta!” he exclaimed sarcastically. “A man of my experience knows the difference between the sound of a few cannon blasts and that of an army storming a wall. You can let us play in peace; the Turks won’t take Famagusta tonight.”
Captain Tempesta swiftly swept back his cloak, resting a hand on the hilt of the sword he wore in his belt.
He was a handsome young man, tall and thin, with coal black eyes, lightly bronzed skin and long dark hair. His features were elegant and delicate, far more feminine than those common to captains of fortune.
Although youthful in appearance, his manner suggested he was accustomed to command. His full armour and golden spurs proclaimed him a knight, while the coat of arms engraved in the middle of his breastplate—three stars surmounted by a crown—announced that he was of noble birth.
“Pardon me, captain?” he asked sternly, his hand still resting on his sword.
“The fort won’t fall tonight,” shrugged the sell-sword. “Even if the Turks somehow managed to breech the wall we have more than enough men to chase them back to Constantinople, or the desert holes they crawled out of.”
“Not that, Captain Lazinski,” said the young man. “You imply—”
“You misheard me,” replied the Pole still irritated by his losses. “You interrupted our game just as my luck was beginning to turn. But I’m right about the attack. I was wielding a sword long before you were suckling at your mother’s teats. ”
Sir Perpignan put a hand to his sword and took a step towards the Pole.
“That’s no way to talk to my commander,” he said coldly. “What say we settle this, you and I?”
“There’s no need for that, Sir Perpignan,” said Captain Tempesta. “We shouldn’t be duelling among ourselves in the middle of a siege. If C
aptain Lazinski wishes to quarrel with me to vent his anger for his losses or because he doubts my courage, as I’ve heard tell—”
“What!” exclaimed the Pole, drawing himself up to his full height. “By Saint Stanislaus! I’ll kill whichever wretch told you that. While it’s true I think your reputation…”
He paused, uncertain if he should proceed.
“Continue,” said Captain Tempesta, calmly.
“I think your reputation is exaggerated,” replied the Pole. “You’re hardly a seasoned veteran, this is only your first campaign. You’re good with a sword, I’ll give you that, but a renowned warrior? Hardly. What’s more…”
He paused once more, eying the captain suspiciously.
“Don’t stop now,” smiled Captain Tempesta, staying Sir Perpignan with a gesture, the nobleman having put a hand to his sword for the second time. “You amuse me, captain.”
The Pole kicked the bench and glared at the young man.
“By Saint Stanislaus!” he shouted, his thick bushy moustache twitching in anger. “You’re mocking me, captain!”
“You noticed,” the young man replied.
“It’s never wise to poke a bear, especially if you fight like a woman.”
The young man paled momentarily then frowned.
“I’ve slain more Turks than you, Captain Lazinski,” he said after a short silence, “I’ve fought in the trenches and on the ramparts and seen more battles than you in this war. There’s not a man here who would deny it. You claim to be a great warrior, but I see little more than an adventurer standing before me, better suited to dice and drink than wielding a blade.”
Captain Lazinski turned pale.
“I’m no more an adventurer than you are,” he howled.
“I descend from a noble house. Do you see this coat of arms?”
“Any fool can get that engraved on his breastplate,” laughed the Pole. “The true test of metal is how you handle your sword, and you milord, or should I say milady, don’t have the courage to face mine.”
“Then let’s settle the matter once and for all,” said the young captain.
The Slavs gathered behind Captain Tempesta had been listening to that exchange in silence. But at those words they all took a step forward, determined to tear the Pole to pieces.
Even the tavern keeper had jumped down from the table and grabbed an empty keg, ready to hurl it at the reckless sell-sword, but Captain Tempesta stayed them all.
“Men, we shouldn’t be duelling among ourselves in the middle of a siege. You doubt my courage? Very well. Let’s put it to the test. Every morning a Turk rides out beneath our walls to challenge our best swordsmen to a duel. He’ll be there again tomorrow. Are you brave enough to face him? I am!”
“I’ll slay him with one blow,” replied the Pole. “I haven’t met a Turk yet who was a match for my sword.”
“Tomorrow then.”
“I’ll be there.”
“As will I.”
“Who will face him first?”
“You may choose.”
“Age before beauty. I’ll fight him first; does that suit you, Captain Tempesta?”
“Perfectly.”
“I predict a quick victory,” said the Pole, chuckling. “You can watch and cheer me on.”
Captain Tempesta smiled and shook his head then drew his cloak across his chest.
“Come,” he said, addressing his men. “To the Rivetinna Bastion. That’s where the danger is greatest.”
He strode out, not casting another look at Captain Lazinski. He was followed by Sir Perpignan and the Slavs, carrying halberds and harquebuses.
Alone in the tent, unable to vent his ire upon anyone, the Pole knocked over the bench and began to kick at it repeatedly, ignoring the tavern keeper’s howls of protests.
