‘And I have no intention of getting back in,’ Malik answered, unruffled by the reminder of his past.
Malik’s plan was ready, but he waited. He could not win without the aid of nature, and therefore deferred it till an opportune moment.
The best of plans originate from the least expected sources. A week earlier, Malik had been given a rare treat – mangoes and honey, foraged from the land nearby. Honey was a delicacy even back home and he was pleasantly surprised. As a slave cut the mangoes into slices after peeling them and as was customary, tried to taste them in case they were poisoned, Malik intervened, ‘There is no need; the fruits are fresh.’ He was not willing to share the fruit with the hungry slave.
‘How did you manage to get this here?’ he queried halfway through a bite.
Aslam, his assistant, said, ‘We found a giant hive near the hill and literally squeezed out the last drops.’
Malik knew it wasn’t that simple. ‘But the bees sting, don’t they? I have heard they can kill a man.’
‘Yes, sire, they are venomous but we smoke them out.’
That explained the smoky flavour of the honey. But as the slave continued to explain the modus operandi, a strange look came over the general’s face. It first shrank in puzzlement and then bloomed with a smile.
‘We collect some firewood and twigs and start a fire. The smoke is directed to the hive and most bees flee at once. The rest remain too dazed and their stings are ineffective. The comb is then taken strand by strand and squeezed,’ Aslam continued to explain.
To Malik it was a revelation; he now held the key to the fort.
The next morning, he climbed Hanamkonda again. Malik observed that the rice crop inside the fort was turning brown. Just another week and we will roast you inside your rat hole, he thought. The sentries at the base of the hill noted that their general seemed more satisfied when he came back.
Malik also walked around the fort. Some of the more diligent Kakatiya soldiers holding vigil shot at him, but he knew the arrows wouldn’t hit him. He had in the meantime marked at least ten places and requisitioned a team of at least a hundred expert archers. Archers were rare in the Turk army after the demise of Zafar Khan.
His second-in-command, an Afghan, came to him with the problem. ‘Sire, if you are looking for somebody who could pick off the soldiers on the wall at a distance of a hundred yards, there are very few in this army, almost none.’
‘Accuracy is not important,’ Malik advised, ‘look out for those with strong arms, who can ensure a distant landing for the arrows.’
A test was held to evaluate the archers. The chosen hundred arrived at the spot and were asked to shoot their arrows as far as they could, at no particular target. Ulugh Khan looked on in amusement. It was obvious that Malik was going to make a fool of himself. Long before Alauddin heard his report, the spy network would have informed him of Malik’s antics.
The chosen hundred were drilled in long-distance archery. They did not know why but did not ask either. Each soldier’s arrows were stained with a colour to evaluate his efficiency. They quickly developed a system in which each man shot in four directions, turning over an arc, and five arrows in each direction at different angles. The twenty arrows landed in twenty different spots. Crowds gathered to watch and it seemed more like a game than warfare. Malik was quite happy. He ordered extra rations for the hundred archers, which made them happy too.
The practice continued for a week. On the last day, Malik briefed them on what they had to do. Once they learnt of his plan, he herded them to a separate enclosure. They were not to speak to anybody else. He also got an assault force ready. Under the cover of darkness, the carpenters had built several ladders. Malik was using less than a tenth of his army to storm one of the mightiest forts in the region. He and a trumpeter climbed onto a tree, the tallest one, where a platform of wooden planks had been built. The army knew that an attack was imminent but not how it was going to happen.
As the sun sank into the horizon, the final briefing was over. The campfires had been smothered lest they give the game away and the archers cowered in the darkness. They had thatches inclined over a bamboo stick covering them and had used their fire drills to light the oil lamps behind the thatch. The thatches prevented the Kakatiyas from spying on them. They moved inch by inch, using the thatches as cover, towards the fort till they reached a spot well within the firing range of the fort wall.
