Chapter 342: Losers Only Deserve a Grand Funeral
Inside a luxurious building east of Mysore City, Salah stared wide-eyed at Sheikh Khan, lowering his voice.
"How did those more than 300 people die?!"
"Poison, supposedly." Sheikh Khan flicked his wrist dismissively. "It's hardly surprising that the prison food killed some people."
Salah took a step forward, his voice trembling slightly.
"Was it you?"
"Hmm, perhaps."
Salah snapped, "I only asked you to abduct them en route! Why did you kill them all?!"
"Oh, not all of them, Your Excellency," Sheikh Khan said, offering him a delicate ivory pipe. "Care for a few puffs? A dozen or so didn't eat dinner yesterday, so they're still alive."
Salah swatted the pipe away. Sheikh Khan wasn't offended, smiling faintly.
"But killing them? That only required bribing two cooks. Then, sending an assassin to eliminate those two cooks. No one in this world would ever know we were involved."
"Now, everyone will believe it was Jahan Zeb who acted maliciously to curry favor with the British—his ties with the British are known even to the beggars in the city."
"But..." Salah sighed, looking up. Since things had come to this, he could only say helplessly, "I hope you'll consult with me before making similar decisions in the future."
"Of course, we are the closest of friends."
Salah snatched the pipe, then turned and left Sheikh Khan's villa. There were still many follow-up arrangements awaiting his attention.
He had grown up in a Western-style family in Tunisia, influenced by Enlightenment ideals, and simply couldn't comprehend the indifference of high-ranking Indian officials to the lives of lower-caste people under the caste system, especially Hindu Dalits.
In Sheikh Khan's eyes, those 370 people were no different from the chickens and sheep in his household. When it came to toppling a political rival, he wouldn't hesitate to kill even 30,000 people.
...
The "Massacre of the Released" scandal, fanned by Salah and others, fermented across Mysore in less than three days. Countless people railed against the brutal British and their lackeys, mourning the more than 300 deceased.
Meanwhile, Jahan Zeb's political rivals, keenly sniffing out an opportunity, immediately sent a flurry of accusatory letters to Tipu Sultan's desk. The contents expanded from the massacre to various charges of corruption, tax fraud, and abuse of power, creating an impression of 'when a wall starts to fall, everyone gives it a push.'
Ambavilas Palace.
"I recall instructing you to release those people," Tipu Sultan said, his gaze fixed coldly on Jahan Zeb. "And what exactly have you done?"
He had just expended considerable effort, even mobilizing the Imperial Guard, to finally placate the crowds accusing him of the massacre.
Even now, nearly a thousand people were gathered outside the palace, awaiting justice from the Sultan for their deceased relatives.
"Great Sultan," Jahan Zeb began, his voice strained. "I did indeed order their release. I don't know why they would have..."
He glanced at the Shah next to him, the finance official from Sheikh Khan's faction, his teeth clenching in fury. This affair was almost certainly the latter's doing, or at least he was involved, but Jahan Zeb had no way to accuse him.
"Hmph," Tipu Sultan interjected, cutting off his secretary with a simple hum.
Though intelligent, he had seen the problem immediately—even if Jahan Zeb intended to act, he wouldn't have chosen the day before their release, when the most spectators were present.
But that was the nature of political struggle: if you fell into someone else's trap, it only meant you weren't astute enough, not cautious enough. And if you couldn't devise a way to turn the tables, then all that remained was a grand funeral for you.
It was impossible for the Sultan to personally shoulder the wrath of the entire nation just to protect him.
"Your Majesty, please forgive me!" Jahan Zeb suddenly prostrated himself, clutching Tipu Sultan's feet, pleading miserably. "Moreover, those people were spreading baseless rumors. Even if they died, it was merely a slightly heavier punishment. I am willing to offer a large sum of money to compensate their families..."
The Shah immediately placed his hand on his chest, bowing to Tipu Sultan.
"Your Majesty, those people were not spreading rumors at all. To my knowledge, what they said about the British was largely true."
He gazed coldly at Jahan Zeb:
"The Sultan's Secretary accepted benefits from the British, defending their reputation at every turn, even going so far as to persecute the people of Mysore!"
In reality, he knew nothing of the clandestine dealings between the British and Jahan Zeb, but the British certainly had provided him with illicit gains, so he couldn't be wrong by simply asserting it.
Jahan Zeb immediately grew agitated.
"Great Sultan, please don't listen to his nonsense..."
Tipu Sultan, however, narrowed his eyes slightly and nodded.
"Regarding those rumors, I recently sent people to investigate, and indeed, they are all things the British have done."
As someone well-versed in European affairs, he was quite aware of the British's nefarious deeds. Of course, he didn't know the exact figures for how many Native Americans the British had killed or how many slaves they had sold.
Upon hearing this, Jahan Zeb felt as if he'd been struck by lightning. If even the 'rumor' defense was gone, his actions would completely lose their justification.
"I beg you, for the sake of the old Sultan, forgive me this one time..."
Tipu Sultan cast a sidelong glance at the old minister, who was weeping profusely, and after a long moment, finally sighed.
"You will provide 10,000 Pound Sterling to be distributed among the families of the deceased. I know you have always wished to go on a pilgrimage, but you've been too busy with state affairs to embark. This time, I will grant you a leave of absence for several years. Go on your pilgrimage."
While termed a pilgrimage, it was effectively an exile from Mysore's center of power. Given the current level of transportation, a pilgrimage would take at least two years to complete, by which time his position in the political core would long be gone.
Jahan Zeb's body stiffened, and after a long while, he murmured, utterly drained:
"Thank you for your consideration, Great Sultan..."
...
"That idiotic Indian native!" exclaimed Griffith, the senior representative of the East India Company, kicking over a coat rack in fury after hearing his subordinate's report on the recent "massacre."
Not only had Jahan Zeb failed to control the rumors defaming the British, but he had also completely eradicated the pro-British faction within Mysore. Now, in Mysore, anyone who dared to declare themselves pro-British would likely be beaten to death the moment they stepped outside.
The intelligence officer reporting to him added:
"Sir, I've also received intelligence that Tipu is preparing to declare war on both Travancore and the East India Company simultaneously."
"What?" Griffith seized his arm. "Is the intelligence reliable?"
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