The Conspiracy at Meru

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “This Gajaketu…” Asmabindu coughed and cleared his throat apologetically. “Where is he right now?”

  “In Sravasti, safe in our custody,” said Pallavan.

  “Right, right,” Asmabindu coughed again delicately. “And how do we know he is not making the whole thing up?”

  “As I just explained, he has nothing whatsoever to gain from cooking up such a story. Moreover, he has recounted what he saw many times over, on many different occasions. Not once does his version change, even in the little details. If he were making it up, there would naturally have been minor embellishments in every subsequent narration – it is the way we humans behave when we lie.”

  “Let us, for the moment, assume he is telling the truth,” Bhaskara butted in, his voice gruff and gravelly. “The question is whose word are people more likely to believe – a travelling musician’s or that of the king of Magadha?”

  “You have a point,” the diplomat from Kosala conceded, shooting a quick look at Uttama, who sat to one side. “But the fact is that the three of you have chosen to come all this way in the middle of the night to listen to me, when you could have rubbished it as a musician’s ramblings. Doesn’t this show there is enough merit in Gajaketu’s account for people to want to give him a patient hearing?”

  “We came because the account came to us from Uttama, who heard it from a respected diplomat such as yourself,” said Bhaskara dryly. “I know what you mean, but there’s a difference between hearing you say it and hearing some lowly musician say the same thing. And I don’t foresee either you or Uttama walking around Girivraja saying all that you have told us without being charged for treason.”

  Pallavan inclined his head. He knew the retired palace official was right in his assessment of the situation. Letting the subjects of Magadha know exactly what had transpired between Siddhasena, Shoorasena and the Kikata bodyguard that morning was not an easy challenge to surmount.

  “Also, making an accusation of this nature is one thing,” Asmabindu spoke into his beard. “With no other witnesses to back the musician’s claim, how do we begin proving what really happened, short of Shoorasena admitting to having killed the old king?”

  “We could make a start by sowing doubt and suspicion in the people’s minds,” offered Pallavan.

  The Magadhan officials shuffled in their seats and exchanged dubious looks. Bhaskara rose and walked to the window to stare into the pitch dark. Had there been light outside, he would have seen a dense orchard stretching half a mile around the small mansion, handed down to Uttama by his ancestors, a picturesque and private retreat nestled in the hills a few miles north of Girivraja.

  “What do you propose we do?” Diganta, who was not given to many words, locked eyes with the diplomat as he ran a finger along the line of his moustache. “You must have some plan in mind.”

  Conscious of the close scrutiny, Pallavan gestured toward Bhaskara. “I agree with our friend that none of us can air the musician’s accusations in public without attracting censure. So, the only option we are left with is to get the word out to the public through the rumour mill.”

  “Meaning?” Bhaskara narrowed his eyes in confusion.

  “Meaning… we can let select people in Kosala know that a musician has sought asylum in Sravasti because of what he saw happen here in Girivraja. And who are the people who shall be told about Gajaketu’s existence? Merchants, traders and craftsmen – men of commerce who deal regularly with Magadha, who are in touch with bargemen and caravan owners. If the news lands in the right ears, it is bound to catch and spread, and in no time, the citizens of Girivraja will hear of it. Imagine a cartman sitting in one of Girivraja’s taverns and telling the story; now imagine ten cartmen telling the same story.”

  “What good would that serve?” asked Asmabindu.

  “People in Magadha will talk about Gajaketu’s version, and it will only be a matter of time before the story finds its way to the palace. We would have set the cat among the pigeons. It will be interesting to see how Shoorasena reacts to the news.”

  “The king would immediately rubbish the theory and probably pass a decree to the effect that those found indulging in such rumourmongering are liable to be punished,” Diganta remarked.

  “That is where the four of you will have roles to play,” said Pallavan, his eyes glittering in triumph. “Rumours like this one can’t be suppressed, and the four of you can allow it to float around the palace. You can assess how the story affects your esteemed colleagues and members of the royal council, who dismisses it as nonsense and who is open to the possibility of its being true. Each of you can gauge public opinion and influence it in subtle ways. Why, you might even be able to find out if anyone else in the palace had knowledge of the plan to assassinate King Siddhasena – that might be all the evidence we need.”