Malik could not see anything in the darkness except for the tiny flames behind the thatches. He decided the moment had come and held the trumpeter firmly by the shoulder. The man raised the instrument to his mouth, took a deep breath – and blew the horn. A horrifying sound rose from the belly of the curved trumpet and almost in unison, the archers released several arrows, which, instead of metal heads, had been tipped with a triangular piece of fibre and camel dung and dipped in vegetable oil and then lit. The embers would store a spark even in the fiercest of winds. When the first arrow flew, it etched an elegant arc on the darkened sky like a fiery finger. It flew and landed straight in the moat. Kafur imagined a hiss as the cold water extinguished the flame, and a little of his optimism as well. There will never again be a more opportune moment as this. If this fails, they’ll know what my plan is. They’ll be ready, he thought to himself.
The next arrows found their mark.
The archers had been constantly reminded that no two arrows were to be on the same trajectory. The lowest barely cleared the fort walls, the highest arched right into the sky. Despite some falling into the moat or getting extinguished by the velocity of its movement, most of the space between the forts was now ignited. The archers’ vision improved as the dry paddy caught fire. With the space between the walls ablaze, the fort now looked eerie in the glow of the raging flames.
Malik waited till the fire spread, and asked the trumpeter to blow again. The assault party moved in with their ladders and scaled the outer walls. There were very few defenders left behind and the Sultanate soldiers snatched the Kakatiya flags and threw them into the fire.
Kakatiya soldiers rushed out to douse the fire. It was a pitiful attempt. Some tried to extinguish the fire with bare hands and inverted shields. The vigil on the fort’s outer walls became disorganized and people panicked since there was no one to give orders. All of them jumped and tried to run into the inner doors safely through the paddy that had not caught fire.
The fire continued to rage till the next day. The land between the two walls was now scorched, the fire’s hunger finally appeased. With Malik in control of the outer wall, it was now officially no man’s land.
In the morning, as dawn broke out, the Turkish flag flew on the outer ramparts. But what really gave Malik unmitigated pleasure was the unfeigned shock on the face of Ulugh Khan. He had slept through the night, drowsy on the wine he had consumed. When he woke up in the morning the camp was moving closer to the ramparts, almost as its shadow.
A Kakatiya flag that till the day before had stood proudly on the outer walls was handed over to Malik. He sent a proud message to Delhi. It was still an empty victory though, since the Kakatiyas were entrenched within the inner walls, but the seizure of the outer wall was definitely a major victory. The Kakatiyas had suffered a major blow, but they quickly strengthened the defence of the stone wall. They put up an archer every ten feet or so to shoot any intruder into no man’s land.
Malik now climbed the Hanamkonda hill for the third time. He had done everything in his power so far to annoy the insiders. Under a shower of enemy arrows, the moat had been drained. Large shields of wood had protected the Turks as they siphoned the moat. He had even set up catapults and regularly thrown in bags of rats to finish off their food supplies. If he had been allowed he would have thrown in a couple of dead soldiers too. The Kakatiyas still had not crumbled, but the terse message from Delhi was that the army had to return to face the Mongols.
He climbed the hill alone this time. The early morning mist shed a veil of invisibility over the fort. He sat down on a roc
k moistened by drops of dew and waited patiently. Then the sun shone brightly and the mist evaporated. The fort’s insides were almost immediately visible. There was little activity: no troop movements, no people outside the walls of their houses. Even the palace looked deserted. The Kakatiya flag drooped over it, refusing to flutter in the wind. Malik could sense their despondency. It gave him a glimmer of hope but he didn’t know for how long. He knew downcast people could perform acts of idiocy. Even if they decided to make a last minute stand and charge outside, would his troops be ready to counter them?
The siege dragged on. Those inside the fort seemed undisturbed in the shadow of the second wall. Food was scarce and his army’s morale went down once again, many soldiers foraging for anything edible. The idleness was telling and frequent fights began to break out again. At least a hundred of his men had succumbed to infighting, but still Malik waited.
