Vijay didn’t know how to respond for a moment. Then he asked, ‘Who are you?’
A certain stiffness crept into the man’s voice. ‘I am Arjun Vaid, the Director of the IB. We’ve met.’
Vijay cringed. Of course he knew Vaid. Imran’s boss. They had met last year after the entire adventure was over. But how could he have known that Imran’s boss was going to pick up the phone. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Vaid,’ he stammered, ‘I didn’t recognise your voice. But I really wasn’t expecting…’
‘That’s fine,’ Vaid’s voice came back. ‘Where are you at this moment? And is Radha with you? We aren’t ruling out a link to their visit to Titan Pharmaceuticals today.’
A cold fear gripped Vijay. He and Radha had been over this many times before. When Imran had requested their participation in the task force, Vijay had initially refused. Their ordeals during their misadventure the previous year had scarred him. And he had a secret to protect. It was Radha who had persuaded him to join the task force.
‘Who better than you to be a part of the task force,’ she had argued. She knew about his secret and so did Colin. He had felt compelled to share it with the two most important people in his life. ‘This is your chance to contribute not just to your country but to the entire world. Chances like this come once in a lifetime, if at all.’
So he had reluctantly agreed. But he hadn’t bargained for Radha’s desire to be a part of the task force as well. Imran had been keen on her joining but Vijay hadn’t. He had argued persuasively but lost.
‘It is too dangerous,’ he had remonstrated.
‘Oh, so it is dangerous for me but not for you,’ she had retorted, her eyes flashing in her characteristic way. ‘Because I’m a woman and you’re a man?’
‘No, it isn’t that,’ he had feebly protested. In his mind, he futilely despaired at the irony of her statement. It was she who had pushed him to accept! So how was he discriminating against her? But he knew better than to voice his thoughts and finally threw in the towel.
Now, he thought, it was coming back to haunt him. And his worst fears had come true. Radha had, for the first time in her life and against better wisdom from Imran – no less – participated in a field mission. And now, even Vaid didn’t know where she was.
He brought Vaid up to date on what had happened. Vaid agreed with his assessment about the fake IB agents being somehow mixed up with the people who had bombed Imran’s apartment.
‘Don’t worry,’ Vaid assured him. ‘We’ll put an immediate trace on Radha’s phone. If it is GPS enabled and the GPS is active, we’ll be able to locate her in no time. And I’ll ensure that you are updated about Imran’s condition. God knows we all want him to make it through this. Stay where you are for now. I’m sending agents over for you. It just isn’t safe for any of you for the time being.’
‘Thanks,’ Vijay disconnected the call and briefed the others. As he spoke, a thought crossed his mind like a flash. It was a comment that Vaid had made. Suddenly he knew how the blonde man had known about them all being together at the fort. And it also explained why the blonde man hadn’t known about Shukla.
36
September, 328 BC
Samarkand, modern day Uzbekistan
The Sogdian palace was lit up with lamps and torches. An air of bustle and gaiety prevailed. The conqueror was hosting a banquet at the palace. After an unexpected rout, he had retreated to Balkh and regrouped his army. He had then sent four mobile units across the river valleys of, what is, modern day Tajikistan and one unit across modern day Uzbekistan to reunite in Samarkand. The chiefs of the rebellious tribes, along with their families, had retreated to the Sogdian rock, which was to be Alexander’s next stop. For more reasons than one.
But for now, Alexander was celebrating. He was the emperor of Persia. And tomorrow, he would conquer the Rock. Nothing seemed to stand in his way.
Within the palace, the banquet was in full swing. Wine flowed like water and tables were heaped with choicest Sogdian delicacies.
Generals and soldiers, Macedonians and non-Macedonians alike, mingled in the halls and partook of the feast and drink. For a while, rivalries and politics were forgotten, the wars behind and ahead were consigned to oblivion, and bonhomie prevailed.
But not for too long.
