‘So what do you want to do, Jayadrath? Go to war? Rebel against the Emperor? For what it’s worth, Dharma is the ruler by consensus – our consensus,’ Vasusena interjected, speaking as he often did, just to remind the others of his hard-won right to do so.
As a Suta – one who was not a true-blooded Arya as Syoddhan and Jayadrath were – Vasusena had little right to address Jayadrath by name, but for the fact that he too was a king and a proven warrior.
‘I have no problem with Dharma or his empire,’ Jayadrath replied. ‘In fact, I began by reminding you all of the hopes I had – and still have – of it. But I will not wait and watch as Govinda acts through Dharma to destabilize each of our kingdoms and have our own people rise against us. And then he will place his lackeys on the thrones in our stead. An assembly of vassal dolls, ruled by a puppet Emperor. It takes a different mind altogether to conceive of such a long-term strategy, an immaculately planned one at that, and see it through into action. Govinda Shauri must be stopped! I am of the view that we should attack Dwaraka.’
‘You think too much of him,’ Syoddhan muttered. He threw himself back in his seat and sat glaring into the distance. Disturbing thoughts flooded his mind, jostling for the attention he did not want to spare – Shisupala, his handsome face lighting up with joy, his severed head, his bloody carcass being dragged away by Govinda Shauri. Images of the helpless, spineless Dharma of their childhood and youth, and of Dharma now, proud and radiant on the imperial throne as the throngs chanted his name. Gradually, the chants that transformed into Asvattama’s old warning against vengeance and rang dully in his ears. Syoddhan drew himself back to the present and, looking at his brother-in-law, said, ‘What you suggest is impossible on two counts. First, we have no due cause to attack Dwaraka…’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Jayadrath interrupted. ‘Govinda Shauri is a Firewright. Rudra knows how many more of his kind he has trained, and what other secrets Dwaraka holds. We have all due cause!’
‘If you’re so sure that you can show due cause, why not accuse him directly? Why not have him charged with treason and heresy and brought before the Emperor?
Jayadrath shook his head, impatient. ‘The moment you call a demon a demon, it has nothing left to lose. Wait, let me not be so dramatic. I’ll put it this way: what happens when you corner a spy?’
‘He denies it, of course.’
‘And if you persist? If you present evidence?’
‘They usually try to kill themselves. The good ones try and take you down with them.’
‘Precisely. If Govinda is accused openly, he may unleash Rudra-knows-what Firewright horrors on us. Do you really think that man doesn’t have an arsenal of Wright-weapons hidden somewhere? Or that Dwaraka is not protected by every device know to the Wrights? But as long as he thinks he is merely under suspicion, even that he is tolerated, he will hesitate. And that gives us the time we need to strike him down before he comes at us.’
‘Which argument brings me to my second point. He is a Firewright. How do you expect to win against him?’
‘You have in your dungeons the one man who can help us destroy Govinda.’
‘Are you out of your mind, Jayadrath? You want to pit one unscrupulous Firewright against another? Devala’s malice knows no bounds.’
‘Neither does Govinda Shauri’s ambition. What makes you think he will stop now, after all that he has done? Besides, I am told that Devala is one of those who calls himself a true Wright. In his eyes, Govinda is a rebel and a traitor. This natural enmity makes Devala useful to us. And as for Govinda Shauri…don’t you see, unless we act now…’
A silence fell over the room. It grew thicker for the soft rustle of robes as Dussasan sat up straight again. Syoddhan did not miss the slack jaw and the wide eyes that told him that his usually arrogant brother was, for once, unsure of himself. Perhaps even afraid. Syoddhan felt his resolve harden at the sight of what a mention of Govinda’s name had done to his brutish, ruthless brother. He let the feeling grow till it overshadowed the niggling reminder from an incorporeal, righteous part of him that the ends did not justify the means; that if he used Devala now, he would be no better than Dharma, or even Govinda.
Syoddhan sent up a silent prayer and said out loud, ‘How?’
