There was a moment’s silence as the man’s words sank in.
“Did we lose any of our men in these attacks?” Baanahasta tried his best to keep the unease out of his voice.
“No, your honour. None of the towers were manned at the time of the attacks.”
“Anything else?”
“Early yesterday morning, a patrol of twenty men was ambushed a few miles west of here,” Adri spoke. “It was a small skirmish that didn’t last long.” There was an ominous pause. “We lost two men, your honour, while five more were injured.”
The king’s jaw tensed in anger. “What about the attackers? Any of them killed or captured?”
“I’m afraid not, your honour. They were archers on horses, as usual. They escaped before our soldiers could retaliate.”
“Could they have been bandits, the attackers, I mean? I’m told there are lots of bandits in these parts.”
Heads turned to consider Shashivardhan, who had spoken for the first time since entering the garrison. Baanahasta had observed the prince empty his jar of firewater in one straight gulp; he suspected the drink had loosened the young man’s tongue.
“Bandits don’t like to draw the attention of law keepers if it can be helped, your honour,” Adri replied. “Ambushing patrols and killing soldiers is a very bad way of conducting business, for it only earns the wrath of the law keepers.”
“We took a close look at the arrows that were shot at the patrol, your honour,” one of the officers added in a quiet voice. “They were definitely of Saka origin.”
“Oh,” the prince subsided. He picked up his empty jar, stared into it and put it back on the table. Adri immediately refilled the jar from a pitcher. Baanahasta made a mental note to tell the garrison commander to go easy with the firewater when Shashivardhan was around.
“What else do we have?” he asked.
“That is all as of now, your honour.”
The king stared down at the map, tugging his pointed beard in concentration. Watchtowers destroyed to the southwest and the north, and a patrol attacked to the west. The attacks were scattered across a wide arc, forcing the defence to spread itself thin, making the entire region porous and vulnerable.
“What I don’t get,” said Shashivardhan, his voice beginning to slur at the edges, “is the strategy of the Sakas. I mean, they are burning our watchtowers and attacking our troops, but they aren’t invading us yet. Why? Are they afraid of us?”
“Theirs is the raider’s strategy,” said Baanahasta, sighing inwardly. Here was a man who had volunteered to fight the savages without even knowing the basics of warfare. There was very little to hope for.
“What’s that?”
“When you capture territory, you have to secure it with troops. The more territory you capture, the greater the efforts you need to make to keep it, and the fewer troops you have at your disposal. Move troops, and you risk losing captured territory. So, once you capture territory, from being an attacker, you become a defender. But if your strategy is raiding, you are constantly mobile, never tied to defending a territory, always in attacker mode. You are nimble, while your rival is stodgy and can’t move easily. You are free to trouble your rival wherever it pleases you, as you don’t have the burden of committing troops to hold territory. As a raider, you can bully, harass and generally frustrate a defending force — you can drive a rival up the wall.”
“I see.” Shashivardhan nodded. Draining his jar, he leaned back. The fire and the firewater seemed to have taken effect, and he appeared to have lost interest in the discussion.
Baanahasta returned to the map with worried eyes. What he hadn’t told Shashivardhan was that by engaging in light attacks, the intruders were toying with Sindhuvarta’s troops, keeping them on tenterhooks before full-scale bloodshed exploded upon them.
“Have the watchtowers rebuilt and manned by larger units, night and day,” he said. “And increase the strength of the patrols to thirty men, with at least half a dozen cavalrymen in each.”
“I have already given orders for the watchtowers to be rebuilt, your honour, and work is underway,” the garrison commander replied. “We have also started moving troops to forward positions. But we need more men in each outpost. We are desperately falling short of soldiers.”
“Five hundred soldiers and a hundred archers have been commissioned to join your garrison. They should be here in a couple of days.”
“I fear that won’t suffice, your honour. We need at least twice that number and some cavalry support to guard these hills.”
