Zafar threw his bow to the slave standing nearby, who caught it deftly. He asked his senior assistant to send for all his lieutenants to meet in an hour’s time. While bathing, he realized he was shivering, not because of the cold water the slave was pouring over him, but due to the excitement he got from the call of war. The sound of the bugles, the beat of the drums, the clash of metals, the swish of arrows and the sounds of the victor and vanquished – he could feel all of them at that moment. He rushed to his chambers in the harem, where his wife Nurul was surprised to see him back so soon.
‘What happened, dear husband, why are you back so early?’
‘The Mongols have come! It’s war!’ Zafar said. She could feel the excitement in his voice but she felt the nervousness of one who needed to protect her family. ‘Are they coming to Samana?’ she asked.
‘They are going to Delhi, it seems, but I am going to invite them for a feast,’ Zafar turned and added with a grin, ‘for the vultures.’
A message was prepared to be sent to the Sultan, indicating that the Mongol army was approaching Delhi and that Zafar intended to intercept it. Then he got down to the business at hand. He ordered his units to be prepared for battle. The palace and its surrounding environs were soon infected with merriment – Zafar’s men, like him, detested the inactivity of peace.
Zafar drafted a message for Qutlugh Khwaja: ‘I, Zafar Khan, the governor of Samana and the representative of the Delhi Sultan, the appointee of Allah, salute the Mongol monarch. It is imperative that you test my mettle in battle before proceeding to Delhi.’
Intelligence reports indicated that the Mongols were ten times more numerous than Zafar with his seven thousand horsemen; but Zafar knew he could at least check their advance, if not win outright. This move would in no way endanger Delhi, and on the contrary, insulate it from the Mongol hordes.
Three days later, the messenger returned unharmed, his tired horse replaced by a Mongol pony. The messenger, fearing the wrath of his lord, hesitated to tell Zafar what Qutlugh had instructed him to say. But Zafar wanted a word-by-word account of what had happened. The messenger replied that the Mongol king himself had met him and replied, ‘Tell your master: “Kings only fight kings, my dear Zafar – join your king at Delhi and fight alongside him like a good boy.”’
Dismissing the messenger, Zafar fumed, ‘King, my foot. His grandfather was a goatherd, and now he calls himself a king?’
‘What do we do now?’ the chief councillor asked him.
‘Where are the Mongols?’ Zafar asked the messenger.
‘A ten-day march from Delhi,’ was the reply.
‘Is there no chance that they will turn to come this side?’ he asked, almost pitifully, like a child whose toy was snatched away.
‘No, my lord.’
Zafar sighed and then told his lieutenants, ‘Leave a skeleton force here, secure the fort and make preparations to join the Sultan in Delhi.’
*
An eerie calm had descended on the capital.
The Mongols were uncomfortably close, and Alauddin was furious. He had received the news only after the enemy had crossed the Indus, and he now had two weeks to decide on a course of action that could possibly end his empire. There was little time to reinforce the bulwarks or deepen the moats of his fort.
The invaders were a city on the move, endowed with a perseverance not seen elsewhere in the subcontinent. They would ride for months on the minimum of food rations and frequently resorted to drinking the blood of their horses to survive, if need be.
To the great relief of the Sultan, Zafar Khan had arrived with his seven thousand faithful and had positioned them outside Siri as a barrier between the fort and the Mongols. But the Mongols seemed to be in no hurry, as if they had all the time in the world. It seemed it would be a fair fight as soldiers were rushing to Delhi from all quarters of the empire. Time was needed and the Mongol had no qualms about giving it.
Qutlugh was happy when the Yamuna was sighted, its banks green with grass. Though following the serpentine river meant a few extra days of marching, it was the least strenuous route for his troops to reach the city. He ordered the Mongols to camp at Kili, six miles from Delhi, with the river on one side to supply the vast quantities of water they required. They had already taken control of the granaries around the area to supply their needs. They made no attempts to move further and pitched their felt tents, or yurts – tents without any central support pole, with the fabric they were made of tied around a wicker or a wooden frame. The men got down to the business of grazing their horses and the women lit their cooking fires.