  “And then?” asked Asmabindu, rising from his seat and pacing the room in small, measured steps.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. If we are able to plant doubt in enough minds and influence public sentiment, Shoorasena will be compelled to act in some way. Ignoring this problem won’t make it go away for him. Then who knows… maybe he will demand an explanation from Kosala. He might even insist that my king clarify that no such musician exists in Sravasti. Our task is to force his hand. Whatever Shoorasena does will determine our subsequent course of action, but we will not rest until justice has been delivered to the old king.”

  Asmabindu nodded. Looking at his companions in turn, he raised his tufty eyebrows in enquiry. “What do you say?”

  “It is not the best plan I have heard, but in the absence of a better one, I shall go with it,” said Bhaskara. “If for nothing else, at least for our beloved King Siddhasena – he was a man of peace and didn’t deserve the death he got.”

  “I agree,” said Diganta, looking at Uttama, who was also nodding in support.

  “That’s settled then,” Asmabindu resumed his pacing and reached Bhaskara’s side. Scratching his beard vigorously, he stared out of the window for a moment before turning his eyes on Pallavan. “If things go according to your plan, and if the need arises, can you and King Bhoomipala produce Gajaketu at short notice?”

  “Of course,” Pallavan assured. “If you can set up a tribunal and bring charges on Shoorasena and anyone else involved in the old king’s assassination, we can have the musician escorted to Girivraja so Magadha’s citizens can see and hear him.” “Very well. And when can you start planting his story among Kosala’s trading community?”

  “As soon as I get back to Sravasti. It is a question of picking…”

  A sudden commotion somewhere outside interrupted the diplomat; a rush of feet, a shout, followed by the banging of a door.

  “What’s happening, Uttama?” Bhaskara asked in mild alarm.

  “I don’t know,” the tax administrator replied, rising from his chair. “We have had robbers raiding the orchard for mangoes… maybe a couple of them have been sighted or caught. Let me check.”

  Uttama had covered less than half the distance to the shut door when footsteps sounded outside. The door was thrown open inward, and Pallavan and the four Magadhan officials saw a captain of the Magadhan army step over the threshold and swagger into the room, brandishing a long sword. Immediately behind him came a posse of five soldiers, all bearing swords and spears.

  “What is the meaning of such behaviour, captain?” Bhaskara demanded angrily, though Pallavan could sense it amounted to little more than bluster. “Is this how you show your respect for members of the palace?”

  “The mansion is surrounded by soldiers; do not attempt to run or resist,” the captain spoke mechanically, not bothering to acknowledge Bhaskara’s outrage. “I have orders to take you alive, but given sufficient provocation, I am at liberty to kill you as well.”

  “What is this all about?” asked Diganta.

  To Pallavan’s mind, the question was unnecessary. It crossed his mind that he had a dagger concealed on his body, but seeing the futility of
the situation, he junked the idea. There would be bloodshed, but no escape, that much was plain.

  “I am here to place all of you under arrest for conspiring against the throne,” the captain’s monotone took an ominous edge. “You are accused of high treason against King Shoorasena and the kingdom of Magadha.”

  Brothers

  The Asuras have been training vyalas all along. ”

  Brihaspati’s voice was hushed, rustling with astonishment and disquiet in equal proportions. “I had thought the last of the vyalas had become extinct a thousand years ago.”

  “They very clearly hadn’t,” said Narada, following the downward swoop of one of the beasts with grim eyes. “A few must have somehow stuck around, and the asuras have done a tidy job of keeping their survival a secret.”

  The diplomat and chamberlain were in the company of a few other devas, all standing under the protection of a large, covered portico that overlooked the northern drawbridge, keeping a close watch on the battle’s course.

  Not that it was much of a battle; not with the asuras toying with the city’s hapless defence, setting fire to anything that caught their fancy, while the devas sheltered where they could and did their best not to get scorched.

