Shukracharya had received a severe jolt upon observing Vishakha’s rapid recovery. At this rate, he knew it wouldn’t be long before everything came back to the queen, a prospect that alarmed him. It meant his losing purchase over Vikramaditya, losing the edge he held over the human king while negotiating the matter of Veeshada’s dagger. To have control over the king, control over Vishakha’s condition was imperative.
He understood that the queen’s progress was the effect of the Regeneration Spell he had cast over Ujjayini the night the Maruts had come for the Halahala. Without his meaning to do so, the spell had begun the task of reconstruction, illuminating the fog-bound spots in Vishakha’s mind, repairing bridges between isolated patches of her memory. So the high priest had set about retarding the process, drawing the curtains back down. Under the pretext of curing her, he invoked dark mantras and cast spells that brought the shadows creeping back into the recesses of the queen’s mind. The effort required was considerable, but it showed signs of working – there were no new additions to Vishakha’s memory over the last two days.
The high priest had also made certain the queen spent much of her time asleep, incapable of active thought, leaving clear instructions that she was not to be disturbed from slumber.
Secure in the knowledge that Vishakha wouldn’t awaken before daybreak – and knowing he wouldn’t be missed in the palace in a hurry – Shukracharya had braved this visit to the cremation ground. Treading with caution, he now approached the banyan, casting his eye around for anyone who might see him on this errand.
Shukracharya came to a halt under the tree’s spreading canopy, a jumble of dark leaves against a purple sky. He stood at its base, scouring its trunk and branches, taking in every little cleft and fork in the wood. He walked around it in circles, examining the ground around its roots, looking for telltale signs of the earth having been dug recently. He ran his hands over the rough, calloused bark, feeling for hidden cracks and crevices.
Nothing.
He stepped back two paces and looked up at the tree in frustration. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he had always suspected this to be a foolish quest. With a sinking heart, he saw that his intuition was being proved right.
But the bones had never been wrong. Had never ever been wrong.
It is in the banyan that holds up the field of endless pyres.
The answer had jumped at him the night he had posed the bones his question on the whereabouts of the dagger. And for four consecutive nights thereafter, the answer had been the same, whichever way he framed the questions.
Yes, Veeshada’s dagger was very much in Ujjayini. No, the devas had not taken possession of it yet. But the dagger was not in the palace. It was in the banyan that holds up the field of endless pyres.
All the arguments that had been nagging him against what the bones had foretold came rushing back to Shukracharya. How and where could a dagger be hidden in a tree in a way that guaranteed it would never be found, even by accident? Why would the human king choose to leave the Halahala unguarded in a desolate cremation ground, miles from the protection of the palace? And what assurance did the king have that such a hiding place would never be discovered by the devas and the asuras?
But the bones had never been wrong…
The thought of Indra and Brihaspati sitting in Devaloka and plotting to lay their hands on the dagger instilled a sudden sense of purpose in Shukracharya. The Ashvins and the Maruts may have been beaten, but he knew Indra well enough to realize that the defeats would only have incited the deva’s anger. Indra would want to strike back, and whenever he did, it would, in all probability, end disastrously for Avanti. He couldn’t let that happen, at least not until he had resolved the riddle of the dagger and the banyan tree.
It was time he took the devas’ minds off the dagger, gave them something else to worry about instead.
With renewed purpose, the high priest walked the dozen steps to the nearest pyre. Crouching down by the still-smoking pile of burned wood, he sifted through the warm ash at its base until he had uncovered the jet-black soot that lay, layer upon layer, underneath. He scooped a small portion of the soot into the palm of his hand before returning to the tree, where he squatted on his haunches. He then began softly dabbing the soot on the ground with his index finger.
With sure strokes, he drew a series of lines and smears in the likeness of three birds, muttering incantations as he worked. Then, closing his eye, he scattered a handful of mud over the crude drawings. Instantly, the birds sprouted black plumage and came alive – three crows, sooty smudges in the darkness, ruffling their feathers at the foot of the banyan.
