The villagers didn’t move. The three soldiers argued and gestured.
A fourth arrived. In addition to the golden sash around his waist, he wore one over his right shoulder that must have been a mark of rank because the others saluted him. After a brief consultation he started down the path, followed by the others. He was a youth, not much older than Sakhi, with dark hair pulled back in a warrior’s braid. Not a strand was out of place, and around his brow was a very thin gold circlet. In his shiny silks it looked as if he were dressed for a parade and not a battle, but as he approached, she could see dark red splashes on his muddied felt boots and his antariya, and blood on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
When he reached the ledge, everyone else stepped back, leaving Sakhi alone before him. His brown eyes narrowed and his lips turned down slightly, as if he disapproved of her appearance.
He cleared his throat, put his palms together, and bowed over them. “Namaste, Yasodhara.” He continued before Sakhi could correct him. “I am your cousin, Prince Nanda, son of King Suddhodana and your aunt, Queen Prajapati. I regret to inform you that we have found your father’s body.”
Everyone gasped. A few of the villagers started to sob.
Sakhi’s throat constricted. “Prince Nanda,” she said. “I am not Yasodhara.”
He looked relieved. “Where is Dandapani’s daughter?”
Sakhi’s voice shook. “She—Chief Dandapani went to find her at the sacred cave—if he’s dead, she must be, too!”
He looked down his nose at her. “Who are you?”
“I am Sakhi.” She took a breath. “My father was the Brahmin Bhrigu and his lineage goes back to the priest of the gods, whose name he bore. My mother was a third cousin on her mother’s side to the famous Valmiki of Varanasi.” For once she was grateful for her mother’s obsession with ancestry.
“Princeling.” Kapa’s dismissive tone took Prince Nanda by surprise. He turned red and locked eyes with the warrior’s wife. “Who asked for Sakyan help?” Kapa continued, looking down her own nose. “We Kolis fight our own battles.”
“No one asked! But you’d all be dead if we hadn’t come,” he retorted. He struggled for control. “It was not for you we came, but to find my half-brother Siddhartha. My father sent a messenger, Abhaya. Didn’t he arrive?”
“Yes! Abhaya came with your message,” Sakhi said. “But he went with Dandapani to find Dhara at the sacred cave.”
“We did not see him among the living.” His face was grim. “We may yet find him among the dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Sakhi said. Abhaya had been kind.
“He was a good man,” Nanda said brusquely.
“You must have seen my husband,” Kapa said. “He was in charge. His name is Rajesh.” She stepped up to Nanda and seized his arm. Nanda jumped in surprise. “Or my son, Chitra. Is he still alive? Tell me!”
“I can’t say,” Nanda said as he disengaged himself.
“You’re certain Dandapani is dead?” Sakhi asked tremulously.
Nanda’s haughtiness was gone. “There was a head on a pole. Just outside your village gates. My father—King Suddhodana—recognized it.”
“Dhara! Dhara, where are you?” Sakhi clasped her hands and bowed her head. It couldn’t be that her heart’s sister was dead, too.
Questions flew among the villagers. The prince raised his arms for silence.
“Princeling, take us to our men,” said Kapa, lifting her chin.
Nanda’s brow furrowed. “It’s a horrible sight.”
“My father was Kshatriya, and my husband, too,” Kapa said. “I know what death looks like. We must build pyres for our dead.”
“Are there Kolis left alive?” someone called out.
“A few warriors. Badly wounded, but our physicians are skilled. There was a young woman, too. A man said her name was Tilo. Those Kosalan animals.” He spat. “What they did to her.”
“Tilo!” Sakhi said joyfully. “Take me to her!”
Nanda rubbed his face. “If you insist.”
Sakhi followed him out of the ravine and into the village. The chief’s hall was undamaged, as were the houses near it, but farther down there was evidence of fighting. Lifeless forms lay scattered about, as if some giant had picked them up and tossed them down in front of smoking, ruined huts.
“We found your friend in the stables,” Nanda said with reluctance. “She had been raped.”
Prince Nanda’s demeanor chilled Sakhi. “But she’s alive, yes?”