In one part of the hall, Alexander, with Hephaestion and a group of men from his inner circle, held sway. Loud voices and shouts, punctuated by bouts of raucous laughter indicated the level of drunkenness that prevailed in that corner of the hall.
Before long, the effects of the wine had taken a stranglehold on the men and Hephaestion stepped forward.
‘Silence, good men!’ A few of the generals and soldiers nearby gave him their attention but he was mostly ignored in the immense din that prevailed. Someone passed a rude remark aimed at Hephaestion and Alexander burst out laughing, prompting a smile even from the subject of the joke.
Hephaestion decided to show people who was in charge. He jumped onto one of the tables laden with food, dumped the contents of two bronze serving dishes and banged them together violently several times.
The noise in the hall lowered to a murmur as the clanging of the bronze dishes attracted attention. Something was happening and people wanted to know what it was. If Alexander’s lover was banging dishes on a table and the conqueror himself was in splits, it was worth taking notice.
Satisfied that he had the attention of as many people as was possible, Hephaestion gestured to one of the men sitting next to Alexander.
‘Lend an ear, good men, to the verses composed by Pranichus, our local poet,’ Hephaestion chuckled and jumped off the table.
Goaded by shouts of encouragement, Pranichus took Hephaestion’s place on the banquet table and began reciting the verses.
This was the turning point of the night. A large section of the men in the hall laughed and joked at the verses or passed remarks among themselves as Pranichus recited them. But there was a section of men whose faces darkened and became hard as the recitation progressed.
These were the men from the old guard, the veterans who had served under Philip, Alexander’s father. They had also fought by the young conqueror’s side and had been instrumental on many occasions, including the battle of Gaugamela, in turning the tide in favour of the Macedonians. They did not like what they heard now.
The verses were based on a defeat suffered by Alexander’s generals at Samarkand, the rout that had forced Alexander to retreat to Balkh in the winter of the previous year. In the verses, the generals were being mocked for their resounding defeat at the hands of the Bactrian tribes.
The veterans began murmuring among themselves. One of them, Clitus, who had been recently appointed Satrap of Bactria and Sogdia, was especially incensed.
‘Macedonians are being humiliated before barbarians and enemies,’ he said through clenched teeth, his anger growing. ‘How can we stand by and watch this happen? Will no one among us stand up and be counted as a man? Shall we stay silent as they continue to mock us?’
‘When there is success, Alexander is responsible. When there is defeat, it is the generals,’ another veteran complained. ‘This was never so in the time of Philip.’
Clitus turned on him. ‘Then why do you not speak up? Stop this nonsense now! We have always had freedom of speech under Philip and even with Alexander. Surely they will see reason in our thinking?’
‘They are drunk,’ another man admonished. ‘Too much wine has addled their brains. It is best not to interfere at this time. Remember what happened in Persepolis.’ He was referring to the drunken banquet after Alexander had marched, victorious, into Persepolis, the capital of the Persian empire. During that banquet, a drunken Alexander had decided to set fire to Persepolis. And in doing so he had destroyed one of the most magnificent cities in the world of that age.
‘And don’t forget when Philip got drunk and tried to kill Alexander,’ another veteran spoke up, referring to the occasion of Philip’s wedding to Cleopatra, a Macedonian
girl from high nobility. Cleopatra’s uncle, Attalus, had remarked that Philip would finally produce a legitimate heir, implying that Alexander was illegitimate. And, even though Olympias herself had claimed that Alexander was not fathered by Philip but by Zeus, Alexander had been enraged. He had thrown his cup at Attalus upon which Philip stood up and drew his sword to kill Alexander. In his state of drunkenness, he had charged at Alexander only to trip and fall on his face.
But it had demonstrated the extent to which events could escalate after a night of heavy drinking. And tonight had been the same. The veterans did not want to provoke an incident.
But Clitus was determined. ‘This has to stop,’ he insisted. ‘Now. If none of you are man enough, I will do it. I saved Alexander’s life at Granicus. And don’t forget that he handed half the army to me and the other half to Hephaestion after the execution of Philotas. He will not turn a deaf ear to my entreaties.’
