“Come,” said Shoorasena, offering his father a hand.
Once the king had gained his feet, Shoorasena took a firm grip of the old man’s hand. Putting his other arm protectively around his father’s shoulders, the prince began leading the way down the path, with the guard following them at a respectful distance.
Having walked some distance, Shoorasena looked down at the stooping figure by his side. “Father, I hear that last night you signed an order to dispatch three thousand Magadhan soldiers and three thousand of our archers to Matsya. Is that true?”
Siddhasena sighed inwardly. The question hadn’t come as a surprise to him; he had foreseen its inevitability the instant he had issued the command to send the reinforcements to Matsya. But the speed with which the news had travelled to his son’s ears was astonishing.
“Yes,” he replied at last.
“Why?” the prince asked urgently, keeping his voice down. “We had discussed the matter, and I thought we had decided not to send any troops from Magadha.”
“No son, you’ve got it wrong,” Siddhasena corrected. “The fact is that we had only discussed the matter – we had not made any decision on whether to send our troops or not.
” Shoorasena didn’t respond immediately, but the old king could sense his son’s jaw go rigid in anger.
“So now you’ve decided to issue the order without taking anyone in the royal council into confidence,” the prince muttered.
The king knew exactly what his son meant by ‘anyone in the royal council’. For Shoorasena, the only person who mattered in the royal council was himself.
“As king of Magadha, I had to do it,” answered Siddhasena. “The Sakas are scouting Matsya and King Baanahasta is in trouble.”
“Baanahasta has enough help coming his way from the kingdoms of Vatsa and Kosala,” Shoorasena shot back.
“If the Hunas and Sakas begin attacking Sindhuvarta, no amount of help would be enough, son,” the old king shook his head. “Besides, King Baanahasta has been an old ally, and Magadha cannot desert him in the time of need.”
Shoorasena maintained a frosty silence as he helped his father up a path that gave onto a wide terrace at the northern extremity of the palace garden.
“And most importantly, I have given Samrat Vikramaditya my word that we would send troops to defend Sindhuvarta,” the king added. “It is my duty to honor that promise.”
Walking on to the terrace, the prince guided his father to its edge, which was protected by a high stone parapet. The land fell away from the terrace, rolling down small hills to meet the plain below, where lay Girivraja, the capital of Magadha. The two men gazed down at the panoramic view of the city for a while before Shoorasena broke the silence.
“Father, your latest decision is a setback to our campaign plans against Vanga. Even before we went to Ujjayini and heard of the threat from the Hunas and Sakas, you had assured the royal council of Magadha that you would support that campaign. It seems as if that promise means nothing to you any longer.”
“I don’t understand your obsession with waging war against Vanga,” Siddhasena began shrilly, but he dropped his voice to a murmur when he felt his son’s hand tighten on his shoulder. “The republic has never meant us any harm,” the old king winced at the pressure being exerted on his feeble body.
“They are backing the Kikata rebellion, father. They need to be taught a lesson.”
“Spare me that lie, please,” Siddhasena shrugged and wriggled to ease himself out of his son’s crushing grasp. “I know there isn’t even a remote threat of an organized rebellion from the Kikatas. Yes, as among most tribes we have subjugated, a few Kikatas may bear a grudge against us. But the great majority is perfectly happy under Magadhan rule. They are also quite loyal to Magadha. Look at Sajaya...”
The king inclined his head toward the bodyguard, who now stood quietly at the far end of the terrace. “He has been with me for more than two decades. His conduct is above reproach, his loyalty to Magadha above question.”
Shoorasena again lapsed into silence, observing Girivraja down below, which was beginning to come alive with activity, its thoroughfares filling with carts and caravans making for the bazaars. Glancing up at the sky, the prince then turned to casually survey the terrace and the gardens beyond.
“As you wish, father,” he said at last with a shrug. “The sun is gaining in height as well as in heat. Let us return to the palace.”
Taking his hand, the prince began escorting Siddhasena toward a broad flight of stairs that led down from the terrace to the lower levels of the palace.
