Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai

by Venketesh, R.

  Alauddin commanded Malik to come with him on the hunt, but relented after he saw the slave yawn. ‘You may not be of much use, I will take Manrk,’ he said. Either Manrk or Malik kept close to the Sultan at all times, never leaving him out of sight. The lives of the three were intertwined in an invisible chain of self-preservation. If Alauddin died, their lives would be broken once again as the next Sultan would definitely have them killed. When Jalaluddin was overthrown, Alauddin had his closest slaves, eunuchs and girls put to death lest they harbour any ill will towards him.

  The hunting party of over a hundred men rode out into the grasslands the next morning. His nephew Akat Khan was supposed to accompany him, but Alauddin found him sleeping and decided to leave without him. He chose a clearing in the grassland where he would wait for the animals to be driven his way. On the grass, Manrk placed a three-legged mahogany stool for him to sit on while the Abyssinian slave stood guard, his blackened hulk shielding the sun’s rays from his master.

  The sun travelled over the horizon and in a couple of hours it would set. The other men who had spanned the realms of the forest with tom toms and trumpets were now raking up a din in vain. In the meantime, the soldiers and the members of the harem who were left behind had become restless. There were many Rajputs in the forest and any potential assassin could be hiding in it. Back in the camp, the general-in-charge was worried. He summoned Akat Khan. Akat was a youth of thirty. One look at him and you could tell a life of luxury was already affecting him, for his eyes were bloodshot, obviously after a night of revelry and liquor.

  ‘Akat, it is getting late and might soon get dark. We are all worried about the safety of His Highness. You better take a group of men and go in search.’ The general pointed out to an area to the west.

  Akat was not interested. He still had a hangover but had plans to continue the merrymaking of the previous night. But the general had the ear of the Sultan and could cut off his allowance, especially if he refused to go out to search for Alauddin himself. Also, it was a chance to get back into the good books of Alauddin. The Sultan had been angry with him when he had kidnapped the daughter of a courtier the week before her marriage and had spent seven nights with her in a hunting lodge outside Delhi. It had caused a scandal, but Alauddin had protected him. But much money was transacted from Akat’s personal account to pacify the noble. Akat felt slighted; he was sure the girl had enjoyed his company too.

  ‘Is the Sultan a child to get lost?’ he murmured when out of the general’s earshot. But he knew he had to set out in search of him.

  Akat took thirty men and went in the direction of the royal party’s journey. It wasn’t difficult tracking them – the hunting party had literally ploughed through the forest. When they reached the clearing, Akat paused. He saw Alauddin on a stool large enough to accommodate the bulk of his bottom. He had obviously dozed off and his head was drooping. Akat’s friend Shaukat, who rode with him, remarked, ‘If the Sultan can’t even hunt a deer, I cannot imagine why anyone is frightened of him.’ A similar thought had crossed Akat’s mind. Manrk, the fearsome bodyguard, was looking in the opposite direction, watching out for animals. Seeing the monarch defenceless kindled within Akat an ambition nurtured by anybody close to the throne. He realized he would never get a better chance to seize the throne of Delhi. Alauddin was unarmed, and his protective circle of soldiers was unprepared – all their eyes on the game that might appear. Most of them could be finished off without much effort. Manrk would have to be handled more carefully; he was a giant, and could easily make mincemeat out of them. But even the ever-vigilant Manrk was not on his guard.

  Akat held out his right hand to silence his followers. The wind blew fiercely against him. No wonder Manrk’s ears had not picked up the sound of their hooves yet. Akat drew his bow and wordlessly asked his followers to do the same. Without as much as raising an eyebrow, the archers drew their bows. In an instant, Akat let loose an arrow, and the others followed suit. Whoever killed Alauddin, it would be Akat’s marksmanship that would be celebrated. The wind deflected his arrow’s trajectory and yet made it fall dangerously close to the target.

  Manrk heard the swoosh of the arrow and turned in a whirl, his dress flying. He was stunned to find archers a short distance away. His first thought was that the Rajputs had attacked. He leapt at Alauddin and pushed the sleeping monarch from his stool. The ever-suspicious Alauddin first thought Manrk was attacking him, but the panic on the slave’s face alerted him. It was only when he saw the arrows flying towards him that he ducked behind the stool in panic – but the stool was too small a cover. There was nothing else, not even a bush, let alone a tree to hide behind.

