“I shall have a message for the commander this afternoon,” he muttered, jaw clenched tight. “Meanwhile, get some rest – and don’t breathe a word about any of this to anyone.”
As the rider’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Ghatakarpara rubbed his chin and stared down at the floor. They had the hriiz on their foreheads. He had seen the distinctive sigil of the scorpion on a few toothless old slaves in the market... and he had heard many gruesome tales about the cruel men who wore it.
They are coming back to conquer Sindhuvarta.
The king needed to be told about this immediately.
The prince took three big strides and threw open the door to the gallery. But at that precise moment, the roll of drums and the shrill call of trumpets from the palace grounds echoed in his ears, heralding the start of the rajasuya yajna.
Ghatakarpara cursed. He would now have to wait till the yajna was over to share the ominous news with the king and the rest of the council.
Council
W
ith every passing moment, the sulk on Ghatakarpara’s face grew longer, as he slouched against a marbled parapet and stared into the brooding green waters of the lake lapping against the palace walls. He was at the bottom of a wide landscaped terrace abutting the banquet hall, a canopy of blazing red gulmohars sheltering him from the bright afternoon sun. Behind him, a little to the left, an elaborate fountain of cavorting water sprites and mermaids made a loud splash, muting the chorus of revelry coming from the banquet hall and drowning out the hum that issued from the direction of the palace grounds, where the feast for the subjects of Avanti was underway.
“What are you doing here all by yourself?”
The young prince started at the sound of the voice, even though it had a soft, soothing cadence that served up the image of rich, golden honey. He turned to see a tall, sensuous woman, half-hidden by the fronds of an exotic shrub, looking at him from the top of the winding pathway that led down to the fountain.
“Is everything all right?” the woman asked, a shadow of concern falling across her face.
Ghatakarpara nodded, his breath catching in his throat, rendering him incapable of speech. Kshapanaka invariably had that effect on him. In fact, he was certain she had that effect on most men.
The prince watched with adoring eyes as Kshapanaka stepped past the shrub and descended a low flight of steps to join him. In her mid-twenties, Kshapanaka was tall and graceful, yet she possessed an athletic build that spoke of formal military training. Her eyes were large and languid in her dusky, chiselled face, but the prince could see an impetuous spark dancing in their depths. Her hair hung around her shoulders in alluring curls, highlighting the arch of her slender neck.
“So, what’s the matter?” Kshapanaka leaned on the parapet and studied Ghatakarpara’s face earnestly, before transferring her gaze to the far shores of the lake. “I can see something’s troubling you.”
“No, not really,” the prince shook his head, subconsciously marveling at the woman’s perceptiveness.
“Then why are you here when everyone else is inside?” Kshapanaka inclined her head toward the banquet hall.
“Oh, that. I was just getting bored.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else?”
There was something about the way Kshapanaka looked at Ghatakarpara as she posed the question that breached the boy’s defenses.
“Well... I mean all of them are so stuffy and full of themselves, bragging about the battles they’ve fought or how cleverly they rule their kingdoms,” the words came out in a rush as the resistance melted away and the prince bared his heart to the beautiful woman standing by his side. “Just because someone has fought a few battles doesn’t mean those who haven’t are fools and shouldn’t be taken seriously.”
Kshapanaka looked at Ghatakarpara in silence for a moment. “And who isn’t taking you seriously?”
“Uncle Vararuchi,” the prince muttered in a voice pebbled with resentment.
“What makes you think he doesn’t take you seriously?” Kshapanaka arched her eyebrows.
“I needed to tell the king something, but when I approached him, uncle Vararuchi stopped me. He said the king was busy attending to the guests and that I was not to disturb him. I told uncle Vararuchi that it was important, but he just shooed me away.” After a moment’s pause, the prince shook his head vehemently. “Everyone around treats me as if I’m still a kid.”
“That’s because you behave like one.”
Aghast, Ghatakarpara turned sharply toward Kshapanaka. He had confided in her expecting her to be supportive, but instead, she had stung him with that remark. He opened his mouth in protest, but changed his mind and turned away, seeking refuge in injured silence.