Baanahasta heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “Matsya has a long border with four garrisons, and I have four garrison commanders asking me for two times as many soldiers as I can give them. I am trying my best with what I have, commander. I hope you will try as well.”
Adri dropped his eyes and nodded. A small snore issued from across the table where Shashivardhan was seated.
The king swivelled in his chair so he could look at Piyusha. “Thank you for coming here with the prince, captain. This land may be cold and hostile, but you have my word that the soldiers of Matsya will never be lacking in warmth and brotherhood.”
“We are proud to fight alongside your men,” the bodyguard answered.
“Fight bravely then, and fight for Sindhuvarta.” Pushing his chair back, Baanahasta rose to his feet and addressed Adri. “Once the prince is rested, I would like to ride out to the watchtowers that were attacked. Let us start with the ones to the north.”
The garrison commander bowed as Baanahasta made for the door. The king wanted to get to the frontlines, so that his army — and the units from Vatsa, Kosala and the Anartas — could see him riding across the wild hills and talking to the soldiers, instead of issuing orders from the comfort of a garrison. Word would spread, the soldiers’ morale would get a boost, and when the time came, he hoped the men would put more heart into the fight.
Emerging on to the verandah, Baanahasta raised his head and breathed in the cold, clear air as he surveyed the hills rolling and rising westward to meet the Arbuda Mountains. Gazing west, he thought of the report he had received just as he was leaving Viratapuri — a disturbing piece of news about Kalidasa having fallen out with Vikramaditya and having left the palace of Ujjayini. The report was sketchy, but it said something about Kalidasa being of Huna origin and of him heading west to the frontier. Baanahasta had made no mention of this to Shashivardhan — he didn’t want to burden the prince’s mind any further — but now that he was alone, he couldn’t help worrying about the impact of that report.
If Kalidasa was indeed a Huna, and if he did cross over to the side of the savages, the fate of the coming war was already sealed in favour of the savages, he thought glumly. So, who was he kidding by riding around the hills and boosting his troops’ morale? And why was he allowing an alcoholic prince to pretend he was being useful with the sword?
Baanahasta realized that with every passing day, he was less and less confident about defending his kingdom and Sindhuvarta.
* * *
“Tchk, tchk.”
The driver of the foremost bullock cart flicked the reins impatiently, and the beasts responded by throwing their weight against the yoke so that the cart, nearly buried under a mountain of household goods, juddered and groaned. The huge wooden wheels moved almost imperceptibly at first, then slowly gained momentum, and the whole teetering structure took to the road. Four more carts, all similarly laden with an assortment of belongings, followed the first, forming a trundling caravan of tired creaks and squeaks. The families that were moving out came last, their shoulders stooped as if everyone was bearing a burden of memories, and everyone invariably stopped once to cast forlorn glances at what they were letting go of.
Observing this sorry march of people and bullock carts from a nearby embankment, Vikramaditya sighed unhappily. He sat astride his horse, flanked by Kshapanaka to his left and a senior captain of the City Watch to his right. “Have your men faced any resistance from
the people, any unwillingness to cooperate?” he asked the captain.
“It depends, your honour,” the captain shrugged his lean shoulders. “In some places, it has been without incident — we tell them the orders from the palace, they understand and make it easy for us. But in others, there is stubbornness, a refusal to see reason.” He pointed at the five departing carts with his chin. “Four of those households had no problem, but the old man in the fifth was impossible. He kept going on about how people had never been inconvenienced like this before, not even during the last Huna invasion. It was a struggle getting him to leave with the rest of the family.”
“Remember that no force should be used,” the king reminded. “No one likes the uncertainty of having to leave their homes behind. Let us not add to their pain.”
“The men have been made aware of your concerns, my king. They will be careful.”
“How many households have been relocated so far?” asked Kshapanaka.
“I don’t have this morning’s figures, councilor, but from yesterday afternoon to late last night, we had moved nearly twenty families.”
“Just twenty?” Kshapanaka looked a little worried. “From all over the city?”