  The archers did not close in on Alauddin, fearing a rearguard coming to protect their monarch. Instead, they continued to shower him with arrows. Alauddin looked around for something to defend himself with. Manrk rushed in front of the Sultan to intercept the arrows, waving his hands like a lunatic in a futile attempt to fend off the missiles. It was not long before an arrow found Manrk’s lung. He fell, both his hands holding onto the arrow. Manrk’s blood drenched both of them, the Sultan and the loyal eunuch. Alauddin was stunned. In his last moment, the slave had proved his loyalty. Manrk stumbled, then fell dead over him.

  Encouraged by the fall of the slave, the assassins stepped forward. A couple of arrows grazed Alauddin. Though his arm was hurt, he pulled Manrk’s body over him, keeping perfectly still. Akat stared for a minute and decided that the Sultan was dead. He raised a hand and the arrows ceased. There were better things to do than shooting at two corpses. He gazed into the distance and saw the rest of the Sultan’s contingent returning, with absolutely no inkling of what they were about to find. Akat did not want to risk another encounter, this time with an armed force. He turned and rushed with his comrades back to the camp, straight to the court tent, where the embellished throne sat in the corner. A dead Sultan would create a vacuum and Akat was the only other royal personage present.

  The news that Akat had killed the Sultan during the hunt and had claimed the throne permeated the camp. Malik was stunned. Was Manrk unable to save Alauddin? Had all his efforts dissolved into dust? But he gathered his wits, and his inner voice told him that Alauddin could not die at the hands of an imbecile like Akat. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The idiot may have sat on the throne in a hurry. But a throne was not a chair; it could sear the skin off one’s bottom. Akat was hastily jumping to a conclusion – possibly the concluding chapter of his life.

  Malik realized that most slaves would welcome Akat and so would many of the harem women. They had no loyalties, and he didn’t blame them. Society had treated them badly, and they submitted to power – whoever held it commanded their loyalty. But he could not allow it. He would have to defend the harem. He was submitting to an unknown instinct, obeying an unheard order. He knew that his life was coupled with Alauddin’s. Why else should he have travelled so far and suffered so much to reach the Sultan? He strode out to the tents and shouted to all the slaves, trying to rally them together. They were not too keen on defending the harem and advised Malik to stop. ‘If the Sultan changes, how would it matter to us? We do not owe anyone any fealty,’ they said. ‘We were slaves to Alauddin, we will now be slaves to Akat.’

  Malik was exasperated. He called upon them to make a last stand, and announced he would fight till the end, even if they didn’t. He knew his loyalty was not shared by any of his colleagues. However, he knew that if Alauddin fell, so would he. ‘If you don’t defend the harem and its ladies, what will the Sultan say when he returns? All of you will have your heads chopped off!’ he shouted at them. Silently, Malik was fervently praying for Akat to consider the harem the least of his priorities, and instead focus on discovering whether Alauddin was really dead.

  Unfortunately, Akat lost no time in targeting the harem first. He sent a messenger to the harem to await his entry. When the messenger reached the harem, he was met by Malik at the entrance. ‘Nobody but Sultan Ala
uddin is allowed entry into the harem,’ Malik curtly told the messenger. He was afraid, but he had discovered a new power: he was combating terror with its aid. Even as the messenger approached the harem, he stood his ground. The exasperated messenger was as angry as his master. ‘My lord will come, Malik, and he will…’ he paused as if choosing an apt punishment, and then he shrugged. ‘They have already done it to you.’

  Malik knew that Akat would come well-prepared. News had reached him that half the court had already changed sides over the hour. Akat’s supporters had swelled, thinking that no one would be idiotic enough to sit on the throne of Delhi without ensuring that the previous occupant was dead. Akat must be right. Alauddin was history – and Akat now needed to enforce his authority. If it were Delhi, he would sit on the throne – but here, in this wilderness, what he needed was a show of his ultimate victory. What better a sign of his power than making love to the women of the Sultan – the ultimate insult to a sovereign?

