by Rahul Mitra
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Copyright © 2017 Prakash Books India Pvt. Ltd.
Copyright Text © Rahul Mitra
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise (except for mentions in reviews or edited excerpts in the media) without the written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978 81 7599 448 5
I would like to dedicate this book to my mother,
Ratnabali Mitra, who passed away just one day before I
received the final contract for the Pataliputra trilogy.
During her struggle with cancer, I also got to see the
dedication, tirelessness, and grace of the doctors and nurses
who worked for long hours under extremely stressful
conditions. This book is also dedicated to them and to
everyone in the medical profession.
‘Yunaan-o-misr-o-Roma sab mit gaye jahaan se,
Ab tak magar hai baaki naam-o-nishaan hamaara.’
—Iqbal (Saare Jahaan Se Accha, 1904)
CONTENTS
Prologue
AJEET
1.Brothers
2.The Incident
3.The Monk
4.An Eventful Day
5.The Dandayana
6.The Condemned Man
ADITYA
7.Last Day of Childhood
8.Rebirth
9.Kaushambi
10.Growth—I
11.Growth—II
12.The Attack
13.The Shahenshah
14.The Labourers
15.Radha
16.Tanku’s Dhaba
17.Thoughts of Revenge
18.Charaka
19.Chanakya
20.Devika’s Home
21.A Budding Romance
22.Teej
23.A Reunion
24.Hunting
25.Ashvaghosha
26.The Day of Reckoning
27.A New Opportunity
28.Evolution
29.Alexander ‘The Great’
30.Enemy at the Gates
31.Utthisht Bharata
32.Blood on the Streets
33.The Acharya’s Advice
34.The Tipping Point
35.A Revolution Begins
36.Chandragupta
37.Escape
Epilogue
The Battle of The Hydaspes
Prelude
The Dogs of War
The Aftermath
Notes
Acknowledgement
About the Author
Prologue
The year is 330 BC.
Persepolis, capital of the mighty Persian Empire, the richest city under the sun, is now occupied by Alexander of Macedon and his Greek army. The Shahenshah, the Persian ‘King of Kings’ is himself a fugitive, running homeless and hunted through the wilds of Central Asia. The sole superpower of the ancient world has been conquered, and it seems there is now no one, who can stand between Alexander and his dream of conquering the entire known world.
This is where our story starts.
The night sky over Persepolis is clear and luminous. Looking out from the city onto the vast dry plain, which the Persians call the Marv Dasht, one can see this star-studded panorama stretching unbroken from one horizon to the other. Yet, on an unseasonably cold and windy night during the month of Dystros, the peace and quiet of this primordial scene was shattered by the clatter of hooves. A lone horseman was careering wildly down the dark streets of the sleeping city, headed towards the part of town known as the Asabari.
The news was evidently of great urgency, for he dismounted at a gallop. The two sentries who had been talking, lying wrapped up in their cloaks, immediately snapped to attention. They recognized the distinctive bronze helmet and its crest of feathers. It was an officer of the Silver Shields—Alexander’s personal bodyguard.
“You . . . go and get the bugles sounded, quick! The palace is on fire . . .” he panted, pointing to one of the sentries, a straw-haired youth.
“Your Honour, the palace?” asked the sentry Karanos. He stepped forward and the torch burning on the wall, threw its flickering light across his face. His eyes were wide open and he had the broad, big-boned face of a country bumpkin.
The officer exhaled sharply.
“Did you understand what I just said? Get the men assembled—immediately! Go straight to the captains; tell them to organize all the buckets we can get.” He pointed behind them, “There, see that? We need buckets.”
He was gesturing towards the north where the Apadana—the ancient palace complex of the Persian emperors stood on a platform forty feet high. The two sentries, who had been facing the other way, now turned, following his gaze. A faint orange glow could be seen illuminating the silhouettes of the faraway buildings. Fire!
One glance and Karanos was off like a shot. The officer, whose name was Demetrios, turned towards the other sentry who was still gaping at the spectacle.
“Take me to General Coenus.”
The sentry grabbed one of the torches burning by the side of the outer wall, and they entered through the stone gateway carved with the Faravahar, the symbol of Persian royalty. The double storied house that they had been guarding, was the only one in the vicinity built with sun-dried bricks and wood, and was a part of the sprawling complex of interconnected mud buildings that made up the Asabari. It had formally served as a barracks for the Persian Immortals.
They raced across the open compound and went in through an ornate wooden door. Passing through an ante-chamber, the guide now led Demetrios into a vast, rectangular hall. Thick, wooden pillars supported a high roof that disappeared into the darkness, and amorphous, elongated shadows danced along the walls as they hurried across. On the other end was another doorway. Beyond, lay a spacious courtyard surrounded by rooms and hallways on all four sides.
“He is likely awake, Your Honour. Unable to sleep these days,” whispered the sentry as he walked up to one of the rooms.
