Much to his joy, Pallavan espied the tiered dome of Girivraja’s main Kali temple rising to his left. Sighing with relief, he turned right. As long as he counted correctly, he could now easily locate Uttama’s house.
Ten minutes later, the councilor stood in a small, dimly lit backroom, toweling himself dry as Uttama stared at him with a mixture of amazement and suspicion. He had been let into the house by Uttama himself, but not before he had peeled the false beard off and thrust his face to the light of the lamp in Uttama’s hand for minute inspection.
Changed and dry, Pallavan was finally escorted to a guest room. “Be seated,” said Uttama, waving his hand at a low divan. Uttama then filled a goblet of soma from a side table. “Can I offer you some soma as well?”
“Would you have any firewater instead?” Pallavan replied. “So much the better to fight the cold with.”
“Excuses, excuses… I can see your tastes have badly declined from the last time I saw you,” Uttama wrinkled his nose in mock contempt. Still, he clapped his hands, and when a maid appeared, he instructed her to bring in a pitcher of firewater.
“I didn’t expect you to land up in this rain,” Uttama said, once the maid had left. “Of course, had you not come, I would have throttled you for making me miss the banquet at the palace.”
“You had a banquet to attend tonight?”
“The royal council had sent personal invitations on behalf of King Shoorasena,” Uttama nodded, seating himself.
“King Shoorasena?” Pallavan cocked an eyebrow. “So is it formal now?”
“It will be, soon. The news is being shared with the subjects of Magadha tomorrow; the coronation will happen as soon as the king returns from Tamralipti.”
“Shoorasena is in Tamralipti?” Pallavan’s eyebrows stayed in firm contact with his hairline. “Tamralipti has been captured by your army?”
“A couple of days ago,” Uttama nodded. The maid had returned bearing the firewater. “The details are still awaited, but yes, Vanga is now virtually under Magadhan control, my friend. What do you think tonight’s banquet was in celebration of?”
Pallavan studied Uttama as the latter accepted the pitcher, dismissed the maid and went about filling a goblet. Short and slightly built, the man had changed little over the years. Only his beard, which had once been jet black, was now fully grey, making his smooth brown skin stand out even more starkly. As always, the beard was carefully cultivated, a neat growth that came down from the temples and ran along the jawline to end in a sharp point at the chin.
They had met as young men many summers ago, training in accounting and diplomacy under the same tutor at Prayaga, in the principality of Kasi. Having similar temperaments and worldviews, they had struck up an instant friendship – one that had endured long after Uttama had accepted an offer from King Siddhasena’s court to serve at Girivraja, while Pallavan had moved to Sravasti as an understudy at Bhoomipala’s court. Now, as chief envoy of Kosala and tax administrator of Magadha, they hardly had time to meet, but Pallavan believed if there was one person he could trust in Magadha, it would be Uttama.
“But enough of the banquet,” said Uttama, planting the goblet of firewater in Pallavan’s hands before returning to his seat. “Tell me what brings you here… like this.” The tax administrator paused to peer at Pallavan’s face. “What a ghastly beard! Was all this secrecy necessary? This disguise, the letter you had delivered to me through the fruit seller…” Then, as a new thought occurred to him, an expression of concern swept his face. “Are you in some trouble? Are you fleeing Kosala?”
“I’m quite alright and very much in the good books of King Bhoomipala, my friend,” Pallavan replied, pressing the beard at the temple where it was coming loose. “I couldn’t risk being seen and identified in Girivraja – unfortunately, there are enough people here who recognize me. I don’t want anyone reporting my presence in the city to your royal council.”
For the first time, a shadow of apprehension crossed Uttama’s face. “Why is that?”
Pallavan took a long pull from his goblet, allowing the firewater to burn down his gullet and settle in his stomach. Then, dropping his voice to a murmur, he recounted everything to Uttama: his visit to Girivraja to meet Shoorasena, the musician who had come to him seeking asylum, the musician’s disclosure of what had actually happened on the stairs of the palace, their flight to Sravasti, his subsequent visit to Vikramaditya’s court…
Uttama listened without interruption, his face turning ashen at the point where Pallavan revealed what the musician had witnessed the morning of Siddhasena’s death. When Pallavan was finally done, the administrator drained his goblet in one big quaff and slouched back in his seat with a troubled expression.
