Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai

by Venketesh, R.

  The crowd watched in superstitious awe. To them, the general had fought each animal to subdue it. It did not occur to them that he had just untied them from their stables and walked away. The misconception had another desirable effect on Malik’s image; with his mysterious powers already acclaimed, he had become a man of power over other mortals.

  The procession thinned as the thirty thousand soldiers dropped out as and when their neighbourhoods came by. Men could count on dusky concubines brought from the south, the destitute soldier’s family could get a share of the loot and everybody was sure they could now offer a better defence against the Mongols.

  The truth, however, was that most of the soldiers would go penniless and be cold and hungry within a year. Most of their wealth would be spent in the gambling den, the brothel or the winery.

  *

  Malik was a master showman. He instructed the Negroid slaves carrying the treasures to hunch slightly to give an impression of how heavy the weight was. The sacks of bullion were stacked before windows and the flickering light made the gold glitter. Malik was determined to create the best spectacle he could, knowing that such a great haul would not be possible in times to come. Had he not drowned a mighty civilization in a month of greedy gore?

  Alauddin had waited since sunrise with a sparkle in his eyes. Drumbeats and trumpets heralded his arrival in the vast audience hall where the treasure was laid out for him to see. He stroked his beard with unruffled satisfaction as he examined it. Never a demonstrative person; he rarely expressed praise, but his approval was evident. This was a rare occasion and it astonished Malik. The court was crowded for Malik’s reception. Once he had displayed the wealth he had brought back, people gazed at him with admiration. Most regarded him with awe but also as a man vested in mystery. There were others who considered him a pest, but without doubt, his humility surprised all of them. Most wondered what they would have done if they had been in Malik’s shoes; the answer did not surprise anyone – they would have lopped off Alauddin’s head and taken his throne.

  *

  ‘Malik Kafur, accompanied by his army, returned to Delhi with all the plunder and arrived in safety on Monday, the fourth of Jumada-ul-Sani. Sultan Alauddin held a public durbar in front of the golden palace, and all the nobles and chiefs stood on the right and on the left according to their rank. Malik Kafur, with the officers who had accompanied him, was presented to the Sultan, before whom the rich booty was exhibited. The Sultan was much gratified, loaded the warriors with honour, and the durbar was dissolved.’ This was how Amir Khusro would record the minutes of the court.

  He would finish his accolades with a couplet:

  Islamic world, do not mourn,

  For Zafar is here, reborn.

  Malik listened with a faint smile on his lips. Khusro and his fertile imagination was always the highlight of the evening. While the court applauded his achievements, Malik remembered the irony as he thought of the stone elephants. He had a story more fascinating than any that could be found between the covers of a book. Only Rayan had witnessed it and he was missing. But Malik could not tell it here in court; they would not believe it nor understand its significance.

  To Alauddin, it was his triumph. The Sultan oversaw with pleasure the success of his protégé. Malik had contributed the most towards the realization of Alauddin’s aspirations to emulate Alexander the Great. Every victory starting from the Mongol retreat and the suppression of Akat Khan’s rebellion had been his brainchild. The military abilities of Alauddin’s sons were at most in the inchoate stage and like saplings that wither in the shadow of a larger tree, their father’s proximity was suffocating them. Most of them had already stopped trying. Seeing his sons totter on the brink of depravity, Alauddin felt he could wager his family’s fortune on Malik’s success.

  Functions and receptions followed in quick succession, and Alauddin expressly forbade Malik to go to the warfront again – not that Malik was keen on another expedition either. Those who were worried about Malik’s rise now feared him. Now that he had reached the tip of the land and returned, he could turn nowhere else but to the empire.