In reality, Malik felt lost. The Kakatiyas continued to buckle down. The Turks would have another fortnight, at the most. His army was on the verge of starvation. How could he discipline the hungry? Tightening the noose was not easy when the hangman himself was hungry.
‘Are we to persist in this tomfoolery?’ Ulugh asked a silent Malik, who seemed to have no answer. ‘Well, we will have to return then,’ said Ulugh triumphantly.
Malik nodded. ‘We will leave the day after tomorrow. I will personally address the troops.’ He wanted to create a semblance of partial victory. With a victory tucked under his belt, he could tackle anything his critics reported to the Sultan. But a loss, or an absence of victory, would give weight to the venomous words of his enemies. In the land of the Turks, a fall from grace was literally a fall into the grave. How were the Kakatiyas surviving?
*
Unknown to Malik, despair had taken over inside the fort, just as he had predicted. The capture of the outer wall had only been a morale booster for the Turks, but to those inside it had meant much more. Food was almost finished. Now that the moat had also been drained, the water level in the wells had dropped too. The women continued to draw water from the wells till only slime came up.
The scavengers had also left, which was the heaviest blow. They had been entrusted with removing the carcasses and cleaning the defecation of the town’s people. They would carry it on their heads and deposit it outside the moat where wild pigs would consume it. They were not allowed to stay within the fort walls and had to camp in the moat, so nobody had noticed them leave. Only when the city began to stink did the people realize they had vanished.
A besieged population filled the air with the smell of filth. The accumulating excreta, the pervading smell of stale urine, and unwashed bodies assaulted every nostril. The smell within the fort walls was unbearable and the fort walls prevented any breeze from blowing away the odour, which hung heavy over the town. With no disposal of the dead, reduced rations and undrinkable water, people began to despair. Their pessimism was infective. Lulled by a false feeling of impregnability they had locked themselves in and were now suffering for it.
Pratap Rudra was a born warrior, and holed up in the safety of his stone walls his brain refused to tick. He thought, For the first time in history, a fort under siege will have capitulated due to the odour of shit. Should he make a dash outside with his forces and fight a pitched battle with the enemy? He was unable to decide. Instead, he went to the temple. He arrived without the usual fanfare and went straight into the sanctum.
The temple in the Warangal fort was built by his ancestor, Ganapati. It was made of large slabs of stone and the floor was beautifully polished, shining like a mirror. It was a reflection of the rich imagination, patient industry and skilful workmanship of Kakatiya builders. It was also a reminder of many centuries of patient empire building, which was now at stake.
It did not escape Pratap Rudra’s attention that the people he came across seemed sullen. The king averted his eyes. Perhaps, if he had fought the enemy and died, he would have been praised in a hundred ballads. There was no need for military reports. The king’s face was report enough – there were tell-tale signs of defeat and despair visible between the wrinkles of age that had suddenly appeared.
Pratap Rudra made obeisance to the goddess. An inner voice asked him, What did you bring that you can take away? A century ago his ancestors were not even allowed inside any temple, but today, he was being welcomed with full honours. His great-grandfather was an untouchable, but pouring some Ganges water on his head and spilling blood in the battlefield had transformed them into Kshatriyas. In another generation they would have claimed lineage from Lord Rama, who himself had descended from the sun.
Pratap Rudra had heard of the agreement the Sultanate’s army had reached with Deogiri. The king had been allowed his freedom in exchange for gold. He realized that the invader had no desire to snatch the throne and could, perhaps, be bought over. It was then that he decided to visit the treasury. There, he looked at the gold that had been acquired over generations and filled the vaults. Pity we cannot eat the gold, he thought. He gazed upon the most treasured item: the goddess’s diamond that had come to his empire during his great-grandfather’s time. It had been worn by Karna during the Mahabharata war, given to him by the sun god himself. Diamonds were of three types: male, female and eunuch. This stone was a female and astrologers had predicted disaster, pleading with the rulers, ‘Give it to the goddess.’ It had been useful to them as long as the ruler had been a woman, but it had destroyed many empires, and would destroy his too. He decided in a moment – all this had to go.
