Adhiyavan, Sikala and the Champion

  The early light woke me to find my woman sleeping on my chest, stirring memories of our days in the gurukulam. Flowers were scattered across the floor, and we lay there after the adventures of the night. Sikala slept like a child on my chest. I tried not to move, not wanting to disturb her. She woke with a smile, as if she wanted me to be the first thing she saw each day. I smiled back. She rested her head on my chest and rubbed it gently with her hand.

  “After so many years, I slept peacefully, like in the good old gurukulam days,” she murmured, her breath cool against my bare chest. A single silk blanket covered us both; the passion of the night had left our clothes strewn on the floor.

  I held her hips and felt the stretch marks. Tears welled in my eyes. She lifted her head, noticing my silence. I tried to wipe the tears away, but failed. She shifted, propping her elbow on my chest and leaning over me.

  “What happened?” she asked, curious.

  I turned toward the balcony, tears rolling down.

  “Tell me,” she insisted.

  “I didn’t spend a single day with you during our pregnancy. I proved to be the reckless idiot you always call me. We planned so many things for every month of it. I promised to carry you everywhere.”

  I took a deep breath and continued.

  “Remember how happy we were that night at the gurukulam when you confirmed your pregnancy? We were just two reckless teenagers dreaming of roaming the free seas.”

  She wiped my tears and smiled—her solution to everything.

  “I will never forgive you, idiot,” she said, patting my cheek before lying fully on me, her head back on my chest.

  “We were never meant to be rulers. We were the extras. I would have been married off to some feudatory king, and you would have become a regiment commander. We were never trained to rule; we never even imagined it. You were trained as a warrior, I as an artisan. Yet look at us now. We don’t even want the throne that millions dream of. It’s not the luxury we imagined. It tries to throw you off every second. Everything we learned in the gurukulam is useless here—you have to be ruthless to maintain order in a broken kingdom.”

  My hands moved to her head. The scent of jasmine oil and the flowers on the floor lingered. Her knees pressed warmly against me, lingering just long enough to still my movements. Then she stood, tied her hair, and glanced back as I admired her after so long.

  “Get up. Today is the most important day of Ankala—the Ankala festival.”

  I scratched my head and yawned. “Yeah, every commoner is excited about it. What’s the big deal?”

  “It’s the only day they can see their god. He rides the temple car through the streets.”

  “Why can’t they visit the god like commoner Chakrans, who can go whenever they want?”

  She looked surprised. “You’d let hungry, poor commoners near where we store gold, jewels, paddy, and tax silver coins? You should keep them as far away as possible. Only priests and royal families are allowed inside our temples. The priests do a good job of it.”

  “So you use temples to store valuables and balance accounts while true devotees wait a whole year to see their god, Ponni devi?”

  “God Sundara, yes. Ponni Devi’s statue is somewhere in the dungeon, taken by our great-grandfather. And accounting helps us pay our debts… to you!”

  “Debts to us? What debts?”

  “You really need to read, Aadhiya! You know nothing about your own empire.”

  I held her hand, confused.

  “You really don’t know?” she asked, astonished.

  “No.” I fell silent, looking into her eyes.

  “Huh. This palace, the walls, and the internal conflicts with Dhira’s crown bankrupted Ankala’s coffers. We had no choice but to borrow gold at high interest from Pathukala. Then your father defeated Pathukala, made your grandfather emperor, and signed a new, even higher interest rate. We kept paying until two years ago.”

  Two years ago hit me hard—memories of the night my love Sikala whipped my hands and ran home.

  “Two years ago, the heir to Pathukala, Vikran, son of Selvan, offered a deal. You know how that ended. It’s all Amirtha who handles these accounts now.”

  She pinched my cheek. “I had to bathe without servants today, thanks to you.”

  “Let me help.” I jumped into the tub and sat on the metal stool beside it.

  I tried to climb in, but she stopped me.

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  “Guards—even foreign ones—need to look dirty today.”

  My lips curled.

  “At least I can be with you today, right?”

  “Along with me,” she commanded. I started tickling her underwater. She laughed and begged me to stop.

  She stepped out, and I helped dry her.

  “Here to serve you, my queen!”

  She pulled the towel away and walked to the mirror.

  “The foreign guards are called Chendurai Guards.”

  “Good—you formed your own regiment, just like our guru said. I have one too!”

