Chapter 24: The Seeds of Treachery

In those days, the Kingdom of Pajajaran had yet to stretch its power widely across West Java. Relations with the Sultanate of Banten along the northern coast remained cordial; no disputes had yet arisen. Under the rule of Prabu Kamandaka, the realm prospered in peace, and its people lived in abundance.

But in this world, there are always those of rotten heart—men who cannot bear to see others happy, who choke on another’s fortune, who gnash their teeth at another’s power and hunger to seize it for themselves.

The one man in Pajajaran who despised Prabu Kamandaka most was Werku Alit.

In the chronicles of Pajajaran’s kings, there was one notable truth: Prabu Purnawijaya, Kamandaka’s elder brother and predecessor, left no heir from his queen. Perhaps this was the decree of the gods of Kahyangan. Yet it became the very root of the river of blood that would one day flood Pajajaran.

When Prabu Purnawijaya passed away, the palace council—nobles, priests, and elders—chose his younger brother Kamandaka as the new ruler. Kamandaka was wise, learned, and respected. From youth, he had shown the makings of a great leader.

And indeed, at that time, there was no one else in Pajajaran more worthy to inherit the throne.

True, Purnawijaya had fathered a son by one of his concubines—Werku Alit. He was only a few months older than Kamandaka. The two were even nursed by the same palace wet nurse, a bond that should have been as close as brothers.

But when Kamandaka was crowned king, jealousy struck Werku Alit like venom.

Blinded by envy, and fanned by the whispers of schemers who despised Kamandaka, Werku Alit forgot one bitter truth: he was born not of a queen, but of a concubine. By the law of Pajajaran, he had no right whatsoever to the crown.

Yet Werku Alit’s bitterness grew like wildfire. Secretly, he left the palace to wander the land, seeking power and allies. Years later, he returned with a grand design: to seize the throne by blood and iron.

It was during these wanderings that Werku Alit encountered a fearsome man—Suranyali, better known as Mahesa Birawa. Discovering that Mahesa possessed supernatural might, Werku Alit made him his right hand, promising him the post of Prime Minister once the kingdom was overthrown.

But Mahesa Birawa was no simple follower. Within his heart, he nurtured his own ambition. Should Werku Alit succeed, he planned to sweep the would-be king aside and claim the throne for himself.

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At the foot of Mount Halimun, deep within the wilderness, sprawled a vast encampment of hundreds of tents. Here gathered the rebel army of Werku Alit. In his absence, command lay in the hands of Mahesa Birawa himself.

Around one thousand soldiers had rallied under their banner, many recruited from petty lords once loyal to Pajajaran but now seduced or coerced by promises of wealth and rank. Still, Mahesa Birawa awaited the arrival of several more dukes who had pledged to bring hundreds of men each. Once they arrived, the time for open war would be ripe.

For now, the troops were drilled daily, their commanders hardened with martial training and secret arts personally bestowed by Mahesa Birawa. The man regretted bitterly that three of his men at Jatiwalu had perished at the hands of disciples from the Cave of Sanggreng, and that his agent Kalingundil had vanished without a trace. Had they survived, his task of grooming leaders would have been far easier. Still, he endured. For the harvest of ambition, he believed, would soon be his to reap.

At the center of the encampment stood a great tent, lit by oil lamps. Around a round table sat four men.

The first was Mahesa Birawa himself, his moustache bristling, his belly grown rounder with power and indulgence.
To his right sat Adipati Jakaluwing of Karangtretes, a burly warrior with thick, bushy whiskers.
On his left, a tall, gaunt man with a smooth, cold face: Adipati Surablabak of Manganreja.
And the last, a squat, bald man whose shiny head gleamed in the lamplight: Adipati Lanabelong of Kendil.

Before each of them rested a goblet of fragrant palm wine. Having been swayed by Werku Alit and Mahesa Birawa, the three dukes had pledged rebellion, lured by promises of ministerial seats in the new kingdom to come.

“Please, noble Adipatis,” said Mahesa Birawa at last, breaking the silence, “drink.”

They raised their goblets and drank deeply. In the chill of the night, the warm wine set their blood afire. Jakaluwing stroked his whiskers and rumbled,

“When shall we strike Pajajaran, Brother Mahesa?”

Mahesa Birawa chuckled. “In truth, Brother Jakaluwing, we could march tomorrow. Our numbers are strong, our leaders seasoned. Yet… I would rather not move without our brothers Warok Gluduk and Tapak Ireng. They swore to join us with several hundred men. Better we wait for them, then send word to Raden Werku Alit, and together choose the hour of the assault.”

Jakaluwing nodded. “A wise course.”

“So long as we do not waste the favor of Begawan Sitaraga,” added Lanabelong, rubbing his shiny head. “That sage of Mount Halimun has pledged his aid, and his arts will be needed against Pajajaran’s defenders.”

“A mighty ally indeed!” Surablabak slapped the table. “If the Begawan joins us, victory will be ours!”

Mahesa Birawa’s eyes gleamed. “That old hermit harbors an ancient hatred against Pajajaran, for wrongs done by the grandsire of Prabu Kamandaka. Age has not dulled his thirst for vengeance.”

Lanabelong squinted. “If he is of the same age as Kamandaka’s grandfather, then the Begawan must be near a century old!”

“Close enough,” Mahesa Birawa replied with a smirk. He clapped his hands, summoning a servant to refill their goblets. Once the man departed, he spoke again. “Tomorrow I shall send two couriers to Pajajaran. They will seek out Raden Werku Alit and urge him to scatter spies within the palace. We must know whether our movements are discovered, and where Pajajaran’s defenses lie weakest.”

“Good,” said Lanabelong, gulping his wine. “Strike where the walls are soft.”

Mahesa Birawa nodded gravely. “Brothers, let this be enough for tonight. Tomorrow, we sharpen our blades.”

The four men rose, saluted one another, and departed one by one into the night, each returning to his own tent beneath the shadow of Mount Halimun.