His spies had reported that Malik Kafur’s greed for gold might increase the chances of his kingdom’s survival. It would take a few victories in the south to wipe out this loss from the memory of the people, but it would take longer for the hurt in his heart to heal.
*
Malik had just finished his morning prayers when a uniformed soldier rushed in, gasping, and waited at the flap that served as his door.
‘What is it?’ Malik asked him.
‘A delegation has come from within the fort to see you, sire.’
His prayers had been answered. He would prefer to see the face of Ulugh Khan now rather than of those who had come as emissaries. For him, victories were within his army, not over the enemy.
Negotiations were swift. All the wealth of the fort had to be handed over. And the elephants too. The king would have to come outside and beg the forgiveness of Malik Kafur.
The mediators did not agree to the last desire of the victor.
The negotiations went late into the night, and finally it was decided that a golden statue of the king on his knees and in chains could be sent out as a symbol. Malik had agreed to the statue of gold as a symbol of defeat, for bullion was worth more than a man, even if he was an enemy king. It took six days for the statue to be completed and the loyal goldsmith tried his best to avoid any likeliness to his monarch.
A team of the Sultanate men went into the fort while some Kakatiya men were kept as hostages. Malik joined in the army’s invocations to Allah, facing Mecca, full of joy. The wealth that Pratap Rudra had promised was immense. The agreement hinged on leaving behind no wealth within the fort. If the Kakatiyas reneged on the deal and the inspectors found anything of value, Malik threatened a general massacre.
Malik hazarded a guess as to what the tribute would be. But it exceeded his guess, and a deafening clamour broke out when the list was read out. Sacks of gold and boxes of precious gems were sent out in haste as if the king wanted to remove everything within the walls that would attract future raiders. Who would want to attack a destitute stone fort? There was a teak box which accompanied the loot. When Malik opened it, a ray of sunlight seemed to strike it; the material within flashed like a mountain of light. It was a diamond, the size of a pigeon’s egg. Perhaps the grandest in the world. He closed the box with a snap.
Malik’s policy was quite different from previous invaders. He did not replace the rule of Hindu kings with his administration; instead, the k
ings continued to rule by acknowledging his supremacy and paying a yearly tribute. What was there to rule in this rocky terrain? A year from now one could not even enforce the taxes.
Malik’s hands rifled through the sack of gold coins, just the way he had through the sacks of pulses his father stored in his grocery shop. He was startled – it had been years since he had thought of the shop. It was almost as if that were a previous life and he had been reincarnated in the Sultanate. He quickly brushed aside such thoughts.
‘Have an inventory made,’ he instructed the accountants.
*
Malik returned to Delhi, but not for long. A new being within Malik had been unleashed when he had been castrated, a soul that he never knew existed within him. And now that he had tasted blood, his penchant for war returned.
Malik had learned to keep his position safe after being appointed a general. His ruthless ambition was the reason why he was heading Alauddin’s army when others of his ilk were slaving in the harem. He knew he could not turn to the other generals for encouragement if he failed. He began to wonder whether he should seek further glory on the battlefield or clutch at what was available to him now. He knew generals were often venerated as demi-gods, but the myths surrounding them were dismissed once they lost. The moment his achievements turned to failure, his enemies and detractors would gain an upper hand.
The south was ruled by four mutually antagonistic dynasties – the Yadavas, Kakatiyas, Pandyans and the Hoysalas. The greater the distance from Delhi, the richer they were. There were two more empires to deal with in the south and then came the seas. His eyes widened as he thought of a naval assault on Lanka.
Within a year after his victory over the Kakatiyas, Malik and his armies marched southwards once more. They returned to Deogiri to launch an attack on Dwarsamudra, capital of the Hoysalas. Malik took a select body of cavalry with him to press on against Vir Bhallala, till he reached the fort of Dwarsamudra after a difficult march of twelve days over hills and valleys and through thorny forests the Hoysalas had thought was nature’s defence against any marauding invader.
Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai Page 35
