* * *
Daylight had just broken in the east when Shukracharya’s head emerged from the depths of the cold, dark water.
For several minutes, though, from his cheekbones down, the rest of him remained submerged underwater as he held his breath and meditated on the Dasa-Mahavidyas.
Slowly, the high priest broke through the water’s surface, eye still closed, his palms joined in obeisance. When the water had reached waist level, he bowed his head in a deep pranaam to the rising sun – which, at the moment, was little more than a tentative blush – before wading out of the pool and stepping onto the old laterite steps of the bath.
Located in the northeastern corner of the palace, the bath was one of the three reserved exclusively for the male members of the palace household. It was large and rectangular, walled in on three sides and open to the sky. A set of steep stairs, cut into the rock and caked with moss and lichen, led down the open end to the water’s edge. A huge peepal growing nearby cast two heavy branches over the bath, offering both shade and cover to bathers. Being a little out of the way, the bath wasn’t heavily frequented, which suited Shukracharya nicely – particularly on mornings such as this one, when his mind was a churn of ragged-edged thoughts tearing at one another, clamouring for priority. The solitude of the bath was just the antidote for the night gone by.
The high priest had hardly slept a wink, and when he did, his sleep was riddled with dreams that he couldn’t recall now. Much of the night had passed in tossing and turning, wrestling with thoughts about Indra, Vishakha, Veeshada’s dagger…
He was getting increasingly flustered with the bones’ cryptic but unwavering response to the whereabouts of Veeshada’s dagger. The crows he had left behind at the cremation ground had had nothing to report so far; evidently, no one had shown the least interest in the great banyan. Shukracharya was finding it hard to believe that the human king would leave the Halahala unattended for so long… yet the bones were steadfast in their answer.
It is in the banyan that holds up the field of endless pyres.
Then there was Indra in Alaka, chaffing with impatience, but waiting at Kubera’s door like a beggar. Was he planning to enlist the yakshas in an assault on the human kingdom? Or did he intend employing the yakshas’ potent magic to locate the Halahala? The high priest knew the deva was up to something, even bringing Menaka as an enticement for Kubera, but what Indra sought from the yaksha king was right now beyond even the bones.
In all this uncertainty, the planned attack on Devaloka was one spot of solace for the high priest. His instructions to Hiranyaksha had been delivered, and any time now an asura army would descend on the demoralized and leaderless devas. Toweling himself dry on the bath’s steps, Shukracharya’s mouth twisted with vindictiveness at the thought of the terror that lay in store for his unsuspecting kinsmen – his own blood brothers who had betrayed him by choosing a lesser being as their guru.
Every strike on Devaloka was his revenge for the insult the devas had dealt him eons ago.
Engrossed in his thoughts, head bent as he mounted each steep stair, the high priest was tracing his way back to his chamber when, halfway up the steps, a voice called out, startling him.
“Greetings, Healer!”
Looking up, Shukracharya saw a tall, lean figure standing at the top of the steps, silhouetted against the flamingo-pink dawn.
“I see you have intended to start the day early,” the man exclaimed, his tone mildly sardonic. He descended a step and stopped.
“There is much to heal in this world, raj-guru,” the high priest kept his voice even. “The sooner we begin, the better.”
“Indeed,” Vetala Bhatta inclined his head as if in agreement. “And how is the business of healing going?”
Shukracharya didn’t answer until he had climbed the penultimate step and drawn level with the chief councilor.
“Better than I could have asked for,” he said finally, pulling the eye-patch over his left eye and knotting it carefully behind his head. Looking the Acharya in the eye, he added, “You only have to look around you to judge for yourself. Hardly an injury left to cure, hardly a bone left to mend.”
“One couldn’t quarrel with you on that,” Vetala Bhatta inclined his head again, accompanying the gesture with a thin smile. “It’s not without reason they call you the Healer. The citizens of Ujjayini believe there’s magic in your touch.”