  The vyalas had been the attackers’ biggest asset, totally blindsiding the devas. Not only had the devas been woefully unprepared to deal with something on this scale, Narada realized that they had only strengthened the asuras’ hand by setting up all those fires around Amaravati. As if that wasn’t bad enough, when the vyalas arrived over the palace, the Ashvin cavalry had attacked them with their flaming arrows, the Maruts with their hot energy bolts.

  Getting the Ashvins and the Maruts to cease attacking with heat and fire, calling off the fire-wraith, and dousing the fires they had lit – none of these measures had served any purpose as far too many fires were burning in the city, many kindled by the vyalas themselves. With so many energy sources to draw from, the gruesome beasts were virtually unstoppable.

  To make matters worse, the asuras stayed airborne – beyond the reach of the Maruts’ spine-swords, Manyu’s iron mace and the Ashvins’ lances – using the vyalas to set the deva infantry and cavalry divisions on fire. Narada knew that the only way the devas could even the odds was by engaging the asuras in close combat, but that wasn’t possible unless the asuras chose to get off their mounts and meet Amaravati’s defenders on firm ground.

  “It was indeed a well-guarded secret if even the most alert garuda knew nothing about the vyalas’ existence,” Brihaspati agreed. Displaying a sudden burst of resentment toward the scouts, he added, “It serves the garudas right that they were they first to suffer at the hands of these beasts.”

  “Was it the vyalas that killed the garudas, gurudev?” one of the devas enquired.

  “It was.”

  “But can vyalas soar as high as that, gurudev?” asked another young, incredulous deva.

  “They can’t,” replied Brihaspati.

  “Then how did they succeed in killing…”

  “The garudas died because the vyalas’ screams carried up to the cold heights,” Narada interrupted, carefully scanning the cliff wall directly opposite.

  Seeing the devas’ befuddlement, Brihaspati offered an explanation. “The first garuda and the first vyala were twins born to Ayanemi, the immortal Mother Bird. Ayanemi first gave birth to the vyala, and the agony of birthing made her scream. The scream became a part of the vyala, deforming it, making it ugly. But when the garuda was born, she felt no pain and her joy made the garuda beautiful. Ayanemi despised the sight of the vyala and grew partial toward the garuda, so when the time came for her to pass on the gift of immortality, she chose to give all of it to the garuda, ignoring the vyala entirely. Then, fearing that the vyala would steal her blessing from the garuda, she sent the garuda into the skies and cast the vyala into the fires of Naraka. Filled with rage and hatred, the accursed vyala swore that it would have its revenge on its sibling whenever their mother’s scream fell on a garuda’s ears. That is why the vyalas are always screaming, and that is why the garudas, who had never heard such a fearsome sound before, died of fright.”

  “So the vyalas’ screams were the only things that could harm the garudas,” a deva whispered in awe. “And the asuras used this knowledge to their advantage.”

  A vyala chose that moment to make a low lunge over the palace, a terrifying screech issuing from the bottom of its lungs. The devas covered their ears and cringed, flinching as a bolt of fire shot from the beast’s mouth and set alight a group of three Ashvins who had foolishly stepped out of cover. Two of the horsemen crashed to the stones of the courtyard, the fire catching as they writhed in pain. Meanwhile, the third Ashvin’s horse reared on its hind legs before making a blind, fiery dash across the courtyard and disappearing over the edge of the moat, mount and rider falling headlong into the abyss and twinkling out of sight.

  As the vyala lifted back up into the sky, two Ashvins rode into the courtyard and shot two arrows each at the heads of their fallen brothers. Both figures ceased wriggling and slumped in death, the flames charring their bodies black.

  “What matters now is figuring out a way of getting the asuras to face us at close quarters,” Narada urged. Pausing to give it a thought, he addressed one of the junior devas. “Summon the Maruts as fast as you can.”

  To the young deva’s credit, he was able to round up Diti’s seven demon sons in no time. The diplomat quickly sketched the problem facing the city’s defenders, and the Maruts listened to him in silence, waiting for him to finish before speaking.

