Malayamaan’s Fury

It may be that the last, terrifying declaration uttered by the old lord of Thirukkovilur, Malayamaan—a man as famed for his sharp mind as for his formidable integrity and wealth of worldly experience—did not quite send Crown Prince Aditha Karikalar into a dead faint. But it came remarkably close.

The young prince sat frozen in his place, entirely bereft of words. Beside him stood his friend Parthibendran, mouth hanging open, looking very much like a freshly landed fish. For a brief moment, even the restless sea seemed to hold its breath. The vigorous cries of “Elelo!” (the rhythmic chant of the sailors) from the men transferring cargo from the small boats to the waiting ships faded into the salt-heavy air. A profound silence fell over the shore.

Abruptly, Aditha Karikalar raised his head. He stared at his grandfather, shaking himself out of his stupor, feeling a faint prickle of embarrassment at having let his shock show quite so plainly.

“I have heard such rumours drifting through the streets, yes,” the prince said quietly. “But I never gave them any real thought. You seem very certain of your news, though… do you truly think such a thing is possible?”

“Why not?” asked Miladudaiyar. “Have you forgotten who ruled this empire before your grandfather? Was it not his elder brother, your periyathatha (your grandfather’s elder brother), Kandaradhitha Thevar? And who, pray tell, might be said to have a stronger claim to this land than his own son? A stronger claim, perhaps, than even you?”

“Never! Not on your life!” Parthibendran’s words flew like a sudden volley of arrows. “Who do you think deserves the privilege of rule? An absolute fool who can hardly string four words together? A man who shivers at the weight of a sword, and who ought to have been born a woman save for some grievous error on nature’s part—is that the one? Or should it be a warrior among warriors, who took to the battlefield at the tender age of twelve? The lion who struck down Veera Pandiyan with a single sweep of his blade, who has never tasted defeat in any form—should it not be Aditha Karikalar?”

He glared at the old lord. “My much revered Miladudaiyar, have you completely taken leave of your aged senses?”

Aditha Karikalar silenced his friend with a few sharp, well-chosen words, and turned back to Malayamaan. “This empire does not mean everything to me, Thatha. My own sword is perfectly capable of carving out ten such realms. But tell me, how do law and justice stand on this matter? If it had been decided right at the beginning that Madhuranthakar was to inherit the throne, I wouldn’t have minded in the least. But now that I have been declared the heir, and my Yuvaraja Pattabishekam performed in full view of the land and its people… how can anyone expect me to simply walk away from my claim? Would you truly ask me to agree to such a thing?”

“I would not. Not now, not ever,” the old man rasped. “Should you decide to hand this empire to Madhuranthakar in some sudden fit of benevolence, my first instinct would be to cut you into a hundred pieces with my own sword! Then I would find the woman who carried you for ten months and scatter her flesh to the winds. And finally I—who brought your mother into this world—would end my own life with my bare hands. No! Not until my body releases its last breath will I allow this ancient Chozha kingdom to pass into anyone’s hands but yours.”

Malayamaan’s faded eyes shone with a fierce, unwavering light. His aged, weathered frame trembled with the sheer force of his emotion.

“Hear, hear! That is exactly as it should be. Wonderfully spoken, Thatha!” And Parthibendran practically sprinted across the sand to fold the old lord into a hearty embrace, his own eyes brimming with sudden tears.

Aditha Karikalar stood in silence for a little while, watching the restless sea.

“If these are truly your sentiments, Thatha,” he said at last, “then why wait? Let us gather our forces and march straight on Thanjavur. We will descend on those conniving Pazhuvettarayars and their cohorts—Mazhavaraiyar, Sambuvaraiyar, Mutharaiyar, Munaiyaraiyar, and the rest. We can vanquish them in a single stroke, take the fort, bundle Madhuranthakar into a dungeon, and free the Chakravarthy. All we need is your blessing. For who on this wide earth can stand against Parthibendran and me, so long as we ride together?” His voice fairly hummed with a young man’s pride and untroubled confidence.

“In open combat? No one, perhaps,” the old man replied gently. “But what of stealth and treachery? How do you fight invisible enemies? The moment you approach Thanjavur with an army at your back, the whispers will begin. They will say there is an imminent war between father and son. Why, they might even spread the word that the Chakravarthy has left this world, his heart broken by such terrible news. And there are always people eager to swallow such horrible untruths. What then, my child? You would falter. Could you bear the terrible accusation of raising an army against your own father?”

“Siva, Siva! (an exclamation of shock and dismay)” Aditha Karikalar cried, clapping his hands over his ears. “I could not—no!”

“There it is, then,” said Malayamaan. “That is what I meant earlier, when I warned you that an abaayam surrounds us.”

