“What did the message say?” prodded Dhanavantri.
“The clouds spoke of three things. One was an account of a young man being beaten unconscious by a stream outside a city.”
“Which city?” Kshapanaka interjected.
“The clouds didn’t say,” the oracle shrugged. “The second thing they spoke of was a young man being carried over the mountains, towards the Great Desert. The man was dead or unconscious.”
“Or drugged,” said Vikramaditya, a little too hastily.
The oracle inclined her head at the possibility, but she didn’t speak.
“And the third thing?” asked Amara Simha.
The oracle looked at him before turning her head to look at each councilor, turn by turn. “The third thing they spoke about was the golden sun that accompanied the man who was being carried over the mountains.”
“Who was carrying this man?” asked Kshapanaka with a puzzled shake of her head.
“Again, the clouds didn’t say.” The Mother Oracle suddenly looked tired and irritable. “I can’t ask questions. I only overhear and read sense in what the signs are saying.”
“And for that, we are eternally grateful to you, mother,” said the samrat, mollifying her. “But…” he turned to Kshapanaka, and then to the other councilors, “who is carrying this man is not the point. That we can infer. The question is who is this man. I say it is Ghatakarpara.”
“Really?” asked Amara Simha, combing his beard with his fingers thoughtfully.
“Yes, and so does Shanku,” said Vikramaditya, pointing to the girl who sat, as usual, quietly to one side. “She brought what the Mother Oracle told her to my notice.”
“I went to see whether the oracle needed anything, and she told me what she had read in the clouds,” Shanku explained. “I couldn’t think of it being anyone other than the prince.”
“What makes you so sure?” Varahamihira leaned across to peer at the girl.
“It is logical,” she replied. “A man is beaten unconscious outside a city. The city could be Udaypuri, though it need not be. Then, a man is carried over the mountains towards the Great Desert, and he is dead or unconscious. If he’s dead, there’s no reason why he’s being carried into the Great Desert. So, it’s likely that he’s unconscious. One man beaten unconscious, another unconscious man being carried — they’re probably the same person. Now, the man being carried over the mountains is accompanied by a golden sun. That doesn’t make sense, unless the clouds meant the councilor’s golden sun-crest medallion. So, the man has to be Ghatakarpara.”
“And he’s being taken into the Great Desert, into Huna- Saka territory,” Amara Simha smacked a meaty fist into his palm in a spurt of rage. “He’s been kidnapped.”
The word cracked and echoed like a whip, its ominous import swelling and filling the room, accentuating the hushed silence that inevitably followed.
“That is why I called you back.” Vikramaditya’s expression was solemn, his eyes fevered and volatile. “We have to formulate a new plan of action.”
“The Hunas kidnapped him from Udaypuri?” Dhanavantri looked shocked and disbelieving. “They were so deep inside Sindhuvarta?”
“They had local help,” said the samrat, his voice full of suppressed rage. “Someone provided the Hunas information on Ghatakarpara — his presence in Udaypuri, his movements, his whereabouts. They couldn’t have figured it all out by themselves. They couldn’t have taken him without local assistance. There are traitors in our midst along the frontier.”
“Possibly the same people who were responsible for the death of the Huna scout at the Sristhali command centre,” Amara Simha remarked.
“Possibly, but this time, they have dared to touch someone from the palace, a member of my own council, my own dear nephew.” The words came out in a low, vengeful snarl. “In crossing my path, they have sealed their fates. I will make them rue the day they decided to trade their loyalty using Ghatakarpara as their currency.”
“We will, Vikrama, but we must first figure out a way of freeing Ghatakarpara,” Varahamihira gently but firmly brought the conversation back on course. “The Hunas will want to ransom him…”
“Ransom?” Amara Simha roared, his voice crashing against the chamber’s walls like the dashing of a mighty wave on a rocky coastline. “We will not wait for those savages to come back with a demand in exchange of Ghatakarpara’s life or his liberty. No — we will go into the Great Desert and free him. This kidnapping is an act of war. Let us give them a war they won’t forget.”
