Quickly and without preamble, the raj-guru told the gathering about the Huna attack on the Frontier Guard outpost. As he spoke, the sense of disquiet heightened in the room, and worried looks crisscrossed in every direction.
“It’s plain that the Huna-Saka Confederacy has renewed its interest in Sindhuvarta,” the Acharya concluded. “The Sakas are scouting Matsya, whereas the Hunas are eyeing Avanti’s borders.”
“This is very distressing,” said Baanahasta, rubbing his chin through his beard anxiously, suddenly awake to the prospect of a genuine threat to his kingdom.
“How many men did we lose in the attack?” Amara Simha asked, his voice bristling.
The raj-guru looked inquiringly at Ghatakarpara, who shrugged to indicate that the rider hadn’t made any mention of this.
“Those border outposts are small, so maybe a dozen men,” the Acharya hazarded a guess.
“We need to start moving troops to the border immediately,” Vikramaditya spoke decisively. “Brother Vararuchi, please ensure that ten thousand infantry units, three thousand archers and three thousand cavalrymen of the Imperial Army are dispatched by tomorrow morning, with instructions to set up camps to the north and south of Udaypuri. And notify the commander of the Royal Engineers to start reinforcing all border defenses and secure them against attack.”
“Would you want me to travel to Udaypuri as well to oversee the troop movements, samrat?”
“Someone from the palace would have to go,” Vikramaditya conceded. “Let’s consult and decide on that shortly. For now, let the troops leave immediately.”
Vararuchi acknowledged the command, and the king turned to Kalidasa, who had been standing impassively to one side all the while, his massive arms folded across his chest. “I would like you to start preparing your samsaptakas for deployment at short notice.”
“All two thousand of them are fully ready for battle, samrat,” said the big man. “They only await an order from you.”
“Good,” Vikramaditya nodded in satisfaction.
King Harihara stood up. “I shall have three thousand of Heheya’s best soldiers and a thousand horsemen at your disposal in two days, Samrat Vikramaditya,” he volunteered.
“Thank you,” the samrat bowed.
“I shall send you five thousand soldiers as well,” pledged Chandravardhan, before looking across to Baanahasta. “And to help guard Matsya’s border, you will have another five thousand of Vatsa’s best, along with my elite heavy cavalry brigade.”
A turbaned young man seated lower down the table got to his feet. Well over six feet tall, he was lean and handsome, with soulful brown eyes and a small, clipped moustache. “I speak on behalf of all the five chiefs of the Anarta Federation, samrat,” he announced. “Each of us shall send three thousand troops to be shared between Avanti and Matsya.”
“The kingdoms of Sindhuvarta are much obliged to all of you, Chief Yugandhara,” replied Vikramaditya, making it a point to acknowledge all five Anarta chieftains with a bow.
It was King Bhoomipala’s turn to rise. “I commit to send eight thousand troops and two thousand archers to Matsya,” he said. “King Baanahasta will have them under his command in a week.”
Once the king of Kosala had resumed his seat, all eyes were directed toward Siddhasena, who sat hunched in his chair, staring weakly at the table with watery eyes. When no sound came from the old king for a while, Vikramaditya addressed him gently.
“Your honor, can we expect some support from the kingdom of Magadha in the event of an attack from the Hunas and Sakas?”
Siddhasena raised his head to the samrat and opened his mouth reluctantly. But before he could frame his reply, Shoorasena interrupted his father.
“The army of Magadha is preparing for a big campaign against the republic of Vanga. We’re afraid we won’t have enough troops to spare you.”
As eyebrows rose in surprise around the table, Vikramaditya scrutinized Siddhasena closely. “But why are you going to war against Vanga, King Siddhasena? They are a peace-loving people.”
“They are challenging the sovereignty of Magadha,” Shoorasena again answered for his father. “Vanga is encouraging the sedition of the Kikata tribe from Magadha by supporting the Kikata rebels.”
