Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai

by Venketesh, R.

  ‘You cannot do that,’ Malik whispered hoarsely.

  ‘Certainly I can; a true warrior listens to nothing but his sword,’ Zafar replied. A bright smile split his face. Malik realized he had met a true warrior amidst a horde of soldiers who would flee with glee if they were left untethered by the rules and the leadership of Alauddin.

  ‘Whatever happens will happen. If there is a chance, in this life or the next, I should love to fight alongside you, or even better, if I fought against you. You would make a worthy opponent – your brains against my brawn.’ Malik felt a sudden warmth in his heart. Praise such as this, especially from a seasoned warrior, touched him deeply.

  ‘Sleep well, eunuch,’ Zafar bid him farewell.

  ‘Sleep well, my lord,’ Malik replied humbly.

  After walking a few steps, Zafar called Malik to him by snapping his fingers. ‘Slave, remember the ditches on both sides of the road. There is a time to stride and a time to trip. Be vigilant, you are flirting with peril and it is always dangerous to live long in concert with power.’ There was no malice in those words. ‘Do what you have to. But don’t overstep your limits.’

  For a moment, Malik prevaricated. Then gathering courage, he answered boldly, ‘May I request Your Excellency to follow the same advice?’

  Zafar was stunned; slowly, a grin twisted his mouth. As he walked away, his laughter was heard throughout the camp. He could not believe that a slave had spoken to him like that.

  Alone, Malik blanched at Zafar’s audacity. He grit his teeth. He would have to start all over again if the Sultanate lost. It was ironic, but he fervently wanted the system that had enslaved him to triumph and survive.

  *

  The land where the battle for the Sultanate was to take place was at a slight incline. The stubble of the previous year’s wheat crop littered the fields, and above in the skies, vultures floated on the currents of wind, waiting for their meals to be served. The battlefield was flanked by the Yamuna on the east and scrubland on the west. The scrubland was full of rabbit warrens, seemingly steady land beneath which lurked dangerous pitfalls.

  Three days after they had mustered sufficient forces, Alauddin led his generals to the battlefield. In earlier battles, the Sultanate’s warriors would be optimistic about the loot they would get and the heathen women they would share, and the army would be infused with infectious excitement. But now, the Turks were the defenders and were quite withdrawn. There was a loud cheer only when the Sultan was seen on the battlefield.

  Alauddin had galvanized his army with a promise of survival. He had forsaken the safety of his fort walls to lead his army. No sultan would expose his troops to certain danger, but some soldiers panicked. When a few men deserted their posts, they were strangled in public. Desertion – the very idea of it was poisonous; if left unpunished, it had the power to cripple an army and the Sultan knew he could show no mercy.

  On the way to the battlefield, he paused to wave at his troops, the least he could do for those who were willing to die for him. Then he turned to focus on his strategy. His eyes made a quick sweep across the enemy’s lines. The smell of the Mongols hit him first when the wind turned. The odour of excreta, of thousands of unwashed men, rotting leather, wood smoke and of horses, met his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

  He steadied his vision and searched for the Mongol king among the sea of filthy men from across the mountains.

  The Mongol army was in no hurry either. It wriggled like a worm as different columns marched at different speeds. The worm was hungry and could swallow the Sultanate and everything that it held dear. While soldiers of the Sultanate donned the colours of green, the Mongols wore blue or brown tunics called kalats. All wore thick, laced-up leather boots with no heels. Mongol caps were quilted, cone-shaped hats with a thick fur brim. The fur denoted their ranks: officers wore wolf, fox, badger and monkey fur, while soldiers had to make do with dog and goat fur. Heavy cavalry wore a coat of mail with iron scales covered in leather over their kalats, and replaced their traditional Mongol caps with iron helmets. Light cavalry wore lacquered leather strips and a leather helmet.

  Qutlugh was at the centre of the army, his two generals Hijlak and Tamarbugha on his sides. But another general – Targhi – was hidden from view, with ten thousand people ready for an ambush if need be. The Mongol army was made up entirely of cavalry, but the Mongol depended primarily on his bow and usually did not favour close-quarter combat on horseback. His advantage lay in manoeuvrability, not in armour. Qutlugh peered at the Sultanate’s armies, a predator searching for a weak spot in the enemy’s ranks.

