The loud scarping of a chair being pushed back muffled Amara Simha’s protest. The king and the councilors turned to see Vararuchi get to his feet.
“No, I will go,” the samrat’s half-brother said in a tone that overruled all other possibilities.
Seeing a look of exasperation creep over Amara Simha’s face, Vararuchi raised a hand. “Bear with me, my friend. I said earlier that knowledge of the terrain is a critical factor in battle. I have no doubt that you will fight like a lion, but the fact is you know little about the Anartas and Dvarka. You have never been there, whereas I have. I spent more than a month in and around Dvarka during my travels to the Southern Kingdoms. That experience will come in handy in this battle.”
“Vararuchi is right,” the Acharya nodded, giving Amara Simha an understanding pat on his arm.
“Then let us both go,” Amara Simha argued. “Two can fight the Hunas better than one.”
“I can understand your disappointment, councilor,” said the king. “But there is a reason we decided to call you back from the frontier. We need as many hands as possible to defend Ujjayini whenever the devas or the asuras arrive next.”
“Okay, fine.” Amara Simha slumped back in his chair. “As long as they come.”
“I think the councilor has a point when he says two can fight better than one,” Kalidasa leaned his elbows on the table and looked at Vararuchi. “I can spare you a good samsaptaka with detailed knowledge of the Anartas.”
“Who is this?” asked Vararuchi.
“Udayasanga.”
“He knows the Anartas?”
“Very well. Udayasanga spent much of his early life visiting Dvarka and Bhrigukaksha. His father, an ivory merchant, had hoped the son would pick up the trade.” The giant paused to chuckle. “All the son ever learnt was to pick fights with the other ivory merchants whom his father competed with.”
“I would love to have Udayasanga come with me,” Vararuchi smiled.
“He would be honoured to accompany you. I will also pick a dozen other samsaptakas to travel with you. I’ll make sure they’re ready for departure in a couple of hours.”
Once the council had disassembled, the Acharya left the chamber with Amara Simha, who looked tired and dispirited. As the two walked down a gallery, the raj-guru put a friendly arm around his companion’s shoulder.
“Cheer up, my friend,” said Vetala Bhatta. “All is not lost.”
“At the rate things are going, I will have to retire to the farmlands and reserve my axe to till the soil,” Amara Simha didn’t bother concealing his grumpiness.
The Acharya heaved a sigh and gripped the muscular shoulder hard. “You’ve seen what this city has been through, haven’t you? Well, let me tell you, Ujjayini hasn’t seen the last of it. There will be abundant opportunity for you to wield that axe of yours. That much I can vouch for.”
* * *
The first vyala to emerge from the bank of black rainclouds was Amarka’s mount.
Shaking off the raindrops that clung to its scales, the beast soared into the chilly heights far above Devaloka, rising steeply until the droplets of moisture on its wings froze and turned into a thin encrustation of ice. Still it kept up its climb, its five snaking heads stretched upward, the five beaks pointing straight at the sky that was quickly changing colour from blue to deep purple and then black. The higher it went, the colder it got, and Amarka could feel his fingers going numb on the cold metal of his battle-axe.
The ascent continued and Amarka had to clench his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. Casting a backward glance, he saw the rest of the asura army breaking through the clouds below, their vyalas tearing after him in a fearsome display of competitiveness. Blinking away the ice that was forming on his eyelashes, he observed Chandasura in the lead, his vyala streaking ahead of the others in a bid to catch up with Amarka’s mount.
Soon, breathing became hard, and Amarka’s vision swam each time he moved his head. He noticed that his vyala was growing lethargic too, its wing beats faltering as it slipped a few notches every now and then. Drawing on the reins, Amarka was surprised to see the vyala slow down willingly, offering none of its customary belligerence. Realizing the cause behind the beast’s sudden pliability – vyalas functioned best in torrid conditions – he concluded that they had reached the limits of their skyward journey.
