The Conspiracy at Meru

by Shatrujeet Nath

  Shoorasena shrugged. “It’ll be a good test of what Kosala holds dear.”

  “What if we did execute Pallavan instead of letting him go scot-free, your honour?” asked the councilor.

  “What do we achieve by doing that? It puts Bhoomipala and his court against us, and we blow all chances of getting hold of that musician.”

  “We could attack Kosala and demand they hand over the musician, your honour. Kosala sent Pallavan to Girivraja to act against you and the throne. Isn’t that provocation enough?”

  The king came to a halt and turned to face the councilor. “Okay, we attack Kosala. What happens next? Vatsa, Matsya and Avanti will come to Kosala’s assistance. We cannot fight their combined force and win, not at this point. Even if we do choose to fight, the musician could still slip away to spread his story. And his story is bound to reach Magadha eventually. Pallavan is correct. If the truth reaches enough people, the seeds of doubt would have been sown. Our problem is the musician. As long as he is alive, we cannot rest easy. We have to find him and silence him, quickly and quietly.”

  “I see your point, your honour,” said Daipayana. “It is wisest to negotiate over Pallavan and the musician. Let us send a messenger to Bhoomipala.”

  “What about the others, your honour?” The councilor saw the confusion in Shoorasena’s face. “I mean the courtiers Diganta, Uttama and Bhaskara?”

  “They must die,” replied Shoorasena, his brow furrowing darkly. “They must be punished for daring to scheme against me, thankless dogs. Charge them for plotting to help the Kikatas and have them hanged in the market at dawn tomorrow.”

  “Yes, your honour. Which reminds me…” the councilor paused. “Courtier Asmabindu has sent in a formal request to be considered for the post of governor of Vanga. That was the… arrangement that we had worked out.”

  “Yes, of course. His pound of flesh. And I always thought him to be one of father’s staunchest loyalists.” Shoorasena smiled wryly. “Let the courtier know that his request will be considered in all earnestness.”

  “I will, your honour.”

  Gaining the top of the stairs, the king and his men entered a gallery where three palace guards stood waiting. With the guards were two men who looked travel-worn, even though their attire was fresh and presentable.

  “Salutations, your honour,” one of the guards bowed deeply. He pointed to the two men. “These are messengers from Heheya, from the court of King Harihara, your honour.” Shoorasena arched one eyebrow at the strangers. “Your purpose here?”

  “Your honour,” said one of the men, extracting a sealed canvas scroll. “We bring a message from our king. We shall await your reply, should you have one.”

  Shoorasena waited for the men to withdraw. He then broke open the seal and unfurled the scroll. Reading its contents, a smile hovered on his lips, slowly spreading its light across his face.

  “Good news, your honour?” Daipayana peered expectantly at Shoorasena.

  “Very good,” the king replied, rolling the scroll back and gloating at the general. “Harihara proposes that I take his daughter Princess Rukma’s hand in marriage. Heheya has always been a slave to Avanti. Harihara could never see beyond King Mahendraditya, Vararuchi and Vikramaditya. But this…” he waved the scroll about like a wand. “This is Harihara’s first sign of respect to anyone outside Avanti. It is an indication of Magadha’s rise to glory, general.”

  “Without doubt, your honour. Will you be accepting Harihara’s offer of Rukma’s hand?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Shoorasena stood tall and erect, his face smug and handsome. “What better way to start breaking Avanti’s hegemony over Sindhuvarta?”

  * * *

  Vikramaditya was on the verge of turning away from the Mother Oracle’s doorsill when he heard a dry croak emerge from the darkness.

  “Why is the wise and clever king going back? You had come to see me, hadn’t you?”

  The samrat turned, wondering if he had imagined the note of sarcasm in the voice. “I didn’t know you were here, mother,” he said, peering into the pitch-black interior of the oracle’s room. “Why don’t you have a light on in there?”

  “My eyes have seen a lot of this world, my king.” The old woman’s voice was weary. “At times, it is a relief to not see. But why are you still standing outside? Come in.”

  “I can’t find my way without a light, mother.”

  “Embrace the darkness, my king. Sometimes, it is important to let the darkness guide you.”

