They say power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts
absolutely. But here in the sweltering heat of Java, where the monsoon rains
beat against palace walls like desperate fingers, corruption takes on a special
kind of rot. It seeps into the soul slowly, like groundwater rising through the
foundations of an ancient structure.
Sultan Agung had been a titan of a man. The kind that casts
shadows so long they stretch across not just land, but time itself. By 1645, he’d
conquered damn near everything his eyes could see—Java, Madura, all of it under
his thumb. The common folk spoke his name in hushed tones, as if saying it too
loudly might summon him like some dark spirit. Maybe they weren’t wrong.
But even titans fall. And when the old man finally
surrendered to that most democratic of conquerors—death—his son Raden Mas
Sayidin was there, waiting. Not grieving, mind you. Just… waiting. The crown
hadn’t even cooled on his father’s head before he snatched it up, crowning
himself Susuhunan Ing Alaga in 1646, later taking the grander title Kanjeng
Susuhunan Prabu Amangkurat Agung.
Amangkurat I. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Clean.
Simple. Like the sound a blade makes when it slides between ribs.
The Dutch called their company the VOC—Vereenigde
Oostindische Compagnie. Just three letters that somehow contained a universe of
greed. Those pale men in their starched collars had been circling Java like
vultures, just waiting for Sultan Agung’s iron grip to loosen. They didn’t have
to wait long after his death.
You see, where Sultan Agung had fought the Dutch with
everything he had, his son—this Amangkurat fellow—he had different ideas.
Within months of taking power, he was shaking hands with the very devils his
father had spent a lifetime keeping at bay.
September 24, 1646. Remember that date. That’s when it all
began to unravel. Six articles signed in ink, but might as well have been
blood. The VOC prisoners went free. The Dutch got to decide who could visit
Mataram. The Islamic scholars—those pious men who had been the backbone of his
father’s kingdom—suddenly found their movements restricted. And the Dutch
ships? Well, they could sail wherever the hell they wanted.
But the young king wasn’t done dancing with the devil. No
sir. In 1647, he got it in his head that he couldn’t possibly live in the same
palace as his dead father. Too many ghosts, perhaps? Or maybe just too many
memories of a stronger man. So he packed up the whole damn court and moved it
to Plered, about 10 kilometers from what we now call Yogyakarta.
Brick walls. That’s what Amangkurat wanted. Thick ones. High
ones. The kind that keep things out… or maybe keep things in. And an artificial
lake called Segarayasa, because what’s a palace without some grandiose water
feature? The people paid for it, of course. Their backs, their sweat, their
blood—all of it mortgaged for one man’s vanity.
His son, Raden Mas Rahmat—Adipati Anom to those who valued
their tongues—watched it all with growing disgust. But it wasn’t just politics
that set father against son. No, there was a woman. Isn’t there always?
Her name was Rara Oyi, daughter of some Surabayan nobleman.
The kind of beauty that makes even wise men stupid. Adipati Anom fell for her
hard, the way young men do. But daddy dearest had already marked her for his
own harem. And when the old man found out his boy had fallen for his future
plaything? Well, he did what any loving father would do—he ordered his son to
kill her.
And God help us all, the boy did it.
The thing about cruelty is that it spreads. Like a disease.
From father to son, from king to subject. The peasants felt the lash, the
scholars felt the noose, and all the while, those Dutch vultures circled
closer, their shadows growing longer with each passing day.
Adipati Anom, stained with the blood of the woman he loved,
watched as his father tried to cut him out of succession, favoring Prince Puger
instead. Self-preservation is a hell of a motivator, and soon the crown prince
was sending messages to a certain Raden Trunojoyo of Madura.
Trunojoyo was born in Sampang, Madura, in 1649. He’d grown
up under the shadow of Mataram’s conquest, watching his island bow to foreign
rule. And when his father died under suspicious circumstances in 1656—whispers
said on Amangkurat’s orders—well, a boy doesn’t forget something like that. He
carries it like a burning coal in his chest, waiting for the right moment to
set the world ablaze.
The crown prince offered him Madura on a silver platter. All
Trunojoyo had to do was help overthrow Daddy. It was a devil’s bargain, but
those are the only kind that seem to get made in the shadows of power.
By 1674, Trunojoyo had gathered enough strength to declare
himself ruler of Madura. The rebellion spread like wildfire—Madurese warriors,
disgruntled vassals from Surabaya, Banten, Cirebon, all flocking to his banner.
They swept across Java like a plague of locusts, devouring everything in their
path—Tuban, Semarang, Demak, Kudus, Pati. The road to Plered lay open.
And that’s when our dear crown prince had a moment of
clarity. The kind that comes when you realize the monster you’ve unleashed
might just devour you too. Trunojoyo wasn’t fighting for Adipati Anom; he was
fighting for himself. The throne of Mataram sparkled in his eyes like a fever
dream.
Too late, the crown prince switched sides, running back to Daddy.
But the die was cast. In 1677, Trunojoyo’s forces stormed Plered. The mighty
brick walls—built with so much suffering—fell like sand castles before the
tide.
Father and son fled together, the bitter irony of their
shared fate probably not lost on either of them. But Amangkurat I didn’t make
it far. At Tegal Wangi in Central Java, his body finally betrayed him. As death’s
cold fingers closed around his throat, he gasped out one final piece of advice
to his son—go to the Dutch.
And so Adipati Anom became Amangkurat II, king of nothing.
No army, no support from the nobles, no treasury. Just a crown and the crushing
weight of desperation. He staggered to Jepara like a beggar, hat in hand, to
meet with the VOC.
The Jepara Agreement of 1677 was signed in the Dutch Lodge,
a series of pacts stretching from February 1677 to January 1678. With each
stroke of the pen, the kingdom his grandfather had built crumbled a little
more. The western coastal territories—gone. The eastern coastal lands—gone. Tax
revenues from northern ports—gone. Even jurisdiction over non-Javanese
inhabitants—gone.
In return, the Dutch promised to crush Trunojoyo. And crush
him they did. By 1679, the rebellion was over. On January 2, 1680, Amangkurat
II personally executed the man from Madura, perhaps seeing in Trunojoyo’s eyes
a reflection of what he himself had become—a pawn in a larger game.
The new capital rose in Kartasura, Central Java. On
September 11, 1680, Amangkurat II took up residence in the Keraton Kartasura
Hadiningrat. And exactly one year later, right on schedule, the Dutch built
their garrison. For his protection, they said. Protection. As if the fox needed
to protect the hen.
From that day forward, Dutch eyes never left the throne of
Mataram. They watched. They waited. And less than a century later, in 1755,
they finally did what predators do—they tore their prey apart. The Giyanti
Agreement split Mataram in two, and the greatest Islamic kingdom Java had ever
known became just another footnote in the bloody ledger of history.
They say power corrupts. But sometimes, it’s not power that
corrupts a man. Sometimes it’s fear. Fear of not measuring up to his father.
Fear of losing what he never earned. Fear of the shadows that lengthen as the
sun begins to set on an empire.
And in that fear, in that desperate clinging to a throne of
blood, lies the true horror of Amangkurat’s tale.
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