Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai

by Venketesh, R.

  Not to be thwarted, Sundar had gone right ahead and crowned himself in the palace courtyard.

  Veera had his own doubts about Sundar’s success at Madurai. Radhika as usual had the last word. He asked her, ‘If there was a civil war between Sundar and me, which side would the citizens of Madurai choose?’

  ‘Sundar’s, of course,’ she replied.

  ‘Why?’ he inquired in a threatening voice.

  ‘They would rather be taken prisoner by you,’ she guffawed, after delivering this barb.

  *

  When all the ceremonies were finally over, Veera was ready to move. His commanders gathered all the forces available and soon they were marching towards Madurai to lay a siege. He took only five thousand soldiers with him, a ploy to draw Sundar into complacency. Sundar would know the number was grossly inadequate to lay siege to a city like Madurai. The city’s residents did not know of the army closing in on their capital, but select groups were ordered to create an uprising if needed. But if his calculations were right, Veera would take Madurai without spilling a drop of blood.

  The road to Madurai was a seemingly endless plain of red soil and gravel. The rains created a flood of blood, just like they had during the wars that had been fought on this very ground. As his army continued to press towards Madurai, Veera wondered what to expect. Would Sundar meet him halfway? Should he have held on to the north? He refuted his question with a vehement no. Madurai was the heart of his empire, and he needed it in his clutch, come what may.

  Madurai’s temple towers were visible a day’s march from the city, the Vaigai river ringing the capital of the Pandyans. As the familiar skyline loomed in the distance, Veera felt a pang of longing, as well as a resurgence of the need to establish his rights. The soldiers were quiet, too. All their lives they had been trained to defend and fight for the city. Never had they thought they would be invading their own capital.

  From one of Madurai’s towers, Sundar saw the invading army approach. He recognized Veera’s horse even before he identified his brother. He stared hard at the man whom he wanted to kill. But his brow knitted in curiosity. What was Veera planning to do with an army of less than five thousand? Everybody knew Madurai could only be taken by an army ten times this size. If Veera had wanted the satisfaction of scaring him, there was no way that he could do so with such a pitiful force. Sundar chuckled to himself, loud enough for his coterie to hear. As if on cue, they roared in unison with relief.

  Veera set up camp at a safe distance from the ramparts of Madurai. He took a walk after dinner, his eyes focusing sharply in the darkness towards the city. In the light of the crescent moon, the city seemed to glow like silver. His thoughts halted, as if benumbed at the sight of his home. How could he have forsaken her and moved to a new capital? No wonder she had stretched her arms out to a more ardent lover. Madurai was his life and held his fondest memories. And now he would have to fight his way in, as if he were molesting his own wife. He brushed aside the feeling, lest guilt overtake him and destroy his efforts. Everything would go to waste if he backed out now. He tried to reinforce himself with positive thoughts. The king of Madurai controlled the heart of the empire, received the first honours at the Meenakshi temple and held the keys to the subterranean treasury. The king also had to sidestep a thousand bloodied bodies for the throne. Even with a large army, Veera knew there was no point in laying a siege to Madurai. A wide river on one side would provide an avenue for the besieged to move in and out of the city with ease.

  Sundar, on the other hand, could almost smell his victory. After gloating over pitchers of wine, Sundar retired to a night of relatively untroubled sleep, triumphant and unwary. While Sundar snored, Veera looked at the eastern horizon impatiently. His plan had gone according to schedule. He wanted the sun to rise faster. When the first splash of orange appeared on the horizon, Veera unleashed a smile he had saved for the last moment.

  Sundar was woken up with a start in the morning. He rushed to the vantage point on the ramparts and stumbled backwards, his hands groping at his face as if he had just been punched. Veera would have given a quarter of his remaining life to see the look on Sundar’s face; instead, a hundred of Sundar’s associates had the pleasure of seeing his shock.