The other councilors and the samrat exchanged glances, knowing instinctively that Amara Simha’s words might well have been snatched from their own hearts and minds. This was war all over again, with one small difference. This time, Avanti would take war into the barbarians’ homeland. This time, the dust of the Marusthali would know the flavour of blood.
“In which case, who will lead…” Varahamihira had barely let the words form when Amara Simha interrupted him a second time.
“I will,” he snapped. His tone made it clear that he was past discussing and debating this. “I was heading for Udaypuri anyway. I know Atulyateja at the garrison. I also know Brihatsa, who is in charge of the command centre at Madhyamika. And during my last visit, I met Dattaka, who heads the Sristhali command centre. Between them, I will coordinate an attack on the Hunas.”
“Very well, but even though they need to be suitably prepared, I recommend we don’t update Atulyateja, Brihatsa and Dattaka on what we suspect has happened to Ghatakarpara,” Varahamihira cautioned.
“Absolutely not,” Vikramaditya shook his head with vehemence. “There is evidence of traitors on the frontier. Let us not tip them off about what we know and what we intend to do. The savages shouldn’t learn of any of our plans.”
“But Atulyateja will be expecting a reply from the palace,” said Dhanavantri. “Our not responding could raise a red flag.”
“We will send him a message, asking him to intensify the search and press in more men. We will behave as if we think Ghatakarpara can be found inside Avanti’s borders by looking harder everywhere. We will not mention Councilor Amara Simha at all,” the samrat replied.
“But we’ll tell him to stay put in Udaypuri, so he’s there when I arrive,” the brawny councilor clarified.
“In my opinion, one of us should come with you,” said Kshapanaka. Looking around the table, she took in Shanku, Dhanavantri and Varahamihira. She knew that with Vishakha in need of attention, Dhanavantri couldn’t be spared. Varahamihira on a crutch would be of little value in battle, while Shanku was needed in Ujjayini to take care of and interpret the Mother Oracle. “I will come,” she said.
“No, you should stay here,” Amara Simha said with a shake of his head. “The city will need protection when the devas or asuras come next. And don’t worry…” a wolfish smile of anticipation lit his face, “I am more than enough to give the Hunas a taste of hell.”
“Amara Simha is right,” said Vikramaditya. “Still…” the samrat turned to Amara Simha, “you must take some more seasoned and reliable warriors with you, especially as you are taking the fight into the Great Desert. I suggest you take Angamitra and a sizeable force of samsaptakas.”
“That is a good idea,” said Dhanavantri. He looked at Amara Simha. “Don’t say no. There are enough Hunas out there for everyone to share and still have some left over.”
“Where do you think they’ve taken Ghatakarpara?” Kshapanaka asked suddenly.
The rest of the councilors and the king looked at one another. In all of this, they had overlooked the fact that none of them had ever set foot in the Marusthali. The Huna stronghold was completely alien to all of them.
“Yes, unless we know where to look, you will be running around in circles with only frustration to show for your efforts,” said Varahamihira.
A glum silence engulfed the chamber. Outside, the sun was blazing down, laying the foundations for a torrid, sweaty day. Vikramaditya raised his head and l
ooked across at the oracle hopefully.
“Can you or anyone else in the Wandering Tribe help, mother?”
The Mother Oracle shook her head. “I am afraid not, king. We might be nomadic, but the desert is an accursed place. We know of the Dark River because it exists in our stories of old, but that is all. We don’t know the Great Desert; we never want to know it.”
Everyone looked disheartened, staring in front of them as the prospect of rescuing Ghatakarpara waned and vanished. Amara Simha looked the most disappointed, his face morose and angry at having been thus thwarted by ignorance. Then, all of a sudden, his eyes twinkled and he flashed a triumphant grin around.
“I’ve got it,” he exulted, clenching his fists in delight. “I know how to find the savages’ hideouts in the desert.”
“How?” asked the physician. Excitement rekindled in the room.
“The Huna scout,” said Amara Simha. “The one I brought back from Sristhali, who told us about the Huna plan to attack Dvarka.”