The squad of Slavs, commanded by Captain Tempesta and his lieutenant Sir Perpignan, quickly made their way towards the ramparts, passing through narrow streets lined with two-storey houses.
The night was dark; not a single lantern burned behind the shuttered windows. A wind was blowing in lazy gusts while rain drizzled down from the heavens.
The cannon blasts were increasing in frequency; large stone round shot came whistling over the rampart intermittently and crashed into the rooftops of the houses opposite, shattering roof tiles and smashing through the floors beneath them.
“A miserable night,” said Sir Perpignan, striding alongside Captain Tempesta, who had wrapped himself completely in his large cloak. “The Turks couldn’t have chosen a better time to attack.”
“Their efforts will be in vain,” the young captain replied. “Famagusta won’t fall tonight.”
“But it will fall eventually, if the Republic doesn’t send us reinforcements.”
“We must rely on the value of our swords, Sir Perpignan. La Serrenissima is too busy to defend its Dalmatian colonies. Besides, they’d need to send an armada to get past the Turkish galleys patrolling the waters of the Archipelago.”
“Then the day will come when we’ll be forced to surrender.”
“And be slaughtered. It’s rumoured the Sultan has ordered his men to put us all to the sword as punishment for our prolonged resistance.”
“The dog! Bah! We’ll likely be dead by then, captain, and be spared the sight of such a tragedy,” sighed Sir Perpignan. “It’s the townspeople I feel sorry for. They won’t escape the Sultan’s wrath either. They’d almost be better off dying in the attack; it would be more merciful.”
“Enough talk of death, lieutenant,” said Captain Tempesta. “We must fend them off for as long as we can.”
They emerged from a narrow lane onto a wide street, enclosed on one side by a row of houses and on the other by a tall rampart. A row of torches blazed along its summit, illuminating the remnants of the battlements.
Several men clad in armour could be seen in the reddish light, bustling about some culverins, long-barrelled cannons of light construction. From time to time a flash of lightning would rent the darkness, followed by a peal of thunder.
Behind the gunners, long lines of women, some in splendid attire, others dressed in mere rags, worked in silence, dragging heavy sacks that they emptied upon the battlements, stoically ignoring enemy artillery. They were the brave women of Famagusta, reinforcing the rampart with rubble from their homes, the once splendid houses that Turkish volleys had all but destroyed.
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[1] Bianzi: A long plait of hair or ponytail traditionally worn by Chinese men
[2] Chawat: loincloth
[3] Narghileh: Hookah
[4] Babirusa: deer-pig
[5] Upas tree: (Antiaris toxicaria) a tree in the mulberry and fig family.
[6] Zara: A dice game played with three dice. Players take turns rolling the dice. One player calls a number between three and eighteen and throws the dice. If he guesses correctly, he wins. If not, the next player gets a turn. The first person to guess the sum of the dice wins. Three, four, seventeen, and eighteen are ‘zara’, a losing combination, unless the player throwing the dice calls out those specific numbers.
[7] Doge: an elected lord and chief of state
Contents
Also by Emilio Salgari
Contents
Chapter 1 Sandokan and Yanez
Chapter 2 Ferocity and Generosity
Chapter 3 The Cruiser
Chapter 4 Lions and Tigers
Chapter 5 Escape and Delirium
Chapter 6 The Pearl of Labuan
Chapter 7 Recovery and Love
Chapter 8 The Tiger Hunt
Chapter 9 Betrayal
Chapter 10 In Pursuit of a Pirate
Chapter 11 Giro-Batol
Chapter 12 Giro-Batol’s Canoe
Chapter 13 Sa
iling Towards Mompracem
Chapter 14 Love and Rapture
Chapter 15 The British Corporal
Chapter 16 The Expedition against Labuan
Chapter 17 The Rendezvous
Chapter 18 Two Pirates in a Furnace
Chapter 19 The Red Coats
Chapter 20 Crossing the Jungle
Chapter 21 The Panther and the Orangutan
Chapter 22 The Prisoner
Chapter 23 Yanez at the Villa
Chapter 24 The Tiger’s Wife
Chapter 25 Mompracem
Chapter 26 The Queen of Mompracem
Chapter 27 The Attack on Mompracem
Chapter 28 At Sea
Chapter 29 Prisoners
Chapter 30 The Escape
Chapter 31 The Shark, Toward the Three Islands
Chapter 32 The Tiger’s Last Fight
The Sandokan series continues in:
The Mystery of the Black Jungle
The Pirates of Malaysia
The Two Tigers
The King of the Sea
Sandokan: Quest for a Throne
Our Other Pirate Series
The Black Corsair & The Queen of the Caribbean
And our latest title: Captain Tempesta
Chapter 1 A Game of Chance