  Madurai had woken up to find that it was under siege. Veera had succeeded in lulling Sundar into believing that he was weak. The army that now stood outside the gates was at least a hundred thousand strong. Sundar instantly remembered their guru Rajadityan used to commend Veera’s timing, and it had been impeccable today. All the armies that had rallied under Veera’s banner had assembled almost at the same time. When the Lankan war was over, the soldiers had been disbursed among other battalions and Veera at the time had felt it had been done because the soldiers were construed as being loyal to him. These very men, who had seen him at close quarters, headed the various battalions now. Veera had dissuaded the men from joining him in the march but had asked them to arrive directly on the outskirts of Madurai and wait for further orders.

  Sundar had not planned to kill his father, but once he had, the natural sequence of events was that he had to take Madurai too. He had inadvertently set in motion a chain of events that caught him unprepared.

  There was a protocol for war and Veera wanted to go through the entire procedure, lest history record him as one who had seized the throne by foul means. The appropriate conduct was to send a letter to the party on whom war was declared, stating the cause. The letter also had to warn the recipient that if the conditions of the invader were not met, war would begin.

  Camped outside Madurai, Veera sat down with his advisors to compose the letter. It was to be etched on a palmyra leaf and wrapped in a roll of red silk. It began, ‘To His Royal Highness Sundara Pandyan, Emperor of Madurai.’ Veera winced with disgust.

  The message read: ‘This is not about the city; it is about your head. I will wait at the northern gates and my men will not raise their swords for the next two days. By that time I want you to get out of the city by the southern gates. If you do not, I will avenge our father’s death.’

  There were murmurs of dissent. Some wanted the battle to rise above being a squabble amongst brothers. But Veera overruled their objections. He needed to knock some sense into Sundar and to him, Sundar’s very presence within Madurai was a desecration. He wanted him out.

  The gates of Madurai swung open to let in the messenger. The soldier moved in and announced, ‘There is an emissary from Prince Veera.’

  ‘Send him in,’ Sundar sighed. He had aged twenty years in two days. The die had been cast, the stage had been set. Now they needed to play their roles according to the script. He fixed his eyes steadfastly on the red silk roll the messenger held. His minister opened the silk roll and when asked to read it out, his eyes narrowed. He did not dare to read it aloud and handed the missive to Sundar instead.

  Sundar read the contents and straightened himself abruptly. In a gesture of extreme rage, he roared. He ground his teeth as he seized the messenger by the neck and hissed in his face, ‘I’ll flay you alive, you bastard. Who the hell are you to ask me to move out?’

  As the court stood up, he calmed down. Sundar dropped back on the throne, weak with emotion. A messenger could not be touched, even an emissary of the enemy. Here was a message that could be construed as a threat and an insult. However, the confidence of a determined man was clearly visible in the message.

  Sundar collected himself. He had expected Veera to compromise. When his spies had reported Veera moving in with a few thousand soldiers, Sundar had assumed that it was only to sweeten the deal. But the moment the siege was laid, another hundred thousand soldiers had moved in. It was a wonderful plan. Now, with the tone of the message, it showed Veera was confident of his victory. The last thing Sundar wanted was to stand before that bastard and be tried for his father’s murder. He knew Veera would not hesitate to hang him like a common criminal from the nearest tamarind tree.

  An eerie solemnity descended on Madurai. To Sun
dar, the hush seemed ominous. The city was against him. They could not protest against his rule with loud slogans; instead, they chose to do it with silence. There was nothing he could do except bide his time till Veera tripped, so he decided to leave Madurai in the morning. He did not want to take Sunanda with him; like a snake that had twisted itself around his feet, she had brought him nothing but bad luck. But he wanted his son to go with him. He needed some link with the Cholas if he were to reclaim the throne.

  But Sunanda wasn’t going to let go so easily. When he demanded Sunanda hand over his son to him, she had screamed, ‘Why don’t you take one of your whores’ sons?’

  Sundar struck Sunanda on the cheek, and she crumbled on the bed whimpering, but she would not tell him where the prince was. One of his aides then knocked on the door and informed him that time was running out. Sundar slammed the door shut and left in a huff.

