Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai

by Venketesh, R.

  Years ago, when he was but a general, Alauddin Khilji had laid four sieges on Deogiri. Just before the fourth, he had struck on an idea. His army withdrew its positions as if it were retreating. It was a time when the people within the citadel were feeling the pinch of hunger. Seeing the army withdraw, the Yadavs decided to procure six thousand bags of corn and grain to be stored within the fort. It was then that Alauddin had shown his genius. His spies found out the exact amount of grain Deogiri had ordered, and Alauddin ordered his soldiers to prepare six thousand bags of salt. He then waylaid the contingent that carried the bags of corn and substituted them with the bags of salt. A mock chase was undertaken to unnerve the Yadavs, who accepted the six thousand bags without any preliminary checks. Only then was the subterfuge discovered.

  Malik had always wondered why Alauddin went through the trouble of deception, when he could have just looted the grain and left them to starve. Alauddin had explained, ‘It is not the body that capitulates during a siege, but the mind. It was the overwhelming feeling of having been tricked that forced Ramachandra to negotiate. I needed their wealth, they their kingdom.’

  *

  The tents had been pitched a long way off from Deogiri, but on the only road that led to the hill-fort. Malik was taking no chances. He had instructed his troops to stop the girl’s retinue as soon as they sighted it.

  In the evening, some of his soldiers decided to take a walk to the caves nearby which were filled with erotic paintings and sculptures. Monks and artists had worked for hundreds of years, hammering out temples and halls and statues, covering the walls of the Ajanta Caves with intricate frescoes.

  As fate would have it, the party protecting Kewal Devi had halted in the caves. As soon as their sentry reported a contingent of soldiers coming towards them, a hurried preparation was made to rush out. The hustle and bustle of the hasty retreat attracted the attention of the soldiers. A chase began at once and, taken by surprise, the party surrendered. Upon interrogation, the soldiers confirmed that the girl was indeed the target of their pursuit – Kewal Devi.

  The girl was brought before Malik. He was surprised to see that she was just a thin and starving child. She was shivering, her eyes full of tears. He spoke to her in Gujarati, ‘What is your name, child?’

  ‘Kewal Devi,’ she stammered.

  ‘Well, your mother has been waiting for you. I will send you to her. You have suffered enough. Don’t worry.’ His words were not much comfort to a girl who had last seen her mother as a three-year-old. However, relieved by the kind words, the intimidated girl nodded. He sent for a harakura, a foot-runner service used to deliver messages. Alauddin had organized a regular foot-runner service during his reign, ensuring that runners changed after each mile to deliver a message in record time. Because of the efficiency of the service, by the time the girl reached the capital under an armed escort, her room had been furnished and kept ready for her.

  The leader of the group that had escorted the girl was brought before Malik. He was forced on his knees, his hands tied at his back. One look at him and Malik found the earth beneath his feet shake. He clasped his hands behind his back, obscuring their trembling.

  Years of hiding, sleeping in caves and eating only berries had taken a toll on the man before him. Though balding, the unshaved stubble on his sweat-stained face showed the white of age. Malik shivered out of habit. Though time had altered his features with the hardships of exile, the man’s face was firmly etched in his mind. Kneeling before him was the man who had sealed his fate, the man responsible for his current position: Rana Rajasekhar.

  History is a great reverser of roles. In a matter of few years, Malik was virtually on the throne of Hindustan and the Rana in the dock. Malik silently watched him for a long time. The Rana lowered his eyes to hide himself from his gaze. It was obvious he did not remember the boy he had castrated. Malik cleared his throat and started reluctantly, ‘You may not remember me, Your Highness, though it was not very long ago when we first met.’

  The Gujarati tongue stunned him. He did not expect a general of the Sultanate to speak his language. Malik continued, ‘Years ago, there was a bania boy who you gelded for bedding a girl called Chaula.’

  ‘Chaula,’ the Rana repeated the name aloud wistfully. How could he forget her? Everything had started with her. Memories came back in a flood. He looked up in horror and, in a flash, recognized the general. But how could it be possible? That fragile castrated boy, enslaved, beaten blue till near-death, now held the strings to his life. At first, his face twisted with rage, then he smiled at the irony. The bania boy had bounced back despite the tragedy that had befallen him.

