The battlefield was filled with the dead and the dying, both soldiers and beasts. The stench of blood would soon turn into the smell of putrefaction. When the messenger came back and announced the rout of the rebels, the king hit his folded fist into his open palm, signifying his satisfaction. Kulasekharan got on his war-horse and galloped towards the fort. And so it was that the king had returned to his fort, while Vikrama had fled. A sense of shame prevailed as a civil war had been fought in Pandyan lands, which had been noted for a century of unity.
Vikrama was captured three days later. As expected, he was trying to escape on horseback to the eastern coast. He expected to cross over to Lanka with his depleted set of followers. From being the most honoured man in the empire, he had suddenly become the most detested man in less than a hundred sunrises.
The boys had expected Vikrama to be brought to the fort in shackles. Yet, the king and his brother arrived on the same chariot. Kulasekharan even helped Vikrama get down. To the sharp eyes of Veera, the subtle difference was discernible. Normally, it would have been the agile Vikrama who would have helped the king. But his shoulders were now slumped in defeat, perhaps under the crushing weight of a failed rebellion. A hush fell in the crowd and yet the silence was deafening.
Veera felt let down by his uncle. In a rush of distress, his heart went out to his mentor. Vikrama’s face was flaccid, as if it had lost the will to be firm. He had aged tremendously, and to friends and foes alike, he seemed as helpless as a piece of meat on a butcher’s slab.
The king was determined to destroy Vikrama. Not because he was a rival, but because he had been hoodwinked. Vikrama’s revolt was as provoking as incest to him, and he would have to be cut down to size. But his head would not be cut off. The king hesitated to spill the sacred blood of a member of the royal family, even a traitor’s. Intricate negotiations ensured Vikrama would save his neck and in turn be the eternal outsider for the duration of Kulasekharan’s reign. A rebel would always remain one. Vikrama agreed to go into exile and not take up arms against the king of Madurai on the condition that all the soldiers who had rallied under him were pardoned.
Vikrama was allowed to return to his palace where Meena waited for him. But he was not permitted to leave its grounds. Vikrama submitted to his imprisonment meekly, for the ravages of loneliness, which could eat into a man, were but solitude for him. Kulasekharan visited him twice, but the two princes did not hear details of the conversation they had.
Veera was puzzled. He could find no motive for the rebellion. There was no way Vikrama could have won – it was incomprehensible. While others believed Vikrama lusted after the throne, Veera knew it was not true. He wrestled with love for his uncle and loyalty to his father. Whatever his father’s shortcomings, his loyalties should lie with him, Veera decided. When Veera asked for his permission to visit Vikrama, the emperor agreed, merely raising his bushy eyebrows at the request. Veera knew he had to tread lightly as this could affect his prospects in the future. But Vikrama attracted him like a fire does the moth for two reasons. One was his love for him, a love that had grown deeper now that Vikrama was alone. The other was that he would learn more about warfare in a few days with Vikrama than a few years in school.
Veera found his uncle gazing at a wall. He occasionally ran a hand over his coarse face where there were now patches of white amidst the stubble, like patches of grass burnt out in a conflagration. His uncle had aged and his face was now rigid as if hardened by his disinclination to live. Vikrama motioned Veera to sit across him but he continued to stand as a mark of respect. After a few moments of silence, it seemed that Vikrama would never open his mouth. Then Meena came out, with a smile that did not reach her eyes.
Vikrama asked Veera to walk with him in the garden. Whenever he saw a soldier standing unobtrusively, Vikrama’s hands fidgeted around where the hilt of his sword had been. He had been disarmed, of course. To Veera he looked like an animal trapped after a long hunt. Both of them walked in silence for a few minutes. There were a thousand questions Veera wanted to ask but he was tongue-tied. As an outlet, he kicked a few pebbles rather violently. Vikrama could sense the questions tormenting Veera. He began rather calmly, ‘Veera, you want to know why I did this, don’t you? There are many reasons for it, most of which you cannot grasp at the moment. But remember, I don’t consider my act as treachery; it was my duty to this empire.’
