Chapter 342: The Defeated Deserve Only a Grand Burial
In a lavish building to the east of Mysore City, Salah stared wide-eyed at Sheikh Khan, lowering his voice as he demanded:
"How did those 300 people die?!"
"Supposedly, they were poisoned," Sheikh Khan replied casually, flipping his wrist. "Food in prisons can easily kill people. It's not surprising."
Salah stepped closer, his voice trembling slightly:
"Was it you who did this?"
"Maybe," Sheikh Khan said with a shrug.
Salah, now angry, retorted, "I only asked you to intercept them on the way. Why did you kill them all?!"
"Oh, not all of them, my dear consul," Sheikh Khan said, handing him a finely crafted ivory pipe. "Care for a smoke? A dozen or so didn't have dinner last night, so they survived."
Salah knocked the pipe away in frustration. Unbothered, Sheikh Khan smiled and continued:
"You see, to intercept those few hundred people, we would have needed to mobilize at least 300 soldiers. If even one person leaked information, we would be in serious trouble. But killing them all? That just required bribing two cooks. Then we sent an assassin to deal with those cooks. Now, no one knows we had anything to do with this."
"Everyone will believe it was Jahan Zeb, trying to please the British. His ties to them are so well-known that even the beggars in the city talk about it."
"But..." Salah sighed, knowing it was too late to change anything. He reluctantly conceded, "I hope that in the future, you'll discuss these kinds of decisions with me first."
"Of course, we are the closest of friends," Sheikh Khan replied.
Salah grabbed the pipe, turned on his heel, and left Sheikh Khan's villa. He had many more tasks waiting for him. Having grown up in a Westernized family influenced by Enlightenment ideals, Salah could hardly comprehend the disregard for life that permeated India's caste system, especially concerning the lives of Hindu outcasts.
To Sheikh Khan, those 370 people were no different from the chickens or sheep in his home. If eliminating them would help him defeat a political rival, he wouldn't hesitate to kill 30,000 more if necessary.
...
The "Massacre of the Released Prisoners" quickly spread throughout Mysore within three days, fueled by Salah and his allies. Across the region, people cursed the brutal British and their local accomplices and mourned the deaths of the 300-plus victims.
Sensing an opportunity, Jahan Zeb's political rivals flooded Tipu Sultan's desk with complaints. The accusations now extended beyond the massacre, encompassing corruption, excessive taxation, and abuse of power—a classic case of kicking someone when they're down.
At Ambavilas Palace, Tipu Sultan glared coldly at Jahan Zeb. "I remember telling you to release those people. So, what exactly have you done?"
It had taken all of Tipu Sultan's efforts, including deploying the royal guard, to calm the crowd outside the palace, demanding justice for the massacre. Even now, nearly a thousand people remained outside, waiting for him to give them a proper resolution for their deceased loved ones.
"Great Sultan," Jahan Zeb began, his voice trembling, "I did order their release. I don't know why they…"
He glanced at Shaah, a finance officer from Sheikh Khan's faction, with a seething hatred. Shaah was most likely involved in the incident, but Jahan Zeb had no way to accuse him.
"Hmph," Tipu Sultan's dismissive grunt cut him off. Although Tipu was smart enough to see that something was off—Jahan Zeb would never have chosen to kill the prisoners just before their release, especially not with so many witnesses—he also understood the nature of political struggles. If you fall into someone else's trap, it's because you're not sharp enough or careful enough. And if you can't find a way to turn the tables, all that's left for you is a grand burial.
After all, Tipu couldn't possibly shield him at the cost of facing the wrath of the entire population.
"Please, forgive me, great Sultan!" Jahan Zeb suddenly dropped to the ground, clutching Tipu Sultan's feet, pleading desperately. "And those people… they were spreading rumors. Even if they died, it was just a slightly harsh punishment. I'm willing to pay a large sum to compensate their families…"
Shaah immediately bowed to Tipu Sultan and said, "Your Majesty, those people weren't spreading rumors. As far as I know, most of what they said about the British is true."
He shot a cold glance at Jahan Zeb, adding, "The Sultan's secretary has accepted bribes from the British and has gone to great lengths to protect their reputation, even at the cost of persecuting the people of Mysore!"
In reality, Shaah had no concrete evidence of Jahan Zeb's dealings with the British, but he knew there were likely some benefits involved. It wasn't hard to make such an accusation stick.
Jahan Zeb panicked, "Great Sultan, don't listen to his lies…"
But Tipu Sultan narrowed his eyes and nodded, saying, "I've been looking into those rumors recently, and it's true that the British have committed those acts."
As someone who admired European culture, Tipu Sultan was aware of the British's dark deeds, though he didn't know the exact numbers related to the atrocities they committed against Native Americans or their involvement in the slave trade.
Jahan Zeb felt as though he'd been struck by lightning. Without the claim of "rumors," his actions had no justification.
"For the sake of your late father, please forgive me this time…" he begged.
Tipu Sultan gazed coldly at the weeping old minister for a long moment before finally sighing. "You will pay 10,000 pounds to the families of the deceased. I know you've always wanted to make a pilgrimage, but have been too busy with state affairs. I'm giving you several years off; go on your pilgrimage."
Although Tipu Sultan called it a pilgrimage, it was really a way of banishing Jahan Zeb from the center of power. With the slow pace of travel, it would take him at least two years to return, by which time his political influence would be long gone.
Jahan Zeb's body stiffened, and after a long pause, he finally whispered, "Thank you for your kindness, great Sultan…"
...
"What a foolish Indian!" raged Callum Griffiths, the senior representative of the East India Company, after hearing his subordinate's report on the recent "massacre." In his fury, he kicked over a coat rack.
Jahan Zeb had not only failed to control the spread of rumors against the British but had also managed to completely uproot the pro-British faction within Mysore. Now, in Mysore, anyone who admitted to supporting the British would likely be beaten to death the moment they stepped outside.
The intelligence officer reporting to Griffiths added, "Sir, I've also received word that Tipu is preparing to declare war on both Travancore and the East India Company."
"What?!" Griffiths grabbed the man's arm in disbelief. "Is that information reliable?"
[Note 1] At that time, although the Kingdom of Mysore was ruled by Muslims, the majority of the lower-class population was Hindu, with a small number of Sikhs. Tipu Sultan implemented a policy of religious tolerance, and generally speaking, the various religions coexisted peacefully in Mysore.
(End of Chapter)
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