“How can we be sure this musician…” Uttama paused to look at his visitor. “Does this musician of yours even have a name?”
“Gajaketu,” answered Pallavan.
“Okay, so how do we know this fellow is speaking the truth? People are known to say crazy things to attract attention… He might not even be a musician for all we know.”
“We have been making enquiries to ascertain his credibility. Everything checks out.”
“But he could still be making up all the stuff about… about what he says he saw,” Uttama insisted as he refilled his goblet with the sterner firewater.
Pallavan allowed his friend to drink down some of the firewater, before replying.
“Why would he lie about something like this?”
“Who knows… maybe he has some axe to grind.”
“Against who? Shoorasena? Magadha?”
Uttama sat back in silence, cradling his goblet.
“Tell me, do you really believe the Kikatas were rising in rebellion against Magadha with the support of Vanga?” Pallavan stared closely at his host.
The administrator shifted in his seat uncomfortably, still saying nothing.
“I have always admired you for your intellect, my friend,” said Pallavan, reaching for the pitcher and replenishing his own empty goblet. “I urge you to use it now. The old king held nothing against the Kikatas, and he would never have approved of an invasion of Vanga. But now the Kikatas are victims of a campaign of hatred, and war has been successfully waged against Vanga. Ask yourself if any of this would have been possible if Siddhasena were alive today.”
Uttama eyed the councilor cautiously, his face betraying the doubts coursing freely through his mind.
“There is always a possibility that Gajaketu is lying, but we fail to see what he could gain from it,” Pallavan persevered. “But if, only for a moment, we give him the benefit of doubt, it becomes plain what Shoorasena gains by killing the king and the loyal Sajaya.”
“He gets a justifiable reason to invade Vanga and capture Tamralipti.” Uttama spoke in a whisper, his attention seemingly on the contents of his goblet.
He sat still for a while before raising his eyes to appraise Pallavan. “So Bhoomipala and Samrat Vikramaditya now want to bring Shoorasena to justice, is it?”
“What my king and the Samrat want is of little relevance, my friend. I remember the day in Prayaga thirty-five years ago, when you got the invite to come to Girivraja. I remember it like yesterday … the joy in your eyes at serving in Siddhasena’s court. Siddhasena was your king. So all that matters is what you want now.”
“We will have to make subtle enquiries, somehow get to the bottom of this,” Uttama replied. “But we will have to be careful. I will have to find people whom I can trust, people who would want to uncover the truth, people who…”
“People who loved the old king,” Pallavan completed the sentence.
A little while later, the two friends stood at the door of Uttama’s house. Outside, the rain had finally stopped, but a chill wind blew, casting ripples on the floodwater in the streets.
“You’re sure you can find your way back?” the administrator looked doubtfully into the dark. “I can get someone to escort you…”
“No, it’s too risky
for both of us. Also, now onward, we shouldn’t meet here. Pick a better place. I will be in touch through my friend, the fruit seller.”
Pallavan was on the verge of taking his leave when he stopped, one hand on the door. “Wouldn’t your absence from the banquet have been noted by the royal council?” he asked. “How are you going to explain it away, should someone ask?”
“Worry not, my friend. When I got your letter, I declined the invitation feigning indigestion.” Uttama’s face clouded over. “Though, after everything you’ve just told me, I fear indigestion will not be merely an excuse for me tonight.”
* * *
“Do have some more ksheera, my prince.” Satyaveda pushed a large bowl in Ghatakarpara’s direction, his voice all honey. “I remember you had loved it the last time you visited, so I had my cooks prepare it especially for you.”
“Indeed, it is excellent,” the young councilor nodded with enthusiasm, reaching for the ladle to replenish his plate. “And you, sir, have a very good memory.”
“Ah, it is nothing.” Smiling cloyingly, Satyaveda brushed off the compliment with a wave of a hand. “I do it out of sheer selfishness, my prince. The small joys of hosting the Samrat’s nephew.”