Veera looked at him in surprise. Vikrama continued, ‘It is not by divine right that we rule this country. The throne does not belong to the lineage but to whoever is braver. Remember this, Veera, for you will need this truth when your time comes. Empires never last forever – only a few generations at most before lethargy sets in. Princes born with no more territory to conquer are always indolent. Most dynasties have a long decline. Do you know that the last three Cholas ruled for a whole century and like them, we are en route to self-annihilation?’
Veera did not share the pessimistic view of his uncle but chose not to disagree. But he was relieved to learn that his uncle had other reasons to rebel than avarice. Vikrama continued, ‘The invincibility of the Pandyans is tarnished and its immunity will be tested soon. Kulasekharan is not the leader we need. There is so much to do, Veera, and so little time. In my reign, and yours, Veera, I had planned to establish the world’s largest empire.’
After falling silent to allow Veera to understand the gravity of what he had just said, Vikrama continued, ‘We will soon be in trouble, deep trouble. How many of our people do you think are fit for battle? Surrounded by vassals whom we have rendered impotent by controlling their armies, we will fall like straws before an invader.’
Veera countered, ‘But Lanka cannot invade us any longer, Uncle.’
‘It will not be the Lankans. It will be someone from the north, Queen Rudramba from Warangal, perhaps,’ Vikrama said. Then, suddenly, he asked Veera, ‘What would you have done in my place?’
His question was harmless, though, if heard by the wrong ears, it could amount to sedition. Vikrama’s political acumen had failed him and he, as a keen student of the wiles of warfare, wanted to know where he had failed from his protégé.
‘I would have remained loyal, Uncle,’ Veera said, his eyes fixed on the floor. ‘As you’ve always said, it is difficult to continue a war against an establishment for many years. It is not impossible, but the chances of winning are remote.’
Vikrama chuckled. ‘Let me rephrase my query. How would you have led this campaign?’
‘I would have caused the coup to start inside the palace.’
Vikrama’s subsequent silence showed that he had disregarded that possibility. ‘How can you justify that?’ he asked.
‘Not theoretically, but most successful overthrows in history have been from within the palace.’
Vikrama sighed. ‘You may be right, but I pray your knowledge is not put to use by you. I hope you have no need to fight a rebellion…’ he paused, and as one who had overlooked something, said, ‘…or incite one.’
*
Kulasekharan was a brilliant man. The Chera prince had helped him retain the throne and Kulasekharan wanted to reward him and reinforce the relationship. Also, not wanting to create a martyr out of Vikrama, he thought the best way to restrain him would be through his daughter. When the king had suggested the Chera prince as a husband for Meena, Vikrama could only nod his assent. He was powerless and had to abide by the decision of the king. Veera could sense his feelings, and his heart went out to him. But he had to admire his father’s tact. He had ensured Vikrama would not rebel again. The fetters that manacled him were binding.
The day after the marriage, Veera went to meet Meena, who requested, ‘Please look after my father, Veera, he has nobody.’ Veera knew Vikrama would not stay in Madurai after his daughter had gone away, but nodded in assent. Meena and her husband left for Chera lands the following week.
After the wedding, Vikrama expressed the wish to go into exile. Never again would his advice be sought, no more could he be pr
ivy to secrets of the state. He naturally preferred an exile to a life of an outcast, ostracized by his friends and relatives, a social eunuch. Vikrama was allowed to go anywhere except Lanka, where he could have created an alternate power centre. His parting from Meena left him awash with anguish, but by now he had suffered so much that he was beyond regret. He asked to be dropped at the fringe of the forests outside Madurai. Veera accompanied his uncle; it was, he felt, the last chance to spend some time with him. When they reached the destination, the soldiers stayed back near the chariot, while Vikrama and he walked alone. Twice Vikrama paused, as if wanting to turn for a last look at the distant towers of Madurai. It was obvious to Veera that he had suppressed the feeling and resumed walking. He noted that Vikrama’s gait was like that of a dead man walking. When men’s dreams die, they die with them, he noted. Vikrama was now heading into the forests, where he would waste his life in heartbreak and frustration.
