The Guardians of the Halahala (12 page)

The two men dined in silence for a while before Vikramaditya glanced at his friend. “I loved the way you have described the beauty of Ujjayini in your poem,” he said.

“That wasn't very hard,” Kalidasa brushed off the compliment with a shrug. “Ujjayini is the most beautiful city on earth, so it came naturally.”

The king nodded. “You have also celebrated the beauty of Ujjayini's women in much detail.” He paused to glance at Kalidasa, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Did you mean its women in general or was there a specific woman in mind while you were writing?”

The giant looked up at the king, then dropped his gaze to his plate, a shy smile on his lips.

“Why don't the two of you marry?” Vikramaditya said abruptly. “You like Shanku a great deal, and even though she may be adept at hiding her feelings, I know she has immense admiration for you. You really should ask her.” He paused suddenly, his face growing serious. “Or, does the thought of her father's treachery bother you?”

“No, that has nothing to do with it,” Kalidasa spoke sharply, betraying his feelings for the girl. “I see no reason why she should suffer because of what her father did.”

“Then where's the problem?”

“I am a
samsaptaka,
Vikrama,” Kalidasa sighed. “I have taken the Death Oath – the oath to return from battle either victorious or dead. I can't wed Shanku knowing that every time I ride into battle, death is my only companion.”

The king was about to respond when the door flaps of the pavilion parted and a rider entered.

“Salutations to Samrat Vikramaditya,” he said, bowing. “I bring a message from Acharya Vetala Bhatta.”

“What is the message?” the samrat demanded.

In reply, the messenger proffered a rolled palm leaf scroll that he held in his hands. The king took the scroll, his eyebrows rising at the sight of the wax seal bearing the sun-crest of Avanti. The message from the raj-guru was important, urgent and confidential, he surmised.

Breaking open the seal, Vikramaditya read the short note inside. He then nodded to the rider and spoke briskly to Kalidasa. “We need to leave for Ujjayini straightaway.”

In a matter of minutes, the king and Kalidasa were on horseback, making their way across the scrubland, an escort of eight horsemen trailing some distance behind them.

“What did the Acharya's message say?” Kalidasa's curiosity finally got the better of him.

“We have a visitor at the palace,” Vikramaditya replied, urging his horse into a gallop. “A visitor from Devaloka, an envoy of the devas.”

***

“You must pardon me for the delay, deva,” said Vikramaditya, approaching the council table. “I was out of Ujjayini and it's an hour's ride back to the palace.”

“No apology is needed, samrat,” the deva answered with a wave of his hand and a charming smile. “You have important matters to attend to, and I came unannounced. But I was very well looked after by the Acharya and the rest of your council – indeed, the hospitality of Avanti is without parallel.”

“Thank you, good deva.” The king's tone was guarded, conscious of the deva's attempt to flatter. He took in the visitor's stately robes and the elegant, handsome face with its sharp nose and broad forehead, which was crowned by a fine crop of silvery hair.

“Address me as Narada, please. There should be no formality between friends.” Brown eyes twinkled amiably as the deva considered the faces around the table.

As his councilors exchanged glances, the king lowered himself into his seat at the head of the table and inclined his head. “Now if I may ask, what can we do for you?”

Narada's smile broadened as he drew himself closer to the table. “I have come to propose friendship on behalf of the devas – friendship that would be beneficial to both of us.”

“We have never had a deva calling on us before and broaching the topic of friendship, so the timing of your visit is striking,” Vikramaditya smiled thinly in response. “If I'm right, your proposal has to do with the dagger, doesn't it?”

For a moment, Narada was taken aback by the bluntness of the question. But he quickly regained his composure. “It's not just about the dagger, samrat. As I said, I'm here to offer a hand of friendship. We must both realize that we should work together to undo the evil designs of the asuras. If peace and prosperity have to prevail in Devaloka and on earth, our cooperation is critical.”

Anticipating a response from Vikramaditya, the deva paused. But when he saw none coming, he resumed his well-rehearsed speech.

“I can promise that you will benefit greatly by befriending us,” he said. “We are aware that you and your allies face a serious threat from the barbarian tribes to the west of Sindhuvarta. We can help you counter that. There's trouble brewing in the east – we can assist you with that as well. Accept our friendship and you won't regret it, samrat.” As an afterthought, he added, “You must know that we devas seek your friendship because we see you as a worthy ally against the asuras.”

“We are always happy to make new friends,” Vikramaditya spoke after giving the emissary's words some thought.

“Excellent,” Narada beamed at the council members. “Lord Indra would be pleased to hear this.” He looked around the table expectantly, but the king and his councilors said nothing.

“I take it that you are willing to give us possession of the dagger?” the deva asked.

“So the devas
do
want the dagger in exchange for their friendship,” the council chamber echoed with the sarcasm in Vikramaditya's voice. “That means your offer of friendship is conditional. How come you didn't mention this earlier?”

“It's... it's just a token... to seal our alliance.” For the first time, Narada faltered, groping for words. “Don't look at it as a precondition.”

“In that case, we could give you something else as a token of our friendship. That would work just as well as the dagger, wouldn't it?”