He pushed his way through the throng and reached the banquet table where Pranichus held sway.
‘Enough!’ he commanded, addressing Pranichus. ‘No more!’
Pranichus stopped in mid-verse and looked at Hephaestion and Alexander.
The young king stood up, swaying slightly under the influence of the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed.
‘And why should he stop?’ Alexander asked of Clitus. ‘He speaks the truth.’
A hush fell over the hall. This was no longer a faceoff between Clitus and Pranichus. Alexander had involved himself.
Pranichus quietly climbed off the table and retreated, as Alexander confronted Clitus, who held the conqueror’s gaze.
‘Sire, it has been the tradition since your father’s time that credit for victories and responsibility for defeat...’ Clitus began, but was cut off by Alexander.
‘My father!’ he spat. ‘You speak of my father as if he was fair and just. Did he give me credit for the part I played in his victories? You speak of my father’s traditions? The only tradition I know of is the ill will he bore me. The envy with which he regarded me. What of those? Are those the marks of a fair man?’ Alexander glared at Clitus and took another swig of wine from his cup.
‘Sire,’ Clitus responded, ‘you do no justice to your father’s memory. He began the invasion of Persia and would have done what you have done today, only many years before, had his time not been cut short by an assassin’s dagger.’ He paused, the hurt and anger bubbling up now, reason giving way to emotion. ‘You forget, sire, that you are what you are today because of your father. He laid the foundation for everything that you have achieved today. His achievements were far greater than any of yours so far. And today you believe you are such a great man that you pretend to be the child of Ammon and disown your own father, Philip!’
There was a moment of silence at his last words. It was as if the men had collectively stopped breathing at that moment.
‘Villain!’ Alexander responded, the wine clouding his sense of reason. ‘Do you believe that you will be allowed to slander me, cause discontentment among the Macedonians, without retribution?’
But Clitus remained unfazed. ‘If you cannot bear to hear men speak their mind, why do you invite free-born people to your table? It would be better if you kept the company of barbarians and slaves. They would fawn over you and kiss your Persian girdle and striped tunic!’
Alexander exploded with rage. He threw his cup at Clitus, spilling the wine on himself and the general. People scattered as Alexander went for the banquet dishes, pulling off fruit from the table and throwing it at Clitus. He looked around for a weapon but there was none within reach.
‘Summon the guards!’ Alexander yelled, his voice slurring. ‘Call the guards! Where are my guards?’
Some of Clitus’ friends grabbed the general and dragged him out of the palace, away from Alexander’s fury, across the moat, where he would be safe. Once Alexander’s anger had blown over, Clitus could return and join the party if it had not finished by then.
Alexander’s bodyguards had arrived on the scene by now and formed a protective circle around him.
The group of friends who had rescued Clitus returned and signalled for the festivities to continue. The skirmish was over and would be forgotten by tomorrow in the haze of the hangover that would follow the night’s feast.
But this night was not destined to end that way.
There was a commotion at the doorway and Clitus marched in. It was not in his nature to run away from a fight. He had stood his ground in battle and he would make a stand now.
‘Ah me! In Greece an evil custom reigns!’ his voice boomed across the hall as he marched towards the conqueror, reciting a passage from Andromache, by Euripides, his tone insolent.
Alexander, who had been making his way back to where his friends were seated, turned. On seeing Clitus, his rage was kindled again. His reaction was instant and spontaneous. He grabbed a spear from one of his guards and rushed at Clitus, running the spear right through the general.
‘You are no different from Bessus!’ he shouted as Clitus fell to the ground, blood spurting from where the spear had impaled him. There was a large pool of blood on the floor of the banquet hall and the men shrank back as if the blood was cursed. They had never seen Alexander like this before. It was like he was a man possessed.
As the life force drained out of Clitus with his blood, Alexander fell to his knees. Somewhere through his drink induced haze, the realisation of what he had done penetrated through. He collapsed, overcome with tears, on Clitus’ lifeless body. The general’s blood soaked his sandals and his cloak but he didn’t care.