‘Isn’t fate cruel?’ Veera said aloud, not particularly aiming his words at his uncle.
‘Yes indeed,’ Vikrama solemnly nodded. A man who was deemed to be the bravest in Madurai a month ago was now doomed to an obscure grave far from the land he loved. When they were tired, they rested in the shade of an acacia. Veera’s gaze followed his uncle’s. Vikrama was busy observing a beetle rolling a ball of dung several times its size. The constant rolling had made the dung perfectly globular, which added to its speed. The beetle was clumsy and was only chasing the ball after it had given it a nudge.
‘We are like this beetle; we have more dung than we can roll,’ Vikrama sighed.
Veera knew it was time to part. They held hands before Veera turned to walk back towards Madurai.
When Veera was out of sight, Vikrama uttered in plain words, ‘My curse is on your line, Kulasekharan – may your sons fight like we did. And may the weaker man win.’
*
When the sojourn at the gurukulam was over, Akshayan accompanied him to Madurai on Veera’s request, forgoing posts where he could command men and enjoy a share of the loot they carried out. His proximity to Veera could have probably got him a high-level posting to Lanka or on the frontier, but he had decided to be with Veera. As he saw it, he would spend the rest of his life protecting the friend he loved and that was it. He had decided to sail or sink with Veera.
Veera had expected to be posted to an army unit in the capital. He was surprised and seethed in anger when he was posted to the treasury instead. He was to be an apprentice for the next year in the accounts department, learning the tricks of financing a campaign. He resented this assignment and it was only Akshayan’s devotion that sustained him.
When he had left for school, Veera was a boy. Now, six years later, his body had been tempered by training and he now felt out of place in a harem populated predominantly by women. When he came home his body shone with the sheen of a metal statue and it was obvious that both he and Sundar had plenty of female fans in the retinues of the royal family.
There were several new faces in the harem, Veera noted. Many of the new girls had come from villages where they would have toiled in the fields so the stint in the palace provided a better life for them. Many had become obese because of a luxurious life, with plenty of food and barely any exercise. Most did not have scruples about seducing a royal or serving the needs of a lecherous courtier with an aging wife.
Veera finally lost his virginity, seduced by a maid-assistant to his mother named Vani, after the goddess of learning. True to her name, she taught Veera the ways of the world and how to get the utmost pleasure in his sexual life. Vani was nineteen, older than Veera, slightly dark, with a well-endowed figure. She had been looking for every opportunity to be as close to him as possible. He realized that it was not just coincidence that she served him meals everyday. She also left a bowl of milk on his bedside every morning as he lay naked.
One evening, after everyone had finished their meals and the palace had fallen quiet, Veera called Vani to his chambers. Vani entered quietly, her eyes lowered but knowing exactly why she was there. Veera called her to him. She coquettishly came closer, and they stood facing each other. Vani took both his hands and placed them on her bosom. A quivering rushed through his nerves. He had touched nothing softer than her breasts, and feared that his callus-ridden palms would hurt them. She murmured something incomprehensible as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of his hands stroking her.
He faltered for a moment as a thought, a doubt about her motives, flitted across his mind. He jerked away his hands rudely. She read his mind and clairvoyantly said, ‘No, Your Highness, I don’t want to be a queen.’
Embarrassed that she had read his mind, he reacted by embracing her roughly. As he panted with an ardent vigour, she thought that he would hurt himself. Some men thought that physical activeness could make up for the artistry or skill they lacked in sex. ‘My, my,’ she sighed, ‘you have much to learn, my prince.’
Vani reminded Veera of a free bird. Her senses were sharp and her priorities clearly listed. Their nocturnal trysts continued and whenever levels of prudence dropped, Vani chided him. ‘Be careful of your mother. Women have eyes in the back of their heads when they need to observe their sons and husbands.’
The lovers often changed their meeting places so that they would not be caught together. The idea was hers – she did not want to precipitate a crisis for it would result in her banishment from material bliss.