As they progressed, Sakhi could almost taste the feces and other revolting odors in the air. Nanda put a yellow silk square over his mouth and slowed down, but Sakhi rushed on, desperate to see Tilo. She dashed past the practice field by Rohini’s river, where bodies were piled atop an enormous stack of wood. Mitu’s husband was trudging toward the pyres carrying a body over his shoulder.
“Deepa!” Sakhi cried.
“Yes, Mistress Sakhi,” he said, looking up. “My lord,” he said, lowering his eyes as the prince walked up.
“Mitu and your sons are right behind us,” Sakhi said.
“Thank you, Mistress,” he said with a brief smile. “I knew you would be safe in the ravine.”
Sakhi suddenly realized whose body he was carrying. “Prem’s mother,” she said.
Deepa nodded. “The old woman made Tilo help her bury her gold. The Kosalans got them.”
“Where is she?”
“That way.” He nodded in the direction of the gates, avoiding her eyes.
Vultures circled overhead. Sakhi covered her mouth and nose with her hand and choked back bile at the sight of a disemboweled corpse with pinkish-grey matter spilling from a gaping hole in his stomach. The face, though, bore no trace of battle, no grimace frozen in place by death, no wound to the head. It was Prem.
She stifled her nausea and hurried on to the gates. They had been battered to splinters. The open area in front of them where not two months past Bhallika had bid goodbye was a sea of sloppy muck, puddled with red blood. The stench was worst here. Koli corpses, red-and-black-clad Kosalas, severed limbs and nameless bits of flesh littered the ground. There were several dead horses and one that whinnied in pain and tried to rise in spite of the gash in its side and the broken bone protruding from its foreleg. A soldier bent by the poor beast’s head and slit its throat: a shocking kindness.
Several Sakyan soldiers led other horses in fine Kosalan livery toward the stables, where some small Koli ponies waited, looking lost and sad without their riders.
In the goat pen nearby there were a dozen or so Kosalan warriors standing ankle deep in mud and droppings with their hands tied in front of them. All looked down at the ground with grim faces, save one, a thin, dark youth with a face livid with hate.
“I am Virudha, prince of Kosala!” he spat at a passing guard. “My father will hear how Suddhodana treated the Kosalan heir. Then you will know his terrible wrath.”
Sakhi halted. She looked up at the mountain goddess. Surely, if Dhavalagiri was their protectress, she would strike this Virudha down. But the goddess loomed over the bloody chaos of the village in impassive silence. Sakhi wanted to curse her. No divine being truly cared about the mortals who worshipped them. Not the Devi, the Great Mother worshipped at that old shrine; not the king of the gods, despite all the times her father Bhrigu invoked and sang Indra’s praises there at the eagle altar where Dandapani had dispatched a sacrificial ram or bull.
The eagle altar. Tilo was seated atop it, staring into nothing. Sakhi’s skin crawled to see her sitting there like an offering waiting for the knife.
“Tilo!” Tilo didn’t hear. Her clothes were in bloody shreds, and someone, perhaps a kind Sakyan, had draped a blue woolen cape edged with an incongruously cheery pattern of the sun god’s yellow wheel over her shoulders. She clutched her son to her breast and had covered his head with the blue
cape. He must be sleeping, sheltered in her arms from the bright sunlight. It was some relief to see them together. She still had her little boy.
“Tilo,” Sakhi said softly as she reached Tilo’s side. She lifted the cape to see the baby. Her heart stopped. The back of his head was nothing but a bloody pulp.
She moaned and turned, almost knocking Prince Nanda over as her legs buckled. He took her arm and guided her into a clump of brush, where Sakhi vomited.
He helped her stand. “Wounded and dead soldiers are one thing. It is our dharma. But this.” He gazed at Tilo, shaking his head.
“The baby.” Sakhi started to cry.
“I regret Siddhartha isn’t here,” Prince Nanda said.
Sakhi brushed tears from her eyes. “Your brother is a healer?” she asked, breathless with unexpected hope. Some kings and princes had such powers. “He—he could help Tilo? He could help her baby?”
“No. But Siddhartha will be king one day,” he said bitterly. “He should get used to this.”
Sakhi didn’t know what to make of this prince, who was so kind one minute and so cold the next. She took a deep breath. Tilo needed her.