  With the river on the right and thorny scrubland on the left, the Khilji army waited – Nusrat on the left, Zafar on the right and Alauddin in the middle flank behind Alp Khan. The size of the Mongol army astounded Alauddin, but the largeness of the two armies meant sudden attacks were ruled out.

  The armies stood facing each other, only a thousand yards separating them. The distance was not safe enough, Alauddin knew, as the Mongols were excellent archers. Each Mongol carried a short bow which he could use from the saddle to hit a man in the fiftieth row of the facing army.

  On his right, Zafar knew that drawing first blood was a vital and foremost step towards victory, and his eyes narrowed as he sought flaws in the enemy lines.

  As tradition demanded, the Mongols harassed their opponents with words before a battle. Their jeers broke the silence as they taunted the Sultanate’s soldiers, their cackling laughter filling the air. This was a clever strategy, for they knew that if they angered the enemy enough, they would charge, thus paving the way for a Mongol victory. The Mongol always won the battle if his enemy moved first.

  The taunts became louder. Malik wanted to run away. He knew something momentous was about to happen – and he was right.

  A section of the Sultanate’s army detached itself from the main body and moved forward. Though warned against doing so, Zafar’s frontline moved forward to show that their loyalties lay with Zafar. The flank of Mongols opposite Zafar seemed the easiest to cut through, sandwiched as it was between the river and the main flank. Zafar believed it to be the weakest link, but little did he realize that the Mongols had meant it to be so.

  Qutlugh watched with a satisfied smile as Zafar’s forces swept across the plain. As Zafar galloped ahead, less than a third of his seven thousand men could follow. The others were cut off, with the Mongol lines operating like a gate that allows a desired guest to enter, and immediately shuts to keep out the rest.

  Zafar’s confidence escalated when he found the Mongols retreating. But they were only regrouping. To his dismay, Zafar found he was chasing a small band of Mongols who fell to the sides one by one. The Mongols scattered – some into the reed beds of Yamuna, while others merged with the main flank of the Mongol king in the middle and opened up the way. Not hampered by any resistance, Zafar moved fast and his followers fell into line. ‘After them!’ Zafar shouted, pushing the men in front of him to chase the ragged band of Mongols.

  But Mongol tactics, like those of the wolf, used deception to tire their prey and then went for the kill with as little risk as possible. Their tactics were pretending to flee and to lay ambush. Zafar realized too late that the Mongols had feigned retreat. And now the trapdoor closed itself on him.

  Zafar saw his mistake soon enough. The momentum of Zafar’s attack had carried him too far. The number of Mongols he was chasing seemed to thin down as they moved into the sides. As if by magic, a new army materialized out of the bush and poured across into the tracks of Zafar. Targi’s ten thousand men were ready for battle.

  By God, the eunuch was right! Zafar reined his horse in and turned, quickly assessing his strength. He had a thousand soldiers, give or take a hundred. The enemy had ten times as many chasing him. What should he do? Stop and fight or go straight to Mongolia which they had presumably left unguarded? A smile creased his face. I presume there would be nothing there except overgrazed lands, he thought. A return to
safety looked out of bounds now. But he still had his wits about him. He realized he had much to pay even if he got back safely. If we decide to fight our way back, we will be beheaded. It is better we die fighting. History would be kinder to us and our offspring prouder, Zafar thought, and drew his bow.

  Over the next hour, every arrow he shot killed a Mongol, but his quiver was emptying fast. When he reached for an arrow and found his quiver empty, he threw down his bow. His horse was injured and as he alighted, the animal broke off into a trot.

  The Mongols watched in fascination as Zafar drew his sword and limped to the nearest soldier. His hair, matted with congealed blood, was streaked with dust, and numerous arrows had grazed his armour. Most of his comrades had fallen, but Zafar was relishing the battle like a boy enjoying a game. No more than twenty of his men were alive. With their backs to each other, they formed a circle and fought the Mongols gaining inch by inch. Zafar laughed. This is the fight of my life. It would also be the last fight of his life.