The visitor was quiet as he gauged the mood of the men around him. At last he shook his head. “I'm afraid it has to be the dagger, samrat.”

“If we are going to be allies, how does it matter who has the dagger?” asked Vikramaditya.

“We devas can protect it better against the vicious asuras,” said Narada. “We want to free you from the responsibility of having to guard it from them.”

The king appraised the envoy for a while. At last, drawing himself erect, he said, “The only one who can free us from this responsibility is the one who placed the dagger in our hands, deva. We have given our word to the Omniscient One – and we intend keeping it.”

“Don't make a hasty decision, samrat,” Narada entreated, barely keeping the disappointment out of his voice. “I am more than willing to wait.”

“Hasty or not, the decision has been made,” Vikramaditya smiled. “I have nothing to add.”

Narada rose from his seat. His face had lost all the earlier charm, and his poise was missing. “The storm of war is already building in and around Sindhuvarta,” his voice had become gravelly, like a low snarl from a dark cave. “Soon, the asuras will also be at your doors. You shouldn't have squandered the opportunity of making friends with the devas, samrat.”

“The way you put it, it seems we will now have to bear the consequences of denying Indra possession of the Halahala,” replied Vikramaditya, rising from his chair. “But we are prepared for it. Let your king know that.”

***

Hiranyaksha's face was etched with impatience as he gazed out of an arched, crenulated window overlooking the boiling torrents of the Patala Ganga. Every now and then, he cast his eyes over his shoulder, looking into the chamber in the direction of a large crystal table where Shukracharya stood bending over a
mandala.
Beyond the table, on a divan at the far end of the chamber, Holika sat nursing an infant, her keen eyes observing the high priest as he shuffled the six pieces of vertebrae around the
mandala.

“Aha!” Shukracharya finally broke the silence, his voice bearing a ring of triumph.

“What is it, mahaguru?” Hiranyaksha took four long strides to the table.

The sage raised his head, his single eye burning with excitement. Seeing the asura lord's dark face staring down at him, eyebrows raised in inquiry, Shukracharya's lips peeled back in a wide grin.

“Brihaspati's mission has been a washout. Narada is returning to Devaloka empty-handed – just as I had expected,” he gloated. “The fool employed the usual tricks to get Vikramaditya to part with the dagger, but he failed utterly in shaking the human king's resolve.”

“And the dagger is still safe in Ujjayini?” the Witch Queen asked from the divan. Her eagerness lent her voice a shrill edge, upsetting the baby suckling at her breast. Puckering its mouth, it studied her face with its large golden eyes, which were facsimiles of Hiranyaksha's.

“Very much,” the sage answered, consulting the six bone pieces just to be sure.

“With all due respect, I still think we took a big risk in letting the devas make the first move,” Hiranyaksha grunted, stepping away from the table and walking back to the window.

“Not at all,” Shukracharya insisted. “It was a calculated gamble. I was right in concluding that Vikramaditya couldn't be swayed into surrendering the Halahala through inducements and threats. But I knew Brihaspati would try that tack, so I let him be frustrated. Now the devas have wasted time and effort, and have nothing to show for it.”

“But we have to act quickly now,” the asura lord growled, raising his voice to make himself heard over the noise of the doomed river. “Indra isn't going to take this rejection lightly.”

“Indeed, mahaguru,” Holika urged. Setting the gurgling infant down on the divan, she rose and approached the high priest. “The devas are bound to redouble their efforts, and the next time they will certainly use force. We must preempt them.”

“Yes, the time to make our move has come,” Shukracharya concurred, clearing the table. Looking at the asura lord, he added, “You may give the orders to prepare for battle.”

“The preparations are already underway, mahaguru,” Hiranyaksha's golden eyes gleamed in his granite-hard face. “A force of pishachas is being assembled, and I have summoned the dead-eyed rakshasa Andhaka to seek your blessings and lead an assault on Ujjayini.”

Andhaka

K
ing Siddhasena closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, filling his aged lungs with the cool, early-morning air infused with the sweet fragrance of jasmine and frangipani.

He was seated on a stone bench in the middle of a large, leafy garden, with none for company other than his loyal bodyguard Sajaya, who stood a few paces to his left. Further to the left, some way behind the guard, was an ornate gazebo with five iron swings arranged around a central fountain. The pathway at Siddhasena's feet led out from the gazebo and meandered across the garden toward the royal palace of Magadha, which was partially visible from between the flowering shrubs and trees.

For a while, the king sat quietly, soaking in the peace and silence. Then, opening his eyes, he reached for his wooden stick, while raising his left hand toward his bodyguard, signaling a desire to be helped to his feet.

The guard took a step forward, but was interrupted by an authoritative voice that cut through the morning calm.

“Let it be, soldier. I shall assist the king.”

Even as Siddhasena raised his head to look down the path, his face clouded at the familiarity of the voice, his old eyes registering weariness. And on catching sight of Shoorasena's approach, the king's mouth turned down at the corners, as if full of some bitter aftertaste. Still, he looked back at his bodyguard and nodded.

“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.”