“Captain Sukesa,” Nanda called. An older man with a large belly hanging over his yellow sash strode past carrying a silver helmet under his arm, his jaw set. His clothing was filthy with blood and dirt. “Take that child’s corpse from that young woman.”
The captain stopped abruptly. He looked at the prince and rubbed his beardless chin, expressionless. “Very well, my lord.”
“And is the king’s tent ready?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Shall I take you to my father’s tent?” he asked Sakhi. “He is searching the forest for survivors. We could rest there until he returns.”
Captain Sukesa glanced away and went to carry out Nanda’s orders.
Sakhi didn’t want to be alone with Nanda. “No. My friend needs me.” She hurried after the captain. “Tilo,” she said when she reached the altar. Tilo didn’t respond.
The captain was unwinding his yellow sash from his shoulder. It was a mark of rank, but not woven with gold thread like Nanda’s. “She’s been like that since the prince brought her here,” he said.
“Poor Tilo.” Sakhi brushed a lock of bloody hair out of her friend’s face.
“What’s your name, mistress?” The captain spread the sash on the altar.
“Sakhi.”
“‘Friend.’ A good name.” He turned to Tilo. “Here’s Sakhi now, young lady,” he said. “Priyasakhi, beloved friend. She’ll be right here while I take the child.” He murmured little endearments in a gruff voice, trying not to cry. His tenderness moved Sakhi. She put an arm around Tilo’s shoulder, averting her eyes from the baby. It looked like someone had taken a rock and smashed his skull.
“Here now.” Captain Sukesa reached for the little body. Tilo was a statue. Sakhi closed her eyes and kissed the top of her friend’s head. When she opened her eyes again, the captain had wound his yellow sash around the baby’s corpse, covering it completely. Dark red was already seeping through.
“Like he’s wrapped in marigolds, isn’t it? We’ll make a special little pyre,” the captain said. He waved an arm at a soldier who was bringing fodder to the captured horses. Sakhi hoped they would never feed the Kosalan men. She hoped the Sakyans would starve them all. She dug her fingers into Tilo’s shoulder.
“Mistress Sakhi,” the captain said. “Take your friend away now. We’ll set it up away from the soldiers’ pyre. Soon we’ll say the prayers and light the fires—”
“No, wait,” Tilo burst out suddenly.
“What, young lady?” Captain Sukesa said.
She touched his arm. “Thank you.” Then she clutched at Sakhi’s robes and let Sakhi lead her away.
No sooner had Sakhi taken Tilo up to the chief’s hall than all the women of the village were standing around her, hurling questions at her. “What should we use for bandages, Mistress Sakhi?” “Someone needs to be in charge of the food, or it will get stolen.” The questions kept coming.
Sakhi left Tilo in Mitu’s care and tried to answer. The afternoon passed in a blur as the women settled the wounded in the hall and began to distribute food. The sun was far in the west when she had a moment to sit with Tilo in the courtyard. The other women had bathed her and dressed her in a plain but fine Varanasi linen antariya of Atimaya’s. If only Atimaya were here to berate Sakhi for digging among her things. She had not been found among the corpses, but Sakhi held out little hope she was alive.
She didn’t have long to rest before a page sent by King Suddhodana arrived.
“Namaste, Mistress Sakhi,” he said, giving a charming bow. “I am Mohan, the king’s page. He requests your presence.” He was not much older than Karna’s sons, who had been found dead near their fallen father and mother.
“The king! Well, you are a person of importance now, Mistress Sakhi!” exclaimed Sunita, the pretty young servant girl who served Karna’s family. Karna’s orphaned daughters clung to her skirts as she finished combing Tilo’s hair.
“Why?” Sakhi asked stupidly.
“You are in charge of us women,” Sunita said. “As if you were the chief’s wife.”
Such a rush of emotion whirled through Sakhi that she was speechless for a moment. Beautiful, faithless Atimaya, who had kissed Bhallika; haggard, frightened Atimaya, whose visions predicted this carnage; brave Atimaya, who had stayed with the warriors.
“Sunita!” she said at last. “She could still be alive.”
“Yes, I’m sure, Mistress Sakhi.”