“Only a kid would think of bothering the king on a day when he’s playing host to so many kings of Sindhuvarta,” Kshapanaka said matter-of-factly.
“I had... I have some very important news for the king,” Ghatakarpara spoke hotly. “Very, very important news...”
“Did you tell Vararuchi what this news was?”
“No,” the prince mumbled.
“Maybe you should have, and then allowed him to decide if it was something worth troubling the king with. But no, you wanted to impress the king by delivering the big news to him yourself.” Shaking her head, Kshapanaka pushed herself off the parapet and turned to depart. “Craving attention is a childish instinct, and not a sign of maturity.”
Watching Kshapanaka leave his side, a sudden sense of shame and loss overcame the prince, and his face crumbled. Swallowing hard, he addressed her entreatingly, urgently. “Don’t you want to know the news that I am in possession of?”
The woman broke her stride, turned, and considered Ghatakarpara evenly. “It’s for you to decide whom you want to share it with.”
“A rider came to me this morning from the garrison of Udaypuri.” The prince took a couple of steps toward Kshapanaka. “The garrison commander has sent a report of one of our border outposts being attacked by a band of Hunas.”
Kshapanaka stood rooted to the spot, staring hard at Ghatakarpara with narrowed eyes.
“It seems all the Frontier Guards at the outpost were killed, but a captain was allowed to go...”
Kshapanaka raised a hand to stop the prince, and then beckoned him quickly. “We mustn’t lose any time in delivering this news to Vararuchi or the raj-guru. Come...”
***
Acharya Vetala Bhatta and Kshapanaka huddled in a remote corner of the terrace, listening intently to Ghatakarpara’s account without interruption. When the prince had finished, the royal advisor, before speaking, once again cast his eyes around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard.
“This rider who brought the news... where is he?”
“I’ve asked him to wait to hear from me... and speak nothing of this to anyone,” answered Ghatakarpara.
“Yes, we might need him to take a message back to Udaypuri,” the Acharya nodded. “But first, we must consult with the king.”
“How do we do that now?” asked Kshapanaka, glancing toward the banquet hall, which was echoing with talk and laughter.
“Not now. We can’t,” the raj-guru frowned. “It’ll have to be later tonight – or maybe tomorrow. Until then we keep this to ourselves, though I will share this with Vararuchi. There’s no point in...”
Before Vetala Bhatta could complete articulating his thoughts, he was interrupted by a loud voice that came from the direction of the banquet hall.
“Acharya, my friend... how are you!”
Startled, the raj-guru turned around to see who had hailed him. He was relieved to find two elderly men, well out of earshot, walking toward them, smiling broadly.
“Come, King Chandravardhan, King Harihara... come, come,” the Acharya’s face lit up with familiarity and he took a few steps toward the approaching men; however, he looked briefly back at Kshapanaka and Ghatakarpara once. “Remember, not a mention of anything to anyone,” he warned und
er his breath.
Kshapanaka and Ghatakarpara watched respectfully as the raj-guru exchanged greetings with Harihara and Chandravardhan. A bulky man of medium height, decidedly much the worse for wear, Chandravardhan had a flabby, mustachioed face that had the flush of a habitual drinker. There was also evidence of this in the pronounced slur in his speech, yet his voice was strong and authoritative, a vestige of the power he had commanded in his distant youth.
“What are you people conspiring about here?” he demanded of the Acharya in jest.
“Mundane matters of the palace, your honor,” the raj- guru smiled amiably.
“Bah, today you must let all that be and celebrate.” Chandravardhan drank deeply from the huge goblet of soma that he held in his right hand. “Today you must celebrate my friend and brother Vikramaditya!”
“Assuredly,” the Acharya humored Chandravardhan as he escorted the two guests into the shade. “I’m sure you have met Kshapanaka and the king’s nephew, Ghatakarpara.”
At the sight of Kshapanaka, Chandravardhan stopped and placed a hand over his heart theatrically. “Oh, if this isn’t our answer to the heavenly apsaras! Had I been but twenty years younger, I would be on my knees right now, begging for your hand in marriage.”