It was widely known that Coenus, who was not afraid of any living being, was afraid of ghosts. He had lately become convinced that he was haunted by a female ghost—one of the nice girls from the Persian nobility that he had recently gotten to know. Unfortunately, she had killed herself a little after and the General had taken to spending his nights in prayer and meditation ever since.
The sentry was right. No sooner had they knocked than the door opened and Coenus, with sword in hand, peered out from inside.
Demetrios saluted. The old General might be eccentric but with his reckless courage and unswerving loyalty to the King, he had proven himself in countless battles. He explained the situation. The palace complex was burning and they needed more men to put out the fire. Coenus was to get his soldiers assembled and rush them to the Apadana to help. The King was safe but the fire needed to be put out.
With his message delivered, the officer now excused himself and was off. Outside, orders were being shouted and small clusters of bleary-eyed men stood around
, staring in the direction of the Apadana. The conflagration had gained in strength and tongues of flame were leaping up towards the heavens. With a last look back, Demetrios mounted his horse and set off again to the scene of action.
***
Seleucus cursed in exasperation. Bits of flying ash had entered his mouth, and now they clung stubbornly to his lips even as he tried to spit them out. Streams of perspiration rolled down his forehead and burned his eyes as he shouted commands to his men. His head was still groggy from all the drinking. He had been present at the banquet where a very drunk Alexander, goaded on by a whore, had thrown burning torches to the floor of the Hadish, the hundred-columned hall built by the Emperor Xerxes. Alexander had been escorted to safety and he, Seleucus had been directly ordered by the senior General Parmenion to put out the fire.
He was trying, but he could see that popular sentiment was against him. A motley crowd of noblemen, soldiers, musicians and camp followers stood nearby. In a frenzy of emotion and in time to the beating of drums they were shouting long familiar slogans. Over and over again, a single resounding cry was heard:
“Death to Persia! Death to Persia!”
His men, meanwhile, were sweating and grunting in the blazing heat given off by the fire. Many grinned, spat, and shouted obscenities. They were formed up in two snaking, parallel lines that stretched all the way back to the water reservoir, and were rapidly passing along buckets of water to throw on the flames. But it was hopeless. They needed more buckets and more men. He had sent his lieutenant Demetrios to get help, but in the meantime, the fire had already gotten out of control. The rich tapestries covering the walls, the cushions, and the priceless carpets had all acted as kindling and rapidly fed the fire.
A fortune was being reduced to ashes right in front of Seleucius’s eyes. Revenge on Persia had been a familiar theme in Greek politics for many decades, but he could see no sense in it. Why destroy something that you now owned? The gilded furniture, the golden drinking goblets encrusted with precious stones, the rare silver and jade utensils, the beautifully carved hunting scenes coloured with lac, the gold and silver overlay on the sculptures and doors—all of it was melting or burning up. It was a colossal waste! Alexander’s father Philip would never have done something like this.
He was wrenched back from his thoughts by a resounding crash that shook the very ground underneath. The shouts of the mob were momentarily silenced. One of the huge cedar beams holding up the roof had burnt and caved in, crashing sixty-five feet to the ground. Loud cheers now broke out as the mob realized what had happened.
Seleucus knew that the fight was up. The Hadish was done for. Now the real danger was in the fire spreading to the other palaces in the complex. They had to be saved at any cost. But how? The wind was blowing showers of sparks in every direction. It was only a matter of time before one of these burning cinders landed on some expensive curtain or drapery and started a fire in another building. Bits of ash and sulphur seemed to catch in his throat as he thought of this. Maybe he could get his men to pull out the expensive stu“Seleucius!” he felt a heavy hand on his shoulders.
It was Alexander’s lover, Hephaestion. Seleucus saluted.
“Stop this madness right now. The buildings are to burn. The entire complex must be completely destroyed—it is Alexander’s order.”
Seleucus nodded. There was nothing more to be done. Persepolis, the richest city under the sun was to be burnt to the ground on the orders of a drunken king. The result of five hundred years of Persian refinement and civilization, miraculous feats of human engineering and creativity—the magnificent palaces of Xerxes and Cyrus were to be obliterated from human history.
Seleucus hurried over to round up his men. Now that Alexander had asked for all of it to be destroyed, it was open season. They had to get a hold of all the gold and silver utensils from the banquet before they were consumed by the fire. A fortune was to be made.
For the first time since the fire had started, Seleucus Nicator, Commander of one of the three units of the King’s bodyguards, was smiling.
***
Alexander had been escorted to safety as soon as the fires started and now stood surveying the scene from the terrace of one of the houses in the old city. Multiple buildings were on fire in the palace complex and eddying plumes of black smoke blotted out the moon. The wind carried with it embers and bits of ash, and the shrieks of men and women.
The King was in a foul mood. The words of Parmenion rang in his ears over and over again:
“History will remember you as a cruel and ruthless barbarian Your Majesty, if you allow these palaces to burn.”