  Feeling around for obstacles, the king took a few steps into the room before deciding he had come far enough. He lowered himself to the floor and crossed his legs under him, orienting himself so he faced the direction of the voice.

  “You finally found the time to come.” The sardonic undertone was unmistakable this time.

  “I have had a lot on my hands and on my mind, mother.” Vikramaditya paused and took a deep breath. “But you are right. I have neglected coming to see you. I apologize. I should have come earlier to thank you for warning us about the serpent.”

  “I should be the one to apologize, wise king.” The samrat’s eyes had got accustomed to the dark, and he discerned the oracle’s outline from the shake of her head. “I was vague about the threat, and I didn’t alert Shanku early enough; so many lives that could have been saved were lost.”

  “You did your best, mother. It is not as if you failed.”

  The woman was quiet for a moment. “I am also sorry I couldn’t warn you of the yaksha,” she said. “Had I learnt about it in time, things might have turned out differently.” “Things turn out the way they are meant to turn out. And anyway, I was the one who didn’t heed your warnings about the Healer.” Vikramaditya hung his head in shame. “So how can I hold what you didn’t know against you?”

  “You must love her dearly to have taken such a risk.” The oracle’s voice was gentle and sympathetic.

  “And all that for nothing,” the samrat stared down at his hands. Raising his chin, he looked at the Mother Oracle. “She remembered me, mother. Moments before the yaksha’s attack… she finally recalled a memory of me. Now it has gone again. Everything’s gone.”

  “It is probably a test, my king.”

  “A test… or maybe a punishment. Veeshada’s dagger has descended on me like a curse, taking everything that I hold dear. I couldn’t protect the woman I love; I can’t protect my people. What do I tell them when they ask why the dagger is more important to me than their lives, mother? What do I say to those fleeing their homes out of fear?” Bitterness filled Vikramaditya’s voice. “I have let the people of Ujjayini down badly.”

  “Still you know you have done the right thing.”

  “At what cost, mother? The lives of innocents who have nothing to do with the dagger or the promise I made to the Omniscient One? And all in the knowledge that more lives will be sacrificed the next time the devas or asuras send a monster after the Halahala? The odds were always against us, but they are only going to get stiffer in the days to come.”

  “Then it is time you evened the odds a little by finding yourself some new allies.”

  “There are hardly any new allies around, mother.” Again, the samrat’s tone grew acidic. “And even some of the old ones have begun turning their backs on us.”

  “I am not referring to the human kingdoms of Sindhuvarta, my king. The best way to counter one demon is with another.” Vikramaditya stared at the oracle’s face, trying to read her features in the dark. “I am not sure I follow you.”

  “What do you know of the danavas?”

  “The danavas!” The king’s voice rang with surprise. “I… well… they are a long lost race of demons who are believed to dwell in the deepest reaches of the Forest of the Exiles. But that is just a story meant to scare naughty children into behaving themselves…”

  “The danavas are not a myth,” the Mother Oracle spoke with sudden sharpness. “I have heard the breeze that blows from the Dandaka speak of them
as living beings.”

  “The danavas are for real?” Vikramaditya spoke in a hushed, childlike whisper.

  “Do you know how they came to inhabit the Dandaka?” Seeing the king shake his head, the oracle said, “The danavas were the original inhabitants of Patala. Back then, Patala was a dense forest – you know the danavas are forest spirits, don’t you? Well, the danavas lived in a magical city made out of a charmed wood stronger than iron. They were a peaceable and hospitable race, and welcomed anyone who ventured into Patala. That is how the asuras, who had been compelled to leave Devaloka, came to settle in Patala.”

  “How do you know all this, mother?”

  “Nature is forever brimming with stories and tidings, wise king. What do you think happens when the wind rustles the leaves, birds chirp, brooks babble and the surf roars against the seashore? Stories are being shared.” The Mother Oracle paused to resume her narrative. “Anyway, once the asuras arrived in Patala, they started remodelling the land to suit their tastes. They cut down a great many acres of trees to clear space for their own city, and began sinking mines for iron, bronze and other metals. They built dykes along the Patala Ganga to irrigate their farmlands… The asuras did everything to desecrate and destroy nature’s flow, which was dearest to their hosts, the danavas. Being the rightful owners of the land, the danavas objected to what the asuras were doing, and soon guests and hosts were in conflict. To cut a long story short, with the blessings of Sage Kashyapa and the sorcery of Diti, the asuras ultimately prevailed, and the danavas were ejected from Patala.”