As Shukracharya gave an offhand shrug, the Acharya looked sharply at the high priest from under his grey eyebrows. “But what about the one that gave you entry into this palace… the one that earned you a welcome here?”
Shukracharya darted the councilor a defiant glance. “If you are referring to the queen, you would be pleased to know that she now recognizes you, raj-guru. You would count that as an improvement, I presume?”
“Oh, most certainly,” the Acharya’s air was one of exaggerated magnanimity, his tone still needling. “But my question was about when she would be fully cured.”
“A few weeks ago, she couldn’t move or talk or feed herself. Today…” the high priest threw up his hands in a theatrical shrug.
“But you can’t say by when she would be cured?” the chief councilor persisted.
“Despite everything they might say or believe, I am a healer, not a magician,” Shukracharya drew himself up to his full height and stared up at Vetala Bhatta. “All I can say for certain is that when the queen is cured, she will be the first to know, and you will know it from her. Now, if I have your permission, I will take my leave. I need to see the queen shortly.”
Frustration stacked up inside Shukracharya, layer upon impenetrable layer. It choked him, bolting all his thoughts together into a knot of rage that he fought to contain in the pit of his stomach. He knew the Acharya disliked and distrusted him – had distrusted him from the first day he had walked into Vikramaditya’s court and offered to revive the queen. What irked the high priest was that despite knowing this, he had walked into the raj-guru’s little game of thrust and parry, and allowed himself to be flattered before being forced to beat an inglorious retreat.
Yet, more than Vetala Bhatta, Vishakha was the cause of the frustration now mounting inside Shukracharya. In spite of everything he was doing to slow her recovery, the queen was steadily picking up the threads of her lost past and joining the dots with alarming frequency. She already remembered Vetala Bhatta, Amara Simha and Dhanavantri, and the previous afternoon, she had surprised the royal household by identifying Shanku as the daughter of Brichcha, disgraced Warden of the Imperial Stables.
Whenever he got the opportunity, the high priest heaped dark incantations on Vishakha, but such was the force of the Regeneration Spell he had cast that every time she seemed to emerge stronger and more clear-headed in her journey of self-discovery. The other night, Shukracharya had nearly reeled at the sight of the king and Vishakha seated on the swing, holding hands. To his great relief, he had gathered that the queen still didn’t remember Vikramaditya – but he knew it was only a matter of time. The idea bothered him, scared him. For his plan to succeed, he had to prevent that one link from falling in place, but how could he fight the Regeneration Spell and manipulate so many aspects attached to the queen’s memory –
The high priest froze in mid-thought.
For his plan to succeed, he had to prevent that one link from falling in place.
That link! That was the only link, the only aspect to the queen’s memory that mattered. None of the others were of any consequence. Not to him and his task of gaining the Halahala.
Shukracharya smiled at his own stupidity. For the first time in many days, he smiled in a way that let the light shine within him. For the first time in many days, Shukracharya felt in control of things.
* * *
When Amara Simha shouldered past the heavy council room door, the council was already underway.
“…the threat that the Anartas face is severe and needs to be –”
The samrat, seated at the head
of the council table, facing the door, stopped in mid-sentence to see who was coming in. Heads immediately swiveled to the door, and as Amara Simha stepped inside, eyes lit up in delight.
“Ah, look who’s here!” Vetala Bhatta rose from his seat, smiling fondly at his old friend. “What took you so long getting back?”
“Long story,” Amara Simha shook his head as he embraced the raj-guru. “That bloody scout we’d captured near Sristhali – the one who revealed the Huna plan to attack the Anartas…?” he paused to see if the others were getting the context of what he was saying. Heads nodded vigorously. “Well, the fellow tried to make an escape near Lava. Almost succeeded, the little devil.”
Amara Simha had the attention of everyone around the table. “Under the pretext of relieving himself, he gave his guards the slip,” he explained, lowering himself into a chair. “Happened at night, so we had no idea which way he had gone. That too in the middle of a forest.”