Jayadrath said, ‘The sea. Saubha is ready to sail against Dwaraka with a huge mercenary navy, the likes of which none of us can even begin to imagine. They will set sail from my ports and head for the open seas. Then they will turn and round the cape near Dwaraka at the last moment. We should be able to catch the Yadus unprepared, if not completely unawares. Meanwhile, our combined troops will also march against Dwaraka by land. King Damagosha – Shisupala’s father – will allow our men to move through the Chedi kingdom in the guise of simple travellers and let them congregate at his borders. That way, Dwaraka’s spies won’t have more than a day’s notice of the attack. Ekalavya of the Nishadas has agreed to form the rearguard of the attack by land. His forces will take up positions in the Madhu and Nishada forests, cutting off the west completely. Not even Vayu, the wind-god himself, can pass through their forests without their assent. In similar fashion, Rukmi of Vidharbha will seal off Dwaraka from the south. You see, Syoddhan, there are many who will rally to our cause.’
‘As are those who will rally to Govinda’s,’ Shakuni added. ‘Your military stratagem is sound, Jayadrath, but I am forced to bring us back to Vasusena’s original question: Are we rebelling against the Emperor? For, surely, Dharma will send his own armies to help Govinda, as will the Panchalas. Indeed, if the Emperor commands us to join him, we must obey.’
‘Must we?’ Vasusena joined in. Despite his own initial objections, he apparently was in favour of the proposal at hand. ‘What if we… well, defy the Emperor, if not rebel against him?’
Shakuni dismissed the idea at once. ‘It’s the worst thing we can do. Aryavarta is now ambivalent, uncertain even. Open defiance would force the various nations to pick sides, and many will in these new times choose to side with Dharma. The Panchalas for one… their armies are strong, and who knows what that Firewright has taught them…’
‘We need to divide Dharma and Govinda,’ Syoddhan concluded. ‘We need to stop the Emperor from acting when we attack.’
Jayadrath said, ‘What if we use the Danava mercenaries who serve Saubha to mount a distracting attack on Indr-prastha? It might just give us the time we need to…’
‘That is again tantamount to rebellion, Jayadrath. If we do that, we might as well send out rose-water smeared parchments to every corner of Aryavarta, inviting them to rally their armies.’
‘Do you have a better idea, Syoddhan? Or are you just going to sit there and rubbish everything we propose?’
Syoddhan stiffened at his brother-in-law’s tone. Then he sighed and said, ‘No, I don’t have a better idea. But I do know that what Uncle Shakuni says is right. Unless we find a way to stop Dharma, there’s no point attacking Dwaraka.’
Vasusena said, ‘What if we make sure no messenger gets through from Dwaraka to Dharma?’
‘We could try. But I don’t see how. Indr-prastha is not in our control, and even if we try and get a few spies in there, they won’t be enough to intercept everything.’
‘You’re right, Syoddhan. Indr-prastha is not in our control. But Hastina is. Bring Dharma here; bring the whole lot of them here, including his dear brothers and the Empress and that troublemaker Dhaumya. Let them leave only once Dwaraka is razed to the ground.’ He smiled and added, ‘You see, I have an idea.’
8
ASVATTAMA BHARADVAJA FLICKED ABSENT-MINDEDLY AT THE spot of weapon-grease that had found its way onto his white silk antariya. Despite the luxuriant texture of his lower robe, he still tended to wear it pleated tighter than was common for everyday use, for he never really stopped being the warrior he was inside even during the most relaxed or ceremonial of occasions. It served to emphasize his long, powerful legs as he strode through the corridors of Hastina’s palace.
&
nbsp; If he cared to listen to the awed whispers that filled the hallways he walked through at Hastina, or even those in his own capital, of Ahichhattra, he would have known that he was considered an exceptionally handsome man. As it stood, all Asvattama was aware of, and that too in a vague way, was that he had inherited his maternal grandmother’s flawless pale skin and her sharp features, both of which were highlighted by the jewel he always wore on his forehead. His towering height and straight, black hair were, however, undoubtedly his father’s. That, and his skill with weapons. Few could defeat his father, Acharya Dron, in battle. Fewer still could match Asvattama, brought up by his father and his uncle, Kripa, to be nothing but an instrument of death.
