The Tippoo did not spare the gorgeous throne a glance. He had ordered the throne made, but had then sworn an oath that he would never climb its silver steps nor sit on the cushions of its golden platform until he had at last driven the British from southern India. Only then would he take his royal place beneath the pearl-strung canopy and until that bright day the tiger throne would stay empty. The Tippoo had made his oath, and the oath meant that he would either sit on the tiger throne or else he would die, and the Tippoo's dreams had given him no presentiment of death. Instead he expected to expand Mysore's frontiers and to drive the infidel British into the sea where they belonged, for they had no business here. They had their own land, and if that far country was not good enough for them, then let them all drown.

So the British must go, and if their destruction meant an alliance with the French, then that was a small price to pay for the Tippoo's ambitions. He envisaged his empire spreading throughout southern India, then northwards into the Mah-ratta territories which were all ruled by weak kings or child kings or by tired kings and in their place the Tippoo would offer what his dynasty had already given to Mysore: a firm and tolerant government. The Tippoo was a Muslim, and a devout one, but he knew the surest way to lose his throne was to upset his Hindu subjects and so he took good care to show their temples reverence. He did not entirely trust the Hindu aristocracy, and he had done what he could to weaken that elite over the years, but he wished only prosperity on his other Hindu subjects for if they were prosperous then they would not care what god was worshipped in the new mosque that the Tippoo had built in the city. In time, he prayed, every person in Mysore would kneel to Allah, but until that happy day he would take care not to stir the Hindus into rebellion. He needed them. He needed them to fight for him against the infidel British. He needed them to cut down the red-coated enemy before the walls of Seringapatam.

For it was here, on his island capital, that the Tippoo expected to defeat the British and their allies from Hyderabad. Here, in front of his tiger-muzzled guns, the redcoats would be beaten down like rice under a flail. He hoped they could be lured into the slaughteryard he was preparing on the western bastions, but even if they did not take the bait and came at the southern or eastern walls, he was still ready for them. He had thousands of cannon and thousands of rockets and thousands of men ready to fight. He would turn their infidel army into blood and he would destroy the army of Hyderabad and then he would hunt down the Nizam of Hyderabad, a fellow Muslim, and torture him to a slow and deserved death which the Tippoo would watch from his canopied golden throne.

He walked past the throne to stare at his favourite tiger. This one was a lifesize model, made by a French craftsman, that showed a full-grown beast crouching above the carved figure of a British redcoat. There was a handle in the tiger's flank and when it was turned the tiger's paw mauled at the redcoat's face and reeds hidden within the tiger's body made a growling sound and a pathetic noise that imitated the cries of a man dying. A flap opened in the tiger's flank to reveal a keyboard on which an organ, concealed in the tiger's belly, could be played, but the Tippoo rarely bothered with the instrument, preferring to operate the separate bellows that made the tiger growl and the victim cry out. He turned the handle now, delighting in the thin, reedy sound of the dying man. In a few days' time, he thought, he would stun the very heavens with the genuine cries of dying redcoats.

The Tippoo finally let the tiger organ fall silent. 'I suspect the man is a spy, he said suddenly.

'Then kill him, Appah Rao said.

'A failed spy, the Tippoo said. 'You say he is a Scot? he asked Gudin.

'Indeed, Your Majesty.

'Not English, then?

'No, sire.

The Tippoo shrugged at the distinction. 'Whatever his tribe, he is an old man, but is that reason to show him mercy?

The question was directed at Colonel Gudin who, once it was translated, stiffened. 'He was captured in uniform, Your Majesty, so he does not deserve death. Gudin would have liked to add that it would be uncivilized even to contemplate killing such a prisoner, but he knew the Tippoo hated being patronized and so he kept silent.

'He is here, is he not? the Tippoo demanded. 'Does that not deserve death? This is not his land, these are not his people, and the bread and water he consumes are not his.

'Kill him, Your Majesty, Gudin warned, 'and the British will show no mercy on any prisoners they take.

'I am full of mercy, the Tippoo said, and mostly that was true. There was a time for being ruthless and a time for showing mercy, and maybe this Scotsman would be a useful pawn if there was a need to hold a hostage. Besides, the Tippoo's dream the night before had promised well, and this morning's auguries had been similarly hopeful, so today he could afford to show mercy. 'Put him in the cells for now, the Tippoo said. Somewhere in the palace a French-made clock chimed the hour, reminding the Tippoo that it was time for his prayers. He dismissed his entourage, then went to the simple chamber where, facing west towards Mecca, he made his daily obeisances.

Outside, cheated of their prey, the tigers slunk back to the courtyard's shadows. One beast yawned, another slept. There would be other days and other men to eat. That was what the six tigers lived for, the days when their master was not merciful.

While up in the Inner Palace, with his back to the canopied throne of gold, Colonel Jean Gudin turned the tiger's handle. The tiger growled, the claws raked back and forth across the wooden, blood-painted flesh, and the redcoat cried aloud.

Sharpe had not meant to cry out. Before the punishment had begun he had been determined to show no weakness and he had even been angry with himself that he had flinched as the first blow fell, but that sudden pain had been so acute that he had involuntarily shuddered. Since then he had closed his eyes and bitten down on the leather, but in his head a silent scream shrilled as the lashes landed one after the other.

'One hundred and twenty-three! Bywaters shouted hoarsely.

The drummer boys' arms were tiring, but they still knew better than to slacken their efforts for Sergeant Hakeswill was watching and savouring every blow.

'One hundred and twenty-four, Bywaters called, and it was then, through the silent scream that was filling his head, Sharpe heard a whimper. Then he heard another, and realized that it was he who was making the noise and so he snarled instead, opened his eyes and stared his loathing at the bastard officers sitting on their horses a few paces away. He stared at them fixedly as if he could transfer the ghastly pain from his back onto their faces, but not one of them looked at him. They stared at the sky, they gazed at the ground, they all tried to ignore the sight of a man being beaten to death in front of their eyes.

'One hundred and thirty-six, Bywaters shouted and the drummer boy beat his instrument again.

Blood had run down Sharpe's back and stained the weave of his white trousers past his knees. More blood had spattered onto his greased and powdered hair, and still the lashes whistled down and each blow of the leather thongs splashed into the mess of broken flesh and ribboned skin, and more gleaming blood spurted away.

'One hundred and forty. Keep it high, boy, keep it high! Not on the kidneys, Bywaters snapped, and the Sergeant Major looked across at the surgeon and saw that Micklewhite was staring vaguely up over the tripod's peak, his jowly face looking as calm as though he was merely idling away a summer's day. 'Want to look at him, Mister Micklewhite, sir? the Sergeant Major suggested, but Micklewhite just shook his head. 'Keep going, lads, the Sergeant Major told the drummer boys, not bothering to keep the disapproval from his voice.