The Mongols had won their victories by wily strategies and fast-paced mobility rather than by brute force. Their system of intelligence was unmatched in the world, and while Alauddin knew next to nothing about them, the Mongols were well aware that Delhi was in no way under-protected. It had perhaps the most disciplined army in this part of the world – Alauddin had introduced the first permanent standing army in the subcontinent – which is why they had left it to him to make the first move.
The Sultan had to create a semblance of discipline within the walled city and called for Alau Mulk, the kotwal and the administrative head of Delhi. A man of seventy, he was obese, his neck burdened with the rolls of fat. The silver on his head displayed his experience – he had served four sultans from two dynasties and the gold jewellery adorning his body paid testimony to the rewards he had received. He was loyal to the throne, and had made himself indispensable to any sultan who wanted to keep Delhi under check.
Malik stood behind the Sultan, refilling the glass on the side of the monarch as unobtrusively as possible. But he listened in on the conversation.
Some sections of the population had been discreetly fleeing the city for a week. Alauddin wanted to react swiftly as people escaping in large numbers would amount to a show of distrust in him – in fact, his spies had advised him to execute those who tried to leave the city to prevent an exodus. The kotwal counselled otherwise. ‘Lesser numbers will be easier on the rest of us should a prolonged siege be enforced by the enemy,’ he advised.
The Sultan then enquired about the food and firewood situation within the capital. Providing plentiful food was his pet project. To make the army larger and cheaper to maintain, he had lowered the soldiers’ salaries, but had also fixed prices of common goods at low levels. The extensive spy network ensured that prices were not raised, and the transport and storage of grains were made a state monopoly. But firewood was an equally important element; with the approaching winter, Delhi nights could get really cold.
When the kotwal had finished discussing all that was within his purview, he fidgeted as if one wanting to take leave. He had much to do and the following nights would at best be as sleepless as the previous one. But the Sultan was in no mood to let him go. His other generals were still on the way to Delhi. He had met only Zafar so far, who had advised him to attack the Mongols with the twenty thousand soldiers they currently had.
Alauddin needed another opinion desperately. He addressed the kotwal, ‘What do you have to say on the war effort? Tell me your truthful opinion as I respect your experience and acumen.’
The kotwal protested, ‘Oh Sultan, wars are for the valiant, not for the likes of administrators like me. But I have some advice, Your Majesty: do not risk your kingdom on the doubtful result of a single battle. Use diplomacy to gain time and reinforce your fort.’
Alauddin pondered on the possibilities.
Standing behind him, Malik had to make a great effort to stifle a laugh. He mused to himself, You cannot steal a camel and expect to disappear unseen. To his horror, he had spoken aloud. He bit his lower lip as a belated precaution, but the fateful words had slipped out. So engrossed had Malik been in the conversation that he had barely noticed the Sultan and the kotwal were close enough to hear what he had said. Malik had seen the back of the Sultan’s head shake as he winced at his words. Almost immediately, Alauddin asked the kotwal to leave and turned
to Malik. ‘What is that again?’
‘What, Your Majesty?’ Malik asked in all innocence.
‘You said something about a camel and a thief. Well, slave, do you think I am a thief?’ asked Alauddin.
‘I was just quoting an old saying,’ Malik answered, half in resignation. ‘Your Majesty, you cannot govern an empire and escape the challenges it throws up. The very fact that the Mongol has travelled two thousand miles to test your mettle in battle makes it all the more important that you accept his provocation. They have come a long way to dare you. If you show weakness, you will not be respected by your people, your soldiers, or by posterity.’ Though uttered last, the third hurt Alauddin the most.
But three days later, when Alauddin addressed his war council, he used a similar analogy. ‘When an enemy thinks I am worthwhile enough for him to travel six months, I should not hide like a rat in its lair in the onslaught of floods. People, soldiers and posterity will judge me badly.’ The speech moved everyone present, all except Malik. Alauddin continued, ‘I will move from the Ruby Palace to the Yamuna’s bank at Siri. I will not commit this beautiful city to destruction.’
