The Place of Dead Kings (13 page)

They’d reached the top of the saddle and below them the road zigzagged down a scarp. Spread out along the base of the hill, indistinct in the haze, were knots of carts, ox wagons and pack mules. Men swarmed about the vehicles, loading supplies and equipment. Other porters coursed down the slope, lugging boxes, crates, chests, sacks and furniture from a camp at the summit.

Along the top of the hill, Jack made out white army tents shivering in the wind. Towards the centre of the camp, the regiment’s standard snapped and tugged at a flagpole, and nearby stood the large striped marquees of the officers. Further off, on the edge of the camp, rose a sixteen-foot-high bronze statue of the elephant-headed god Ganesh. The rain drooled over the rotund figure, giving the metal an oily sheen. The statue’s four arms, raised like writhing snakes, were dark against the turbulent cloud.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ the man said. ‘You lot are mad, if you ask me. But that’s your business.’

‘Mad?’ Jack said.

‘Scotland’s full of savages and demons and all sorts. You’ll be lucky to get out alive. You’d be best to turn round right now and go home.’

‘Seem to be quite a few men down there who aren’t afraid.’

The man snorted. ‘They’re all desperate. That’s the only type that would go on a journey like that.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘Only trying to help.’ The man adjusted his cloak and then shuffled back towards Dun Fries.

‘Cheerful fellow,’ said Andrew, a black-haired man in his early twenties. He was one of Henry’s men, but Jack had taken a liking to him and agreed he could come along.

‘Aye.’ Jack glanced at Saleem. The lad looked tired and pallid, his skullcap soaked and sticking to his head. But his lips were pressed together tightly and his jaw was firm. He appeared determined to see the mission through. Jack glanced at the others, who looked just as set on continuing as Saleem.

Good. He’d chosen these young men well.

He patted the satchel hanging at his side and felt the hard curve of the rotary pistol concealed within. Henry had lent him the precious weapon, along with a powder flask and a handful of bullets. He was the only one of the group carrying a firearm, although the others all had concealed knives.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get down there. God’s will in England.’

‘God’s will in England,’ his men repeated in unison.

They followed the road down the slope, splashing through the mud. As they neared the bottom, Jack heard the oxen moaning, the mules braying and the porters shouting and cursing as they laboured. He made out two giant Rajthanan vehicles, plus around fifteen native carts and wagons. That was a large number for an expedition of this size. The party was not travelling light.

‘You there!’ A stocky sergeant marched across the slope towards them, swinging his arms wide as if they were too muscular to hold any closer to his body. ‘Get out of here!’

‘We’re here for work,’ Jack shouted back.

‘Work?’ The man strode up to Jack. Deep lines creased his face and a white scar shone on one of his cheeks. His left eye was lazy and half closed, but the other was wide open and scrutinised Jack intently. ‘We don’t need anyone else.’

Jack couldn’t place the man’s guttural accent for a moment. Then he recognised it – Saxon. He’d met Saxons plenty of times in the army. For the most part they were vagabonds and pirates who’d been forced into the military to escape the hangman’s noose. And as they were Mohammedans, they had an instinctive hatred of Christians.

‘We’ll work hard,’ Jack said. ‘You can count on us.’

‘Work hard?’ The Sergeant stepped closer and looked up – he was a few inches shorter than Jack. ‘You work for me and you’ll work hard all right. Old Wulfric’s a hard taskmaster. Old Wulfric won’t let anyone laze around.’

‘Good.’

Sergeant Wulfric stared at Jack with his good eye, while his lazy eye flickered beneath its swollen eyelid like a cockle in a shell. Finally, he nodded slowly. ‘There is one thing.’ He pointed up the slope at the huge Ganesh statue. ‘That needs to come down here.’

‘We’ll do it.’

Wulfric wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘All right. You move that and you’re hired. One penny a day each. Paid when we get back from Scotland.’

‘Fine.’