“Then suggest some sort of ubaayam (a clever ruse),” the prince pleaded. “Some way out of these terrors.”

“First, you must send a deeply loyal messenger to Ilankai, to bring back your younger brother, Arulmozhi Varmar. Now, I am quite certain the boy will not simply abandon his men or his post on the battlefield without good reason. You must send someone who possesses extraordinary powers of persuasion, someone who has the tact to lay out the situation clearly and change his mind.”

“If you will permit me, Ayya,” Parthibendran stepped forward eagerly. “I should very much like to go myself and carry out this task.”

“That may be a fine idea,” the old man nodded. “You and Karikalar can decide on the best course of action between yourselves. But I must insist upon one thing. Whoever you send cannot afford to behave like that young scamp Vandhiyathevan, poking his nose into affairs that are none of his concern—”

“There!” crowed Parthibendran. “Did you hear that? What did I tell you?”

“Have you had any news of him, Thatha?” enquired Aditha Karikalar, a note of genuine concern in his voice.

“I must confess,” Malayamaan sighed, “there was a time I almost suspected him of joining our enemies. But later I realised there was no real foundation for my doubts. They proved quite groundless.”

“Now what do you have to say?” Aditha Karikalar challenged his friend, looking rather pleased.

“Oh, let him finish, please—there’s no point in interrupting,” Parthibendran muttered. “Ayya, what sort of suspicions did you harbour against Vandhiyathevan, and how on earth did you manage to clear him of any complicity?”

“I came to know that he was present in Sambuvaraiyar’s palace on the very night of their midnight gathering,” the old lord explained. “But it seems he had no part to play in the grand machinations of those noblemen.”

“But how did you find all this out?”

“For one thing, I never received an invitation to the great banquet at Kadambur, and that put my nerves somewhat on edge. I trusted my instincts. I waylaid Kundrathur Kizhaar while he was on his way home from the celebrations, locked him up in my mountain fort, and asked him a few careful questions. He eventually divulged that Vandhiyathevan and Sambuvaraiyar’s boy, Kandamaaran, were good friends—”

“That much is certainly true,” Aditha Karikalar nodded. “They were both part of our armed forces and shared guard duty up on the banks of the Vada Pennai. I remember their friendship started back in those days.”

“However that may be, it was clear the young man was inside the palace when the conspiracy was hatched. But I had no way of knowing whether he had been a willing participant. Later, I absolved him of any blame altogether. I learnt that he had made a rather dramatic escape from the Thanjavur fort, having stabbed Kandamaaran in the back—”

“Now that I shall never believe!” Aditha Karikalar burst out. “No matter what harebrained schemes he might cook up, Vandhiyathevan would never be cowardly enough to stab a man in the back! And he is certainly not the sort of scoundrel to do such a thing to his own friend!”

“Even if he discovered that this precious friend was deeply involved in a treacherous plot to betray his lord and master?” Malayamaan asked quietly. “And what if this friend was actively trying to bend Vandhiyathevan’s loyalty towards that very betrayal?”

“Whatever the temptation or the cause,” the prince insisted stubbornly, “he would engage his foe in a fair, face-to-face fight. As for stabbing someone in the back… no, I refuse to believe a word of it.”

“Your absolute confidence in your friend is a source of eternal marvel to me, Thambi,” the old man chuckled softly. “Be that as it may, that is the official accusation levelled by the Pazhuvettarayars, and they are currently hunting him in very good earnest. That is the extent of my knowledge. But consider this: whether or not a dagger actually found a back, it seems plain there was a serious falling out between Vandhiyathevan and Kandamaaran. And does that not serve as adequate proof that your friend was blameless of the conspiracy?”

“I assure you, there was no need to go to such lengths to prove his innocence to me,” said Aditha Karikalar. The prince’s face was flushed, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. “Should Vallavarayan ever decide to join hands with our enemies, I truly believe the earth itself would collapse into utter anarchy. The green seas would dry into barren deserts, and the heavens would come crashing down around us! The sun would choose to rise in the dead of night, and the great Chozha clan would simply dissolve into nothing.”

“I must say, I agree with His Highness on this,” Parthibendran chimed in, sounding rather grudging. “The idea of Vandhiyathevan plotting evil against us or the empire is too far-fetched for me to swallow. If there is one accusation I might fairly lay at his door, it is only this: the boy has absolutely no resistance to the charms of a beautiful young woman. He would lose his head over one in an instant.”

Aditha Karikalar threw an amused glance at his companion. A slow, warm smile touched his lips. “Why else do you think I entrusted him with an olai to be delivered directly to my sister, Ilaiya Piratti, right after he had given one to the Chakravarthy? Once he set eyes on the princess… ah, where would he find the means to escape? She would have a devoted servant at her feet for the rest of his life.”