  Malik wanted the Rana to beg for forgiveness. He said softly, ‘Don’t you think you made a mistake by castrating me?’

  The Rana had led a life with little regard for other people’s opinions and it was too late to change. ‘Yes,’ the Rana nodded, ‘I should have killed you.’ He would have cowered and begged for his life if it had not been Malik – but he knew there was no escape. The Rana sneered, ‘You cannot change what I did to you. I made you an orphan, a slave, a eunuch. You may be the enemy today, but you cannot undo any of the things I did to you.’

  Malik found his overbearing attitude unbearable. He ordered, ‘Take him away and secure him. I will decide on his punishment tomorrow.’

  Malik continued to fume once the soldiers had dragged the Rana away. How many beside me have suffered at his hands? He should suffer as we did. His world had been crushed ruthlessly by this very tyrant. Very few of his victims would have an opportunity to take revenge, and Malik realized he must speak for all of them. But on the other hand, if it were not for the Rana, he would still be a bania tending his shop. Today, he was the lieutenant of the Sultan of Hindustan. Why not let him go?

  It was just before sunrise when he walked to the prisoner’s tent. He wanted to confront the tyrant but to his alarm, he saw that the tent was empty and the flap ajar. He looked around frantically; the sentry had been felled with a blow to his neck. He was about to order a search party for the Rana, his equanimity evaporating, when he noticed a human form undulating on a nearby tree. The Rana had hanged himself with a silk towel.

  Malik could still recall Chaula’s tear-stained face. He had wanted to ask him what had happened to her, even possibly torture him to reveal the details. But the Rana had cheated him, taking the past to the grave with him.

  ‘Throw his body from a cliff. Vultures are his cousins,’ he ordered.

  A strange peace began to descend on him, as if his life had come full circle. The death of the Rana erased all the connections to his previous life, and he now thought of the present, about the assault on Kewal Devi’s escorts. The news that the girl had been captured would not have reached Deogiri yet. If a troop of fifty soldiers could gain entry to the fort, it could allow the rest to get in.

  He called for the men who had been in the earlier campaign to Deogiri and had seen the insides of the fort. That entire day, they tried to identify the weaker positions. Everybody knew its walls were unscalable. The weakest link were the links of the chain that held the drawbridge, the only entry into the citadel. If the drawbridge could be immobilized for a day, there would be enough time to storm the fort.

  Malik smiled. His plan was ready.

  Since no one fluent in Gujarati could be found, Malik decided to go himself to the fort to execute his plan. He did not hesitate to wear the filthy dress of one of the men who had accompanied the Rana as a disguise. When his lieutenants apologized for the clothes, Malik said with a smile, ‘I have worn worse.’ He rode a thin horse belonging to the Rana’s men and rode towards Deogiri alone. When he saw the fort, he wanted to turn back. Could the men who built and maintained such a place be so easily tricked?

  The hill loomed large ahead of him. Was he behaving like Zafar, a man who courted danger, a man destined for an early grave? He knew he had been spotted from a mile or two away for he could hear the trumpets from the fort announcing his pre
sence, being clearly visible because the sun had not yet set. He carried on and then waited at the gates. A window in the drawbridge opened. Across the forty feet gap, a face appeared and said, ‘State your business.’

  He replied in Gujarati, ‘I want to see Raja Rai Karan, the king of Gujarat.’

  After a few minutes, convinced that a lone man could offer no danger, the man lowered the drawbridge. From two holes on either side, a chain appeared. Link by link it slipped out and the bridge creaked down. As it settled with a thud, Malik made a quick assessment – twenty men could ride in at the same time.

  Four soldiers seized him immediately and frisked him for weapons. He insisted on speaking only with Rai Karan, so they took him to a hall where he waited. Rai Karan finally appeared after a while. Malik bowed on the ground as soon as he saw the king, and said, ‘Your Highness, I have come to give you a message. The princess is in the caves and can be brought here. However, there are a number of Mohammedan soldiers in the area so we can only move in the cover of darkness. Rajasekhar Rana does not want to be caught by them. We plan to enter the fort by early dawn tomorrow, but that would be possible only if you allow me to go now and make the preparations.’

