The Burning Lotus

8. Vipers in the Nest

The gates of Chittorgarh

The Maharana observed Khilji and his entourage make their way up the narrow winding path in the grey light of dawn. They were obviously good riders. Well, too bad. The Maharana had secretly hoped that Khilji would suffer a fall and hopefully break his neck. It would have solved a lot of problems.

 His entire court was uncomfortable with allowing the enemy to enter the walls. The generals had been very vocal on how they should avoid allowing Khilji even a glimpse of their defences. The Maharana had heard them all out in silence. It was all just noise. Everyone knew that they had no other choice. It was this or committing potential suicide by engaging with a host much, much larger than their own.

In the end, everyone had known that Khilji would ride up the hill. As they drew closer, the Maharana saw that his instructions had been followed to the letter. Only five other men apart from Khilji himself and none of them were armed. The horses were swift chargers that made their way nimbly up the part. Ratan Singh sighed and ordered the gates to open as he went to greet his guest.

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Khilji waited for the heavily studded gates to open. He had brought along his four best men. Each was an expert in his field. One was to observe the food and water stores, one was to observe the weaponry, one was to study the fortifications and one was to gauge the number of soldiers. The fifth person was his favoured historian and poet. After all, Khilji felt that such an iconic moment had to be remembered for the next ten thousand years. He could also double as an interpreter.

He hadn't chosen Raghav Chetan to come with them. That little rat of a man had been safey left behind in the camp. Of course, Rachav Chetan would have made for a better interpreter, but there was something about the man that Khilji didn't like. Khilji had learnt long ago to trust his instincts when it came dealing with such men.

The heavily studded gates swung open slowly, revealing the Maharana and his band of soldiers. They were armed to the teeth and outnumbered his small group almost two to one.

Khilji noticed that the older man still sat his horse well. His imposing presence was the only one that rivalled Khilji’s. The two kings stared at each other for a moment with open animosity before a curtain of blankness fell over their features.

The Maharana said something in grand tones that echoed in the emptiness of the morning. “The Maharana says that he is happy to welcome the Sultan of Delhi into his kingdom as his honoured guest,” the poet whispered.

“Tell him that we are honoured to enjoy his hospitality.”

The poet relayed the words and the Maharana nodded at the pretence of courtesy. He turned his horse swiftly around and rode up the street. Khilji and his men followed him. Immediately, the posse of soldiers surrounded their little group. Every single movement, however slight, was watched with eagle eyes.

The streets of Chittorgarh were empty. All the doors and windows were shut. No children played on the street, no men were on their way to work. It was deathly quiet, save for the sound of the horses’ hooves. Chittorgarh was like a ghost town, its walls obscuring its people from the Sultan’s view.

They arrived outside an ornately decorated gate. The Maharana addressed Khilji again. “The Maharana says that only you will accompany him on foot from this point. Your men will remain behind,” the poet translated.

Khilji swung off his horse in response. Ratan Singh slid off as well and the two made their way into the women’s place. They passed through gardens of unsurpassed beauty, where flowers opened themselves to be kissed by the sun and luscious fruit hung from temptingly close branches. The passed by a still pond, its surface a carpet of pink lotuses and into a stone pavilion near it. A beautiful palace, painted in hues of red and blue stood across the pond.