The high priest reached a hand out, calling to the crows. Two of them jumped onto his hand, their claws digging into his wrist and forearm. He murmured a few words to them, and they spread their wings and flapped into the foliage overhead. Shukracharya followed their flight with a satisfied smile. The two birds would be his sentinels, watching over the banyan. They would let him know if the king – if anyone – showed undue interest in the tree again.
He turned his attention to the third crow. Once it had answered his beckons and perched on his hand, he began whispering into its ear. These instructions were long and detailed, and it was some time before the bird rose into the air and headed in a southerly direction.
Gaining his feet, Shukracharya watched the dark shape melt into the night sky, sending a prayer in its wake. That bird had a long journey ahead of it, and was bearing a message of great import to the asura lord Hiranyaksha.
A message to unleash a preemptive strike on Devaloka.
* * *
The sky was an indeterminate grey, filled with banks of patchy, shapeless clouds that kept muddling into one another, shuttled by the winds. But closer to the earth, there was hardly a hint of breeze, and even without the sun, the mid-morning air was warm and mildly stuffy, causing Vikramaditya, the Acharya and Kalidasa to perspire as they sauntered along the walkway on top of Ujjayini’s eastern wall.
They were out inspecting the extensive repair work underway all over the city. Every day, a steady stream of carts was converging from the towns of Lava, Bhojapuri and even faraway Viswapuri, loaded with the lumber, stone and sand needed to rebuild Ujjayini. Brick kilns, smithies and stone breaking yards had sprouted around the city to cater to the spike in demand, and carpenters, stonemasons and brick makers had been drafted from all over the kingdom. Still, there was a dearth of experienced hands for the work involved, and progress was slow.
The fortification of the city’s ramparts and its four main gates was consuming more than a fair share of manpower and materials. At one level, this was deemed necessary and made perfect sense. Had it not been for these defences, the Ashvin cavalry would have ravaged Ujjayini in no time; the walls and the gates had held the devas back, limiting their damage to the perimeters of the city. At the same time, it required no great intelligence to see that walls and gates were no answer to rakshasas that dropped from the sky in bolts of lightning. So, there was an unspoken question over the wisdom of their upkeep, particularly when they were such a drain on resources.
“We will be ignoring the wall at our own peril,” said Vikramaditya, drawing to a halt near the northeastern corner of the walkway. The samrat’s face was drawn, his eyes stormy, mirroring a mind preoccupied with a hundred thoughts concerning the safety of his city and his subjects.
“I agree, Vikrama,” replied Acharya Vetala Bhatta, his tone gentle and reassuring as he considered the man who had once been his pupil and was now his king. He couldn’t help notice how the samrat had aged over the last week. “Walls are a city’s greatest defence. We are doing right in strengthening ours.”
“Right now, Chancellor Sudasan could do with some stout walls around Tamralipti,” said the samrat, stroking his moustache pensively.
It took the Acharya a moment to make sense of the sudden change in topic. Catching the samrat’s train of thought, he nodded. Late the previous night, his spies had brought news
of Magadhan troops under General Daipayana’s command capturing the mining town of Dandakabhukti. The spies had also reported that Prince Shoorasena had visited Dandakabhukti, and had commissioned Daipayana and Kapila to push further into the Republic of Vanga and wrest control of the port of Tamralipti.
“How would you rate Vanga’s chances against Magadha, raj-guru?” Vikramaditya cocked an eyebrow at Vetala Bhatta. “Do you think Tamralipti could be defended?”
“Not highly,” the chief councilor chose to reply to the first question. “Vanga has an army of sorts, but it consists essentially of militia drawn from its eighteen principalities. It is sizeable in numbers, but is semi-trained and no match for Magadha’s efficient troops. Moreover, Vanga’s central armoury is in Dandakabhukti – which is now in Magadha’s hands. So…”
“Tamralipti will inevitably fall,” the samrat completed the sentence, his hand straying involuntarily to the pommel of the sword strapped to his waist. Vetala Bhatta and Kalidasa were also similarly armed; after all these years, wearing weapons had once again become the norm in Ujjayini, the Acharya couldn’t help thinking.