  Veera got the message that the southern gates were being opened and an entourage of a thousand people was moving out. He covered his mouth with his hands in an attempt to hide the smile that threatened to break out. Sundar had left, and as he had thought, he had captured Madurai without shedding a drop of blood.

  There was much debate on whether Sundar would be tried for murder. There was no way justice could be denied – no one, not even royalty, was above the law. Veera decided the time was not ripe to try Sundar. The last thing he wanted was for Sundar to turn into a martyr.

  Sundar was surprised at the overwhelming relief his decision had been met with. No moving throng of humanity followed him; only a section of his army accompanied him as he prepared to move out. As soon as I leave, he thought to himself, they will open the doors for Veera. Bastards, he cursed his people under his breath, I will teach all of you a lesson.

  Instead of being delighted, Veera felt an emptiness within him. The architects of Madurai had built a city to hold a million, but there wasn’t enough space for two brothers. As he rode into the city on a white stallion, like a drunkard who after a long deprivation revels in liquor, Veera savoured the sights of the city that had almost slipped out of his hands.

  The crowning was a low-key affair. The royal family did not want to draw too much attention to the fact that Madurai would have its third king in as many months. However, the people in a spontaneous show of affection celebrated the crowning with great joy. Fresh bunches of mango leaves and spun coconut leaves adorned every door to honour that momentous day.

  His mother had often told him the story of how he had sat on the throne of pearls as a three-year-old on the day of Sundar’s naming ceremony. Veera now sat on the Pandyan throne for the second time, and when he adjusted his crown, the crown of pearls rattled above.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE SIEGE OF DEOGIRI

  Malik received a message that Queen Kamala Devi wanted to see him. He walked to the queen’s chamber and tapped lightly on the delicately carved door. The door was opened by a maid, a Gujarati girl, who announced his arrival. Kamala looked pensive and her thoughts seemed far away. Malik greeted her and waited for Kamala to begin.

  After a silence that spoke more than words, she said, ‘Malik, my life has had so many turns that I cannot comprehend it any longer. I was the queen of Gujarat before my husband deserted me. Then I became the Sultana of Hind. The very idea of a second husband was repugnant, but the will to live towers over everything else.’

  Malik sighed, ‘You are well settled, Your Highness. What worries you?’

  ‘I have no children from the Sultan.’

  ‘But he is pleased with you.’

  ‘But what happens if I outlive him? I have nobody here. Am I to be thrown to the wolves once more?’ she asked. Malik understood. Women of the harem were known as ‘adorned ones’. But upon the death of a sultan, his entire harem was usually sent off to the old palace – also called the Palace of Tears – to be replaced by freshly recruited concubines for the new ruler. The discarded women would live out their lives in isolation, helpless against those who wanted to settle old scores.

  Alauddin was getting older and it was reasonable to not expect him to last more than ten years or so. Kamala was the current favourite, and she could expect to retain her position till then. But her worries made Malik insecure about his position too. He had made enemies of every relative of the Sultan. Even the women, some of whose sons could succeed Alauddin, spewed venom against him. Malika Jan was the worst of the lot. Malik knew he would not survive a week after Alauddin’s death either.

  The harem was a harsh world of intrigues and jealousy, where ruthlessness was as common as beauty. A woman needed determination and cunning to thrive in this environment and use it to her advantage. Though Kamala was the current favourite and had ample opportunities to make love to Alauddin, it never bore any fruit in her womb. Kamala told Malik, ‘The only way to secure my position is to be the mother of the next Sultan.’

  ‘Or a mother-in-law,’ Malik pondered aloud.

  She was stunned. ‘What do you mean, Malik?’

  ‘Your daughter must now be twelve. If we can arrange an alliance for her with the heir apparent, you can secure your position.’

  Kamala Devi’s thoughts went to her daughter, whom she had left behind as a three-year-old in Gujarat. She wondered where she was – probably roaming the forests as a refugee with her father? If only she could marry Khizr, Alauddin’s eldest son, she would be safe, assured of her status in the harem.