  But Malik knew he would only come to the harem once he had finalized all the negotiations and power-sharing agreements with the other nobles. That gave Malik another hour at most. He donned his armour and so did a few of his eunuchs. The harem slaves had now rallied behind him, inspired by the way Malik had stood up to the soldiers. Slaves, who had done nothing without a prod, were suddenly filled with exuberant confidence. They armed themselves with any weapons they could lay their hands on, ranging from spears, swords or even poles that they had removed from tents. The ladies had all been shifted to one tent so that it would be easier to guard them.

  Malik posted two people on the lookout and it was not long before they gave a warning yell and jumped down. Time was running out. Seventy untrained slaves and twenty soldiers armed with the most unoffending weapons stood to battle the new Sultan of Delhi.

  Akat had just finished his negotiations when Malik’s defiance was conveyed to him – the first affront to his rule. Seething with anger, he mounted his horse and galloped across to the harem. Once there, he announced himself: ‘Who prevents the Sultan of Hind from entering his rightful harem?’

  So the Sultan has to announce his entry himself, thought Malik, and felt his anger rise. Akat was brazen with confidence, intoxicated in his newfound puissance. He saw the screens of the harem moving and became excited. Perhaps they had changed their minds and were giving him a ceremonial welcome. But in that moment, the eunuch appeared at the harem’s entrance.

  Gathering all his courage, Malik spoke, ‘It is I, Malik Kafur, faithful servant of the Sultan of Delhi.’ His voice was powerful, but he could feel the blood pounding from his heart to his temples and he had to grind his teeth together to stop them from chattering. The other slaves were astonished. So were the soldiers. How could an enslaved man speak so calmly and that too to a man on the verge of becoming the new Sultan?

  Akat’s smile twisted his face into a hideous grin. ‘So the sexless army defends Alauddin, is it?’ he asked, his voice full of sarcasm. Malik felt desperate for air as if Akat was constricting the entire space. His grip stayed firm on the sword, though he thought it would slip from his hands due to the perspiration. He held his ground. Now it was Akat who was nervous. The throne had come his way far too easily.

  The eunuch army sensed the prince was unstrung and became confident. As the slaves grew more mutinous, Akat fidgeted. He shifted his eyes to the tent behind Malik, which held the pleasures he longed to discover. The armour of the slave who barred his way glinted in the light.

  ‘Let me in, eunuch,’ he said in a raspy whisper. Malik constantly looked at the ground to avoid Akat’s eyes. It was then that he noticed the trembling of Akat’s feet. Perhaps it was anger, but it could also be fear. That gave Malik strength. He drew a deep breath, put on his most brave face and with unflinching directness said, ‘Your entry is not permitted here.’

  ‘On whose authority, slave?’

  ‘On Sultan Alauddin’s authority, who has vested those powers with me.’

  ‘He is dead.’

  ‘Show me the proof. Show me the head of the Sultan and I will let you in. But you will have to cross our corpses to enter before that. I may die, sir, but so will you.’ Malik managed a smile, though he was genuinely terrified. Meanwhile the slaves were getting bolder by the minute and showed their belligerence in their very stance.

  The prospect of being killed one hour after sitting on the throne was not very inviting. Akat did not want a fight. He was not ready to die. Deciding against a face-off, he gestured threateningly at Malik.

  Malik’s words had a telling effect. Most of the nobles had already vowed allegiance to Akat but the eunuch raised doubts in everybody’s minds, even his followers. If, by some twist of fate Alauddin was alive, they were finished. They remembered how the families of Mongol traitors had been punished and an involuntary chill ran up their spines.

  Akat decided to send two soldiers to bring back the head of Alauddin and settle the issue. He would deal with the slave later.

  The courtiers and nobles gathered near the harem to wait for the head to be brought back.