“Not all, councilor. We started with the districts to the north and northwest. That was all we were to cover yesterday. The twenty are only from those parts.”
Kshapanaka looked relieved.
Vikramaditya squinted at the overcast sky. There was a hint of rain in the breeze. “Those who have been evacuated… do they have another place to stay? Or are they being moved to the temporary camps?”
“Most of them have somewhere to stay,” the captain replied. “Only a few are headed for the camps.”
“Who has been put in charge of the camps?” the samrat asked Kshapanaka.
“The commander of the City Watch. But I am overseeing the arrangements. I intend visiting the camps later in the afternoon and tomorrow to see that all arrangements are in place.”
“That’s good. Make sure the camps have an adequate supply of tents. No one should be without shelter, especially if it rains. Also ensure there is enough food and water.”
“I have seen to it, but I will check again.”
Vikramaditya turned to the captain. “Send an update to the palace in the evening with the number of families evacuated today.”
“Yes, your honour.”
The king and Kshapanaka nudged their horses around and descended into a quiet side street. The breeze picked up and the branches of the trees overhead swayed, sending a shower of leaves down on the samrat and Kshapanaka. As they rode on, the devastated colony of ironmongers came into view. Some restoration work had begun, but much was still the way it had been the day after Ahi’s attack.
“What is the state of our iron reserves, do you know?” Vikramaditya remarked.
“Varahamihira would have the latest figures, but I suspect it is not too good,” came the gloomy reply.
“I wonder how the Acharya has fared in Odra. By now he should have met Queen Abhirami.” The samrat paused to reach up and snap a leaf from the overhanging bough of a tamalpatra tree. As he crushed the leaf in his fingers and inhaled its aroma, he added, “I hope he has been able to convince her to trade with us.”
Kshapanaka nodded but didn’t reply. They rode on in silence, exiting the side street and turning into Ujjayini’s main north-south avenue, where the day’s bustle had begun.
“It just dawned on me that with Shanku on her way to Janasthana, we are down to four councilors,” Kshapanaka said suddenly. “From nine to four.”
Vikramaditya nodded. “It crossed my mind last night. Which is why I am hoping that the Acharya is done with his mission to Odra and is on his way back.”
“We should call Vararuchi back too.” Kshapanaka looked sideways at her king.
“We must,” the answer came after a moment’s thought. “I shall have a message sent to him as soon as we get back to the palace.”
They had barely ridden a hundred paces when a horseman of the Palace Guards came into view at the far end of the avenue. He was riding at a gallop, and seeing him charging down the street, Vikramaditya and Kshapanaka tensed, spurring their mounts forward to meet the guard midway. As they drew near one another, the samrat recognized the rider as Vismaya. When the king and the councilor were within hailing distance, Vismaya reined in his horse and dismounted.
“What is the cause for your hurry?” the king asked.
“Your honour, Councilor Dhanavantri and Councilor Varahamihira have sent me to fetch you.”
“Why?” Vikramaditya and Kshapanaka glanced at one another in alarm. Only something terribly important and sensitive would have warranted that the chief of the guards be sent.
“Your honour… they…” the Vismaya paused, as if searching for the right words.
“Go on,” Kshapanaka urged impatiently.
The chief of the guards shuffled his feet apologetically. “It…” he looked quickly around to make sure no one was within earshot, and just to be sure, he dropped his voice. “It is about Councilor Vararuchi.”
“What about him?” The samrat looked puzzled, then anxious. “Is he alright?”
“Yes, your honour. It is just that… he has. he seems to have demanded that you step down as king of Avanti.”
Vikramaditya and Kshapanaka blinked at Vismaya, too stunned to even comprehend the full import of what they had heard. They turned slowly, like puppets in the hands of the master puppeteers of Malawa and Gosringa, to look at one another with wide eyes, and then looked back at the chief of the Palace Guards, who stood before them with his head bowed.
“He demands that I step down as king of Avanti?” the words came out slowly, each one weighed down with doubt and incredulity.