Asvattama had learnt long ago not to dwell on the path that had brought him to Hastina, but as he made his way past the closed doors of King Dhritarastra’s jewel-and-velvet audience room towards the blood-stained dungeons with their fetid smell of death, it was difficult not to reflect on the choices he had made and on the things he had done. He was, by any reckoning, a man who saw much, revealed nothing and remained the master of his own will. For his part, he found the obvious face of politics too distasteful and the more subtle forms too dishonourable. And so he tried to remain aloof, as only a powerful man could, his power made all the more potent by his air of detachment. Only he knew that it was merely an attitude. He was as political a creature as Brahma had ever created.
Fuelled by irony, or inevitability, the political imperative had come to dominate his life. He had been wrested away from the place he had known and loved as home, nestled in the snow-teased lower ranges of the Great White Mountains – the hermitage of the Bhargava-Angirasas in the furthest reaches of what was now Northern Panchala.
A hermitage of Firewrights. Not just any Firewrights, but those reckoned to be the best fighters in all of Aryavarta, famed even in the far reaches of the world. Asvattama had grown up not just listening to the stories of their great battles and mighty conquests, but also seeing them, living with them and being trained by them. In his blood ran the same love of battle they had possessed and the same indomitable pride. That pride had disappeared, torn out of their hearts the day Ghora Angirasa, the greatest of Wrights and the head of their order, had led the rebellion against their own order. The Firstborn had taken full advantage of these internal conflicts to destroy the Firewrights. Tired and defeated, Ghora had fled. Worse followed – Ghora’s son Agnivarna, and his grandson Agniveshya had surrendered to Emperor Jarasandha. With the end of their line the Bhargavas had been all that was left of the Angirasas.
Asvattama had been a young man then, with no more of an identity than being his father’s student. He had silently, humbly, listened to the hushed discussions that had taken up many evenings at the hermitage. Not once had he voiced his opinion or even betrayed the slightest emotion, though he had thought and felt much. At length it had been decided that to protect their future the Bhargava-Angirasas would throw themselves at the mercy of Bhisma of the Kurus. Stunned, and not ready to accept such an outcome, Asvattama had approached Dron in private.
The acharya had indulgently listened to his son and said, ‘It’s true that Bhisma killed Ugrayudha, the man who was once our benefactor and protector. But that was a different Bhisma – he was hardly your age then! You know that he later became a student under your uncle, Rama Jamadagni. Bhisma was trained right here, at this very hermitage!’ With a sad chuckle, Dron added, ‘One can say that Bhisma is our protector now. Such is his destiny, and ours. Who’s to question divine will, my son?’
‘But…’
‘Vathu!’ Dron had flared up in his characteristic manner. ‘I was patient enough to explain this to you, Asvattama. But don’t think you’re man enough to argue with me!’
Asvattama had humbly apologized and withdrawn, but the damage had been done. The first crack had formed in his already-tenuous relationship with his temperamental father.
The next day Dron and Kripa had left for Hastina, where Bhisma had offered them both positions at the court. The two Angirasas had accepted and a new phase of life, at Hastina, had begun. Asvattama continued his training with Dron, at the same time assisting his father to teach the students. It was at Hastina that he had met Syoddhan, and the foundations of their friendship had been laid. Meanwhile, Dron’s newfound friendship with Bhisma soon elevated the acharya to the position of a royal advisor, and his fame and power had grown immeasurably. Life had been honourable, if not happy. At the least it had been free of politics, for by then Asvattama had learnt to keep his mask of aloofness on at all times.
But his isolation had lasted only so long. The Great Scourge, the bloody hunt for Firewrights had reached a peak, and in its aftermath Asvattama’s beloved motherland had descended into famine, for no Wrights were left to help its people.
Asvattama and Dron had done what they had to. They sold their own craft, their knowledge of astra-weapons, to those who would buy it, including the Kuru kings. In return, these kings and nobles turned a blind eye to the use of Firewright irrigation methods to revive the dying soil. Those who could not be bought, or otherwise persuaded, had had to face Dron’s ire – including Dhrupad, the rightful king of what had been a united Panchala before Dron and Asvattama had conquered the northern half.