For a while, the three men were quiet, contemplating the full impact of Magadha’s move against Vanga.
“With Dandakabhukti, Magadha controls the supply of iron ore, and with Tamralipti, it holds the access point to all trade with the kingdoms of Sribhoja and Srivijaya,” said Vikramaditya. “Shoorasena can hold all of Sindhuvarta to ransom if he chooses to.”
“It explains why the prince was quick to snap ties with the rest of us,” Vetala Bhatta smiled sardonically. “You can’t hold friends and allies to ransom, and if you’ve got only friends and allies around you, it’s in your interest to drop a few of them.”
“At least we now know why King Siddhasena was killed. The old king would never have approved of Shoorasena’s plans, and he was sure to have exposed his son when he realized he was plotting against the rest of us.” The samrat paused a moment. “Let’s just hope Councilor Pallavan is able to find the men who were loyal to Siddhasena and convince them about what happened to their good king.”
“Speaking of allies, any fresh updates on how King Chandravardhan is keeping?” the Acharya enquired.
Captain Angamitra and his posse of samsaptakas had returned from Kausambi three days earlier, bringing with them the report of the paralytic stroke that Chandravardhan had suffered. The news had unsettled the royal palace. Since King Mahendraditya’s time, Vatsa had been one of Avanti’s staunchest allies, and not only did Vatsa and Avanti share blood ties, Chandravardhan was a man who could be relied on in times of crisis.
“Nothing.” The samrat’s reply was distracted, his gaze lingering over the wall, staring at something further to the south.
Turning around, the chief councilor followed the king’s line of sight to see two bullock carts rolling out of the city gates, making for the flat countryside. Both carts were precariously stacked with household items, women and little children seated in whatever spaces were left available. The menfolk and the older children walked beside the carts. It was plain that this was a final departure. The spectacle held little novelty, though. Scores of families, scared and scarred by the attacks, had quietly been leaving Ujjayini in much the same way over the past few days, uprooting themselves, dismantling their lives to move from one uncertainty to what they hoped would be a less frightening uncertainty.
Glancing back, Vetala Bhatta saw a pained expression flit across the samrat’s face, and his heart went out to the king. He knew the reports of citizens fleeing Ujjayini were eating away at Vikramaditya, and that the samrat was holding himself responsible for bringing this on his subjects, for not being able to protect them. Yet it was beyond his power to put an end to his people’s misery. He could say nothing to hold them back, give them no assurances, make no promises he couldn’t honour. So, helpless and distraught, he was letting them go.
With a determined shake of his head, Vikramaditya tore his eyes away from the bullock carts and looked at the Acharya. “Nothing,” he said again. “We can only pray for the king’s recovery and wellbeing.”
After a brief pause, he added, “At least Prince Shashivardhan doesn’t appear to have been cast in the same mould as Shoorasena, which is a huge relief. From what Angamitra says, Shashivardhan and Councilor Yashobhavi pledged assistance to Avanti should the need ever arise.”
“Which is a lot more than what Kalidasa got from King Harihara,” the Acharya turned inquisitively to the giant, who had stationed himself a little to the left and behind Vetala Bhatta.
“Uh, what?” Kalidasa looked at the chief councilor in confusion. “My apologies, raj-guru, but I didn’t quite get that.” The Acharya peered at Kalidasa with narrowed eyes. There appeared to be something bothering the giant for the last few days. Though not given to speaking freely, Kalidasa had been uncharacteristically reticent ever since the night he had fought the rakshasa into the palace lake. He had hardly uttered a word all morning, tagging along quietly like a shadow. And this lack of alertness to what was being said around him – that wasn’t typical of Kalidasa.
“Is everything alright?” the chief councilor’s voice was tinged with concern.
“No… I mean, yes. I mean no… there’s nothing,” Kalidasa brushed his forehead lightly, as if clearing a cobweb somewhere. He then looked at the Acharya. “You were asking about King Harihara?”
“Yes.” Vetala Bhatta decided to accept Kalidasa’s answer for the time being. “I was saying Harihara wasn’t a model of friendship when you paid him that visit.”