  Malik, too, knew that the battles he would fight from now on would be within the court. Though he had an upper hand, he knew deep within that he couldn’t really win. Malik decided that he would tread cautiously. He knew that many people thought he was not qualified to lead the faithful as he was a Hindu by birth and neutered by intent. Malik would now have to forge his own road to the top. He had pushed the boundaries of the Sultanate to hitherto undreamed of frontiers. But new battles were about to begin. He would have to swim in the untried waters of court politics. It called for a merciless approach to his friends and perhaps, even towards his master. Politics was an unworthy occupation compared to war; rivalry was rampant and many of his enemies wore the uniforms of allies.

  *

  The first trial came soon enough. Gossip began to circulate that Malik Kafur had kept most of the precious treasures for himself. The second rumour was that he now owned a gold statue of a Hindu goddess, which he constantly spoke to. Those who started these rumours knew the gossip could certainly undermine Malik’s reputation as it meant treason to the Sultan and infidelity to his professed religion.

  Malik had not given the statue of Meenakshi for an audit when an inventory of the loot was taken. Being entitled to a tenth of the loot, he could well have claimed the statue to be his share. But Malik had not cared for the formalities.

  Alauddin did not initially believe the rumours and gave a grunt of annoyance. However, Malik became the object of the most repulsive supervision, and the Sultan had a spy tail him for days to see if he was funnelling a part of the wealth to enrich his personal coffers. Certain percentages were usually overlooked, but Malik’s love for plunder kindled suspicions. What is he after? Does he have a secret cache of treasure? the Sultan wondered.

  The spy soon reported that Malik owned exactly the same wealth as he had declared. He had also given a part of it to charity, to mosques or saints. But nobody could solve the mystery of the statue. Even amid his busy schedule, Malik never ceased to take care of the statue, the spy reported. ‘He talks to the idol as if it were a real woman,’ he told the Sultan.

  Malik, who had no friends, had found a good companion in the statue. To others it might have been mute and blind as one would expect an idol to be. But Malik had observed its eyes darting about many a times. He would wake up in the middle of the night and find its lifelike eyes watching him. He had dismissed these thoughts as illusions of a frightened mind, one disturbed by the occult experience in the temple.

  Alauddin finally decided to put an end to this matter. He asked Malik to produce the idol before him. On seeing it, the Sultan raised an eyebrow. ‘I wonder why you take such an interest in this statue?’ he finally asked.

  Malik kept silent.

  Alauddin reckoned Malik’s whim to be nothing more than another eccentricity, such as often accompanies the composed actions of men otherwise rational. The Sultan smiled; there was no better accusation Malik’s rivals could make against the greatest warrior in his realm. He overruled the complaint and transferred the men who had made it within a week to the Mongol front.

  No other attempts were made to complain to the Sultan about him.

  *

  Ever since he had returned from the south, Malik had wanted to visit the saint Nizamuddin. He had seen the saint but once, yet Malik’s thoughts rarely left him in times of despair.

  After taking permission from the Sultan, Amir Khusro and Malik Kafur rode towards Nizamuddin’s hermitage. Unlike the last time, however, he visited the hermitage in all pomp and splendour, along with four palanquins of conquered gold, almost a quarter of his share, which was to be presented to the saint. People gathered on both sides of the road to watch him ride. They whispered whatever nuggets of information they had about the general who had conquered the infidel nations.

  Those at the hermitage bowed their heads and some soldiers in ci
vilian dress knelt when they saw him enter. Malik was pleased. ‘When we visited last, you were the only one who was noticed. Now, I am their hero,’ he told Khusro, who managed a smile but was seething inside.

  The saint stretched out his hands in welcome. ‘Ah, here comes my general. Hide the greens, he would want my share too,’ he chuckled. All those around him laughed.

  ‘Come, sit by my side,’ Nizamuddin gestured to him. When Malik took his place, the saint closed his eyes and meditated while holding Malik’s hand, and began mumbling some inaudible phrases. The saint’s mind travelled along vast expanses of the past and his eyes fluttered as he saw the scenes of warfare. Perhaps it was the bloodshed that made him shiver. He raised his hands to shut his ears, as if he could hear each yell of aggression. The saint’s silence was the loudest quiet Malik had ever known. He knew that he was rerunning the blood and violence that had enabled the plunder of treasures. Finally, the saint sighed and gave Malik a searching look, which made him squirm inwardly.