Before anyone else could utter a word, Vararuchi leaned forward and addressed Shoorasena. “The samrat’s questions are directed at the king of Magadha, not you,” he said, his tone simmering with hostility. “Allow the king to answer them.”
“Our king is not answerable to others on affairs that pertain to the integrity of the state of Magadha.”
This time, the speaker was a dark man seated to Siddhasena’s left. He was in his late twenties, and had truculent, beady eyes and a thick black moustache. This was Shoorasena’s younger brother Kapila, although they bore no physical resemblance to one another.
“Enough!” Chandravardhan thundered, rising from his seat. Leaning his hands on the table, he stared at the brothers. “We are not here to listen to you boys talk. Vararuchi is right. Let your father speak for himself.”
The atmosphere in the council chamber was charged as fierce stares were exchanged, but King Siddhasena raised a placatory hand before more damage could be done.
“Calm down, please. Calm down,” he entreated in a quavering voice. “Pardon Shoorasena and Kapila, King Chandravardhan, for they are young.”
The king of Vatsa snorted in disgust, but sat down out of respect for the older king. Siddhasena meanwhile glanced at his sons flanking him.
“Let me speak,” he said, before turning to Vikramaditya. “Samrat, I request you to pardon my sons for their indiscretion as well. But they bear you no ill will. As proof of that, the kingdom of Magadha promises to allocate troops for the defense of Sindhuvarta.”
As Shoorasena and Kapila stared stonily at the table, Vikramaditya inclined his head. “We are grateful for that, good king,” he said, deciding against pressing the matter. “We would never doubt your word.” Looking up at the gathering, he added, “Well, that takes care of things for the time being. Let us return to the banquet.”
“About time,” Chandravardhan grumbled to Harihara, as everyone began filing out of the chamber. “But I dare say, the last half hour has wholly ruined my appetite,” he added without cheer.
***
Night had fallen over Ujjayini, and the palace was quiet after the day’s hustle-bustle. The royal guests had retired to their rooms after a light dinner, though no one partook in much food or conversation – the combined effect of the afternoon’s rich banquet and the sobering meeting in the council chamber.
In the eastern wing of the palace, two figures walked down a wide passageway, conversing in undertones. The taller of the two was Vikramaditya, while the other was Dhanavantri, his bloated shadow bobbing behind him in the light of the flickering lamps.
On reaching a carved wooden door at the end of the passage, the king raised his hand and knocked lightly on the wood. A moment later, a young girl opened the door, bowed reverentially, and made room for Vikramaditya to pass. Dhanavantri followed, struggling a bit to squeeze his expansive middle through the gap.
The room was a bedchamber, in the center of which stood a large, four-poster sandalwood bed. The lace curtains veiling the bed were drawn aside, and a woman lay propped up on the satin bedcovers. Two maids stood on either side of the bed wielding large fans, with which they stirred the still air over the woman’s head. An elderly matron sat by the side of the bed, and as Vikramaditya and Dhanavantri approached, she stood up and moved respectfully some distance away.
Walking up to the bed, the king looked down at the woman. She was of about thirty, her face thin and pale white. The face had once been attractive, but now it wore signs of waste, with heavy dark circles under the eyes that stared ahead blankly, showing no acknowledgment of the activity around her.
Vikramaditya sat down beside the woman, gently picked up her frail hand and stroked it lovingly, but the woman remained unresponsive in her vegetative state. Tur
ning to the matron, he asked, “Has she been fed?”
“Yes, your honor. Princess Kshapanaka personally came to feed her this evening.”
“Did she eat well?”
The matron, who was clearly a nursemaid, hesitated. “Yes... a little, your honor. She... she eats less and less...”
Dhanavantri came around to the other side of the bed. “Is she being administered her medicines as I instructed?” he asked. There was none of the usual flippant joviality in his voice.
“Without fail, sir,” replied the nurse.
The physician bent down and felt the woman’s pulse. Next he checked her pupils, before drawing back to stand patiently, while the king sat looking at the wan, expressionless face.