“When do the troops depart for Matsya?” Shoorasena asked as they reached the top of the high stairway.
“By nightfall,” the king replied as he gripped the prince’s hand and began a stiff, labored descent. “These steps are too steep. We should have taken the other route back.”
“This one gets to the palace quicker,” Shoorasena said blandly.
Siddhasena had negotiated the top five steps when the prince suddenly wrenched his hand free from the old man’s grasp. As the king looked up at his son in surprise, Shoorasena gave him a violent shove.
The king rocked and swayed, his hands flailing as he fought to retrieve his balance. Then, just when it looked as if Siddhasena had regained control, Shoorasena pushed him again, this time with even greater force.
Siddhasena stared at his son in wide-eyed horror as the realization finally sank in, and he opened his mouth as if meaning to say something. But the words died somewhere in the king’s old, sad heart, and all that emerged from his throat was a grieving, gasping moan – a last wail of defeat at having failed as a father.
Slowly, after teetering on the steps for what seemed like an eternity, Siddhasena toppled over and rolled down the stairs, his frail body flopping and bouncing, bones snapping and cracking each time his body made an impact on the stone steps. Reaching the bottom of the stairway, the old king’s body came to a halt in a jumble of misshapen limbs, the scrawny neck twisted at an unnatural angle, blood pooling quickly under the head.
Shoorasena heard a rush of footsteps from behind. Turning around, he saw the bodyguard Sajaya appear at the top of the stairs. Swallowing nervously, the prince pointed to the body lying far below them.
“Father...” he said, his voice shaking with emotion. “He slipped and fell.”
Too shocked for words, the unsuspecting guard gaped at the king’s crumpled body. Then, moving as if he was in a trance, he descended the steps to stand beside Shoorasena. “The good king is no more,” the guard’s lips moved in a whisper.
The sight of his dead master was so riveting that the guard failed to observe the prince draw a heavy sword from his scabbard. It was only moments before Shoorasena stabbed him in the abdomen that Sajaya realized he was being attacked – but it was too late for him to defend himself. As he clutched his stomach and doubled over, he stared up at Shoorasena in surprise.
“Why... my lord,” he mumbled, his voice slurring, incoherent with pain.
In response, Shoorasena yanked the sword out of Sajaya’s stomach, tearing more flesh and tissue in the process. The guard screamed in agony as blood began oozing freely from between his fingers. He took a step back and tried to straighten, and immediately Shoorasena swung the sword.
The murderous blade arced through the air before slicing through Sajaya’s neck, severing his head. The guard’s body collapsed on the stairs in a heavy sprawl, but his head rolled all the way down till it came to rest by Siddhasena’s feet, the unseeing eyes looking up at the dead king in bewilderment.
Sajaya’s scream had drawn attention, and within moments, guards and palace hands came rushing to the stairs. Those at the bottom flocked to the body of Siddhasena and the guard’s head, while those who came from the direction of the garden formed a semicircle at the top of the stairs. A deathly hush fell over everyone as they stared from the dead king to Sajaya’s headless body to Shoorasena standing on the steps, holding the bloodied sword
.
“The Kikata bodyguard pushed my father down the stairs,” the prince thundered, pointing to Sajaya’s body. “I saw him do it and I killed him.”
As a horrified murmur rose from all around the stairway, Shoorasena raised his sword heavenward. “The Kikatas have taken the kind and beloved king of Magadha from us,” he screamed vengefully. “I swear I will make them and their allies pay with blood.”
In a matter of seconds, a chant arose from the assembled guards and palace hands, a chant filled with rage and sorrow, growing rapidly in size and volume.
“Death to the Kikatas,” they roared in a rising frenzy of bloodlust. “Death to Vanga.”
***
The rain was coming down in sheets, pounding the earth as if venting an old pent-up rage. Yet Shanku pressed through the downpour, her horse’s hooves squelching in the soggy mud as the beast struggled to keep a solid footing. The heavy droplets stung her repeatedly in the face, blinding her; still, the girl persevered, bending low over the neck of her mount and drawing the hood of her cloak over her head for meager protection.