  Nizamuddin shook his head reproachfully. ‘People come to me to wash off their guilt and sin. Where will I go to wash my sins?’ he asked Malik. He continued, ‘We live in an age of needless pain and death. Life is short, dangerous and doomed, and yet we are indifferent towards the suffering of others. There seems to be little respect for human life.’

  It was almost a reprimand.

  Malik had the wealth of the south displayed in a room so that the saint could view his gift. Khusro whispered to the saint, who stood up and gathered his robes. He held Malik’s hand and walked slowly towards the room where the treasure lay. He hobbled to the sacks of gold and jewels and touched them. Turning to Malik, the saint asked him, ‘This will feed the appetite of my devotees. But what about me? You gave away all the sugarcane to the elephants and did not bring me any.’

  *

  A brief interlude of peace always came between wars and Malik used this time to cultivate supporters. Unlike on the battlefield, where achievements could increase one’s power, the court seldom offered such conditions. In no time he had found teams of sycophants to hold fort if he was away, willing to hang onto every word of his as long as they were sure of his position in court.

  The powerful vied with each other to keep Malik well-humoured, including a marriage proposal for a daughter of one of the most respectable families in town. It was then that Malik realized the true meaning of power. The proposal opened the sluice gates for more marriage offers, but Malik quietly demurred; he did not want to make a fool of himself.

  His victories carried him along smoothly in the stream of court politics. He was recognized as one of the greatest strategists of all time. His successes had slowly drawn Alauddin into complete dependence; the Sultan now regarded Malik’s regiment as his prime soldiers and treated their chief as his deputy.

  Malik had to resort to various stratagems to keep people from being a threat to him. If he heard of a person who spoke loosely of him, he made sure he was disgraced and stripped of his possessions. He employed spies in all departments, filtering down to every province.

  The palace was made insular and exclusive to him. Malik could now control the nation just by controlling one man – the Sultan. He took the view that if a man could be made a puppet on the strings of sex, he could certainly be controlled by the strands of power. He took great efforts to conceal the actual happenings in the city from the Sultan, who was very far removed from those he ruled. Malik was now domiciled in one entire wing of the palace, for he wanted to be close at hand to Alauddin. He seldom visited the harem. Kamala Devi had died during his campaign; Malik felt it was a pity that the wife of two rulers had died a broken-hearted woman. But he owed no loyalties to her, which disappointed her son-in-law, Khizr Khan, who had always looked to him as a supporter.

  Power breeds envy, and a eunuch’s unnatural rise combined with the ruthlessness with which he cut down his enemies did not enhance his reputation. Malik knew that, and waited for his moment. As did his enemies. It was a question of who would strike first.

  CHAPTER 37

  PICKING UP THE PIECES

  They dreaded the return to Madurai. True enough, a spiral of grey smoke in the night sky showed the way to the city. Vikrama and Parakrama were the last to enter the gates of a city in ruins. The soldiers staggered while crossing the moat; the scent of death and decay choked the air. Vikrama’s stomach would have voided its contents had he not eaten for two days now.

  With a slow trot that echoed in the deathly silence, Parakrama and Vikrama rode abreast into the city. The ruins of Madurai welcomed its last returnees. The citizens had already started throwing out the corpses of men and the carcasses of animals into the moat; funerals were out of question, as the city had run out of firewood.

  Vikrama’s spy waited for him, and the old man’s face turned sour once more with disgust. The next war had begun. Two of the four army sections had already swept into Madurai to reclaim their beloved city for their masters. Those who had been comrades-in-arms at war now jostled for space within the city. Sundar had a large following now, consisting mainly of those who felt Veera’s rule was over. Fealty was a free-for-all and people had ample excuses to shift loyalties.