  “That’s how they came to the Forest of the Exiles?”

  “And to this day, the danavas harbour a deep animosity toward the asuras,” the old woman nodded. “If you can convince the danavas that the asuras are using the Dandaka to attack Avanti, and that you need their assistance, you would have won yourself a powerful and magical ally.”

  The samrat sat in silence for a long while, assimilating everything he had just heard. At last, he addressed the oracle, “The danavas are so reclusive — how does one even begin a conversation with them?”

  “You must have heard of the town of Janasthana, deep in the forest. That is the seat of the danavas.”

  “No one even knows where Janasthana is within the Dandaka,” Vikramaditya pinched his lip in bewilderment. “How are we ever going to find it in the midst of such a thick and vast jungle that none of us have been inside before?”

  “It is the Forest of the Exiles, my king,” the oracle spoke as if to a particularly slow child. “Rumour has it that there are half-a-dozen condemned men who actually escaped from the Dandaka and returned to Sindhuvarta. These men are obviously familiar with the jungle and the trails that wind through it. You only have to find one who is willing to lead you to Janasthana.”

  “That might prove even harder than finding Janasthana, mother. But yes, it is worth a try.” The samrat sounded distinctly brighter and more upbeat.

  “Remember one thing, though,” a shadow of caution crept into the hoarse, gravelly voice. “Because of their history, the danavas are a suspicious race, deeply untrusting and hostile to strangers and anyone they see as intruders. They are not the easiest of folk to befriend.”

  “You give hope and take it away in the same breath, mother,” the king remarked wryly.

  “All I’m saying is if you want the danavas as your ally, you will have to work hard for it.”

  Truce

  How do we know it is not a ploy, mahaguru?” The Witch Queen’s icy blue eyes clouded over with mistrust. “It might even be a trap, sprung in retaliation to the attack your brave sons led on Amaravati.”

  “I would tend to agree with Holika, mahaguru. The devas are not to be trusted after the way they tricked Puloman into going to Meru, and then killing him when he was defenceless. No, mahaguru, in my humble opinion, Narada’s talk of truce reeks of deviousness.”

  From behind him, restive mutterings came to Shukracharya’s ears. The high priest knew what the asura generals gathered in the Court of the Golden Triad were thinking – their misgivings were obvious from the manner in which they shuffled their feet and whispered to one another. Many of them had shown up in court upon hearing of his return from Sindhuvarta, most believing he had brought the Halahala back with him. Once that misconception had been dispelled, their disappointment had found an outlet through the guarded grumblings over his suggestion that Hiranyaksha take up Narada’s offer to make peace with Indra.

  “Oh, it is a ploy, no doubt about that,” replied Shukracharya, considering Hiranyaksha and Holika from the foot of the steps that rose up to the black crystal throne of Patala. “When a truce is offered, it is born either out of fear or cunning. We can definitely rule out fear in this instance.”

  “Yet you believe it is in our interest to accept Indra’s invitation to Devaloka?” Holika looked in bewilderment from the high priest to her brother-consort seated by her side.

  “It is a ploy, but it is not a trap.” Shukracharya heaved a weary sigh and lowered himself onto a low, cushioned stool by the lowest step. “Narada is smart enough to have interpreted the real purpose behind our attack on Amaravati. He realizes the futility of battling us when he would rather turn his attention to taking the Halahala from the human king. The truce is just a way to get us off Indra’s back.”

  “If your plan is achieving its desired results, why ease the pressure on the devas, mahaguru?” The frown on Hiranyaksha’s brow deepened the lines in his dark face and cast brooding shadows over his features.

  “Because, for once I agree with Narada when he says the devas and the asuras have a common enemy in the human king, and that both sides must set aside their differences and unite against the king.” The high priest paused to let the sibling-consorts absorb his words. “Of course, when Narada said that to you, they were just empty words – he probably didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. Yet, in his falsehood, he unwittingly touched upon the truth.”