It was then that Asvattama had briefly let fall his guise of detachment. ‘Maybe,’ he had told his father, ‘there is still hope. The Kurus see how useful our weapons are. The Vyasa knows that the knowledge of the old Wrights – the true Wrights – has saved our people from starvation and death. Maybe now they will all see that we are not evil heathens, they will see…’
‘Muhira!’ Dron had been livid. ‘Listen to me carefully, Asvattama. There is no we. We are not Firewrights. You and I are the best military strategists Aryavarta has seen in many generations. We are useful, and our utility allows us to do a little something for our people. Don’t outlive your usefulness to the Firstborn by holding on to the wrong sympathies. You are either a Firewright or my son. Choose!’
Swallowing his conscience and with the understanding that his words would serve to hide more than one injustice, Asvattama had said, ‘I am always your son and your student, Acharya. I am not a Firewright.’
But these days it was difficult to fully forget what he could have been. In a bid to ignore the unwarranted notion, he found himself striding faster. It brought him face to face with a jubilant-looking Jayadrath, who was stepping out of the king’s audience room.
Jayadrath grimaced at the unexpected encounter. It quickly turned into a smile, which Asvattama returned with extreme politeness and no warmth whatsoever.
‘Acharya. You were missed at our little gathering. We could have certainly benefitted from your insight.’
Asvattama did not overlook the sarcasm. He said, ‘You are too kind, Your Highness. Unfortunately, it is Syoddhan’s orders that keep me from enjoying your splendid company.’
‘You’re interrogating Devala Asita, are you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he said anything…of use…yet?’
‘I’m on my way to meet him.’
‘Surely that ought to have been your first priority today?’
‘I’ve been busy. As you may or may not know, Syoddhan has entrusted the upkeep of the palace guards to me. I train them, and I make sure they keep the royal family safe. Surely you agree that their safety is more of a priority?’
Jayadrath was about to retort, but hesitated. His tone changed completely as he said, ‘As I said, you’d have enjoyed the conversation, particularly in your position as a teacher of the military arts…and we could have benefitted from your advice.’
‘My father is the teacher, Your Highness. I merely assist him.’ Asvattama’s expression remained neutral even as he silently cursed Rudra, Hari, Yama, and any other gods who cared to listen, for the unwelcome conversation. With practised disdain he said, even as he moved away, ‘You must excuse me. I have a prisoner waiting.’
Asvattama reached the
narrow doorway that led into the dark, subterranean prisons of Hastina and set off down the stairs. He raised his hand in unthinking acknowledgement as the guards in the prison below fell to attention and saluted him, but his thoughts remained fixed on trying to read more into the instinctive unease he felt after his conversation with Jayadrath. Something was up. And that something could not be anything good.
Power, his mind raced. Jayadrath wants the power of the Firewrights. As does everybody else. Dharma is too weak an emperor to keep everyone in their place. If any of the kings of Aryavarta should decide Devala is more useful alive than dead… The realization made Asvattama clutch at the hilt of his sword. Unless… One sweep of his sword, and Devala would be dead and this whole matter settled. Or perhaps not. He dismissed the last thought. It was too much to risk. Asvattama did not count himself a man of passion but he certainly was a man of honour, and it would take nothing less than cold reasoning to outweigh his sense of justice. It was not for him to decide Devala’s fate.
With the grace that came of such conviction, Asvattama walked into the dimly lit cell and waited for the guard to shut the iron door from the outside. He sat down on a worn wooden chair that was set against a small table and bent his right leg square, his hide-sandalled foot resting insolently on the left knee. Ignoring the man who was chained and manacled to the wall in front of him, he curled his open palms into fists, as though testing their strength, and studied his hands through half-lidded eyes. His long, dark lower lashes brushed lightly against his cheeks in a way that had driven even the most discerning of courtesans in the realm to fawn over him tirelessly on some occasion or the other. The fire in his eyes as he finally looked up would have had them screaming, terrified, with the same vigour.
The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2 Page 7