For the first time in his life, Alexander had killed someone for daring to challenge him and express a difference of opinion. And, in doing so, he had violated two Macedonian traditions. The first was executing someone without a trial in the presence of the army. The second was Zeus’ law of hospitality which Alexander broke by killing a guest at his table. A guest who had saved his life and served the royal family with loyalty and distinction.
That night was a watershed. It was the first time Alexander had allowed his ambitions to get the better of him.
And it would not be the last.
37
PRESENT DAY
DAY THREE
Escape…
Radha acted on instinct. The moment the three faces turned towards her, she pulled up the door lock knob and slammed open the door of the car, ignoring the insistent ring of her mobile phone. The car door crashed into the fender of the car alongside, and its driver immediately stopped and got out to inspect the damage.
She ignored the screaming driver and the honking of the cars behind them, and weaved her way through the traffic, aiming for the metro station that was a few metres away.
Behind her, the aggrieved driver stomped his way to the driver’s side of the offending car, only to be confronted by the muzzle of a Glock. He backed off hurriedly, his rage forgotten, doused by the cold water of fear and self preservation.
The three men in the car gave chase as Radha reached the sidewalk and sprinted up the escalator to the metro station. Drivers honked angrily at them and subsided equally fast as they saw the guns brandished by the fake IB agents.
‘Train’s coming!’ one of the men shouted, as the yellow light of an approaching train washed over the façade of the station. They increased their speed, vaulting over cars stalled by the sight of the guns and followed Radha up the escalator.
Radha risked a glance behind her and saw that the traffic had not stopped the men. Their guns were in plain sight but they weren’t shooting at her. She wondered why.
But there was no time for speculation. The train drew up at the platform and screeched to a halt as she emerged from the escalator. There was no time to be a good citizen and stand in the inordinately long queue for tickets. Radha vaulted over the row of turnstiles, disregarding the shouts of people behind her. She ran to the far end of the platform and boarded the very last coach, hoping against hope that the train would le
ave before the men reached the platform.
The doors of the train shut and she fearfully glanced out of the windows. Her three pursuers were still on the platform. One of them caught her eye and glared at her balefully as the train began gathering speed and moved out of the station.
Suddenly, there was a commotion, as the man glaring at her looked around him, prompted by cries from his colleagues, and sprinted away, heading for the exit. As the train sped away, Radha realised why her three captors were fleeing. Five men, all dressed casually, had dashed up the escalator, vaulted over the turnstiles and were now in hot pursuit of the fake IB agents. The newcomers also brandished handguns. She didn’t know who they were, but since they were chasing her captors, they had to be the good guys.
She sank into a vacant seat and wiped her brow. Only now did she recall the phone call that she didn’t answer while making her escape from the car. She pulled out the phone and shook her head when she saw the number. It was Vijay. What timing, she thought to herself and dialled the number.
Vijay picked up immediately. ‘Radha, are you okay?’ The concern in his voice, along with the fear for her safety, was heartwarming and made her relax immediately.
‘I’m fine,’ she told him and narrated what she had just undergone , including the final scene of her kidnappers fleeing the five armed men who had made a last minute appearance.
Vijay chuckled. ‘That would be the IB guys Vaid sent. He had put a trace on your GPS and sent out a team to help you out. Looks like his plan worked.’
Radha smiled but her smile faded away almost immediately as she realised something. ‘Imran’s hospitalisation is a fabrication.’
‘No it’s not.’ It was Vijay’s turn to give her the news. ‘You should be at the airport in ten minutes, tops,’ he said. ‘I’ll head there right away. You just find a quiet spot and hunker down until we come.’
Radha grinned at Vijay’s Americanism. It reminded her of the Louis L’Amour novels she used to read. It was good to smile after all that she’d been through and good to know that Vijay would be at the airport soon to pick her up.
THE MAHABHARATA QUEST:THE ALEXANDER SECRET Page 15
