Body Traitor’s History : Excerpt
Two hundred years after the first Emperor Adheenishta left this world with his intestines outside his body because the lust-crazed elephant he was taming flung itself upon him, the sixth Emperor Adheenishta mistakenly baked himself to death by falling asleep after a feast with his favourite opium pipe in his mouth.
The first sign of a modernising empire is that each emperor’s death grows more shameful to recount. This is why I declare a golden age and a modern one will never lie in each other’s arms, exchanging loving looks. Instead, my story hangs between the two, screaming in discomfort. You may expect opulence, executions, heartbreak, and vulgar rumours about the emperor’s family. But I will also speak to you about science, medicine, history, and changing bodies.
When I report to work, stars still prick the sky. Bathed and groomed, I weave through blocks of herb gardens and leisure pools that delight the senses during the day and break the ankles at night. Mint, coriander, and basil greet me with their heady scents and an overfed cat comes to wish me a pleasant day. I let her nuzzle my face. She is upset I have shaved and jumps back into the darkness with a cry. I climb up crooked fortress steps with only the half-eaten moon showing me the way until I come to my destination.
Set pointedly close to the palace, the royal gymnasium vibrates with light and life even before dawn, chastising those who are still looking for sleep at this hour. Hundreds of clay lamps in mirrored shelves brighten the stone walls and fight the early morning chill. Stinking bats shiver and fuss in the eaves.
On the lowest floor of the gymnasium, yawning princes and their trainers stretch on rubber mats. They roll out their muscles, exercise with batons, or warm coconut oil over firelight for their massages. I am followed by the crack of joints and the squelch of wet skin wherever I go. Running upstairs, I see the kingdom’s greatest warlords throwing weights, jumping into midair splits, and sprinting with maces or spears. Moans come in every imaginable pitch. On the third floor, I am welcomed by music and pounding feet. The dance class is underway, with musicians beating wooden blocks and plucking strings while the court dancers and their masters storm through the songs they will perform for the king’s birthday. On the fourth level, I am treated to boxing and wrestling. There are slaps, strikes, falling bodies, interesting positions, and unclean taunts. On the highest level, swords scream, daggers spark, spears fly, and their shadowy wielders fight for breath.
Armed with my cleaning basket and duty list, I make certain that the floors are shining, the air is perfumed, the water tanks are free of scorpions, and there are no neglected weights or swords on the ground waiting to kill a drowsy prince. I put away over thirty of them, cursing their former owners. Making my rounds, I find a pile of sweat-stained cloth mats. I soap them back to whiteness and hang them at the windows so they will both dry and thank us with a breeze.
Returning to the entrance, I am humming the ballad the palace harpists enchanted us with last night when I notice General Rayadkal in his short pants and exercise shirt. He wears the expression of a small boy waiting outside the female bath hall for his mother. Rayadkal’s worthless trainer is late and the warlord who led the Daedkar army to victory in over seventy battles across land and sea does not know what to do with his limbs. I drop my cleaning basket, arrange my uniform, and greet him with a low bow.
The general’s body trainer is Archim Yifaj, who is hated by almost all. Unlike me, Yifaj is a true Daedkar man, but he is so poorly bred that upon hearing him speak, one would think he was abusing his farm goat rather than teaching a respected general whose grandchildren had children.
“Pull in your stomach!” he would threaten as Rayadkal lay on his back with his thin legs hanging in the air, his body reduced to a tremorous strip of lean meat from the effort. Even the aforementioned goat could tell you that Rayadkal had indeed drawn in as much of his stomach as mortally possible and the only way he might take in the excess flesh was if he broke open his ribs to claim more space. But none of that mattered to the trainer. He derived immense pleasure from making the general perform needlessly dangerous martial arts sequences, such as one that had him twist from a flying kick to a prostrate pose on the floor in a single motion. At the end of each session, Rayadkal’s white exercise garments were so wet that one could see every wiry hair on his stomach through the fabric.*
[*One could see many other features as well, but I stop myself here.]