  The Mongol general Targhi had had enough. The Mongol approach was to kill a foe with minimum loss, a rational approach for warriors who campaigned thousands of miles away from home against opponents who outnumbered them. Targhi unslung his bow and placed an arrow on the string. His horse felt the momentous occasion, and the beast stood still. He took no aim for he was known for his marksmanship. The arrow flew straight and sure. If Zafar had seen it, perhaps he could have lunged aside, but even that would not have saved him.

  In a flash, the arrow punctured his cuirass and shredded his innards, striking his brave heart. Zafar realized what the arrow had done, but began smiling – death to him was like a bride. Death on the battlefield would give him utmost ecstasy even if the pain was unbearable. A huge figure loomed above him and Zafar realized it must be Targhi. Zafar wanted to laugh at the eunuch’s warning, but could only manage a smile as blood gurgled up his throat. The Mongol mistook his smile for a sneer and in his fury drove his bloodstained sword through the general’s neck. Then with one swift stroke he cut off Zafar’s ear, for it was the Mongol custom to count the dead by the ears they’d cut from each enemy. The Mongols would fill seventeen sacks with ears from Zafar’s troops. Targhi ordered his troops, ‘Roll the bodies into the river; they will reach their camp a little later. Just leave this head alone,’ pointing at Zafar’s head.

  Zafar’s grand show of bravery had earned him many admirers in the Mongol camp. His body was treated with reverence. Many men advanced to his body to pick up his bow, sword, helmet or the feathers that adorned it as mementos to remind them of this brave man they had fought and survived. One Sultanate prisoner, who lay dying near Zafar’s blood-soaked body, mustered enough strength to whisper hoarsely, ‘Wait until Alauddin hears of this. You are going to regret this, Mongol!’

  ‘A tantrum is what I want him to throw,’ Targhi laughed and chopped off the head of the insolent prisoner with a scimitar.

  *

  Malik’s mind was racing. He knew the Mongols would send Alauddin a message any time now. Perhaps it would be a letter asking for surrender, flaunting their victory over Zafar’s forces. But he had counselled the Sultan to refrain from overreacting. ‘Do not rise to the bait, Your Majesty. That would get us the same fate as Zafar.’

  ‘But he was my bravest warrior,’ Alauddin protested.

  ‘It will create disarray in your army. Soldiers will want to show the same foolhardiness to get your attention. We can always cry in private while cursing in public,’ he advised.

  Silence descended on their camp. The first recognition of the disaster that had befallen the Sultan’s army was when the bodies of Zafar’s soldiers floated down the river in hundreds, turning the water scarlet. Three hours later, a team of Mongols delivered a message. Thundering hooves distorted the stillness of the evening as two Mongols rode into the mourning camp where a crowd of soldiers watched bewildered and numb. They threw down a sack and a large ball-like object rolled out. The ball twirled on the flat land and stood still and upright. It was a human head. The Sultan’s soldiers closed around the area while the Mongol riders made a dash for it.

  When a message came into Alauddin’s tent that Zafar’s head had been delivered to the camp, it caused Malik’s guts to churn and set his heart pounding like a war drum. However, Malik counselled his Sultan to stand his ground. They had to behave as if the loss of Zafar was unlikely to affect their march to victory.

  ‘Treat Zafar as a traitor who disobeyed the Sultan’s orders,’ Malik advised him.

  Soldiers gathered around the head of the brave Zafar Khan in an agitated silence, but the Sultan remained outwardly calm, his face showing obvious disapproval. Malik followed him quietly, trying to stay unnoticed. The Sultan’s gaze lifted to fix on the gathered soldiers as he thundered, ‘I am disgusted with the actions of our underlings.’

  Malik winced. A general who commanded twenty thousand men was being referred as an underling. ‘Put his head down,’ Alauddin commanded a soldier who had held it respectfully. The soldier, in a calm show of protest, bent and placed the head on the ground reverently. It was obvious that vengeful thoughts permeated the army ranks – they sought an eye for an eye.