It took a while for Chandasura and the rest of the asuras to catch up, their vyalas straining to breathe and keep their heavy bodies airborne in the thin atmosphere. When Chandasura drew level with him, Amarka saw that his brother’s lips had turned blue from the cold, as had his, he guessed. The two coasted side by side for a while, allowing their fatigued mounts a spot of rest.
“I don’t know if we can risk going any higher, brother.” When he spoke, clouds of vapour rolled out of Amarka’s mouth into the frigid air, hanging there for a second like visual symbols of his indecision, before dissipating and blowing away.
“I don’t either,” Chandasura replied. His broad chest heaved as he scanned the dome of purple-black overhead, before surveying the vyalas and their mounts gliding gently a little below them. The beasts appeared uncharacteristically subdued.
“The question is whether we are within range of the garudas,” Amarka pondered. “Or are they still too far above us?”
Chandasura only shrugged. His breathing was laboured, and he was trying to conserve as much energy as possible. “Only one way of finding out,” he said at last with some effort.
“We let the knots slip?” Amarka brushed off some of the ice that had formed on the tips of his black moustache.
His brother nodded.
Looking down, Amarka caught the eye of an asura hovering close by and signaled with his hand. The asura immediately turned to his fellow asuras and signaled, and thus, slowly, in ever-widening circles, like ripples in a pond, the message spread to the furthermost members of the army.
Moments later, Amarka and Chandasura mumbled a mantra, and the bonds around their vyalas’ beaks snapped and fell away. The two vyalas opened their ten beaks in a combination of relief and anger, and their fierce, energized cries rose in an earth-shattering crescendo of discord, mauling through the stillness. The other vyalas quickly joined in, all screaming and crowing together, a clamour that made the very air quiver, and forced the clouds far down below to tear apart and scatter.
Slowly, Shukracharya’s sons guided their wailing, lamenting and cursing mounts into a wide, circular flight path. The asura army followed suit, and soon the vyalas and their masters had formed a huge, wheeling formation of four concentric circles high in the sky – a sky resonating with the incessant shrieks of the monstrous, five-headed beasts from Patala.
So began the hunt for the garudas.
Amaravati
The Acharya went through the contents of the scroll for a second time, before carefully rolling the fabric up and retying it with a string. Placing the knotted scroll back on the marble side table by his elbow, the raj-guru glanced across at Kalidasa, Kshapanaka and Amara Simha, who sat looking at him intently, waiting for a reaction. The samrat was standing by a full-length window, gazing out over the palace lake.
“Queen Sumayanti sent this through an official rider?” Vetala Bhatta’s bushy eyebrows rose with curiosity.
“Through a personal messenger of hers,” the king shook his head, still staring out of the window. “The good queen couldn’t have risked using one of Heheya’s official riders.”
“Quite a relief knowing at least someone in Heheya still wears a sane head,” Amara Simha scowled.
The king and the four councilors were in a small anteroom adjoining the council chamber, often used for informal meetings and consultations. Vararuchi had already departed for Dvarka, Varahamihira was at his workshop at the other end of the city, Dhanavantri was attending to the oracle, while Shanku was busy welcoming the first of her relations from the Wandering Tribe who had arrived to see their ailing matriarch.
“What do you make of it,
raj-guru?” Vikramaditya asked, crossing his arms, his head cocked to one side.
“It’s fairly obvious that Harihara has taken leave of his sanity,” Amara Simha answered in place of the Acharya, gesticulating and rapping his fingers on his temple. “This is… sheer lunacy!”
“This is how he chooses to repay us for having rescued Princess Rukma from Kulabheda’s filthy grasp – he promptly hands her over as a prize to another pair of filthy hands.” Kalidasa leaned across and looked at Vikramaditya. “You see what I meant when I said Harihara isn’t deserving of our friendship?”
The samrat walked over to a low-slung divan and sat down.
“I see a bit of spite in this as well,” he said.
“Spite?” The chief councilor’s head snapped up in surprise. “How’s that?”
The king nodded, chewing his upper lip as he meditated the matter. “When King Harihara was here for the rajasuya yajna, he brought a proposal to the Queen Mother.”
“What kind of proposal?” Kalidasa asked.