  When the two rode among the debris, only some stood up grudgingly in respect. Vikrama knew that these resilient people would rebuild their country, where their ancestors had flourished, and where their future generations would continue to live. But they would have nothing but disdain for their rulers.

  The population had started migrating back into the city. However, a dark gloom hovered over the people, reflecting the disposition of the whole country.

  The Turks had dealt the Pandyans a mighty blow. A great city had fallen, without a chance to even fight back. Smoke now enveloped Madurai like a shroud. Wolves roamed in the city, howling at every door, while vultures had descended on the Meenakshi temple. The land remained, but was ravaged, like a woman after rape.

  The news from the palace was worse. The treasury with three centuries of loot and taxes had been wiped clean. Even the secure bedrock could not prevent the pillagers, and twenty corpses now rotted outside the gates of the treasury. Madurai was poorer by two hundred years of accumulated wealth.

  The Meenakshi temple, the jewel in their sky, was the worst hit. Those who entered would remember what they saw for every waking moment of their existence. The outer walls were demolished, smoke continued to billow from the many fires that had been lit inside the temple, the charred walls exposing the crumbling bricks. Needless to say, the jewellery and the gold were no longer there. The idols had been smashed beyond recognition.

  Within the main sanctum, two decomposing bodies lay below a booby trap of granite slabs. Surprisingly, the inner sanctum had not been abused, though the goddess’s idol was missing. People thought the sanctum being spared was an extraordinary divine favour in answer to their fervent prayers, wondering why the Turks had left the sanctum alone. But what had happened to the idol?

  *

  Veera returned to find his entire palace stripped off even the furnishings. The women had managed to give the place a semblance of homeliness, but that was all. Once Veera entered his room, the first thing he did was to part the drapes. What he saw outside shocked him. The Turks had burned everything to the ground. What remained of his city were ashes, cinder and dust. The sight drained him and he quickly walked back and flopped on a chair.

  All through the night, Veera pulled his blanket over his head and lay waiting for a sleep that never came. The recollection of the sufferings of a people who had believed he would keep them safe struck him repeatedly. The memory of his flight overpowered his thoughts, even more than the enemy’s trespassing and slaughter, the pillaging of the temples and the final stand they had put up.

  A large retinue of soldiers from the Chera country arrived the next day, along with Meena and her son, Kulasekharan. Though too late for military support, they assisted in setting up kitchens all over Madurai to serve gruel to the homeless. Vee
ra’s nephew, now the only monarch in the southern lands undefeated by the Turks, was pleasantly surprised to meet his grandfather Vikrama whom he had never seen. He was pleased to find him running the affairs of a state that had once exiled him. The two were closeted together for hours.

  However, the populace was now awash with uncontrolled feelings of anger. Loud talk criticizing the royalty became common. They were now called the ‘runaways’, not just in private conversations but also in public. Commoners even cursed the royal women without any sense of propriety and the women stopped going out altogether.

  Even though he could feel the antagonism, Veera made it a point to inspect the damage wrought by the invader. A grim silence from a sullen population greeted him wherever he went. Nobody even bowed to their sovereign any more. His men cleared the rubble off the pathways that he walked on, and on one such path, he met a man lying on the road. A soldier caught him by the elbow and made him get up to clear the way. The man recognized Veera. He stood up without taking his eyes off from his king’s face, and with sorrow in his voice, admonished Veera, ‘Your wives are safe, O king, because your feet were swifter. But my daughter is now a whore in a Turkish camp.’ And as if his words had not been enough to insult him, he spat at Veera’s feet.

  The guards immediately moved towards him. ‘Stop it,’ Veera said softly. The silence was ominous as the man glared defiantly. Veera turned away as a teardrop formed at the corner of his eye. He raised his hand and asked the guards not to follow him.

  Veera rode north towards the Vaigai and submerged himself until the water flowed over his head. When he emerged, the breeze chilled him. Submerging oneself in a river expressed grief for a dead relative, and he mourned for the dead of his city like a father would mourn his dead children.