“Then?” Vararuchi, seated to Vikramaditya’s right, prompted.
“Then what!” Amara Simha spread his hands as if stating the obvious. “We launched a hunt for him.”
“And you found him,” Varahamihira didn’t frame his words as a question, but the implication was clear.
“Of course we did.” The burly councilor jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He is in the city garrison under lock and key.”
“Where was he hiding?” the samrat asked.
“In the hills, north of Lava,” Amara Simha smiled and leaned back in his seat. “The sly little fox tried to outsmart us by fleeing north. Thought we would head back west in the direction of Udaypuri and the frontier, looking for him.”
“How did you know he had gone north?” Kshapanaka’s voice held both curiosity and admiration.
“We didn’t.”
“Then how did you find him?” the Acharya raised his eyebrows. “You had an escort of what – a dozen soldiers?”
“Ten, to be precise,” Amara Simha replied. “I told the men that they’d have a pouch of gold coins to share among themselves if we found him. I also made it clear to the two guards who had lost him that if we didn’t find him, they would spend the rest of their days in the Forest of the Exiles. Greed and fear can make all kinds of magic happen.”
“Amazing!” Vikramaditya shook his head in marvel.
“Yes,” Amara Simha agreed. “Took us three extra days, running around in the heat and dust, but it was worth it.”
“Someone should teach the scout to hide better while he’s here,” said Dhanavantri with an irrepressible grin. “But for his incompetence, you would still be out there chasing him, and we would have been spared the sight of your surly face for a few more days. Look at you – you look like something that’s walked out of a nightmare.”
“Maybe you should have been the one chasing him, my friend,” Amara Simha shot back, as the councilors rocked back in laughter at the familiar ribbing. “Would have helped you shed some of that weight. Look at you – any fatter you get, and we could just roll you onto the attacking Hunas and send them scattering.”
“Peace, brother, peace,” the physician chuckled, his jowls and shoulders quivering in mirth.
“And I am sorry if my appearance insults your exquisite tastes, but I happened to ride into Ujjayini very late last night and barely got a few hours’ rest… while you were busy enjoying your beauty sleep,” Amara Simha was reveling in his repartees, his eyes twinkling at Dhanavantri.
Sobering up, he looked from the raj-guru to Vikramaditya. “In fact, I was awakened early by a message saying we are to convene here to discuss a matter of high importance.”
The lively mood dispelled in an instant. The samrat heaved a sigh and drew himself up on his chair.
“Well… ” the king paused and shot a glance at Shanku, who was at her usual place close to the foot of the council table. “When we received your dispatch from Sristhali about the possibility of the Hunas attacking the Anarta Federation by sea, we thought it would be wise to consult the Mother Oracle. The oracle read a sign in the clouds yesterday evening.”
“What did the sign say?” Amara Simha asked.
The samrat caught Shanku’s eye and nodded.
“The clouds coming in from the west told the oracle that a thousand black butterflies are following the Dark River,” the girl said softly. “And all the butterflies are moving south.”
“Butterflies?” Amara Simha stared around the table in confusion.
“Imagine you are a cloud floating high above, and you look down at a river, which appears full of black butterflies,” said the Acharya. “What do you think you are seeing?”
“I don’t know – black butterflies, I presume.”
“How would you know they are butterflies?” prodded Varahamihira.
“By their wings, of course. How else can one tell…” Amara Simha paused, his cocksure tone waning as light finally dawned. “Sails. Black ship sails!”
“Precisely,” the raj-guru said. “A thousand black ship sails following the Dark River’s course south. And where do you think the ships are heading?”
“The Anartas. Dvarka.” Amara Simha passed a weary hand over his face.
“Exactly the way our friend who is under lock and key in the city garrison told you,” said Vikramaditya. “That’s why I summoned this emergency meeting of the council. We have to quickly decide on a course of action.”