At last, the samrat slowly placed the woman’s hand back on her lap. He then caressed her forehead for a while, before sighing deeply and rising. He nodded to the matron who bowed in return, cast one more lingering glance at the woman on the bed, and walked out of the room.
The king and Dhanavantri retraced their steps down the passage in silence. On arriving at the end of the passage, where it forked, Vikramaditya stopped to consider his companion with sad eyes.
“Do you think her condition is worsening?” he asked.
“It’s hard to say, samrat.”
The king was quiet for a moment. “But we can be reasonably sure she isn’t ever going to get better, right?”
Dhanavantri looked away, not having the heart to answer the question.
Interpreting Dhanavantri’s silence correctly, Vikramaditya swallowed hard and stared vacantly at the opposite wall. “I wish I could reach out to her... somehow. Speak to her and tell her I love her and that I am waiting for her...” He turned to Dhanavantri once again, his eyes pleading. “She’s been like this for two years. Isn’t there some cure for this, somewhere?”
“You know that I’ve tried everything I can. Unfortunately, nothing has worked so far.”
“Yes, you’ve tried your best, I know,” the king hung his head in dejection. “If the affliction is beyond even the finest physician in Sindhuvarta, I have to accept it as my fate.”
Dhanavantri reached up and placed a comforting hand on the samrat’s shoulder. “Don’t lose hope, friend. I promise you that I shall keep trying to bring her back. Now get some rest.”
“You sleep well, too, my friend,” replied the king.
The two men parted, the royal physician taking the flight of steps down to the level below, Vikramaditya turning into the passage that led to his bedchamber.
As the sound of the men’s footsteps receded, a figure slowly detached itself from the shadow of a big pillar in the hallway downstairs. The light from a faraway lamp immediately fell on the figure, revealing a man’s dark, bearded face under a black turban.
It was the sadhu from the boat.
The sadhu paused stealthily, looking right and left to ascertain no one was around. The coast was clear, so he began mounting the stairway leading toward the king’s bedroom. As he crept his way up, he reached into the rough shawl he was wearing – and his fingers curled around the hilt of the long dagger that was carefully tucked away into the folds of his dhoti.
Dagger
T
he cloaked rider had been on the road for nearly two hours, and though the steed was a strong beast in the prime of health, it was beginning to show signs of fatigue, its mouth foaming from exertion. This wasn’t surprising, considering the rider had ridden swiftly and without stop since leaving Ujjayini’s gates, just after sundown and a little before dinner was served at the palace.
“Please talk to your grandmother and ask her to get us some news from the Great Desert,” Vikramaditya had said, speaking to the rider in the privacy of his royal chamber. “The sooner we get some information, the better we can plan our defense against the Hunas.”
The path that the rider had taken led westward from Ujjayini, and after an hour’s ride, it had petered into rocky, scrub-laden hills. The rider had pressed on until, at the end of the second hour, the horse had drawn up to the rim of a flat, open plain. Two small fires burned in the middle of the plain, their diffused glow silhouetting a few crude tents pitched on the dusty ground.
As the rider dismounted and began stroking the neck of the tired horse, the high-pitched trill of a nocturnal bird split the stillness from the right. Almost immediately, another bird answered the first one’s call from the darkness to the left. The rider paused for a moment, and then looking skyward, let out a warble that was a close imitation of the first two calls. Then, taking the horse by the bridle, the rider began walking toward the glow of the fires.
Halfway to the tents, three figures emerged from the darkness and stood in the rider’s way.
“Greetings, sister,” one of the figures spoke in a friendly voice. “What brings you in search of the Wandering Tribe at this hour?”
“I’m here to speak to the Mother Oracle.”
“Ah!” The three figures fell in step with the rider. “But how did you know where to find us?”
“You forget that I too have the blood of the nomads in me. The snowflake that melts on a mountaintop intuitively knows the way back to the distant sea.”
The rider and the three escorts reached the tents. Stepping into the ring of light cast by the fires, the rider shrugged off the cloak to reveal the face of a young girl, a little over twenty. Petite in build, she had sharp elfin features, with large black eyes that flashed in the firelight. Black hair curled profusely around her fair face, which, at the moment, was smiling impishly at the familiar faces seated around the fire.