It had been almost a year since Vani had taken his virginity, and Veera’s nightly affairs continued unhindered. Veera, though annoyed with his assignment, was happy that Sundar, too, had to do a similarly irksome job in the weapons manufacturing department. Life seemed stable enough and it seemed that nothing would shatter the peace.
CHAPTER 6
BETRAYED
Ram woke suddenly. It was not a dream or the unease one felt in a new bed. Chaula stirred. ‘What is it?’ she queried. He instinctively held her wrist so hard that she gasped in pain. A long silence filled the room. The distant sound that had woken him up got louder. Now they both heard it clearly in the silence that surrounded the hamlet. It was the clip-clop of horses.
Chaula’s voice was urgent. ‘What is that sound?’ she asked, knowing the answer well. Her whisper seemed like a thunderclap in the stillness of the night. ‘Quiet,’ Ram wheezed in her ear. ‘Hopefully, it’s just a passing group and they will skip the village. Let me see.’ He hurriedly dressed and cautiously looked out of the door. Even in the cool of the night, he could not stop perspiring.
‘Do you see anyone?’ asked Chaula, nearly breathless now. He placed a finger on her lips, signalled her to close the door and walked out. As he walked towards the direction the sound came from, he kept as quiet as possible. When Chaula closed the door, the sound made him jump involuntarily. She dutifully bolted the door with the latch the ironsmith had made for them and for which he had demanded a silver coin.
Ram moved swiftly from the rest house to the garden behind the temple. Grateful for the concealing gloom, he crouched behind a hedge and watched the pass between the hillocks. There was not a soul on the road and nobody else seemed to have heard anything. The wind whistled through the trees. Sensing a stirring in the distance, he peered more closely and spied a distant shadow. He could now see the looming party at the pass. He groaned. Riders, almost twenty of them, emerged from the darkness of the night, their martial bearing apparent. No caravan could ride with such a rhythm. A few stray mongrels that roamed the streets began to bark.
Ram hoped it was just a patrol that would choose to ignore the hamlet. But they kept coming towards him in a single file, as if they were the unerring arrows of an expert archer. Moonlight revealed the wisps of sand that rose where the hooves struck the ground. When they came closer, he recognized the first rider. It was the son of the priest. A cold clammy fear made his hair stand erect on his neck. They know I am here! He experienced a fleeting sensation to run. But his damp hands only held the wall tighter. He had to let go and m
ake a dash for it but there was nowhere to run to. All that surrounded him was sandy wilderness and a horseman could see him from miles away. His shoulders slumped. He was snared even before he could run.
The leading horse plodded on, its hooves now striking against the stones that lined the temple perimeter. The hunter and his quarry were within reach of each other. In the still air of the night, Ram could smell the stink of his own fear. He thought of Chaula, defenceless in the hut. He had to save her. An unsettling lump clogged his throat, but the thought of Chaula broke the spell. Though realizing the futility of fleeing, he slowly edged his way around the temple. Somebody from the patrol shouted out to him. A shadow stirred from behind him and a hand on his shoulder made him start. He instinctively knew who it was.
The priest wrapped a protective arm around him. ‘Don’t try to run,’ he said. A feeling of desolation rolled over Ram. His head began to spin and his skin felt numb. The priest seemed unperturbed by the search party. ‘You knew they were coming,’ Ram sputtered.
‘I’m afraid you are at a disadvantage, young man.’ The priest spoke in a harsh tone. The horses had by now reached where the two were. The leading man did not dismount; he just kept his gaze on Ram. Many of the huts had come alive with people waking up to see what was happening.
Ram suddenly broke free and ran. The soldiers got off their horses and leapt behind him into the street where he had turned. He could hear his heart hammering against his ribs, louder than the footfalls following him. Suddenly, he was held in a vice-like grip. He was dragged to the leader of the patrol and the man on the horse towered over him as he glared. Before he knew it, the man kicked out at Ram. He was propelled in the air, his head thrown behind with a snap. Ram hit the ground with a suddenness that knocked the air out of him. He felt a warm trickle from the edge of his lip. It was salty, the taste of blood.
Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai Page 7