Atulyateja, sitting across the table from the governor, watched this exchange with troubled eyes. They were in Satyaveda’s house, a grand old mansion in the heart of Udaypuri that had once served as the palace for the kings of Malawa, before the Hunas and Sakas had laid waste to the kingdom and its last ruling dynasty. The building was now the official residence of Malawa’s governor, yet it struck Atulyateja that he had hardly ever seen it from the inside before.
Not exactly a surprise, considering Satyaveda had never before extended him an invitation to visit, in all the time he had been commander of the garrison of Udaypuri. Leave alone invitations, Satyaveda had barely acknowledged him and the soldiers of the Frontier Guard with routine inspections of the garrison, preferring, instead, to have reports tabled before him at his office every week. The governor was not much into mixing with the rabble, it was obvious.
That was then, of course. Now, though, things had taken a marked upswing, with Satyaveda displaying a willingness to fraternize that was both alarming and off-putting. There were moments when Atulyateja sincerely wished Satyaveda would revert to his earlier, snobbish version, which was, bizarrely enough, easier to deal with.
Blessed with a sensible head, the commander understood that his recent rise in stock was attributable solely to his friendship with Ghatakarpara. Even so, he had been surprised when, earlier in the afternoon, the governor had dropped by the garrison to invite him for dinner in the company of the prince. Atulyateja had not known what to expect, but courtesy demanded that he go, so here he was, sitting in front of a mid-sized feast, watching Satyaveda butter up his friend.
He also finally had an inkling of why he had been pressed into coming.
“The command centre of Madhyamika is already under the control of Brihatsa, a very capable captain of the Imperial Army, sir,” Atulyateja returned to the topic under discussion. “My going there will be of no practical use. The frontier will be better served by my staying in Udaypuri.”
“However capable this Brihatsa might be, he is only a captain of the Imperial Army. You, on the other hand, are a garrison commander of the Frontier Guard. Who knows this terrain and landscape better – you or this captain?” The governor stared across the table in challenge. “A commander of the Frontier Guard, or a soldier from Ujjayini?”
“Councilor Amara Simha holds Brihatsa in high esteem, sir,” Atulyateja spoke softly to take the edge off the subtle pulling of rank. “The councilor told me as long as Brihatsa is in charge of Madhyamika, we are free to focus our energies elsewhere.”
“Alright, perhaps you don’t have to go to Madhyamika,” Satyaveda picked up a cup of buttermilk in a huff. Draining half the contents down, he carefully wiped his lips with a thumb and forefinger. “But the borders to the north still need overseeing by someone who knows the lay of the land. You know those parts, and you can liaise with the soldiers guarding Gosringa so that the borders of both provinces are secure.”
“I just paid that border a visit…” the garrison commander began, but Satyaveda interrupted him.
“It is not about paying a visit,” the governor paused and eyed Ghatakarpara, who was polishing off his plate. “Much as I recommend the ksheera, please do leave some space for the shrikhand, my prince. I assure you it will rival anything you have savoured in Ujjayini.”
While Ghatakarpara grinned in abashment, Satyaveda turned his gaze back to Atulyateja. “Where were we? Yes… I was saying it is not good enough to visit the border. The border needs constant monitoring. As soldiers, the two of you will know more about this than I do, but won’t you agree, my prince?”
“I suppose so… I mean, yes.” Roped unexpectedly into the conversation, Ghatakarpara fumbled for answers. “Borders need to be monitored.”
“Precisely,” the governor leaned back in satisfaction. “I am sure even Councilor Amara Simha would agree.”
“Even I agree,” said Atulyateja with a sigh. “But were I to expend all my time and energy in the north, what about the garrison here, and frontiers to the south? Those are also my responsibilities.”
“Why, you have the prince here for that!” Satyaveda gave the garrison commander a bemused stare, exaggerated by the arching of the shoulders. The governor’s expression suggested exactly what he thought of Atulyateja denseness. “Didn’t that obvious possibility strike you, commander?”