Her grandmother had spoken, and from what she had heard, Shanku knew she had to convey the tidings to her king without delay.
The girl did not slow her pace even after entering Ujjayini, and the subjects of Avanti watched in wonder as the horse thundered through the drenched streets toward the palace, splashing through puddles and kicking up dirt in its wake. On reaching the palace, the horse charged across the palace causeway at full gallop, forcing the palace guards to draw the gates shut in alarm.
“It’s me,” Shanku said tersely as she reined in her horse and threw off her hood for identification. “Let me pass.”
In a matter of a few minutes, she found herself in the council chamber, where Vikramaditya, Vararuchi, Vetala Bhatta and Dhanavantri were pouring over tax records. Shanku stood inside the door, diffident and unsure whether to intrude upon the councilors as they debated levying additional taxes to raise funds for the royal treasury.
“If we are looking at a long and protracted war against the Hunas and Sakas, we have no choice but to raise taxes,” Vararuchi was saying. “Or we have to abolish some subsidies.”
“Doing away with subsidies means the poor and less privileged will have to bear the brunt,” the samrat shook his head in disagreement. “Better raise taxes from the rich, if we have to.”
“We should definitely increase duties on iron, bronze and lumber,” the Acharya pointed out. “If nothing else, that would result in a drop in demand, so our armories won’t end up facing a shortage.”
As the others nodded in agreement, Dhanavantri piped in. “We can also start raising the rates of fines and penalties. We did that during the last war. Someone is always breaking the law somewhere...”
The four men were so immersed in discussion that they wouldn’t have noticed Shanku standing in the shadows, had it not been for a sudden fit of sneezing that overcame her.
“Child, what are you doing there?” the Acharya looked at her in surprise. “Why didn’t you come inside?”
As Shanku approached the council table, the men saw that she was dripping wet.
“What happened to you?” the king inquired as he straightened.
“I was caught in the rain, samrat,” Shanku replied.
“I can see that, but what were you doing outside in this weather?”
“I had gone to visit the Mother Oracle, samrat. She has some news for you.”
“That’s fine, but why didn’t you go and dry yourself before coming here?” Vetala Bhatta spoke kindly. “You’re completely soaked and you might catch a chill.”
“I thought it was important to deliver the news first, raj-guru.”
Vikramaditya inclined his head in acceptance “What does the Mother Oracle say?” he asked.
“She says that the birds speak of a great wall of dust rising far away in the west.”
“A wall of dust...” Vararuchi looked from his brother to the Acharya. “The Mother Oracle must mean the dust that rises from the desert floor as a huge army rides eastward.”
As all five councilors exchanged ominous glances, Vikram-aditya nodded to Shanku. “We owe your grandmother a debt of gratitude. Thank you.”
The king was about to turn his attention back to the tax logs when the girl spoke again. “There is one more thing, samrat. The Mother Oracle spoke of a more immediate danger to Avanti.”
“What’s that?” All four heads turned sharply her way.
“She has warned of a sightless evil that is heading northward to bring terror upon Ujjayini.”
As the men looked at one another in alarm, Dhanavantri spoke. “Northward from where?”
“The Mother Oracle didn’t say,” Shanku replied. “She only revealed that she read the signs in the rain clouds coming from the south.”
“Did she tell you anything else about this... sightless evil?” asked Vikramaditya.
Seeing that she had the full attention of all four men, Shanku nodded. “She said that the sightless evil has been unleashed to recover something – something that was gifted to the king by an ancient god.”
***
It was the most miserable day in the life of the miserable young soldier standing guard on the northern bank of the Payoshni. That, at least, was the soldier’s own opinion, as he sheltered under the large banyan tree and cursed.
He cursed the rain hammering down from the gray sky overhead. He cursed the damp cold seeping into his stiff joints. He cursed the marauding mosquitoes hovering above his head and humming in his ears and ravaging his exposed arms, ankles, neck and face. And he cursed his decision to enlist with the army of Heheya.
