The Tiger’s Prey. Wilbur Smith

the fort gun boom out the noon hour. He wiped his face, sweating in his best coat and heavy breeches. All the merchants in Bombay concluded their business in the early morning before retreating to the relative cool of their houses. At this hour, he was the only man abroad.

      ‘Two monsoons are the age of a man,’ said an old Bombay proverb – to reach it Christopher had only to survive two years. For some men, that was optimistic. The foetid air rising off the salt marsh, coupled with the noxious stink of the rotted fish the natives used to manure their coconut palms, claimed some arrivals even before they got off their ships. The rest stayed indoors as much as they could, counting their profits and the days until they could escape to England.

      Christopher had now survived fifteen monsoons – his whole life, leaving aside three years spent in Zanzibar. Indeed, while other men wilted and died, he had flourished: tall and lean, with a firm jaw and deep brown eyes – not a bit like his father, men said approvingly, though never in his father’s presence.

      Despite the heat, he was shivering. A slouching sentry let him through the gate, and across the courtyard to the Governor’s house. It was a relic from the time when the Portuguese had owned the islands: an imposing three-storey building with a Portuguese crest still carved above the door. It towered over the walls of the fort, which had been built around it when the English took over the island.

      Even though it was his home, Christopher’s breath quickened with anxiety as he entered. He climbed the stairs, and knocked timidly on the stout teak doors that guarded the Governor’s office.

      ‘Enter,’ barked the familiar voice.

      Guy Courtney sat at his desk, in front of three tall windows from which he could look down on every ship anchored in the harbour. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk: letter books and consultation books, manifests and loading bills, all the ink and paper that drove the Company’s trade no less than the winds that sped her ships. On the wall to his left, Guy’s father Hal looked down from an oil painting, his hand resting on the hilt of a great golden sword. A huge sapphire bulged from its pommel, painted with such lustre it seemed to glow off the canvas.

      A black servant stood beside Guy, wafting him with a silver-handled peacock feather. Guy didn’t look up.

      ‘What is it?’ he snapped.

      Christopher clutched the brim of his hat. He took another deep breath. ‘I have come to ask your permission to marry, Father.’

      Guy went still. ‘Marry?’ He repeated the word as if it stank of dung. ‘What in the world possessed you of this notion?’

      ‘I am of age.’

      ‘That hardly signifies. Who is the girl who has caught your foolish fancy?’

      ‘Ruth Reedy.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Corporal Reedy’s daughter. From the garrison.’

      ‘That wench? She’s little more than a punch-house doxy!’ Guy’s expression changed. He tipped back his head and laughed. ‘For a moment, I thought you were serious. I had heard reports you were seen together, but I assumed you were merely tupping her behind the stables, like a dozen other youngsters of your age are doing to her. Perhaps I gave you too much credit.’

      ‘I love her.’

      Guy studied his son through half-closed eyes. The boy had always been headstrong – like his father. Quick witted and strong willed, he had all the makings of a fine merchant. So much potential: Guy had taken great pains in his education. He had beaten him blue, trying to thrash out the contrary elements in the boy’s nature, to make him fit for the future he alone could give him. And still the boy had not learned.

      Perhaps kindness could succeed where force had failed. He softened his tone.

      ‘I know how it is to be young. When I was your age, and foolish, I loved a girl so hard I almost gave my life for her honour. It was only later I found she was a common whore, a bitch who’d give herself to anyone who had a few rupees.’

      Even after so many years, the memory made him hot with anger. He forced himself to be calm. He had made her pay many times over, once she became his wife.

      ‘Your mistakes are not my concern, Father.’

      ‘But yours are mine. You will not marry this girl. I forbid it, as your father and as Governor of the Bombay Presidency. You know that any marriage contracted in this colony must be approved by me in order to be valid.’

      ‘You would deny your own son?’

      ‘When he is out of his mind, yes.’ Guy pushed himself back in his chair. ‘You wish to marry? I will see to it. You are of age now, and it is right you should take a wife. I have been remiss: if I had acted sooner, perhaps we would have avoided this foolishness altogether. After the monsoon, we will sail to England together, and I will find you a suitable bride. Sir Nicholas Childs has a niece who is eligible, or perhaps the Earl of Godolphin’s grand-daughter. We will make a match that secures your prospects admirably.’

      And mine, he thought, though it hardly needed to be said. What use was a son if not to advance his father’s interests? Already, in his mind, he was counting the extra shares he might acquire with a well-contracted marriage. Perhaps a seat on the Court of Directors, even a royal appointment as Ambassador Plenipotentiary.

      Christopher just stared at him. He had always been a sullen boy, Guy thought, despite all his paternal efforts. An ingrate, who could not conceive how much Guy had sacrificed for him.

      ‘I hear from London that Sir Nicholas Childs is not a well man,’ Guy went on. ‘One day, perhaps you may find yourself sitting in the great office in Leadenhall Street.’

      Even this optimistic prospect drew no reaction from the lad. It occurred to Guy that perhaps Christopher had not even been rogering the corporal’s daughter. Perhaps he had been saving himself, out of some misguided ideal of marriage. When Guy was his age, after all, he had believed in a pure, chaste love. Before his brother Tom had snatched his illusions from him.

      ‘I know you have needs. I am guilty of neglecting them.’ He pulled a golden pagoda from the locked drawer in his desk and tossed it to Christopher. ‘A down payment on your future bride’s dowry. Take yourself to the brothel by the customs house – the clean one, where the officers go – and find a girl who can service you.’ He chuckled. ‘Just don’t fall in love with her, for God’s sake.’

      Christopher stared at the coin as if he had never seen one before. He held it up, so that the golden light played across his face.

      ‘You would do all this? For me?’

      Guy felt a rare spark of paternal pride. ‘All I have ever wanted is a great future for you.’

      The coin slipped through Christopher’s fingers and fell onto the desk. It landed on its edge, spinning round and round making a glittering orb.

      ‘You are a monster, Father. A cruel, calculating ogre with nothing but a strongbox where your heart should be. You would sacrifice your only son’s happiness to make me a pawn to your ambitions. I will not play that game.’

      The coin fell flat as Guy stood, pushing the desk away from him in fury.

      ‘How dare you defy me?’

      Christopher stood his ground. ‘I am not a little boy any longer, whom you can beat to your will. I will make my life how I choose, not how you design it. I will go where I please and marry whom I please.’

      The veins in Guy’s neck throbbed. ‘Be careful, Christopher. There is nowhere on either side of this ocean that my power does not reach.’

      ‘I do not fear you.’

      ‘You should,’ said Guy dangerously. ‘I could destroy you.’

      Christopher stared at him. ‘Can you hear yourself? What sort of a man would say such a thing to his son? Sometimes I think you cannot be my father.’

      His