“Yes, Samrat.”
* * *
Bhoomipala paced the length of the upper floor verandah, his shoulders hunched, his hands behind him, a thunderstorm brewing over his head judging by the frown on his face. His courtiers Kadru, Kirtana and Adheepa had been joined by two other palace officials, and the five men stood to one side, following the king with their eyes, their own expressions dark and troubled.
“I should never have gambled with his life. Never, never, never…” the king muttered moodily to himself through his beard. “I knew the risks involved but I took a chance, which I should never have done with Pallavan. It is all my fault,” he shook his head in despair.
“Please stop blaming yourself, your honour,” Kadru entreated. “What had to happen has happened. It is not your fault that Councilor Pallavan is dead.”
“But it is,” Bhoomipala insisted, still pacing furiously. “I gave him permission to go to Girivraja to bring the Magadhan royal council around to seeing the truth about Shoorasena. If I hadn’t let him go, he wouldn’t have been captured in the first place. And I thought up the stupid idea of substituting the musician with the prisoner — I should have known someone would see through the subterfuge and Pallavan might have to pay for it with his life.” A broken sob of frustration and guilt escaped the king’s lips. He brought his hands up to his face, staring at the open palms in misery. “Pallavan’s blood is on my hands.”
“It is not, my king.” Adheepa, the elderly general of Kosala’s army, stepped firmly into Bhoomipala’s path. “Pallavan’s blood is on Shoorasena’s hands, your honour. And Shoorasena will have to pay for it. Kosala will settle this debt at all costs. This debt will bring Shoorasena to his knees.”
The general’s words were combative, forceful and inspiring, and Bhoomipala saw his courtiers square their shoulders and thrust their chests out in implicit support. The king looked into Adheepa’s eyes and found a resolve there that he hadn’t seen in many years. He gripped the general’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, signalling his thanks.
“What do you propose, general?” the king asked.
“War.”
Bhoomipala looked at the rest of the courtiers and saw that none of them had anything else to su
ggest. He turned and walked to the verandah’s railing. Leaning against it, he considered the sweep of the Ajiravati, flowing down from the mountains to the north in a rush to get to the plains, where it then spread and lolled in the sun like a lazy, overfed crocodile. Lazy and overfed. That described Kosala well, he realized. His kingdom had been blessed with the Ajiravati, which kept the soil rich and fertile, and the grateful land had been throwing up its bounty year after year. Even during the peak of the Huna-Saka invasion, the intruders had never occupied Kosala, and the kingdom had been spared the worst of their barbarism. Cocooned by Vatsa, Matsya and Avanti to the west and Magadha in the east, Kosala had had it easy for years — but the chill of uncertainty was now blowing in the wind.
“Our best soldiers are in Matsya, defending the frontier.” Bhoomipala turned back to Adheepa. “Can we afford a war with an enemy who is many times stronger in number and capability?”
“There are times when it is important to look beyond the cost of war and assess the cost of peace — which can be even steeper than the cost of war, your honour,” the general replied. “What is the point of peace if it robs us of our dignity and self-esteem, my king? Pallavan has been killed by Shoorasena’s troops, and if we don’t hit back, what message are we sending to the people of Kosala? That the lives of Kosala’s citizens count for nothing? That anyone is free to take our lives and we won’t raise a finger in our defence? Let our willingness to fight be determined by what is right, not by whether victory is achievable.”
“I agree, your honour,” said Kirtana, stepping forward to stand by Adheepa’s side. “I have always been cautious of war, but if we don’t act against this aggression, we will come across as weak and ineffective, and we shall risk losing the trust of our people.”
Bhoomipala nodded. “I agree, not because I am worried about what the people would think but because I want Pallavan avenged as well. Fight we must, and fight we will.” He paused and scratched his beard in thought. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that Magadha is a superior fighting force. What can we do to even the odds a little; from whom can we seek assistance?”
The Vengeance of Indra Page 32