The moment the Sultan spoke, the Khilji war machine swept into action. Weapons were polished throughout the night and sparks flew from grinding wheels. It was a noisy night indeed, especially for a city that had been quiet for some time.
It was almost midnight when Alauddin returned to his chambers after his announcement to the war council. Malik was ready with the jug of wine for his master the moment he entered the room. ‘Which girl would the Sultan prefer as his pastime this night?’ he asked.
‘To hell with women. I want to talk to you, slave,’ he fumed.
The word ‘slave’ came after a momentary hesitation, which Malik took as a compliment. Malik dutifully replaced the jug on the table and was ready when the pensive Alauddin turned to him. ‘Malik, now that you have put me on the battlefield, tell me what to do,’ the Sultan said in a mocking tone.
Malik offered his opinion without waiting to learn if it was a quip or a query: ‘The Mongol is no longer a looter. The earth is too small for him. He needs a place to rest his backside, which is why he has left all the forts on his way to Delhi intact. He has avoided going into towns that would have gladly laid the keys to their doors at his feet.’
Alauddin tilted his chin up, half in wonder and half in curiosity. He looked closely at Malik, his royal eyes ringed with bewilderment. Here was a eunuch capable of handling nothing more than a harem, but he was predicting the course of a war that could possibly change the history of the subcontinent. His forehead creased in thought and he let out a lengthy sigh. ‘Tell me, eunuch, have you ever fought a war? How are you so well versed in strategy? Do not hide anything from me.’
‘May Allah remove the layer of lies from my tongue!’ exclaimed Malik. ‘A veteran of battles with the Mongols was sold in the slave market in Khambayat. He briefed me about their warriors. Nobody has ever won against the Mongols. Their perseverance would never let their enemies rest. They come back again and again. If you don’t lose, your grandson might.’
‘I have enough worries, so let my grandson worry about his,’ the Sultan chuckled. Somehow, it made it easier for Malik to proceed. He’d kept the most important piece of news for the last, ‘But that doesn’t mean they are unconquerable. The Egyptians have beaten them recently.’
‘How do you know this?’ Alauddin was genuinely surprised; he himself had learnt of the defeat only a fortnight back.
‘The slave quarter gets all the news first, Your Majesty.’
‘What do you want me to do now?’
‘Never attack first. Wait till he makes the first move. Do not let anybody move without your orders – they should fear your wrath. Delay is better, Your Majesty, we have nothing to lose. Our reinforcements are coming.’
The Sultan was worried; the idea was excellent but its origin highly questionable. Alauddin was willing to listen to Malik’s idea, which was unbound by conventional modes of thinking. It was in contrast to the thinking of his generals with their obstinacy and refusal to let go of accepted traditions. No wonder they often failed to yield the answers he sought.
Alauddin recognized in Malik characteristics which moulded makers of history. His sure-footed determination would take him a long way. He had felt the same appreciation when Zafar had led his thousand soldiers to demolish a Rajput army twelve times stronger. But Zafar was a warrior. This slave was a eunuch and a Hindu convert. He still did not know what to make of Malik but knew his plan was sound. When he stood up to retire to bed, he commented, ‘No wonder they priced you at a thousand dinars.’
*
Three days after the Sultan’s exchange with Malik, the moment of truth had arrived.
Alauddin decided to fight the invaders. His exit from his palace was marked by ceremonies. He took the keys that locked the fort’s door and asked the governor in his absence, Alau Mulk, to kiss it. He thundered, ‘Serve the victor. The city is too precious to be used as a stake. Let the winner take it in its entirety. I will march to Kili to give battle to Qutlugh and see which of us will be granted victory by Allah.’ Trumpets blared and drums rolled in a martial, soul-stirring beat as the Sultan mounted his armoured white horse, and led his army outside the gates in a grand show of strength.
The entourage reached Kili by noon. Alauddin’s tent was placed in the centre of the camp. The ground had been levelled and a carpet hid the stubble and exposed rocks. His temporary throne was placed on one side of the tent and his sleeping quarters on the other. While he moved into his new quarters, the green pennant embroidered in gold was unfurled above his tent.
