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.

The flogging went on. Hakeswill watched it with delight, but most of the men stared into the sky and prayed that Sharpe would not cry aloud. That would be his victory, even if he died in achieving it. Some Indian troops had gathered around the hollow square to watch the flogging. Such punishments were not permitted in the East India Company and most of the sepoys found it inexplicable that the British inflicted it upon themselves.

'One hundred and sixty-nine!' Bywaters shouted, then saw a gleam of white under a lash. The gleam was instantly obscured by a trickle of blood. 'Can see a rib, sir!' the Sergeant Major called to the surgeon.

Micklewhite waved a fly away from his face and stared up at a small cloud that was drifting northwards. Must be some wind up there, he thought, and it was a pity that there was none down here to alleviate the heat. A tiny droplet of blood splashed onto his blue coat and he fastidiously backed farther away.

'One hundred and seventy-four,' Bywaters shouted, trying to imbue the bare numbers with a tone of disapproval.

Sharpe was scarcely conscious now. The pain was beyond bearing. It was as if he was being burned alive and being stabbed at the same time. He was whimpering with each blow, but the sound was tiny, scarce loud enough to be audible to the two sweating boys whose aching arms brought the lashes down again and again. Sharpe kept his eyes closed. The breath hissed in and out of his mouth, past the gag, and the sweat and saliva dribbled down his chin and dripped onto the earth where his blood showed as dark splashes in the dust.

'Two hundred and one,' Bywaters called, and wondered if he dared take a sip of water from his canteen. His voice was becoming hoarse.

'Stop!' a voice shouted.

'Two hundred and two.'

'Stop!' the voice shouted again, and this time it was as if the whole battalion had been suddenly woken from a sleep. The drummer boy gave a last hesitant tap, then let his hands fall to his sides as Sergeant Major Bywaters held up his hand to stop the next stroke which was already faltering. Sharpe lifted up his head and opened his eyes, but saw nothing but a blur. The pain surged through him, he whimpered, then dropped his face again and a string of spittle fell slowly from his mouth.

Colonel Arthur Wellesley had ridden up to the tripod. For a moment Shee and his aides looked at their Colonel almost guiltily, as though they had been caught in some illicit pastime. No one spoke as the Colonel edged his horse closer to the prisoner. Wellesley looked down sourly, then put his riding crop under Sharpe's chin to lift up his head. The Colonel almost recoiled from the look of hatred he saw in the victim's eyes. He pulled the crop away, then wiped its tip on his saddle cloth to remove the spittle. 'The prisoner is to be cut down, Major Shee,' the Colonel said icily.

'Yes, sir.' Shee was nervous, wondering if he had made some terrible mistake. 'At once, sir,' he added, though he gave no orders.

'I dislike stopping a well-deserved punishment,' Wellesley said loudly enough for all the nearby officers to hear, 'but Private Sharpe is to be taken to General Harris's tent as soon as he's recovered.'

'General Harris, sir?' Major Shee asked in astonishment. General Harris was the commander of this expedition against the Tippoo, and what possible business could the commanding General have with a half-flogged private? 'Yes, sir, of course, sir,' Shee added quickly when he saw that his query had annoyed Wellesley. 'At once, sir.'

'Then do it!' Wellesley snapped. The Colonel was a thin young man with a narrow face, hard eyes and a prominently beaked nose. Many older men resented that the twenty-nine-year-old Wellesley was already a full colonel, but he came from a wealthy and titled family and his elder brother, the Earl of Mornington, was Governor-General of the East India Company's British possessions in India, so it was hardly surprising that the young Arthur Wellesley had risen so high so fast. Any officer given the money to buy promotion and lucky enough to possess relations who could put him in the way of advancement was bound to rise, but even the less fortunate men who resented Wellesley's privileges were forced to admit that the young Colonel had a natural and chilling authority, and maybe, some thought, even a talent for soldiering. He was certainly dedicated enough to his chosen trade if that was any sign of talent.

Wellesley nudged his horse forward and stared down as the prisoner's bonds were cut loose. 'Private Sharpe?' He spoke with utter disdain, as though he dirtied himself by even addressing Sharpe.

Sharpe looked up, blinked, then made a guttural noise. Bywaters ran forward and worked the gag out of Sharpe's mouth. Freeing the pad took some manipulation, for Sharpe had sunk his teeth deep into the folded leather. 'Good lad now,' Bywaters said softly, 'good lad. Didn't cry, did you? Proud of you, lad.' The Sergeant Major at last managed to work the gag free and Sharpe tried to spit.

'Private Sharpe?' Wellesley's disdainful voice repeated.

Sharpe forced his head up. 'Sir?' The word came out as a croak. 'Sir,' he tried again and this time it sounded like a moan.