“He suggested that Rukma come to this palace as a bride.”
“A bride to whom?”
Vikramaditya looked at the faces in front of him. “Me.”
As the Acharya, Kalidasa and Amara Simha exchanged astonished glances, Kshapanaka’s face flushed with anger.
“What gall!” she exploded. “He was… he asked me how Vishakha was, how she was doing… He sounded so nice and caring.” She paused and stared at her hands in bitterness. “It was just a sham… all the while, his heart was full of plans to get Rukma to take Vishakha’s place.”
Amara Simha instinctively put a comforting arm around Kshapanaka and patted her. Vetala Bhatta looked at the king.
“I presume you turned down Harihara’s proposal, and that’s what you mean by spite?”
The samrat nodded. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, he addressed the councilors.
“I understand King Harihara’s predicament,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Rukma is of marriageable age, and a daughter is a father’s responsibility. The king knows he isn’t going to be around forever, so it is natural of him to want to have the princess married off.”
“But to Shoorasena?” Kshapanaka shook her head in bafflement, her voice still ringing with newborn resentment for Harihara. “After knowing the prince killed his own father?”
“Siddhasena was his friend,” Amara Simha rose from his seat in agitation and began pacing the room. “How can Harihara even entertain the idea of giving his daughter to his friend’s killer?”
Vetala Bhatta raised his eyes to meet the king’s gaze. “We cannot allow this, Vikrama.”
“I agree with all of you,” the samrat replied. “This alliance cannot happen.”
“Someone needs to knock sense into Harihara,” said Kalidasa. “He needs to be reminded about things like friendship and loyalty – and basic decency.”
“Kalidasa is right,” Amara Simha smacked his palm with his fist. “I would love to teach him a lesson that he won’t forget easily.”
“There is a reason behind Queen Sumayanti’s message,” Vikramaditya raised a hand, calling for attention. “She clearly doesn’t approve of what King Harihara has in mind. At great personal risk, she has reached out to us – not because she thinks we can teach the king a lesson, but because she believes we can help him see the light. The task before us is to solve this problem amicably. We owe that to Queen Sumayanti – and to an ally who has let himself be misled.”
“What are you proposing, Vikrama?” the raj-guru asked. Conscious of the four pairs of eyes on him, the samrat paused to collect his thoughts.
“King Harihara’s primary concern is Princess Rukma’s marriage. If that concern is suitably addressed, we have a solution.” Vikramaditya’s eyes settled on Vetala Bhatta. “You know King Harihara from father’s time, raj-guru, so if you would be kind enough to go, I would like you to make a trip to Mahishmati. The earlier you leave, the better.”
“I shall embark at daybreak tomorrow. But what is the proposal that you want placed before Harihara?”
The councilors leaned forward as the samrat explained what he had in mind.
* * *
The balconies and terraces overlooking the southern drawbridge of the palace were lined with apsaras and devas, jostling for room, leaning over one another and craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the garuda that had smashed down onto the bridge.
The garuda lay in an untidy heap of red, brown and white feathers and ochre fur, its bones twisted at unnatural angles, its large kite’s head lolling, white beak half-open in death. One broken wing dangled loose over the edge of the bridge, suspended over the abyss like bait for some fearsome moat monster, its feathers riffling in the wind.
The sight filled the devas and apsaras with foreboding, yet they couldn’t take their eyes off the crumpled form. For though reports of garudas dropping out of the sky had been coming in from all over Amaravati all morning – a dozen garudas had already plummeted past the palace windows and balconies into the abyss below – to many in the palace, the inert body on the bridge was the first dead garuda they had ever set eyes on.
From every possible vantage point they gawked, shocked and fascinated, as four devas ran onto the bridge to retrieve the body and carry it back to the broad palace courtyard, which was crammed with commanders and officers of various deva divisions, many of them already bearing arms. So dense was the gathering that devas spilled onto the twenty-odd steps that led up to the raised platform at the head of the courtyard. It was with some difficulty that the dead scout was borne through this throng, and a square of space cleared at the foot of the steps for the four devas to set their burden down.