“The teacher has overslept,” he complains to me. “He promised a massage.”
“I will make enquiries,” I promise, and send a keeper to rouse Yifaj with violence. “In the meantime, will you honour me by accepting my services?”
“But the massage. . .”
“I will gladly administer it, my lord, with your permission.”
He eyes me with disappointment—Yifaj is more than double my size, with upper arms that would make watermelons flee in shame—but agrees. I ask the general about his sleep, diet, and bodily pains. His answers are curt and laced with irritation. Since his stomach and abdomen are aching from the previous day’s exertions, I focus on strengthening his legs. We run up and down the stairs together, lift bars with our shins, push against weighted sacks, balance on quavering logs, raise heavy wheels with our flexed feet, perfect a demanding cycle of kicks, and practice our squats while holding solid iron balls above our heads.
My words are encouraging, but they do not please the general. His shirt is still largely white when we conclude and he appears insulted by the lack of oil and sweat. Though unhappy with myself, I spread out a fresh rubber mat and give the general the massage that must have consumed his thoughts since it was promised. I am far less solid than his usual trainer but bring talents of my own. Within minutes, the most feared warlord in the kingdom is asleep under my hands.
I bathe, change into a new uniform, and watch the elderly man snore, wondering what punishment they will devise for his trainer, and praying we might be allowed to watch. Though unlikely, I fantasise about the man being disembowelled and made to pick up his entrails while we all chant, “Pull in your stomach!”
At this moment, the head of the royal gymnasium runs into the hall, his face red with sleep lines and his uncombed beard spread out like a fan. The keeper I sent to find Yifaj is behind him, trying but failing to hide his sunny grin.
Head Keeper glances at the sleeping Rayadkal, then seizes my arm and throws me into his office. He pulls the thick white curtains together to create a conspiracy room.
“Trainer Yifaj was arrested late last night by the queen’s bodyguards,” he whispers to me. “He was found to be a traitor. A search of his rooms revealed coded letters guiding him to poison General Rayadkal. He was questioned under torture and the exalted Light of the Winter Moon immediately ordered that his neck be liberated from its unsightly ornament. All our rooms are being searched as I speak now, to find accomplices. The sentence was carried out while you trained the general. The traitor’s headless body will be paraded on an elephant today evening, as a warning to others who harbour such treacherous ideas. The event will begin one hour before sunset, and your attendance is mandated. Palace staff must be dressed formally, as there is a celebratory feast afterwards. Do not fret—I will lend you my suitable slippers.”
“I have suitable slippers,” I say through dry lips.
Head Keeper looks at them. “Indeed, if you mean to gift them to the king’s dogs.”
“The traitor leered at me often when I was training my students,” I say. “Yifaj, I mean. I found his behaviour unseemly.”
“Others have complained of his wandering eyes,” Head Keeper sighs. “I disciplined him many times, but I realise now it was not unseemly behaviour. As an imposter, he could not think of more than three or four exercise sequences. He was studying the other trainers—and you most of all—to thieve new ideas and keep the general engaged. I believe this is why he made his students repeat the same exercises without reprieve until their muscles tore and they wept like children.”
When I am unable to answer, Head Keeper opens his schedule book and trails a finger down the morning list.
“The traitor’s next appointment was with the World Shaker,” he tells me. “You will train him today instead, but end ten minutes earlier. Wash yourself and dress excellently in a fresh robe before returning to this room. You will meet a new master here, who will come through the secret underground passage. You will speak of his and your relationship to no one. Will you swear on the false gods you pray to?”
I do so.
Outside, Rayadkal is awakening and he smiles around the gymnasium as though it is yet another fortress he has blasted open. Head Keeper mouths the prayer of the dead and goes to destroy his fine mood.
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Cover image: Ink on paper with digital colouring by Sahana Venugopal