But of all the things that the soldier cursed that morning, the one he cursed most was the ill-fated day he was ordered to report to the garrison of Payoshni for duty.
Slapping his right cheek in a vain attempt to kill a mosquito, the soldier peered southward through the curtain of rain. Not far ahead flowed the Payoshni, a lethargic swamp of a river, its surface green with water plants and slime – slime so thick that the heavy raindrops bounced off it, instead of penetrating it.
And across the broad river, on the other side of Heheya’s border, arose a thick, dark wall of trees, stretching away to the south, all the way to the horizon and beyond.
Dandaka, the Forest of the Exiles.
A limitless expanse of dense, steaming jungle, Dandaka was the most inhospitable region in all of Sindhuvarta, home to the most ferocious of wild beasts, the vilest of pestilence. and the lost race of danavas, demonic forest spirits who, it was believed, ruled the jungle from the fabled fortress town of Janasthana.
Dandaka was also a penitentiary for the lowest scum of human society.
For it was to this forest that the kingdoms of Sindhuvarta invariably banished their worst criminal offenders – traitors, murders, rapists and pedophiles. Because it was said that while it was possible for convicts to cheat death at the gallows, there was no escaping the horrors of Dandaka. Or the forest of no return, as some called it.
In reality, this was an exaggeration. The past had seen two instances of exiled criminals fleeing Dandaka – by banding together in groups to increase their chances of getting out alive – and trying to sneak back into civilization. Some of these fugitives had been apprehended and sent back, while others had been killed for putting up resistance. Yet, the rumor ran that a small handful had successfully eluded capture and resettled across Sindhuvarta.
It was to prevent such escapes from becoming routine that the garrison of Payoshni was established at the head of the Payoshni Pass – the only point along the river’s cliff-bound northern bank that offered a passage between the kingdom of Heheya and the Dandaka Forest. This had earned the garrison the nickname Gateway Garrison; though given the nature of the southbound traffic it encountered, it was also commonly referred to as the Arse of Sindhuvarta.
The soldier keeping watch under the banyan tree couldn’t agree more with that descrip
tion of the place. Swatting a fat mosquito that had alighted on the tender spot under his elbow, he cursed again and surveyed his surroundings.
Before him stretched the marshy riverbank, on which was drawn up an old boat that was used to ferry the exiles across the river. To his right and left, the land rose sharply to form the vertiginous, sheer-faced cliffs that ran along the northern bank for miles and miles – a formidable wall capable of deterring the stoutest of outcasts looking for a way out of Dandaka. Behind him was the narrow defile of the Payoshni Pass, a natural bottleneck.
On the other side of the pass the soldier could discern the buildings of the godforsaken garrison, hidden amid a forest which had once been a part of the Dandaka, ages before the Payoshni had carved the terrain, setting it free. It now extended north a couple of miles before yielding to the flat, arable lands of Heheya.
The guard returned his gaze to the river, lazily wondering when his replacement would arrive to relieve him. The thought of returning to the relative warmth and dryness of the garrison distracted the soldier to the extent that he missed observing the figures creeping along the edge of the forest, on the other side of the Payoshni. It was by sheer luck that at the last moment a movement caught his eye, as the last of the figures slipped into the river.
Suddenly on alert, the soldier watched the gray-green waters carefully.
While it was too far to be certain – and the rain was intense enough to impair visibility – he thought he saw what looked like a row of heads bobbing in the water amid the hyacinths. Knowing that the Payoshni was infested with crocodiles, he was on the verge of dismissing the whole thing when he noticed the line begin moving toward the northern bank.
A moment later, as the rain unexpectedly let up, he saw the unmistakable movement of arms splashing in the water, as the figures began swimming.
Slipping out from under the tree, the soldier ran headlong toward the garrison. A few soldiers were standing guard outside the buildings, and as soon as he was within calling distance, the soldier began hollering to get their attention.
The Guardians of the Halahala Page 12