“He definitely wasn’t.” The giant’s face darkened and he suddenly looked like the Kalidasa of old, focused and ominous. “He kept whining about how his kingdom had suffered so much at the hands of the pishachas for no fault of theirs. The way he went on and on about how Heheya is now in danger of being attacked by the devas and asuras, one would think we had burdened him with the sole responsibility of protecting the Halahala.”
Now that he had been properly riled, there was no stopping Kalidasa. “He had the audacity to ask what Avanti wants from its allies. This, after we took the trouble of disposing of Kulabheda for him and giving him back his throne. I had half a mind of tossing him out of the window of his chamber and returning to Ujjayini with that chest of gold we gave him. King Harihara doesn’t deserve a single coin from Avanti’s mints.”
Kalidasa’s reaction brought faint smiles to Vikramaditya and Vetala Bhatta’s lips. The giant’s unwavering love and loyalty toward Avanti was both endearing and reassuring.
“Don’t be so harsh on King Harihara, brother,” the samrat chided, still smiling to rob his words of any offence. “The old king means well. It is just that the pishachas came perilously close to Mahishmati, and that must have shaken Heheya. And lest we forget, the pishachas did cause them harm – for no fault of theirs.”
“You are too trusting, brother,” countered Kalidasa. “I was watching the king. Yes, there was fear in his eyes, which I understand. But I also saw ingratitude and selfishness. Harihara was thinking of nothing but himself and Heheya. It was…”
A clatter of approaching hooves from the streets below brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. Craning their necks, the king and his councilors looked down, and were rewarded with the sight of two men on horseback coming round a bend at a brisk pace. One of them was Vararuchi, while the other appeared to be a common soldier.
The horses drew up at the foot of a stairway, and moments later, Vararuchi and the soldier emerged from the well. Stepping onto the walkway, they approached Vikramaditya.
“Salutations to Samrat Vikramaditya,” said the soldier, bowing deeply.
“My salutations to you, soldier,” the king replied, switching a quizzical gaze from the man to Vararuchi.
“The soldier is a rider from the command centre of Sristhali, samrat,” the king’s half-brother explained. “He bears a critical message from Councilor Amara Simha.”
“Amara Simha is in Sristhali?” Vikra
maditya stared at Vararuchi in surprise. “I thought he was in Udaypuri, and that he was on his way back to Ujjayini.”
“He is on his way back here, samrat,” said Vararuchi. “But he was in Sristhali a week ago, when he dispatched this message for us.”
“One week!” Vetala Bhatta’s eyes bored into the rider’s. “What took you so long to bring us this message?”
“Your honour, I delivered the message to the palace five days ago,” the rider answered. As the king exchanged puzzled glances with Kalidasa and the Acharya, the soldier spoke again. “I delivered it to Commander Sadguna the night the rakshasas attacked us; just before the attacks began.”
“He came to the palace and asked to see the samrat, raj-guru,” Vararuchi looked at the Acharya knowingly. “But the samrat was… busy. He then asked to see you, but you were also occupied. So was Kalidasa, and I wasn’t there either.”
“I didn’t know what to do, your honour,” the rider butted in, eager to explain himself. “Councilor Amara Simha had instructed me to deliver the message without delay, so I shared it with Commander Sadguna. The commander assured me he would share it with the samrat, but he also asked me not to breathe a word to anyone else. It was only this morning that it struck me that Commander Sadguna had died that same night. That’s why I decided to bring this to your notice.”
Vikramaditya and the councilors exchanged glances and nodded. It was obvious that the late chief of the Palace Guards had had neither the time nor the opportunity to relay the rider’s message to anyone in the council.
“What was Amara Simha’s message?” the samrat asked the rider kindly. Not only had the soldier exonerated himself, he had displayed the presence of mind to return to the palace instead of assuming that the message had reached the king’s ears.
Quickly, but without missing out any details, the rider filled them in on the capture of the Huna scouts near Sristhali, the suspicious death of one of them from snakebite, and the revelations made by the other on the Huna plan to attack the Anarta Federation by sea.
The Conspiracy at Meru Page 2