“Is it dead?” a horrified voice whispered, making Narada glance up at an adjacent balcony. The speaker was an apsara, disbelief shining in her eyes.
“How is that possible? It is a garuda – an immortal,” a deva by the apsara’s side wondered. “Nothing can kill a garuda.”
“This one is dead,” insisted a third deva. “Like all the others that have fallen.”
“It must be an illusion,” the apsara began arguing, but Narada was distracted by Brihaspati’s voice at his shoulder. “What do you make of the situation?”
“What amazes me is the asuras’ move to pluck straight at Amaravati – very bold,” Narada replied, peering at the sky from behind the curtained window where he and the chamberlain stood. “And taking the garudas out before attacking anything else – very clever of them.”
“I was speaking of the morale down there,” Brihaspati thrust his chin in the direction of the courtyard. “There is fear and uncertainty – and your words aren’t exactly inspiring confidence.”
Narada turned his attention to the courtyard below, filled with restive devas, and to the platform where the golden-haired, sleepy-eyed Ashvin twins stood in the company of another brawny, bearded deva. He understood what the chamberlain was referring to – the crisis that loomed was unprecedented, and the devas were sorely missing the reassuring leadership of Indra. It showed in their cloudy eyes, the shuffle of their feet and in the listless hunch of their shoulders. The Ashvins and the Maruts could have filled that vacuum, but the upsets they had suffered in Sindhuvarta were still uppermost in every deva’s memory.
“I am simply stating facts, gurudev,” the diplomat shrugged.
“If the asuras are behind this, Amaravati and the palace need to be defended, Narada. Someone has to get that crowd to square shoulders and fight,” Brihaspati’s voice rose to a frantic pitch. Perspiration shone on his smooth forehead and ran down his chubby, ageless cheeks.
“Then let us see what we can do, gurudev,” the diplomat looked down his sharp nose at the much shorter chamberlain.
Narada turned to leave the privacy of the room, but Brihaspati hung back. Glancing out of the window, he remarked, “I don’t see Jayanta. Weren’t summons sent to him as well?”
“To lead the defence of Amaravati?” the diplomat’s e
yebrows rose in faint surprise.
“The boy may still be young to lead in battle, but he should be standing with everyone else when the fighting begins. That is the minimum to expect from one who will preside over Devaloka one day.”
Narada studied his fingers for a moment before answering. “I would summon him if I knew where he was, gurudev. Unfortunately, I have not seen him in nearly two days. Besides, his own father doesn’t trust him with a sword – so why would we? He would probably do more harm than good being around.”
The inchoate murmur that rippled through the courtyard died once Narada and Brihaspati stepped onto the platform. Pushing past the Ashvins and the giant, Narada took two steps in the direction of the garuda, as if with the intention of inspecting it from closer, but seeing the beast spread out on the cold stones, broken in body and spirit, dead beyond hope, he changed his mind. Instead, he let his gaze skim over the faces assembled in the courtyard.
Pointing at the garuda, he said, “This should lay all doubts to rest. We have to presume we are under attack.”
“What have we gathered about the attack so far?” asked one deva.
“Nothing at all, other than the fact that whatever is causing the garudas to die like this is somewhere above us,” Narada replied.
The diplomat’s words instinctively made the devas look upward in apprehension.
“Did we send any of the palace garudas up to investigate what is happening?”
“All ten of them were dispatched, but none of them returned.” With a wry grimace, Narada clarified, “Or rather, none of them returned alive.”
“What about the garudas that are still up there?” piped in another voice. “Have we tried summoning any of them back?” Narada exchanged a glance with Brihaspati, who waddled forward on bowlegs.
“We did try, but not a single garuda has answered our summons. Perhaps there are no garudas left over Amaravati to hear us calling.” The chamberlain licked his lips and ran a palm over his damp forehead. Eyeing the garuda stretched out at the bottom of the steps, he said, “Perhaps they are all dead. Perhaps this one was the last of them.”
The Conspiracy at Meru Page 12
