Jean looked up again, past the coiling snakes and saw the boy on the rafter reach into a haversack at his waist and pull out another handful of condoms to scatter like confetti over the women. Confetti might be a suitable metaphor Jean realized with total disbelief: unless this was all a incredible joke there was nothing at all to stop the Prince from treating all the white women as if they were his wives, taking them as he wished for his pleasure – and giving them to his friends as well for their gratification.
Zan-zar-zamin, land, gold and women, the traditional objects of crime on the frontier. The Prince already had land and gold in plenty: now he seemed set on completing the trilogy. But no Indian had dared to molest a European woman since the great mutiny of eighty years before.
The British suppression of the mutiny had been so ruthless that since then a unprotected English virgin with a sack of gold on her back could have walked from the mountains to the sea without fear of being molested.
"You wouldn't dare," Jean said, her voice croaking like a frog's.
Prince Ravi smiled. "You know, Mrs Ellington, I had a feeling one of you might say that. So let me introduce you to Mr Manji and his assistant."
Mr Manji was a fat little babu in a cheap copy of a European suit, his assistant a thin little babu in an even cheaper copy of a European suit. But there was nothing very cheap about the tripod they carried in or the big American made Speedmaster camera on top of it. It was the sort of camera that only a professional photographer would use and the Prince waved his hand towards it as though introducing it as well.
"Ladies, whether you want to take advantage of the contraceptives I have supplied is up to you. But you are going to have no choice at all about being photographed in every detail as you behave like a chorus line of French whores. Afterwards you may certainly tell your husbands all about it if you wish, but I doubt that New Delhi and London will begin a war of suppression against Kultoon on your behalf. Dear me, no, not with Mr Gandi already making so much political trouble. But if that should happen, and trouble is caused, you can be certain that I will make sure that every peddler of filthy pictures from Suez to Shanghai will soon be supplied with ample stocks of highly detailed photographs of each one of you being broken in as remounts for the Kultooni cavalry. And dear me, won't they sell like hot cakes in the local bazaars? Not above half, I shouldn't wonder. So my advice is not to tell any tales out of school unless you want to become very famous."
The Prince clapped his hands lightly together with glee. "But don't think I'm not prepared to deal fairly with you. If any one of you wishes it so, I will have the snake bowl lowered a little so that you may put your hand inside it and thus die without being dishonored. I'm quite certain that none of you will be so foolish, but the offer is always there, should any of you wish to emulate the fate of the good Queen Cleopatra. And as for those of you whom may be suffering overmuch from maidenly shyness, we've brought the riding crops. Red cheeks at both ends is too much of a good thing, hey?" 'He's mad, stark staring mad," Deborah Boxwood thought.
It was Carol Carnac-Smyth who spoke up though: "And what happens if you make a stupid mistake with those snakes which results in us all getting killed? Do you think the Viceroy will overlook that?"
The Prince shrugged and spread his hands like a bazaar carpet seller showing his astonishment at an unreasonable offer: "If such a sad thing should happen one could only presume the snakes were dropped into your bathing pool by those snakes in the grass in the Congress Party. No doubt some of the troublemakers that Mr Gandi is always organizing to shout in the streets for the British to quit India. Your deaths might give New Delhi the courage to deal with those scum in the way they should be dealt with."
Carol's mind raced and the conclusions she reached were not comforting: the truth was that there were very good reasons why Prince Ravi would probably be quite content to kill the British women.
Kultoon and the other independent states like it were happy to be part of a British run India, for they knew that if India ever did become independent their lands would quickly be seized by the new government and subsumed into the newly born nation. Prompted by such fears for their future the native princes were fretting because they thought the British should have hung Gandi and his fellow nationalist leaders long ago. And they knew from their grandfather's tales that when the future of British India had trembled in the balance once before it had been the massacres of British women and children which had sent the tiny British army of India into a berserker rage. A rage which had burnt and blasted all hopes of Indian independence for generations. A rage which had lasted so long that many British soldiers in India still had 'CAWNPORE WELL' tattooed on their bodies as part of the rites of passage from raw recruit to seasoned veteran. Prince Ravi and his father might well want to see some new tattoos on brawny British arms as a reminder of new atrocities: 'GAZEPORE SNAKEPIT' would probably serve their turn quite well. And when Carol looked around at the other faces around the pool she felt that most of the women understood Indian politics well enough to take Ravi's threat very seriously.
Yes, and already Ravi come within a hand's span of shattering the bowl and dropping the kraits in amongst the women. That was how little he cared about their lives: Hamlet wasn't in it compared to this mad prince. Carol could imagine the tangle of writhing green bodies falling into the water, bursting apart and spreading out in a maddened fury, and then the screams of the women trying to get out of the pool with snakes hanging from arms and legs, already fated to die in choking agony like pi-dogs with rabies, swollen tongues protruding from foam dewed lips. And because every detail of her fate was already clear in her mind she dared say nothing in rebuttal to Ravi.
The Prince looked at all the women, all apparently as speechless as Carol herself was. He grinned, lifted a languid hand and clicked his fingers: "Bring along the party requisites, please, gentlemen."
There was a bustle of activity as two officers came into the Moorghi-Khana carrying a wickerwork picnic basket between them. They lifted it up and set it down carefully on top of the table. Damp patches began to form on the magazines underneath the basket. One of the men undid the lid of the basket and lifted it up. But none of the British women even noticed that action: what they were gaping at was what four more officers were bringing into the room. It was a sight beyond belief.
The four men made their way through the onlookers, to the edge of the pool. Then they set down their burden in front of the Prince. It was a rocking horse. Made of wood, skillfully painted a realistic shade of dappled gray, a tail made of what looked like real horse hairs, and with bright blue dolls' eyes painted on the head. It was far larger than any normal toy and in fact looked as if it might have come from a fairground ride. But the strangest thing of all about it was the saddle on top of the wooden horse, a fat well padded red silk pillow of a saddle which ran all the way from mane to tail. In addition there were reins on the well shaped head, fine leather reins, and thick leather stirrups on each side of the horse with wide wooden foot rests.
Ravi patted the horse on the head: "Patience, ladies, all will soon be clear. But first a peace offering."
The officer who had lifted the lid of the basket held up chunks of white between his fingers and called out: "Come on, Kirpa, old boy, hurry up."
Another officer passed him an ice bucket. In the summer heat it seemed almost as an incongruous sight as the rocking horse, but the clatter of the white shards as the officer dropped them into the container and the way he rubbed his numbed fingers afterwards confirmed that the bucket was being used for its intended purpose. Confirmation made doubly sure as a champagne bottle was lifted carefully out of the ice filled wicker basket. The audience in the pool gaped again as the officer holding the bottle opened it with a few twists of his finger and sent the cork flying high in the air. It was obvious that he'd been trying to land it inside the bowl of snakes and missed by only a few feet. Another of the Kultooni cavalrymen had a tray ready and took out glasses from the basket, champagne glasses cold enough to be instantly covered in condensation as they were set out on the tray and each one instantly filled with foaming liquid.