  *

  Everybody expected to hear the hooves of the two horses getting fainter by the second. But that was not to be. Instead, a distant sound surged, like an echo preceding an event of a much larger magnitude. Everybody stood rooted to the spot when they heard the roars that came like a wave. Malik’s expression changed; he knew what the wave brought in its wake. It was the sound of a group of men rapidly approaching. He squinted his eyes to see who was leading the group and saw it was a bandaged and haggard man – but, yes, it was Sultan Alauddin. There was no doubt about it. Malik turned to face Akat. Akat knew something was wrong and he gasped. He rushed to Malik’s side to get a better view. ‘Wh–at is happening?’ he stuttered.

  Malik replied calmly, ‘Alauddin’s head is coming, Your Excellency, and it sits safely on his shoulders.’

  A porcine squeak emerged from Akat. The vibrations of the hooves seemed to have sent a shockwave throughout the camp. It crept up Akat’s feet like a deadly wave and soon engulfed him.

  Malik was relieved. It was now easier to swallow the block of granite that had been lodged in his throat. Akat began walking backwards, the unmistakable sign of retreat. Malik breathed a sigh of relief and made his first mistake: he moved a step closer to Akat, whose liquor-crazed mind decided that the eunuch was responsible for his present state and his fury got the better of him. He raised his sword to cleave Malik’s head. Malik noted a rapid movement from the corner of his eye and stepped aside instinctively. The sword caught him on the armour and dented the blow with a metallic gong, but the blade cut him on the neck. As Malik crashed to the ground, Akat made a dash for it, leaving behind many of his newly appointed courtiers.

  Time seemed to fade after that. Malik’s eyes stayed shut and he dreamed of Akat making love to the queen. Then somebody was waking him up. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at Alauddin. The Sultan helped him stand up. While everybody thought Malik was going to get a well-deserved pat on his back, the Sultan did something unheard of – he embraced him. As the Sultan wiped off his tears, the camp erupted in loud cheers. The cheering of hundreds of slaves surged to deafening levels, for the Sultan’s embrace was an affirmation, a recognition of those shackled souls.

  Initially, the Sultan was unable to form words. He said haltingly, ‘Malik, first you saved my kingdom and now my status. What would have happened if Akat had been able to break your defences and enter the harem? Who would have respected me thereafter? As you always say, posterity and history will judge me badly.’ His lips were trembling. ‘As I remember, I did not reward you the last time too. What do you want?’ the Sultan asked. ‘Your freedom perhaps? If you want, I shall set you free.’

  Malik had anticipated this. Kings in their benevolent moods bestowed freedom on their chosen slaves. But how long could he survive outside the protection of the Sultan? And what could an emasculated eunuch do alone in the world? Outside the palace, as a free ma
n, a eunuch would not survive two hours, or at the most a night. He thought long and hard, and answered, ‘No, Your Majesty. I think my future is intertwined like a vine on a majestic tree with yours. I would not like to leave the shadow of the Sultan till I die. You shackle me with chains forged of love.’

  ‘Then ask for anything else,’ the Sultan offered.

  ‘I want to give Manrk a good burial,’ Malik finally said. He knew Manrk must have been killed when the traitors drew first blood.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I have asked them to embalm his body. It is coming with us to Delhi.’

  *

  Malik made a remarkable recovery, though a gentle hum remained in his ears for two days. His courage unnerved him. He had found a trait he did not know existed within him. For the first time in his life he had not run away – and it was not just him who was shocked. Men of war, seasoned in the art of killing, were filled with awe. Till now they had treated harem slaves as nothing more than pieces of furniture, capable of no feeling. Now a bunch of them had saved the empire. This awe was laced with a subconscious fear: what if they turned against them?

  Alauddin realized he would have to deal with Akat’s rebellion severely to snuff out any other fires of dissent. The Sultan dispatched a section of ministers, generals and soldiers at great speed to calm any seditious thoughts in Delhi. Akat Khan was pursued by Tughan Khan and Nasiruddin Burkhan. They caught up with him at Dahand near Afghanpur and killed him swiftly. They cut off his head and brought it back to Alauddin, who had it displayed on a spear. He ordered that the head should be taken around his empire and then sent to Delhi, where Akat’s brother Taglakh Khan lived. The man, though utterly loyal, was killed on the Sultan’s orders and all those who had supported Akat’s short-lived rebellion were decapitated.