  She looked at me with pity.

  “Congrats. Now listen: all of them are eunuchs, and only a few have tongues to speak. So act like one.”

  “What?” My eyes widened.

  She handed me a Corinthian helmet that covered my face and cheeks, a jacket, and a striped layered leather skirt that barely reached my thighs.

  As I dressed, she let the servant women in. They began decorating her while I stood behind.

  An hour later, we left the Jasmine Chamber. One end now connected directly to the ministers’ council. She nodded at her ministers as they rose and took their seats.

  The Chendurai Guards waited outside, snapping to attention. She looked at the tall man—their leader, I assumed—and said, “Lotus.” Then she glanced at me and walked ahead.

  The leader handed me a spear shaft, glared, and signaled me to follow her. I ran.

  She walked graciously; the guards formed a twenty-foot perimeter shaped like a lotus. I alone stayed close enough to speak privately.

  The palace connected to a vast amphitheatre I had never seen. Thousands upon thousands waited for their empress. They roared as she entered: “Hail Ankala! Long live Sikala!” She sat on a golden throne, surrounded by the Chendurai squad in a twenty-foot circle, ministers below, and the oval amphitheatre tiered in layers. The lowest held six coloured tents for the champions. Above, packed tightly, sat the commoners. Higher still, with space, the farmers and merchants. The top layer, just below the empress, housed ministers, feudatory representatives, and royals. The entire structure was stone, each block precisely placed, widening inch by inch upward. The empress’s chamber was pure white marble.

  Drums rolled. The speaker began:

  “Hail Ankala! Long live our empress!” He bowed toward her.

  “Welcome to the conclusion of the Vbhai month festivals—our tournament.” He paused. “Yesterday, God Sundara graced us from his temple car. Today we seek the thousandth champion!”

  The crowd erupted.

  “Let us welcome the champion of Dana kingdom and his team!”

  Seven men entered bearing a blue flag with a straight sword. They bowed to the empress and entered their tent.

  The crowd quieted.

  Next came Vira’s yellow-and-white flag, then Kash’s red-and-blue shield, and Naha’s blue boat.

  Silence greeted them.

  Then: “The prince and champion of Venn’s kingdom—Jari!”

  The crowd went wild, chanting his name. He knelt to the empress and took his grey flag with its tree symbol.

  Finally: “The prince of Dhira—Nakalan!”

  He entered with a golden flag, knelt, and winked at Sikala.

  I tapped my spear shaft on the ground.

  “Don’t get jealous,” she whispered softly.

  The six champions assembled. Weapons lined eight racks around a sixty-foot circle.

  The speaker announced the rules: “Win by submission, unconsciousness, or death.”

  The empress rose and walked a long marble pathway suspended fifty feet above the ground, supported by pillars.

  She stood fearless in her violet silk saree—the colour of Ankala—head crowned with jasmine, layered necklaces, diamond crown, white silk blouse studded with emeralds, bangles clinking.

  “With God Sundara’s grace, we continue our thousand-year tournament after two years absent. The last man standing at sunset wins a crowned palace in his kingdom and a bride of his choosing—with her consent.”

  The crowd roared. She waited.

  “First, we punish traitors—blood-sucking parasites who sold secrets to the cheap emperor Chakra, who relies on whispers, afraid to act like a true ruler. He sent another royal too; we will find and kill him!”

  Guards dragged ten men forward—Senga’s informants, as planned. The Chendurai guards slit their throats before the crowd and hauled them away.

  She returned to her throne, hand on the roaring lion armrest.

  “You found the Chakran royal, Empress?” I mocked quietly.

  “Your idiotic messenger was spotted talking to them. That’s why I seated him with the commoners on the left.”

  I spotted Senga and his band in the front left column.

  “One more thing,” I tapped again.

  “Hmm?”

  “What if the champion asks for your hand?”

  “If I like him, I’ll marry him. Simple.”

  I growled. She smiled.

  Near Senga, two blocks away, sat Jaya and Malla, the checkpoint guards.

  The first round began: Dana versus Vira. Random pairings.

  “Kids on the Chenna riverbank fight better than these clowns,” I muttered.

  “Hmm,” she replied, expressionless.

  They switched weapons; blood stained the sand.

  “Still clowns?” she asked majestically.

  “Wait—isn’t this meant to be friendly?”