The king of Vatsa threw his head back and laughed uproariously to blunt his slight indiscretion, and the others joined him in good humor. Sobering down, Chandravardhan next turned his attention to Ghatakarpara and nodded with satisfaction.
“It’s nice to see my young nephew growing into a strong man,” he said, grabbing the prince by the shoulder and feeling the hardness of his muscles. “Train well under the Acharya,” he added, pointing to the raj-guru. “If you master half of what he teaches you, I promise no man will best you in battle.”
“I will, sir,” the prince said respectfully.
Harihara, who had been smiling benignly all this while, turned to Kshapanaka. “How is the firstborn Princess of the Nishada? Is she... better now?”
For a matter of a second, an unsettling silence fell over the group. Vetala Bhatta coughed softly into his hand as he gave Kshapanaka a quick, sidelong glance. Ghatakarpara folded his hands and studied the floor, while Chandravardhan sought refuge in the goblet of wine. Kshapanaka, however, only smiled politely before replying.
“I’m afraid the kingdom of Nishada exists only in memory, your honor,” she said cryptically. “We are now the daughters of Avanti.” After the slightest of pauses, she added, “No, my sister isn’t any better, but neither has her condition worsened.”
The king of Heheya nodded abashedly, his eyes betraying that he knew he had broached a sensitive topic. Luckily, the situation was rescued by the appearance of a minor palace official.
“Raj-guru, the samrat wishes all of you to join him inside the council chamber to discuss a matter of utmost urgency,” the minion bowed low and withdrew respectfully.
As the Acharya exchanged mystified glances with Kshapanaka and Ghatakarpara, Harihara looked around in surprise. “What does Vikramaditya want with us now?” He appeared relieved that something had come up to break the awkwardness of the moment.
“I’m not sure, your honor,” Vetala Bhatta shrugged.
“There’s only one way of finding out,” snorted Chandravardhan, leading the way back inside.
***
The council chamber was large and lofty, ventilated by a long row of windows that ran along one side of the room, overlooking the lake. A northerly breeze ruffled the gossamer curtains on the windows, but failed to stir the brocade tapestries hung on the inside walls, framing battle weapons and other heirlooms of the Aditya dynasty.
The chamber was dominated by an enormous bronze council table, its surface emblazoned with the heraldic sun-crest of Avanti. Crafted in gold and inlaid with coral and lapis lazuli, the crest represented a complex, eight-pointed solar motif that spanned the breadth of the broad table, around which were arranged a number of high chairs. Some two dozen of these were presently occupied, with Samrat Vikramaditya seated at the head of the table.
The chamber was dominated by an enormous bronze council table, its surface emblazoned with the heraldic sun-crest of Avanti. Crafted in gold and inlaid with coral and lapis lazuli, the crest represented a complex, eight-pointed solar motif that spanned the breadth of the broad table, around which were arranged a number of high chairs. Some two dozen of these were presently occupied, with Samrat Vikramaditya seated at the head of the table.
The king looked around at the assembly, taking in the air of mystery that hung over the table as he ascertained that everyone who mattered was in the room.
“I know this is most unexpected, and I hate to tear you away from the lovely banquet spread downstairs,” he spoke at last in measured tones, taking care to engage each and every pair of eyes that regarded him with curiosity. “But a matter of some concern has come up, and considering we are all here under one roof, I think it is best we discuss it forthwith. It’s something that the good king of Matsya has brought to my notice...”
Vikramaditya paused and gestured to the man seated to his immediate right. “Would you be so kind as to share what you’ve told me with everyone, King Baanahasta?”
Baanahasta bowed and stood up. He was lean and tall, with a dark angular face that was covered with a sharp, pointed beard, which he was prone to stroke during conversation.
“Pardon me for breaking up the celebrations, for what I’m about to say might amount to nothing,” he said, clearing his throat. “But the samrat believes there might be something in it.”
“You have our full attention,” Chandravardhan spoke with the clear intention of cutting to the chase, even though his words didn’t seem to imply this.