Atulyateja studied Ghatakarpara as the prince looked at the governor with raised brows, surprised by the suggestion. He noticed the delight spread from Ghatakarpara’s eyes to his lips, spreading out in a smile. The prince turned to him, beaming, a why-not expression plastered on his face. The commander’s shoulders sagged in relief at finding his friend free of artifice.
“Don’t you trust the prince, commander?” the governor pressed. “Do you doubt your friend’s ability to carry out the task?”
“No, I don’t,” Atulyateja squared his shoulders. “I have never had reason to doubt the councilor, and I am sure he will never give me reason to. It is just that he is new to these parts and unfamiliar…”
“He is not going to be alone. There is the whole Frontier Guard, and platoons of the Imperial Army with him, not to mention the local militia. What’s there to worry about?”
“The governor is right, brother,” Ghatakarpara placed a hand on Atulyateja’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You also forget that I have been up to Sristhali. I know what this part of the frontier looks like. If we split up, we can do a better job of keeping a vigil over the frontier. You to the north, me to the south.”
The commander looked at his friend, with whom he had spent so many afternoons raiding mango orchards, stealing firewater and hoodwinking assorted traders, separating them from their wares at no cost. Despite being of royal descent, Ghatakarpara had always tried to lead the normal, everyday lives of his friends, sharing their small joys and pains.
Atulyateja was pleased to see that this aspect of Ghatakarpara had not changed. Now that he was at the frontier, the prince was keen to live the life of a Frontier Guardsman.
“If you so wish it, my prince,” he smiled at Ghatakarpara.
“Excellent decision,” Satyaveda grinned and clapped his fingertips lightly in a theatrical display of delight. “Very wise of you, commander. Very wise.”
* * *
The cry was grotesque and chilling, a high-pitched, rasping half-scream like the strangulated crow of a rooster, only many times louder and more ominous. It filled the frigid night air, setting the teeth on edge. It made the dim torches that lit the pathway waver violently, and sent the flurries of snow, drifting gently through the torchlight, into a panicked twirl. It made the two mahishas snort and toss their giant, horned heads in alarm.
“Hurr… tchk, tchk, tchk,” the asura minion steering the cart fl
icked his whip lightly across the mahishas’ flanks, fighting to control the reins that went around the beasts’ thick necks. His eyes flickered involuntarily to his left, ill at ease.
The minion was not the only one drawn to the cry. Toward the rear of the cart, seated on a broad, high-backed chair, the asura lord Hiranyaksha also peered into the night, his naturally golden eyes burning bright orange in the torchlight. He was not alone at the back; flanking him were two figures, the light reflecting off the heavy helmets and visors over their heads and faces. Judging by their bulk, the width of their shoulders and the set of necks, they were gigantic in build, and looked the wrong sort to cross in battle.
The cry rose into the night once again, quivering with primeval rage. It seemed to shake the very ground, making the mahishas wrench away in fright, causing the cart to lurch and skid on the snowy pathway. The three passengers grabbed whatever support was available, as the minion hauled and wrestled with the reins. Fortunately for those in the cart, the cry was cut off abruptly, its echo bouncing off some distant, invisible ridge.
The bisons finally quieted and fell back to a steady trot. Hiranyaksha and his companions stared in the direction from where the cry had emerged.
“Why are we moving so slowly?” the asura lord demanded, blinking through the falling snow into the impenetrable night. “Where exactly are we?”
“We’re almost at the vyala pit, my king,” the minion replied. “Pardon me, lord, but the snow lies heavy and slippery on the ground. I cannot risk going any faster.”
Even as the minion spoke, the lighted pathway swerved to the left, and the low roar of rushing water replaced the silence of the night. Moments later, the cart was on a narrow bridge, and the rush of water was engulfed by the drumming of hooves and the heavy rumble of wheels on wooden planks. The bridge creaked and swayed under the combined weight of the mahishas, the cart and its occupants, and Hiranyaksha was acutely aware that a small misstep from either bison could send all of them tumbling headlong into the Patala Ganga raging far below. Yet, for all the unsettling swaying, he knew the bridge itself would hold up, protected as it was by an ancient charm of the forest-dwelling danavas who once ruled Patala.
The Conspiracy at Meru Page 9