  “These men train their whole lives for this day. The last man standing when the drum rolls at sunset becomes a national hero for years.”

  Vira’s champion disarmed Dana’s, pierced his shoulder, and dragged the blade upward. Blood sprayed. Dana surrendered.

  The crowd roared. Vira’s victor, bloodied, tongue out, danced with twin bronze swords.

  Hours passed. Kash and Venn were eliminated; crowds pelted their tents with trash.

  Then Nakalan—golden cloak—faced Dana’s last man. With a long spear, precise and methodical, he ended it swiftly, piercing the neck.

  He launched his victory garland toward the empress. The spear pierced marble ten feet from her throne. He blew a kiss and left.

  “Can I join now? I want to finish this one.”

  She smiled but ignored me.

  Two Chendurai guards with long shields stood where the spear landed.

  Next: Jari versus Vira’s survivor. Tiger-skinned cloth wearing Jari fought honourably, disarmed his foe, forced surrender, spared life.

  He threw his garland to the crowd, ran the oval as warning, bowed to the empress, arms wide, pointing to his heart.

  “Okay, I want this one too.” Sikala stifled laughter. Jari saw her smile and returned triumphant.

  Finals loomed: Jari versus Nakalan.

  Flags remained: Naha’s gold, Venn’s green tree. Two hours of sunlight left.

  Both entered unarmed. Songs rose. The speaker declared:

  “Finals of our thousandth tournament! The champion wins a palace and a bride—if she consents. Begin!”

  Silence fell.

  A guard tapped my shoulder, offered water. I stepped back to drink. The leader punished him, sent him ringside, then took position beside the throne.

  No more small talk. Sikala smiled at me; the leader glared.

  Jari took a long sword; Nakalan duel shields. Sparks flew.

  They exhausted every rack. Finally, spear shafts—perfect dance, reading each move.

  Sunset neared.

  The speaker: “Sun sets—two remain. By tradition, share the title.”

  Nakalan seized Jari, hurled his spear into the speaker’s chest. The man fell twenty feet.

  “The sun cannot stop us. No sharing palace or bride. Only when one—or both—lies on the ground.”

  Sikala, insulted, looked to the leader.

  He marched to the central slab, sounded the horn: “By empress’s order—stop or face consequences!”

  “Guess he’s the one with a tongue.”

  Sikala glared pure rage at my joke—her command ignored before her people.

  The leader saw her nod, and sounded two short, one long blasts.

  Six ring guards entered. Jari and Nakalan killed five. The last—the water-giver—cowered. Together they finished him.

  The leader bowed in shame.

  I placed a hand on Sikala’s shoulder.

  “My turn.”

  I ran to the central slab, grabbed a shield, leapt fifty feet, rolled on sand, seized another shield, entered the ring. Stood between them. Blocked both spear thrusts. Nakalan’s shaft splintered; I smashed his face—torn cheek, broken nose, unconscious. Punched Jari with the shield.

  Both down. Drums rolled—champion declared, tournament ended.

  Men from Dhira and Venn charged. Chendurai guards formed a defence, extracted me, and controlled the riot. Sikala was escorted inside, staring hard.

  Hours later, in the Chendurai quarters, the leader arrived smiling, shook me happily, sent me with servant women—still helmeted—to the ministers’ council.

  All six ministers waited. A short, bald one in violet silk and pearl necklace tried to slap me.

  “Stop, Minister Elaya!” Sikala entered.

  “Empress—he broke my nephew’s nose…”

  “He followed my orders. Your nephew killed the innocent speaker and defied me. Be grateful he lives.”

  Elaya sat, shamed and furious.

  She clapped twice; all left.

  We entered the Jasmine Chamber. She clapped again; servants departed.

  I removed the helmet.

  “So, when do we start palace construction? And for the bride, I have two options—”

  “Stop!” She turned, furious.

  “You were meant to stay disguised. Who told you to intervene?”

  “But—”

  “Chendurai guards are not combat-trained—just foreign ex-slaves taught to march and control crowds. A foreigner defeating two Ankala princes? Everyone will suspect.”

  “It’s fine, Sikala.”

  “No. For once, think like a prince. What if someone removed your helmet? You resemble the Invader. Worse—what if you’d been hurt?”

  I hugged her to calm her.

  “You need to leave, Aadhiya. I’ll fix this mess.”