“The one languishing in the city garrison, of course,” Varahamihira clapped his hands. “Wonderful! The fellow obviously knows the Great Desert well. He’ll know where the oases are, where the barbarian cities and forts are located.”
“But can he be trusted not to double-cross you at the first opportunity he gets?” Kshapanaka asked.
“I suspect I’ve put enough of a scare in him, so he doesn’t entertain the idea,” Amara Simha answered with a small chuckle. “But I’ll take an interpreter along, just to make sure the fellow behaves. Now, if you will allow me, I must make all these arrangements. I wish to leave without delay.”
“Yes,” said the samrat, rising from his high chair. “I shall have Angamitra and his samsaptakas report to you.” He came around the table to stand in front of Amara Simha. The councilor reached no further than the king’s chest, but he was twice the king’s size in bulk. The two men stared gravely into one another’s eyes.
“I entrust you with a very big responsibility,” said Vikramaditya. “I may not show my affection for him, but Ghatakarpara is very dear to me. And to mother and Vararuchi… and, of course, to Pralupi. I would never be able to forgive myself should anything happen to him. Please bring him back safe — the Aditya dynasty will be in your debt.”
“I taught the little fellow how to hold a sword when he didn’t know how to tie his own dhoti, Vikrama,” the bearded councilor reached up and gripped the king’s shoulder. “I am going over the Arbuda Mountains to bring him back for myself. But thank you for believing I am capable of the job. Allow me to go, so I can repay your faith in me.”
* * *
The pungent aroma of freshly pressed mustard oil greeted Yashobhavi’s nostrils when he brushed past the curtains to Chandravardhan’s private bath chamber. The morning sun, pushing through the slats in the high windows, fell in bars on the king’s back and shoulders, which were golden yellow and slick with oil. The king sat on a low stool, his legs stretched out in front of him, naked except for a plain linen dhoti that covered him from hip to thigh. To his right and left, a pair of masseurs worked oil into his ageing joints and muscles, while a third squatted by his feet, rubbing oil along the king’s right leg. A palace vaidya hovered nearby, overseeing the ministrations with a critical eye. Chandravardhan himself looked healthy and at ease, his head lolling mildly due to massage-induced relaxation.
“A pity I couldn’t meet the king as I was away.”
Hearing Shashivardhan’s voice, Yashobhavi tensed and stopped mid-stride. He hadn’t expected the prince to be with his father this early, and from where he stood near the door, Shashivardhan was hidden from view, standing by the window that overlooked the Yamuna.
“Yes… you… were in Prayaga… I was told.” Chandravardhan still laboured a little in putting words and sentences together, a grim reminder of the paralytic stroke from which he had just recovered. “Boat ac… accident… yes.”
Undecided whether to walk into the chamber or leave, Yashobhavi stood by the doorway. The decision was made for him when one of the masseurs noticed him and murmured into the king’s ear. Chandravardhan turned a stiff neck and their eyes met, killing the possibility of his beating a quiet retreat.
“Yash… shobhavi… come,” the king motioned with his head.
The councilor bowed in greeting and stepped forward, minding his step to avoid skidding on any accidentally spilled oil. The masseurs and the physician bowed to him as Shashivardhan’s tall and willowy frame came into sight.
“Greetings, councilor,” said Shashivardhan, flicking a strand of his long brown hair back from his face.
“Greetings, my… Prince.”
Yashobhavi wondered if anyone else in the room had been alert to his hesitation. For just a fraction of a moment, he had considered addressing Shashivardhan as ‘king’ — a formal announcement to that effect was due in a couple of days anyway. Yet, he had refused to do so, taking refuge in the technicality that Shashivardhan was still only the prince of Vatsa. He wished there were a few more handy technicalities around to stop Chandravardhan from making the announcement.
“Good… you went,” said Chandravardhan. It took the councilor a moment to realize the king had resumed his conversation with Shashivardhan. “Go… to your people… when… when they are in trouble. People respect… a king who… cares. Y-you don’t rule… by occupying… throne. You rule by… occupying a place in your… your people’s hearts.”