  The Sultan continued, ‘The enemy cut off his head but I would have beheaded him anyway if he had returned alive.’ He turned and walked into the tent and it was only when no one, except Malik, could see him that he wept silently. ‘With these four Khans, I would have conquered a fourth of the world. Now I am seated on a throne with a broken leg,’ he whispered to Malik. He was angry at his helplessness. ‘Decisions are being forced on me,’ he sighed. ‘Fate is so overpowering that outrunning it is impossible.’

  Alauddin then asked of Malik, ‘What will the Mongol do? Will he attack us at dawn?’

  Malik had anticipated the question and had rehearsed his arguments. ‘The Mongol will not fight unless you do.’

  The Sultan reflected on this. ‘I feel very much the same, Malik, but I will try out your idea for just one more day.’

  A draught of cold air blew inside the tent. The Sultan had drifted into a restful slumber, while Malik sat at the foot of his bed. How he would have liked to take a walk and do something to honour Zafar! Though he had been a friend for just a day, he did not deserve such a fate, Malik reasoned. But what did he owe Zafar? Gratitude for nothing more than a kind word of caution? Or was it a misplaced sense of camaraderie? But seldom do heads listen to hearts.

  The comradeship with Zafar may have been momentary, yet it could have been a friendship. Tears sprung from Malik’s eyes at the memory of that bygone day. Could he summon the courage to perform the last honour that no one else dared to? What would the Sultan say when he realized that Malik had not heeded his own advice?

  In a second, he felt just as plain and worthless as a slave. Struck by an overwhelming impulse he got up and left the tent. An unnatural silence hovered over the camp. The scanty moonlight cast a latticed shadow between the tents as he sidestepped the cords that fastened the tent poles. Chirping crickets sounded rather conspiratorial as if warning him to be careful. Malik’s heart pounded so loudly that he feared somebody would hear it. Even his weightless footfalls seemed like thunder. Out of the clouds came the moon, like a silver coin that had just been polished – and its light illuminated the head of Zafar. Though death had denied him dignity, the head stood proudly, despite the absence of obsequies befitting a warrior. Malik felt a deep guilt. His advice to the Sultan was being followed to the word. Everybody had ignored Zafar as if he was a leper. Malik gathered his wits and looked solemnly at the abandoned head. The Hindus were right. Life was indeed most unpredictable. A commander of twenty thousand, and yet his body now lay elsewhere, headless. Malik choked back the emotions rising in his throat and wiped the tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. When he reached out to touch the once-exquisite face of the decaying warrior, he noticed, for the first time, Zafar’s chiselled features, typical of those who lived beyond the Hindu Kush. Dust and blood had mingled and
dried, and flies were already swarming around it. Malik covered the head with a cloth he had taken from the Sultan’s tent. After choosing a spot, he dug a small hole and placed the head within. He thought to himself, Indeed, Zafar, we will have to battle it out only in your next life. I will wait for you.

  Sweating despite the cold wind, he began walking back to the Sultan’s tent. He could feel the clammy sweat collecting under his arms and trickling down his back. He had completed perhaps the hardest undertaking in his life and had given a warrior the respect he deserved. His stomach lurched, while the need to vomit overwhelmed him. He retched in deep gasps and his strength returned to him slowly.

  He walked a little faster, hoping that nobody would see him, and crept back silently into the tent. As he entered, an icy finger traced his spine, sending shivers down his back. The Sultan was wide awake, staring straight at him. Malik tensed, his mind frantically searching for excuses.

  Instead, Alauddin asked quietly, ‘Did you give him a proper burial?’

  Malik’s eyes misted. The chamber fell vacantly silent. ‘Zafar was extremely brave to dash forward into a squall of arrowheads. He was also a fool to end up like this,’ Alauddin continued.

  ‘Zafar’s hasty approach only confounds the plan,’ Malik said.

  Alauddin was still in doubt. But if he changed his course of action and attacked the Mongols, it would be equivalent to accepting his mistake. And yet Malik was certain the Mongols would never attack.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ the Sultan asked Malik.

  ‘If he intended to attack, the Mongol would never have sent Zafar’s head to us.’ With that, Malik lay down on his mat and did not say another word.