  “I can’t see how we can tackle the asuras in close combat when they are up in the air,” one of the giants appraised Narada with his cold, moonlight-white eyes.

  “We can do what you say only if they alight on the ground,” another Marut seconded.

  “Which, from what we can see, they have no immediate intentions of doing,” replied Narada, lifting his face up to the four-horned rakshasas towering over the knot of devas. “So, if they won’t come down to fight us here, the only option left is for us to go to them.”

  “How do you propose we do that, Narada?” asked Brihaspati.

  “By way of those cliffs,” the diplomat’s finger pointed across the chasm. He looked at the Maruts. “If you were able to get halfway up the cliffs, do you think you could leap onto the backs of any of the vyalas passing over the abyss?”

  The Marut right in front placed his hands on his hips and stared at Narada, flexing his thick neck muscles by tipping his head from side to side. The downward curving horns swayed dangerously close to Narada, but the diplomat neither blinked nor backed away. At last, the Marut looked back at his brothers, who all nodded impassively.

  A short while later, a group of Ashvins emerged into the open and shot volleys of flaming arrows into the sky. The arrows went nowhere close to the vyalas – their only purpose was to distract the asuras long enough for the Maruts to sprint across the northern bridge undetected.

  Narada watched the arrows ascend before shifting his sights to the far end of the bridge, anchored to the rocky cliff and the road that led through it into the city. He sighed with relief as the barely-distinguishable rakshasas slipped past the bridge and melted into the cliff’s shadows.

  * * *

  Amarka almost missed the blur of movement coming at him out of the darkness.

  A moment ago, there had been nothing in his line of vision except Indra’s palace, the abyss surrounding it and the rocky cliff to one side. The next instant, out of the corner of his eye, he sensed something large and heavy, but surprisingly agile, materialize from the black cliff face, hurtling toward him as his vyala swooped low over the abyss, hunting for targets to set on fire.

  Amarka whipped his head around just in time to see an enormous figure leaping straight at him. There was just enough light to make out the huge, jagged sword that the figure wielded, and the four sweeping horns on its head. While still in mid-leap, his assailant swung the sword
at one of the vyala’s five heads, severing it in one clean stroke. Without missing a beat, the figure completed its leap, crashing into the vyala with such force that the beast pitched alarmingly before correcting its course.

  The figure hooked an arm around one of the vyala’s necks and began hoisting itself onto the beast’s back. It was a bit of a struggle, and seizing the opportunity, Amarka brought his axe down hard on the heavy forearm wrapped around the vyala’s neck. To his amazement, the axe-head bounced and juddered as if it had struck stone, the impact sending hot barbs of pain up his arm. The figure managed pulling itself halfway up, so Amarka aimed his next blow at its shoulder, but again the axe ricocheted away. The figure turned, and as he stared into its face in astonishment, Amarka noticed the moonlight-white eyes looking back at him.

  It was one of the Maruts! Even as the realization dawned, in his peripheral vision Amarka saw two more of Diti’s seven abominations detach themselves from the cliff’s side and throw themselves onto passing vyalas.

  Amarka raised his axe a third time, this time targeting the head, unprotected by the shell-like exoskeleton. But before he could land the blow, the Marut took a broad, vicious swipe at his chest with its sword. The strike came in fast and carried such power that his armour buckled under its pressure, and Amarka felt as if a hot iron had been run through his torso. The breath went out of him in a rush, and as he lost his balance, he was unseated from the vyala’s back.

  The next moment, Amarka was spinning and tumbling through the air.

  Down and down he went, gravity tugging him relentlessly into the bottomless depths of the chasm. The vyalas’ shrieks receded until he could hear nothing but the rush of air in his ears, and the light of the fires dwindled as the hungry darkness of the pit sprang up to claim him. Fear erased all thoughts from his mind, supplanting them with one single idea – the knowledge that this fall could last forever. No one in all three worlds knew if this abyss had a floor, and if it did, how far below it actually was. No one had ever found the bottom of this chasm and come back to speak of the feat.