“We waited one entire night to meet?” Amara Simha looked incredulous. “We knew about this yesterday evening…”
“The Mother Oracle knew about this yesterday evening,” Kalidasa interrupted, speaking for the first time. “Unfortunately, she took ill before she could share this with any of us. Late last night she told Shanku about it, who informed the samrat this morning.”
“Oh, I see.” The grammarian flexed his brawny forearms and frowned at the patterns formed by the coral and lapis lazuli that lined the sun-crest emblazoned on the council table. “What have we decided?”
“A message is being dispatched to Chief Yugandhara’s court, notifying him of what we have learnt from the Mother Oracle,” the samrat said. “I presume Ghatakarpara has already shared what you gleaned from the scout with the chieftain.”
“He should have,” Amara Simha nodded.
“Our responsibility doesn’t end with that, though,” Vikramaditya looked at his council. “The Anarta Federation has sent fifteen thousand of its soldiers to Avanti and Matsya to help guard the frontier. So they are fifteen thousand men short when it comes to defending Dvarka and the Anarta coastline. We must equip them with at least the same number, if not more.”
“More, I would say,” Vetala Bhatta offered. A nod of heads all around backed him.
“How many men could a thousand ships accommodate?” Amara Simha wondered aloud.
“It depends on the size of the ships,” answered Varahamihira. “They are plying on a river, so they can’t be very large. At the same time, from what we have heard, the Dark River is very broad – many times broader than the holy Kshipra, broader than even the mighty Yamuna. So… maybe a hundred per ship, maybe more.”
As the number was extrapolated in a quick exercise of mental math, there was an audible intake of breath around the table.
“We must realize that a thousand ships could just be a figure of speech,” said Kshapanaka. “The actual number may be much less.”
“Or, by that logic, far more,” Dhanavantri gave Kshapanaka a sidelong glance, making the latter pull a face.
“We must send back as many soldiers who’re from the Anartas as possible,” said Vararuchi. “The federation’s soldiers know the lay of their land, which is always an asset in battle.”
The samrat nodded. “How many soldiers from the Anartas can we muster quickly?”
“Unfortunately, I dispatched the bulk of them to Matsya,” Vararuchi replied. “Of the few left in Avanti, most have been deployed along the frontier, some as far north as Gosringa. I don’t think we can rally more than t
wo or three thousand of them at short notice.”
“Let us send those three thousand back to the Anartas immediately,” Vikramaditya instructed. “Also, get a message out to the garrison of Lava to dispatch five thousand of our men to Dvarka right away. Get our troops from Sarmista and Sristhali to move into the Anartas, and order Atulyateja to send replacements for those troops from Udaypuri. The city garrison will also have to prepare to send five thousand men west by this evening. I want the soldiers from the city garrison marching quickly – and make sure there’s a good mix of infantry, cavalry and archer platoons.”
“What about the soldiers we have from Heheya and Vatsa?” Kshapanaka butted in. “Some of them can go as well, can’t they?”
“They definitely can,” the samrat was emphatic. “Anyone who is readily available at hand can and must be drafted in. Every spare sword and spear, every additional pair of fighting hands will make a difference.”
As the king paused, Vararuchi made to stand up, but Vikramaditya wasn’t done speaking.
“The Anarta chiefs stood by us in all our troubles, even when the Anartas were relatively safe from the invaders. We have a debt to repay, and now is the time. I want one of us to go to Yugandhara’s court and fight alongside his men to defend Dvarka.”
“I will go,” Amara Simha sprang forward in his seat. “Come on, I went to the frontier to fight a few battles, but the only time I got to use my axe was to behead what was already a dead body. You people owe it to me.”
“But it has only been hours since you returned from the frontier, councilor,” Vikramaditya fixed a concerned gaze on Amara Simha. “You’ve already had one long, tiring ride back, and Dvarka lies even further to the west. Whoever goes has to leave right now – while you… I think you need some rest.”
“I’m fine,” Amara Simha insisted. “I can always get some rest…”
The Conspiracy at Meru Page 11