Sakhi went inside and donned one of Atimaya’s antariyas, the one whose edge Atimaya had embroidered with a riot of flowers during one long winter. Mohan walked next to her down to the king’s tent, chattering all the way about how different Kapilavastu was from the village. “The road to the king’s palace is paved with gold,” he said, “and on either side there are thousands of grand houses. Even the poor live in mansions—we wouldn’t keep our animals in these huts!”
Our animals are that important that they live with us, Sakhi thought, looking sidelong at the boy. After a bit she listened with only half an ear. She knew better than to believe such tales.
All of a sudden they were in front of the tent.
“Stop,” Mohan said. “I must announce you.” He disappeared inside. “Mistress Sakhi,” he said, reappearing and motioning for her to enter with a graceful flourish.
King Suddhodana reclined on cushions piled in the middle of the tent. Nothing could have prepared Sakhi for his presence. His dark hair was drawn back sharply into his perfect warrior’s braid. This accentuated his firm jaw and high cheekbones. His deep-set amber eyes so hypnotized her that she tripped over a thick rug that covered the damp ground. Before she could fall, he rose swift and graceful from the pillowed couch and caught her with a strong, bare arm, squeezing her against his side. His muscular, golden-skinned chest was half covered with a blue wool antariya flung over one shoulder. His hair was damp and he exuded the smell of cedars or something else astringent and fresh, as if he’d just bathed.
He smiled down on her. In that moment there was nothing else in the world but the two of them. He was as far above her as a god, and she was an inconsequential, rustic girl, but he wanted her. It was shocking, after everything else this day. She squirmed away and made a clumsy bow.
“Sit, Sakhi, sit.” He offered her dried fruit and poured fresh water from a silver pitcher into a silver bowl chased with the sun god’s symbol. Sakhi could hardly bring it to her lips, her hands were trembling so. “I have heard from your shaman Garuda and from several others how brave you were down in that ravine—the charnel grounds, imagine! What courage it took to hide there. You showed strength and calm when it was needed.”
Sakhi couldn’t say anything. She bowed her head.
“Admirab
le modesty.” Suddhodana took her chin and tilted her face up. She was afraid to meet his eyes, but it was impossible not to. He could see the effect he had on her and he smiled. She responded with her own foolish one. He settled back on the pillows. “Tell me how things are at the chief’s hall.”
Her throat was dry. She managed to bring the silver cup to her lips and take a swallow. “Most homes are destroyed, my lord, but there is room for those still alive,” she began. “The chief’s wife Atimaya always made sure the hall was stocked with food and medicines in case of… of… ”
Sakhi couldn’t finish. She and Dhara used to groan when Atimaya enlisted their help with emergency supplies. Natural disasters or enemy attacks happened, but not to them.
“We have found no trace of Atimaya. We are also looking for the girl Yasodhara. Were you friends?”
His smile made her forget Dhara, forget Atimaya. Her heart fluttered. “Dhara is the sister of my heart, my lord.”
“Heart’s sister? Charming. I hope Nanda will marry your Dhara, as you call her. Sakya and Koli clans should always be linked through marriage, you know.”
She nodded, blushing, unable to speak.
“My child, don’t be afraid of me. Think of me as one of your family. An uncle, concerned for his brave little niece’s welfare. In fact, call me Uncle.”
“Yes, my lord.” She twisted her hands. She wanted to lean into his arms and weep. He made her dizzy. It was easy to forget the destruction that lay just outside this tent. “And… and your messenger? Abhaya? He went with Dandapani that night the Kosalas attacked, but I haven’t seen him among your soldiers.”
“We found his body, a short distance from the sacred cave.”
Sakhi had felt this in her bones, but when the king spoke the words, she moaned. Who would help her find Bhallika? Then she was ashamed and said a quick prayer for Abhaya’s journey through Yama’s kingdom to be swift.
Suddhodana gave Sakhi an unreadable look and reached for his own silver bowl, which was filled with some red liquid, and drew a long sip, not spilling a drop on his blue robe. “Didn’t find any other survivors or any sign of the yogi or your Dhara when we reached it. Lots of dead Kosalas up there, felled by arrows, which makes me think that Angulimala hasn’t lost her fighting skills. Oh, yes, and a dead tigress.”
The Mountain Goddess Page 21