“Shankubala, how are they treating you at the royal palace?” fussed a dark woman of around fifty, drawing the rider close to the fire and thrusting a wooden bowl of spicy broth into her hands. “Come, you must be hungry and tired. Drink that!”
“It’s been a long time since you visited us, Shanku. Look how tall your nephew has grown,” said a man, pointing to a boy of ten who smiled shyly and slipped into one of the tents.
It was a while before the niceties of familial reunion were complete and Shanku was allowed a private audience with her grandmother. Sitting opposite the old crone in a tiny tent lit by a small lamp, watching the wrinkled face and rheumy eyes, the girl wondered how to bring up the matter that had brought her to the tent. But she was spared from making the decision.
“My child, you are a pleasing sight,” the old lady cawed through her toothless mouth. “You are blessed with your mother’s beauty, but those big eyes are your father’s... curse his deceitful heart! I’ll never know what your mother fancied in him – he’s brought nothing but disgrace to the Wandering Tribe. But you’re not here to discuss the family, are you? Tell me what you want.”
Shanku spoke for a few minutes, outlining what the king of Avanti wished from her grandmother. The old woman nodded quietly as she listened, and when the girl was done, she sat back and gazed at the tent’s roof for a while.
“The winds from the west won’t blow this way for at least a week, if not more,” the hag said at last. “But let me listen to what the migratory birds have to say. They may have something that your king might find of value.”
“What about the clouds?” Shanku inquired.
“Yes, I shall try to read the clouds as well, but it depends on whether they come from the direction of the Great Desert.”
Shanku nodded. “I shall return tomorrow night, grandmother. I hope you would have learned something of use.”
“And if I have not?” the old woman eyed the younger one closely.
“Then I shall return again on the day after.”
Shanku took her leave and was about to exit the tent when her grandmother called to her.
“Do you see your father, child?”
Shanku turned around and considered her grandmother silently. “I haven’t in a long time,” she murmured at last.
“And are they kind to you at the palace of Ujjayini... even after what he did? Otherwise, you could alway
s come back to us. You’re always welcome here.”
The girl nodded again. “I know that. But no, everyone there is very kind to me... especially the king.”
“In that case, come back and sit down, child,” the hag said solemnly, patting the ground by her side. “I have had a vision that your king should know about.”
***
Vikramaditya sat at a low table made of teak and ivory, bending over a palm leaf manuscript, his back to the door of his bedchamber.
The light from two lamps placed on the table fell on the palm leaves, revealing lines of lyrical verse written in Sanskrit. The king read each line carefully, pausing now and then to smile in appreciation, or to make small annotations in the margin. The palace was still, and the only sounds were the rustling of the dry palm leaves and the occasional scratching of the king’s quill. Outside the palace, somewhere on the gulmohars overhanging the lake, a jungle nightjar chuckled intermittently.
The samrat was so completely engrossed in the manuscript that he almost failed to notice the light draught that blew across the room as the door to his chamber opened and closed silently. However, at the last moment, he observed the sudden flicker of the lamps as they caught the breeze, and his face stiffened.
Without demonstrating the slightest hint of alertness, the king placed the quill back in the inkpot and returned his gaze to the manuscript. Yet, his right hand went under the table, searching for the short sword strapped underneath, hidden from view. Listening for footfalls, he quietly pulled the sword free. Taking a deep breath, he rose in an abrupt crouch and turned around, the sword extending straight out in front of him.
Three paces from the tip of the sword stood the sadhu, the sword pointing at his chest.
“Who are you?” Vikramaditya demanded gruffly, scanning the room for signs of more intruders. Satisfied that there was none, he fixed his eyes on the sadhu. “What do you want? How did you get in here?”
“It doesn’t matter how I got in here,” the sadhu replied. “And as to who I am and what I want... it’s a long story. Can we sit down and talk?”
The Guardians of the Halahala Page 6