A meeting of the war council was held the same night. Malik had to stand by the entrance and announce the arrival of the generals. When all the generals had arrived, the Sultan reclined on his divan. The four Khans – Nusrat, Ulugh, Alp and Zafar – sat around him. Nobody dared to question the presence of Malik; while some thought Malik was a bodyguard, others just accepted him as the Sultan’s aide.
The generals put forward their assessments of the enemy and then they outlined the strategies. Zafar was the person who spoke the most. He answered all the questions Alauddin posed unless the Sultan asked someone else specifically. Malik could sense the resentment of the others. He realized Zafar was more of an enemy to these men than the Mongol himself.
As the men discussed and argued over their plans, the Sultan let his mind wander. These men seated before him were born warriors – each had conquered more land than a rider with a regular change of horses could cross in a fortnight. But the generals did not really have the stature anymore.
The military foundation of the empire had entirely eroded as the generals had begun to abandon the will to conquer. They had instead become attached to the allurements of material possession. They were on their way to decay, as power made them increasingly depraved: Ulugh with his boys, Alp Khan with his lust for women and Nusrat with his drink. This estrangement from the battlefield for a warrior had been apparent for all to see. This did not apply to Zafar, however, as his wits were still razor-sharp, but he thought of war as a game, an attitude that could be considered worse than the others’ failings.
While all of them had failed in giving him a concrete strategy to conquer the Mongols, his eunuch had provided a way which could be a possible step to success. Most warriors were likely to balk at a suggestion from a lowly slave. But the Sultan knew that slaves had run the city he currently ruled. Alauddin lived in their palaces, ruled the land they had conquered, collected taxes from their subjects and more importantly, his forefathers had worked for them.
Zafar wanted to attack the Mongols at the earliest opportunity. ‘Why let them rest, Sultan?’ he asked.
Alauddin laughed, ‘You, my general, have reached this place in three days of forced marches. It is you who needs rest, not him.’ He then turned to the others, who held the opinion that coming out of Delhi was a mistake; there was still time to get back
and lock the gates of the city. They thought it was Zafar who wanted to risk a battle, but it would have been easier to satisfy the Mongol with treasures acquired from the south.
Finally, Alauddin announced, ‘I have my own plan.’ The generals fell silent and all eyes were now focused on him. ‘We will march to the battlefield tomorrow and watch for the enemy’s reaction, but we will not attack.’
‘Then why go there to expose ourselves to risk?’ Zafar queried.
‘Nobody will move forward,’ the Sultan firmly insisted, ‘without my orders.’
‘Why wait and watch?’ asked Zafar again. ‘The Mongols are weary. We could massacre them.’ He was not overwhelmed by the Sultan’s suggestion. The mockery that the Mongol king had hurled at him hurt. Malik, observing him covertly, realized what was happening; beneath the rough surface of Zafar’s manly demeanour, he was just a small boy.
‘Would you reconsider an attack if the Mongols keep still for a week?’ Zafar insisted.
‘No, my decision is final,’ Alauddin said. And in one telling moment, he looked up at Malik as he declared his intention. Zafar caught the look and could not believe what he saw. Alauddin mumbled something as if pondering aloud. The eunuch was actually whispering his reply. Zafar was annoyed. The slave was saying something to the Sultan when a sneeze was all that Alauddin should have tolerated. He lost track of the ensuing conversation after that, as he kept watching the slave’s lips in wonderment.
The meeting was over in the wee hours of the night. Malik came out of the tent to send off the generals. The drowsy generals stumbled to their tents but Zafar was deliberately slower. Before leaving the tent, he told Malik softly, ‘Eunuch, so it was your idea.’ It was not a question but a statement. Malik hesitated; he did not need any more enemies.
Zafar continued, ‘Now I understand – the very idea of coming to Kili was yours. Well, eunuch, you are not wrong but somebody put you in the wrong place.’ He sighed, ‘I am a born warrior. I have no qualms about success or failure. It is only the thrill of the fight that pushes me and I find it has worked for me so far.’ Then he whispered conspiratorially with a wicked gleam in his eye, ‘I will not obey the Sultan tomorrow. I will fight as my sword decides and dictates.’
Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai Page 23