“I will remember that, father.” Shashivardhan turned to Yashobhavi. “We were discussing King Baanahasta’s visit here when father was unwell. You must have heard that there was a rider from Matsya last night?”
The councilor nodded, his face turning grave. “I understand the situation is rather bleak at the frontier. The Saka horsemen are getting bolder and are making deeper forays into Matsya, raiding at will and harrying Sindhuvarta’s troops.”
“A Hu.. Huna… fleet in Dvarka,” Chandravardhan gasped, looking distraught. “Sakas along… M-Matsya’s border. It… it is all hap… happening again.”
“Father, it is alright.” Shashivardhan took two steps towards Chandravardhan and crouched beside him. Placing a reassuring hand on his father’s oily shoulder, he bent to look Chandravardhan in the eye. “We know what happened in Dvarka. The Huna fleet was wiped out. Led by Vararuchi, the soldiers of Sindhuvarta fought like lions.”
“But… but something came out of… the sea to help us.”
“It doesn’t matter, father. What counts is that the Hunas have been dealt a severe setback. Who knows what kind of losses they have suffered? It is going to take them time to regroup. That is good news for us.”
“That can also spell bad news.”
Father and son turned to Yashobhavi with apprehension.
“If the Hunas have been put out of action for a while, we can count on the Sakas to build pressure along the frontier,” the councilor explained. “The barbarians know they can’t afford to be seen on the back foot.”
“The councilor… is right,” Chandravardhan nodded at his son. “And… and if so m-many troops are in… Dvarka, the fro-frontier is weaker.”
“Can’t we send some more of our troops to Matsya?” Shashivardhan looked from the king to Yashobhavi.
“I don’t think we can spare more than a thousand men — archers, infantrymen and cavalry, all put together,” said the councilor. “Maybe a thousand five hundred at the most. We need soldiers in the kingdom too…should the need ever arise.”
Should the Saka hordes break through the frontier and sweep down the river plain into the heart of Sindhuvarta, is what the councilor meant.
“We can s-send troops. But what the frontier needs is lea… leaders.” Chandravardhan sighed and slouched, so that a masseur could slather more oil on his back. “In Dvarka, Vara… Vararuchi turned the… fight against the… Hu… Hunas. We need someone… like that. Someone to ins-inspire the men… and… l-lead by example.”
For a long moment, silence reigned over the bath
chamber. Shashivardhan stood up and walked to the window to stare out over the Yamuna, where trails of mist still hung over the water and clung to the reedy riverbanks. The only sounds were those of the masseurs’ hands slapping and kneading Chandravardhan’s back, and the faraway call of crows. Yashobhavi finally cleared his throat to speak, but he was beaten to it by the prince.
“Permit me to go to the frontier, father.”
All heads in the room turned to look at Shashivardhan, who stood framed in the light, a slight breeze ruffling his soft, shoulder-length hair. His bearded face was in shadow, but there was earnestness in his posture as he appealed to his father.
“I… don’t know, son.” Chandravardhan looked from the prince to Yashobhavi in confusion. The masseurs resumed their work, while the physician tried not to eavesdrop.
“Why, father? I want to go.”
The king waved his hand at the masseurs, making it plain that they were to leave. The men bowed, picked up their bowls of oil and their hand towels, and bowed again. The vaidya, taking the cue, also bowed and prepared to exit. Chandravardhan waited patiently for the room to clear before turning his full attention on Shashivardhan.
“Why… now? In som-some days… you will be n-named… king. Plans… are made.”
“All the more reason I should go, father,” the prince approached and crouched beside Chandravardhan again. “If men have to be led into battle, would they rather be led by a prince or a king? And if I am going to be named king, wouldn’t I be wasting that authority by sitting here in the palace? Shouldn’t I, instead, be putting that authority to use at the frontier, where it could help inspire the men fighting for Sindhuvarta?”
Shooting another glance at Yashobhavi, Chandravardhan gave a troubled sigh. He shook his head indecisively, casting around for an argument to counter the prince. “The frontier… is hard. You… you are not accustomed to it…”
The Vengeance of Indra Page 11