Wulfric led them up the incline, dodging the numerous porters still hauling supplies down to the road. Men were dismantling the tents and packing them away, but the standard – a white horse on a red flag – still flapped in the wind. The rain beat on Wulfric’s cloth hat and trickled down to the shoulders of his blue tunic. His loose grey trousers were soaked, and mud speckled his boots and puttees.

Jack glanced up at the tangled form of the statue. How much did it weigh? Three tons? More?

It would have been easier to take a wagon up to the top of the hill and load the statue there, but he could see why Wulfric had chosen not to. Most of the slope was reasonably gentle, but the last few feet at the bottom were too steep for oxen.

‘Why are they taking that thing anyway?’ Andrew nodded at the statue, keeping his voice low.

‘The Rajthanans pray to Ganesh when they’re travelling,’ Jack said. ‘He’s said to remove all obstacles.’

Jack had often seen his officers worshipping the elephant-headed deity before setting off on a journey. But his regiment had never hauled along a large statue like the one above.

‘Bloody heathens,’ Andrew said.

‘Shut it,’ Jack hissed.

As they climbed higher, Jack spotted a striped awning standing near the statue. Beneath the canopy, five Rajthanan officers sat cross-legged on ornate cushion-seats, puffing on hookahs. From time to time they pointed down the hill or observed proceedings through spyglasses.

Rajthanans.

It was three years since Jack had last seen a Rajthanan. He’d served them for most of his adult life, but while he’d been in Shropshire they’d become a distant, almost unreal, enemy. Now here they were again. Officers, just like the ones he’d known in the army.

Behind the officers, on the back wall of the awning, hung portraits of two stern-faced Indian men wearing jewelled turbans. Jack recognised one man instantly – the Maharaja of Europe. The other he assumed must be Mahasiddha Vadula.

Wulfric reached the statue and patted the base. ‘Right. Get on with it.’

Jack squinted up. Rain bounced and danced as it struck the figure. It would be no easy task to move the statue, even with ten of them lifting.

He turned to Wulfric. ‘We’ll put it on its side. Tie ropes around it and slide it down.’

‘Slide it?’ Wulfric narrowed his good eye. ‘Can’t slide it. No, no—’

‘Sergeant Wulfric.’ One of the Rajthanans stood up and came to the edge of the awning. He was a young man – in his late twenties or early thirties – with a thin moustache that was waxed into curls at the ends. He wore the scarlet turban of an officer in a Saxon regiment and the moon-clan insignia was embroidered on his blue tunic. He spoke in Arabic, the common language of the European Army. ‘Did that man just say he was going to slide the murti down the hill?’

‘No, Captain Rao,’ Wulfric said in Arabic. ‘I mean, yes. But I was just about to tell him—’

‘The murti must be treated with respect. I won’t have it sullied.’

‘My mistake,’ Jack said in Arabic. ‘We’ll carry it, sir.’

Captain Rao stared at Jack. He pressed a handkerchief to his nose and grimaced as if he could smell something disgusting. ‘Why is this boy speaking to me, Sergeant?’

‘Scum.’ Wulfric slapped Jack on the arm with a short leather strap. ‘You don’t speak to the Captain, see? You speak to me if you need to speak.’

Jack felt his face grow hot. He would have happily punched Wulfric in the face, and Captain Rao too while he was at it. But he had to stay calm. He couldn’t jeopardise the mission. ‘I understand . . . sir.’

‘Right, then. Get on with it,’ Wulfric said.

One of the Rajthanans in the shelter laughed and said in Rajthani, ‘Leave them, Rao. The Sergeant will deal with it. You can’t reason with these natives.’

Jack glanced past Rao and saw the man who’d spoken – a slightly flabby lieutenant with a smooth, round face.

‘He’s right,’ said another man. ‘Come back.’

Jack paused for a moment. This second man had thin features, a hawk-like nose and a carefully trimmed moustache and goatee. He wore a purple tunic and turban.

The uniform of a siddha.

Jack hadn’t considered that a siddha might be sent with the expedition, but it made sense. Only a siddha would know how to deal with Mahajan or understand what it was he was up to in Scotland.

Wulfric grunted. ‘I said, get on with it.’