“Were those truly your instructions to the boy?” Malayamaan asked, perking up instantly. “What a great pity I knew nothing of this! Tell me, have you heard anything from Vandhiyathevan since he slipped out of Thanjavur? Has there been any news from Ilaiya Piratti?”

“I am expecting an olai from her at any moment,” the prince admitted. “But so far, I’m afraid, there has been nothing.”

“Well, once Arulmozhi Varmar returns from Ilankai, you must send for your sister as well,” said the old lord firmly. “And then all will be well. We can happily hand over the empire, along with all its headaches, problems, and politics, to Ilaiya Piratti. We shall simply take her advice to heart and follow it with right good will. I should think that would be the end of all our worries.”

“Good heavens, Thatha!” Aditha Karikalar laughed out loud. “You seem to be even worse than Vandhiyathevan when it comes to my sister!”

“Indeed I am, and I am not the least bit ashamed to admit it,” Malayamaan declared happily. “Why, she took the imaginary sceptre of this empire into her capable little hands when she was barely two years old, my boy. Her word was absolute law to her parents, to me, and to your grandmother. She has tyrannised us in every way she pleased, and that is precisely how it remains to this day. And long may it continue! Her slightest wish has always been my absolute command. You must not see my praise of her as a slight against you, Karikalar; it only adds to your own consequence. Because the simple truth is that there is no one in this entire land—man or woman—whose sharp intelligence can rival that of Ilaiya Piratti Kundhavai!” The old lord’s voice fairly rang with pride. “You know the formidable intellect of our Chief Minister, Aniruddha Brahmaraayar. If a man of his stature is willing to unbend and seek her counsel… well, what more is there to say?”

“That is all very well, I daresay, and I’m not denying a word of it,” Parthibendran interjected. His long-standing dislike of Vandhiyathevan, never buried very deep, was bubbling to the surface again. “But who is to say that Vandhiyathevan actually managed to meet Ilaiya Piratti first? What if the young fool ran headlong into some other young lady before he ever reached Pazhaiyarai, and fell entirely under her spell? Suppose he bumped into a dazzling beauty… someone like the young Queen of Pazhuvoor, for instance?”

The last few words were uttered in a low, careless murmur, and they quite escaped the old grandfather’s notice. But they did not escape Aditha Karikalar.

The Crown Prince’s head snapped up. He turned and fixed the Pallava warrior with a stare so blazing, so thick with sudden, naked fury, that Parthibendran actually took a step back and quailed.

“Well, you youngsters,” Malayamaan said, judging it an excellent time to make his departure. He rose slowly from his rocky seat. “No doubt you have a great many private matters to discuss. You are both leaving for Ilankai tomorrow, are you not? Very well, then. With these old bones of mine, I shall need plenty of time to make my way back to the palace. You may talk freely here, and wander home whenever you choose.”

He left them, leaning heavily on his staff. The two younger men waited in silence, watching the solitary figure pick his slow, steady way down the beach. Only when the old man was safely out of earshot did Parthibendran turn back to Aditha Karikalar.

“Your Highness—my prince,” he said softly. “Something is troubling you deeply. It chips away at your peace of mind. It is a sorrow that has lodged itself firmly in your heart and gives you no respite. And I know for a fact that it has something to do with the young Queen of Pazhuvoor. Your very face, your whole bearing, undergoes a complete transformation whenever she or Periya Pazhuvettarayar’s marriage is mentioned. Your eyes turn dark and you fairly radiate fury. How much longer will you try to stifle this pain, before it consumes you from the inside out?”

He took a step closer, his eyes bright with a sort of suppressed, eager anticipation.

“You have called me your closest friend a thousand times over, Karikalar. And yet, you shut me out of your darkest thoughts. Why? Why will you not let me into your confidence? Tell me what ails you so deeply. Won’t you let me listen, and perhaps ease some of this burden? How many more days must I stand faithfully by your side, forced to watch you suffer in silence, entirely powerless to help?”

Aditha Karikalar looked at the sea, and let out a long, shuddering sigh.

“My dear friend,” he said quietly, “my pain, as you call it, has been a constant companion for many years now. But it is not a pain that can ever be eased. It lives deep within my marrow, and it will only die when I do. There is no absolution to be found in this life. Still, there is no real reason why I should not share the burden of the tale with you. And so I shall… but later, tonight.”

He rose slowly from the sand, brushing off his knees.

“Come. We must catch up with the old man and walk him back to the palace. It is hardly fair to let him make that long, lonely journey all by himself.”