“Yes,” said Baanahasta. “The point is that we have been receiving some disturbing reports in Matsya. I admit the reports aren’t official; they come from opium farmers living in the hills, from goatherds... even mountain bandits captured by my soldiers. But there’s a pattern in what they say.”
He paused and drew a deep breath. “They all claim to have seen Saka horsemen roaming the hills that border my kingdom.”
Baanahasta’s words were greeted with a shocked silence that seemed to last forever. It was finally broken by a short, stocky man with a thick salt-and-pepper beard. This was Bhoomipala, the king of Kosala.
“Have your border patrols reported any of these sightings?” Bhoomipala asked in his high, nasal voice.
“I’m afraid not,” Baanahasta coughed apologetically. “Like I said, these reports aren’t official. It appears the Saka horsemen aren’t present in large numbers. That’s probably why my patrols haven’t seen them.”
“Since when have the Saka horsemen been observed in your territory, your honor?” the Acharya butted in, fixing a piercing gaze on Matsya’s ruler.
“The reports started coming in about two weeks ago. So the sightings could have happened... who knows... a month ago, maybe more,” Baanahasta shrugged.
“Do we know if the horsemen have ever attacked or even threatened any of your subjects?” It was Vikramaditya’s turn to put a question.
“Some reports say they ransacked a farm or two, but it appears to have been solely for the purpose of obtaining food,” replied Baanahasta. “Provisions and livestock were stolen, but no one was threatened or came to any bodily harm.”
“Then perhaps they’re there only to reconnoitre the locality,” Chandravardhan grunted. “Or they could be a small group that has broken away from the larger Saka tribe... Outcasts, if you know what I mean. Now they don’t know where to go, so they’ve been reduced to scavenging the hills... It’s possible.”
The council chamber acquired a meditative quality as everyone tried to grapple with the import of the revelation. It was cut short, however, when a husky voice drawled insolently from lower down the table.
“Is the samrat of Sindhuvarta going to take the reports of Matsya’s lowly shepherds, farmers and brigands seriously?”
All heads
turned to survey the man who had just spoken. In his early thirties, he was tall and broad-shouldered, his handsome face wearing a stylish beard and moustache that fenced his thin lips, which had a perpetual smirk at one corner. He had light green eyes, which were regarding Vikramaditya with poorly concealed arrogance.
The samrat stared levelly back at the man, taking his time to reply. When he did, his voice was firm. “Yes. Because dismissing such reports, however unreliable they may seem, would be immensely stupid. We all know that the Hunas and Sakas are cunning and fearsome adversaries, and we can’t have them gaining a foothold in Sindhuvarta again.”
Shrugging his shoulders, the other man lolled back in his chair and looked lazily up at the ceiling. “I think we’re all making too much of this.”
“You may be right, Shoorasena,” Vikramaditya’s tone had undergone a subtle change as he met the challenge to his authority head-on. “But Sindhuvarta has suffered far too much under the occupation of the Hunas and Sakas. It took great sacrifices from all our kingdoms to rid our lands of the invaders. Your own father...”
The samrat paused to point to the frail, white-haired man sitting beside Shoorasena, his shoulders stooped with age. “...the respected King Siddhasena, lost two of his brothers in battle. King Bhoomipala lost a son, Vararuchi and I lost our father... We’ve all lost a lot to win that war. By taking this lightly, we will be insulting the memory of the martyrs who fought for Sindhuvarta. That is not acceptable to me.”
Shoorasena looked at Vikramaditya for a moment, then glanced quickly around the table, assessing the mood. On receiving hard, disapproving glares from virtually everyone, he dropped his eyes, nodded and retreated into a surly silence.
Vetala Bhatta took the opportunity to rise from his seat. “There is another good reason to believe that the reports in Matsya are correct,” his tone was grave. “A piece of news came in from our garrison at Udaypuri just this morning. I intended giving it to the samrat later in the evening, but now I might as well share it with everyone here.”
The Guardians of the Halahala Page 5