He seethed inwardly every time he recalled these words. Parmenion was his most experienced general, a part of the Old Guard that his father had handpicked and groomed. Yet the problem with these old fogies was that they were too stubborn, too stuck to the old ways. They did not share his vision and could not adapt to the changed circumstances, the new world that he, Alexander, was creating.
The General was an old fool. History would remember him, not as a barbarian, but as a world conqueror. He would do what no one before him had done—conquer and rule over the entire known world, unite all of it in one mighty world empire. Persia was already at his feet. India would be next. India—with its innumerable treasures of gold, fine purple, scents, and silver which even his ancestor, the god Herakles had been unable to conquer. Alexander knew that with all its myths and fables, India was the conqueror’s chance to attain undying glory, and he would reduce it to submission, just as he had Persia. He would set the Earth beneath his feet.
That night, as Alexander went to sleep, he dreamt that India, the bird of gold, was calling out to him.
And on that very same night, in Pataliputra, exactly 3,800 kilometers away from Persepolis, a young boy slept, entirely unaware of the storm clouds marching towards the borders of India.
ff before everything was wrecked for good.
AJEET
Brothers
The quiet of the pre-dawn hours was broken by murmurs, grunts, and the muffled thuds of bodies hitting the ground. The first rays of the sun had yet to caress the earth’s surface, and the world was still cool and fresh. Yet, the crowd of young men who had gathered at Ajatshatru’s akhara were already halfway through their daily regimen of exercise and physical training. They were in the great city of Pataliputra, capital of the kingdom of Magadha, and their entire attention was focussed on the match taking place before them.
A giant of a man, who was almost as broad as he was tall, had picked up his opponent and was holding him overhead, threatening to throw him on to the soft, grainy soil of the akhara. A shudder of anticipation ran through the crowd.
Acharya Vishwa leaned in shouting instructions, “No no, the other way; the other way—throw him on his back!”
The giant made a move as if to toss his victim to the ground. There was a collective intake of breath all around.
“Give up man,” shouted someone from the audience and then whispered urgently to the one next to him, “this is dangerous, mitra. His back . . .”
“He’s stubborn—that one,” his friend whispered back.
The men stood all around the pit, open-mouthed and breathless, their muscles tensed as if the hurt to one of them could be felt by all. Like the ones sparring, they too were students and enthusiasts, and everyone was wearing the tight loincloth known as the langot. Most were caked in mud and sweat.
Acharya too was all attention, ready to stop the fight, should any possibility of injury arise.
“Give up?” asked Navinda, the giant.
Ajeet, the man on top was having the worst of it, but was clearly not in a mood to give up.
“No!”
“Saale . . . take that.” Ajeet was slammed to the ground, and just as Acharya had warned, he landed on his stomach.
Navinda was upon him in a flash. With one knee he pinned Ajeet’s head to the floor and then got a good grip on the part of the langot wrapped
around Ajeet’s waist. Then with a mighty grunt, he pulled on the langot and Ajeet’s legs—and consequently his entire body started lifting up into the air. Navinda was forcing Ajeet into a somersault.
Everyone went quiet—Ajeet could end up chitt any moment now.
But the man was one step ahead. In the few fleeting seconds that his body was in the air, he reached out his hands, braced them against the floor and then spun around on the point of his head like a top. Instead of falling on his back, Ajeet managed to fall on his side.
“Wah . . . sadhu, sadhu!” Loud cheering broke out at Ajeet’s manoeuvre.
This time as he fell on his side, he rolled away and was already sitting up before Navinda could get him in a hold.
Navinda now approached in a low crouch trying to figure out his next move. As he came closer, Ajeet gripped one of his legs under the knee. Driving his head into Navinda’s stomach, he started to stand up, while simultaneously yanking his adversary’s foot off the ground.
“No, no . . . put your left foot over his other foot, pin it, yes . . . that’s it! Crush the toes into the ground and yank his other foot outwards . . . pull, come on . . .”
Ajeet did as Acharya instructed. One strong yank and a push to the torso, was all that was needed. The massive Navinda toppled over on his back, and Ajeet was upon him the very next instant.
Now it was Navinda who had to try to avoid being pinned down. If Ajeet had gotten up on top of him, he could have reached back with his legs and tried to scissor him. Instead, Ajeet approached him from one side, lying on his stomach and keeping out of reach of his legs. One of his hands was on Navinda’s throat, pinning him down, while the other elbow was bearing down with all its weight on his solar plexus. Ajeet pushed all his weight down onto this elbow.
“Very good, excellent!” said Acharya. He too was down on the ground now, his face inches away from Ajeet’s.
“Give up?” Ajeet muttered through gritted teeth.
“Wretch!” Navinda still had one shoulder off the ground.
“Just leave the elbow Navinda, leave it . . . grab his hand and twist the wrist, he’ll let go . . .”