  Most kings were but puppets, controlled with strings held from behind the screen. Usually, it was the queen mother who held them. If she could get her daughter married to Khizr, the heir apparent’s mother-in-law would also be his stepmother – the young prince would be attached to two strings if the move succeeded. Only Malik knew the reality – that Khizr was a homosexual – and this would be an instrument of manipulation he could use. Having a puppet like Khizr would ensure that he kept the same power and privileges that he currently enjoyed.

  Malik summoned a meeting of the espionage team the next morning. This team had been handpicked by Alauddin himself and gently guided by Malik. They owed loyalty to the Sultan and knowing Malik’s proximity to him, would think it was actually the former who needed their expertise. He asked the spies to find out what had happened to the exiled king of Gujarat. It had been a decade since he had lost his throne and all his attempts to regain his country had ended in failure. He was informed that after the last attempt to regain independence had failed, Rai Karan had sought the help of Ramachandra Yadav of Deogiri, a former vassal of the Sultanate who had changed sides in the last few years.

  That was enough to satisfy Malik

  As planned by Malik and Kamala Devi, she spoke to the Sultan. ‘I have found a girl for Khizr, my lord.’ ‘Who?’ asked Alauddin, humouring her.

  ‘My daughter!’ Kamala Devi confidently replied.

  ‘But where is she?’ asked Alauddin, puzzled.

  ‘She is with her father right now, my lord, but she can be brought here and married to Khizr. They could be just as happy as we are now.’

  Alauddin had noticed that Kamala had been depressed for the last few days. He realized if her daughter was brought over, perhaps she would feel lighter and their nights would be the same again. He summoned Malik, who reminded Alauddin that the girl was now betrothed to Ram Dev, son of Ramachandra Yadav, who had desisted from paying his tribute for the last three years. ‘The queen wants her daughter back,’ the Sultan shrugged.

  ‘Get her, Malik,’ Kamala Devi commanded him. Malik turned to the Sultan for his assent. Alauddin nodded.

  *

  Rai Karan was on the run, his army shattered and his people subjugated. Perhaps, if he had treated his people better, they would have resisted the invading army and he could have struck a deal with the Sultanate. Now he was left on his own, sleeping in caves, eating berries and occasionally making love with the tribal women his soldiers brought him. He had consulted astrologers to find out what the stars had in store. His oracles had told him that Somnat
h would surely rise again, but not for another ten thousand moons – another six hundred and fifty years.

  He then decided he would seek the mercy of Ramachandra Yadav, whom he had openly ridiculed earlier. In different circumstances, Rai Karan had refused a marriage alliance with him. But the kings of Deogiri were forgiving. They agreed to Rai Karan’s overtures if he would agree to have his daughter married off to the king’s son.

  The Yadavs had desisted from paying the cess to Alauddin for three years and no punitive action had come from Delhi. Kings could not last forever and it was a universal phenomenon that extremely strong kings were followed by weaklings. Alauddin would die soon and his sons would be weaker than him. That would be the time to rear their heads again. An alliance with Rai Karan would be ideal, making it easy for Deogiri to annex Gujarat too.

  Rai Karan had already found refuge in Ramachandra Yadav’s capital. He sent for his daughter, who had been left in the custody of a trusted lieutenant, to be brought to him.

  From these crumbs of information that the Sultanate’s spies had gathered, it was apparent that the girl was being brought to Deogiri, but her retinue hadn’t reached the citadel yet. Malik felt like he was battling for his future once again. The girl was his key; she had to be captured before she reached Deogiri.

  Luckily, Deogiri was a territory the Sultanate knew well. Invading it had been Alauddin’s first success, a campaign that had given him the resources to overthrow his uncle. Many soldiers who had accompanied him on that expedition were now with Malik, but he knew that if the girl got inside the fort it would be almost impossible to get her out.

  Deogiri, the hill of the gods, rose from a six hundred feet high conical rock, isolated from the plains of Marathawada. The fortifications constituted three concentric walls and a moat forty feet across teeming with crocodiles. No one could enter the fort unless its mechanical drawbridges were drawn. It had a near-perfect defence system; no wonder it had never been conquered, only wrested away by treachery.