  Malik’s chaste Gujarati and his innocent looks made the king believe him. He already had information that both his daughter and the Mohammedans were close. By that time the king of the Yadavs, Ramachandra, had arrived. He looked suspiciously at Malik. ‘He looks too clean-shaven for a man roaming in the forests,’ he noted.

  Malik put on an ashamed expression. ‘I am a eunuch, Your Highness, from the harem of the Rana. I have been with him ever since I was a child.’

  The answer convinced them.

  ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘Fifty, including the princess, Your Highness. We will have to travel by night to come here.’

  ‘I will ask my men to be on the lookout. They will lower the drawbridge as soon as they see your team. I don’t want to take any chances.’

  On his way out, Malik observed the mechanism of the drawbridge. If the chain was cut after the bridge was lowered, it would take at least a day to repair it.

  The team was ready on his arrival. A terrified slave boy had been dressed in Kewal Devi’s clothes. A team of fifty men, armed and dressed in the garb of Gujarati soldiers, began riding to the fort. They were noticed from a mile away and Malik could hear the trumpets blare. He raised a lamp to his face and to the face of the ‘princess’. Satisfied that it was the princess, the men inside began to lower the drawbridge. As it landed with a thud, they slowly walked in after tying their horses outside. They were met by a hundred Yadav soldiers, who were not prepared for what ensued. Without their usual battle cries, the Sultanate’s soldiers cut them down mercilessly. The scuffle was heard and soon a trumpet blared again, this time nervously. By then Malik had sent five men to dismantle the chains and sabotage the wheel on which the drawbridge was lowered. Two of them went to the lower end of the drawbridge and began hacking at it with hammers.

  Ramachandra Yadav rushed from his bedchambers upon hearing the trumpet. He knew what was wrong: the Mohammedans had infiltrated with the Gujaratis. Cursing Rai Karan, who had brought him nothing but bad luck, he ordered the drawbridge to be raised. ‘I don’t care if the girl is outside! Secure the fort!’ he shouted.

  The Sultanate soldiers at the top of the wall lay in pools of blood – their work incomplete. They had hacked at the chains but had been stabbed in the back. Malik was in the midst of the fighting when he heard the unmistakable groan of the drawbridge being raised. He was aghast – they had failed and he was trapped inside. His men had faltered, perhaps cut down by enemy swords.

  A tremendous groan came from the bridge; a chain had split at the top, unable to bear the weight of the bridge. The drawbridge was now precariously hanging on one chain. Still, it went up an inch at a time, wobbling dangerously. Malik wondered if he should make a dash for it. He could still fall into the moat where a hundred crocodiles waited hungrily. Had his luck finally failed him?

  The soldier working on the lower end of the second chain began to slip on the now-inclined bridge. Malik concentrated on the last link. ‘Break it, break it!’ he commanded. With one mighty heave, the soldier slashed his hammer at the link, and at last, it gave way. The chain, wriggling like a water snake, rose in the air and the man stumbled into the moat. Almost immediately, the crocodiles thrashed about below. And then the chain twisted into the sky and the bridge fell back to the ground with an earth-shattering thud.

  From the distance came the thundering of hooves. The Sultanate cavalry was rushing at Deogiri. They would be here in ten minutes. Too late for the defenders to arrange for rocks to be thrown at them or boil oil to pour on them. Malik saw the Yadav soldiers before him drop their weapons and run. He rushed out to welcome his troops.

  Deogiri had fallen to the same invader, once again by means of trickery.

  *

  Alauddin stared blankly at the messenger from Deogiri; the message was that Deogiri had been captured. But Malik had only been ordered to capture a teenage girl! The girl had already arrived and was now reunited with her mother. Malik was to lay a preliminary siege and send a message to him – that was his brief, that was all.

  But he had now been told that the fort had been captured – with the captive Yadav king on his way to Delhi. Deciding to take credit for the victory, Alauddin behaved as if he had ordered Malik to capture the fort as well. Malik’s letter was read from the pulpit accompanied by the beating of drums, mainly to show the people his loyalty to the Sultan as well as to reveal the news that the Sultanate was still capable of successful campaigns.