Jack turned to the statue. Metal poles had been slotted through holes in the base and poked out on all sides. These would make the figure a little easier to carry, but it was still going to be a challenge.

‘Right, lads,’ Jack said. ‘Spread out. Wait until I say to lift.’

Saleem and the others took up positions around the statue, bent down and gripped the poles. Jack stood in front of the figure, directly beneath the coiling trunk.

‘Lift!’ he shouted.

They all heaved as hard as they could. The statue was even heavier than Jack had imagined, but they somehow managed to raise it from the ground. Jack’s neck tendons strained, sweat popped on his forehead and his fingers ached as they clasped the pole.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Move.’

They staggered down the slope, each of them grunting, groaning and gasping. The statue dipped slightly to one side, but they managed to rebalance it.

‘Careful, Sergeant,’ Rao called from the awning. ‘They’ll drop it.’

‘Slow down, scum.’ Wulfric strapped Jack across the back. ‘Drop that and you’ll get a hundred lashes.’

Blood rushed in Jack’s ears. Now he really did want to hit Wulfric. If he weren’t holding the damned statue he was sure he would.

‘Slowly!’ Jack shouted to his comrades.

They eased their pace and did their best to keep the statue steady. Jack’s arms felt as though they were being pulled from their sockets. He trod carefully on the muddy ground, only too aware that if the statue fell forward it would crush him instantly.

Saleem gasped, slipped and let go. The statute listed to one side and was about to topple over.

‘Hold it!’ Jack yelled.

Somehow the rest of them managed to keep the heavy weight upright.

Saleem scrambled back to his feet and got into position again, wailing, ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

They continued down the slope and reached the final, steeper section. They inched their way now, planting their feet cautiously. Jack’s hands felt as though they were on fire and he was certain he would let go at any moment. But he wasn’t going to let the bloody statue beat him. He wasn’t going to let Wulfric or Rao or anyone else beat him. He would get that cursed statue down the hill if he had to carry it by himself.

And then they were at the bottom of the slope.

‘Over here!’ Wulfric guided them to one of the huge Rajthanan ox wagons. ‘On that. Lie it on its side.’

Jack stared at the wagon. It was going to be hard to lift the statue up on to the back while simultaneously lowering it on to its side.

But they had to do it.

Faces twisting at the strain, Jack and the others manoeuvred themselves into position and began to tilt the statue down. It went well at first, but then the huge figure began to roll to the left.

‘Careful, scum!’ Wulfric strapped Jack on the back.

Jack clenched his teeth. He was going to kill Wulfric one day.

‘Move it to the right!’ Jack bellowed to his comrades.

With a strangled growl, he tried to roll the statue back into place. White pain shot up his arms and he had to shut his eyes for a second in order to blank it out.

But the metal was slippery and for all their efforts the figure continued to slide.

It was going to fall.

Jack grunted and roared. Damn the statue. Damn Wulfric. Damn the Rajthanans and their stinking empire.

Then a man charged through the rain, slammed into the side of the murti and got his arms underneath it.

‘Gently, lads!’ he shouted as he heaved.

The man must have been enormously strong, because the statue immediately began to ease back to the right. Soon it was in position again and with a final shove they slid the figure on to the wagon, the oxen stomping and groaning.

Jack bent over, put his hands on his knees and panted heavily. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. It was the man who’d helped to load the statue – he was a giant, with wild ginger hair and a thick beard. His eyes twinkled like a fox’s. ‘You all right, wee man?’

Jack nodded, still trying to get his breath back. He stood up straight again and glanced around for his men. They were all leaning against the side of the wagon, exhausted but smiling, save for Saleem whose face was ashen.

‘All right, scum.’ Wulfric stood with his hands on his hips. ‘You lot can stay. But you’ll be looking after that statue. You’ll unload it every night and load it back again in the morning. If you drop it or damage it you’ll each get a hundred lashes. Understood?’

Jack and the others nodded.

‘Good. Now get that statue covered and tied down. Quickly now. Old Wulfric doesn’t like lazing about!’