  “You ask the asuras to shed our pride over an ordinary human being, mahaguru?” Fire from the lamps lit along the steps to the throne caught and burned in the asura lord’s golden eyes. His voice cracked in disbelief. “What would I tell Hiranyakashipu when he returns from his penance – that we struck a truce with the treacherous devas on account of a human king?”

  Again, a tide of murmurs – dismayed, incredulous, circumspect – washed back and forth across the wide hall. Chandasura and Amarka’s triumphant return from Amaravati had boosted asura morale, and the high priest was sensitive to the asuras’ reluctance to surrender a hard-won initiative. Yet, he couldn’t let this show of dissent get out of hand…

  “You forget much, lords of Patala,” Shukracharya chose to ignore the court by addressing only the sibling-consorts, but the pitch of his voice was clearly meant to quell the generals. “You forget that Vikramaditya wields the Hellfires, and that his councilors are the bearers of the Nine Pearls. I have seen and heard much during my stay in the human kingdom. I have witnessed the king’s resolve, and the bravery of his council.”

  Pausing to draw his breath, the high priest got to his feet and climbed four steps so his eye could sweep over the gathering of Hiranyaksha’s generals. “Haven’t I just told you about how the humans fought off the Maruts and Ahi? Didn’t I tell you how the king refused my help when I offered to heal his queen? What would you make of a man who sacrifices his deepest hopes and yearnings for the sake of his duty?”

  Shukracharya turned back to fix a severe gaze on Holika and Hiranyaksha. “Ever since he demanded that I leave his palace, I have spent my time learning everything I can about the king and his council. The conclusion I have arrived at is simple – we devas and asuras can fight and trick each other all we want for ownership of Veeshada’s dagger. But neither of us is going to win the dagger until the human king is overcome. And neither of us can do that by ourselves – definitely not if we are at one another’s throats at the same time. However, if you still insist, you are welcome to try
.”

  The high priest’s challenge mounted the steps to the crystal throne and lifted into the arched ceiling, crashing off the walls before subsiding in the muted roar of the cataracts that scarred the Patala Ganga’s progress past the palace. Holika rose from the throne, the silks she wore swishing softly against her golden skin as she descended a few steps in Shukracharya’s direction. When she spoke, her tone was subdued and conciliatory.

  “It was never our intention to question your wisdom, mahaguru. If we gave that impression, we regret it. We will do as you say…” she gave a slight pause, “…but if I may ask, what happens to Veeshada’s dagger once we defeat the king?”

  “Fear not for the Halahala.” Shukracharya’s face had softened at Holika’s apology, and he even allowed a devilish gleam to light his eye. “The bones have hinted at where the king has concealed the dagger. Once his little kingdom begins falling apart, I shall devise a way of retrieving the Halahala before the devas can.”

  * * *

  Two amorous black-and-yellow butterflies chased one another in brisk courtship across Dhanavantri’s line of vision, forcing him to blink and follow their loopy, manic flight over the proliferation of hibiscus bushes in the garden. Yet, for all the distraction the colourful insects provided, the physician’s thoughts were elsewhere as he sat soaking in Kausambi’s bright, early morning sunshine and mulled over the next course of action.

  The journey from Ujjayini had taken much longer than expected, his progress plagued by incessant rain, which had caused most of the Yamuna’s tributaries to spill over and flood large tracts of the river plain. It was only two days since Prince Shashivardhan and Councilor Yashobhavi had finally welcomed the physician into Vatsa’s royal palace.

  Yet, Dhanavantri had still not broached the matter that had brought him this far. The reason for that was King Chandravardhan.

  Within an hour of his arrival, the physician was escorted to Chandravardhan’s chamber. In so many days, there had been little improvement in the king’s condition, and Dhanavantri was honest enough to admit to himself there wasn’t much he could do to remedy the situation. Still, partly out of habit, and partly to leave a favourable impression on Yashobhavi and the rest of the council, Dhanavantri concocted a salve, which he then judiciously massaged into Chandravardhan’s paralyzed limbs. When he left the king’s side that night, it was with the resolve to talk to Yashobhavi the very next morning about Shashivardhan’s succession to the throne.