  Malik, though, had his own agenda. He had never intended to loot Deogiri; instead, he wanted to use the fort as a base for the Sultanate’s future operations. There were lands far richer beyond it, lands that were strong yet not undefeatable. And to overcome them, he needed Deogiri.

  Ramachandra Yadav was taken to Delhi, where he expected his head to be chopped off. Instead, Alauddin gave him his kingdom back with a new title, Rai-i-Rayan, and treated him with honour. He was escorted back to his capital with not even the slightest injury. This clever move made him a dependable ally for life, guaranteeing that he would no longer defy the Sultan. And, of course, Rai Karan was destined to roam the forests once again.

  *

  As a reward, Alauddin wanted Malik to be given an independent command, but he wondered whether his generals could accept his rise in the army hierarchy. He had promoted warriors on their capabilities alone, and his uncanny ability to spot talent had often been upheld – Zafar had been chosen that way. But he had been a warrior, while Malik was a Hindu, a late convert to Islam – and a eunuch. There was little space at the top for someone like him; the court would be unwilling to accord such a status to a gelded being. But Alauddin didn’t care about what his nobles felt. He took the decision and Malik was appointed a general of his army.

  The nobles chaffed at the promotion of a eunuch. They called him a warrior without a sword. But they soon stopped laughing, for Malik hurt them next.

  On Malik’s advice, Alauddin enforced a strict code of conduct for nobles. They could not entertain each other in their houses. Marriage alliances now had to be sanctioned by the palace. A dossier was prepared on all the families linked by marriage or blood. Malik’s aim was to prevent the latent energy of the nobles turning towards precipitating an overthrow of the Sultan. Alauddin viewed Malik as his own creation, and like a potter who relished the creation of a pot he was moulding, he was eager to send Malik to the warfront. With his life at stake, his ideas would result in victories – perhaps he should lead an attack on a kingdom in the Deccan.

  He got a chance to test his theory when the never-say-die Mongols, under the leadership of Ali Beg and Tartaq, suddenly appeared in the Punjab and burnt towns and villages to cinders along the way. They were now wiping their feet virtually at the doorstep of Delhi. Alauddin realized this was the chance he was wai
ting for, and when he broached the idea of giving Malik an independent command against the invaders, the generals were enthusiastic too, but for different reasons. All of them were thinking the same thing: The Mongols will eliminate the eunuch for us.

  Alauddin sent an army led by his toughest generals – Ghazi Malik and Malik Kafur – after the Mongols. They surprised the Mongols on their way to Delhi and defeated them in a resounding victory. Alauddin needed to drive home the point that he would deal firmly and mercilessly with invaders, so he called for his elephants and gave the command for them to trample the Mongol generals to death, while other prisoners were beheaded and their heads hung from the walls of the fort.

  But Malik had an even better idea. In the aftermath of the first Mongol war, the architect within Alauddin had bloomed. When the two cities of Delhi – Qila Rai Pithora and Mehrauli – had been deemed to be vulnerable to invasion, Alauddin had decided on a new capital. When he had asked Malik to choose a location, Malik had told him, ‘We have to show our people that we are not afraid of the Mongols. So we should move in the direction from which the Mongols usually attack.’ The place he had chosen was the Siri plain three miles to the north-east of the Qutb Minar, where forces attacking Delhi used to camp.

  Alauddin had immediately liked the idea, even more so when he learnt sir meant head in the local dialect. ‘I have a better idea to boost the public’s confidence,’ he said with visible glee. ‘To suit its name, we will bury the hacked heads of the captured Mongols within the foundations.’

  Siri was planned as a circular city surrounded by fortifications of stone. Both Siri and Qila Rai Pithora were to be linked by a tall wall of stone and mortar; Alauddin excavated a vast fifty-hectare reservoir called Hauz-i-Alai for the benefit of the people of Siri within the enclosed area. Eight thousand Mongol skulls, some freshly hacked, were buried in the foundations of the new city for good luck and to show defiance to anyone who dared to attack the city. The faces of the terrified Mongols Malik led to the execution grounds added to the confidence of the people in their Sultan and his general.