The Conspiracy at Meru

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “What is this?” Vikramaditya eyed the medallion uncertainly.

  “I can’t serve this palace any longer – not with the knowledge of all that has happened. I can no longer swear allegiance to the throne that was responsible for my family’s death. My duty toward Avanti ends here.”

  The Throne Room went perfectly still. The giant and the king stood facing each other, immobile. The silence stretched, shivered, waiting to explode into a whirl of chaos.

  “No, Kalidasa…” The samrat whispered in dismay. “Don’t do this. I am…” He stopped, seeing the resolve in his old friend’s eye. An intolerable sadness slipped over his face. “Does it have to be this way?”

  The giant only held the medallion out in response, its broken chain dangling from the two sides of his palm, glinting where its shorn ends caught the sunlight.

  “This is foolishness, Kalidasa,” Amara Simha stepped forward, agitated. “You are one of us. You are Avanti’s own.”

  “I am Ga’ur Thra’akha, Huna by blood and birth,” Kalidasa replied, harsh and deliberate.

  “And all these intervening years meaning nothing to you?” Varahamihira asked from the divan. “What about us? What about the citizens of Ujjayini who call you their champion? Forget all that – what about the Samrat?”

  Kalidasa did not reply. He just stood there, waiting for Vikramaditya. But the king made no move to accept the medallion. Finally, the giant took another step forward, bent down and placed the crest on the floor, by the samrat’s feet. Straightening, he stepped back, squared his shoulders and looked at Vikramaditya. The medallion lay on the floor between them like an embellished stain, a winking accusation, an emblem of everything that had gone wrong in their camaraderie.

  “Where will you go?” the samrat asked at last, holding the giant’s gaze.

  “Fate brought me to this palace, fate is taking me back.” Cryptic, oblique. “Ours is not to question the guiding hand of destiny.” With that, Kalidasa turned on his heel to depart.

  The giant was halfway to the door of the Throne Room when Vararuchi called after him. “If you owe Avanti nothing, leave your sword behind as well.” The words carried through the awed stillness of the chamber, arresting Kalidasa in his stride.

  For a few seconds, the giant stood with his broad back turned to the throne and the councilors, as if in thought. His left hand dropped to the pommel of his scimitar, hanging by a belt at his waist, and his eyes followed, taking in the curve of the sheathed blade. Then, in the same motion, his gaze lifted as he turned to face Vararuchi.

  “This sword was forged for me by a humble blacksmith in Udaypuri whose son’s life I happened to save. This was his gift to me, not the palace’s. There’s only one way of parting me from this sword – someone will have to prise it out of my dead fingers.”

  With narrowed eyes, Vararuchi watched Kalidasa head for the exit. Turning to the samrat for a reaction, he was appalled to see the stricken look on his brother’s face. It had hurt when Vikramaditya had openly sided with Kalidasa, chiding him for having done what was needed to protect the kingdoms of Sindhuvarta; he had felt humiliated when the king had tendered Kalidasa an apology. But the Huna had brushed the apology aside, insulted the authority of the throne – and even dared someone to take away his sword. Despite all that, Vikramaditya was letting him walk away. All for the sake of a friendship that lay in tatters, which had failed to stand the true test of loyalty. The enemy was being allowed to win.

  Something fractured and fell apart inside Vararuchi. And in that dark, depressive vacuum, resentment sent up its first bitter and poisonous shoot.

  Gandharvasena

  If you are thinking of dissuading me from leaving, don’t. Amara Simha and Varahamihira have both failed.”

  Shanku glanced at Kalidasa, sitting stiff on his saddle, staring straight ahead, his face a mask. She said nothing.

  They were riding, side by side, through the streets of Ujjayini, heading in the direction of the city’s north gate. Everywhere along the streets, townsfolk watched them as they rode past. The news of what had transpired in the palace had spread like wildfire. Councilor Kalidasa is a Huna!

  There was curiosity in some faces, as if they were seeing a stranger for the first time. In others there was apprehension, and in still others, hostility. There was also dismay and grief in evidence. Occasionally, Shanku and Kalidasa encountered soldiers of the City Watch and the Imperial Army. The soldiers were, without exception, deeply respectful – some even bowed at the departing giant. The commander of the samsaptakas was a role model for many of them, and their awe of the warrior couldn’t be brushed aside in the skip of a heartbeat.

  “It is unfortunate that it had to end like this,” Shanku spoke at last.

  Kalidasa flicked a glance at the girl out of the corner of his eye. She faced ahead. He noticed the white, short-tailed mare she was riding, the one they had first seen in the horse market, the one that Shanku had secretly set her heart on. Three days ago, he had bought the mare as a gift for Shanku. Just three days, and it already felt like eons had passed. So much had happened in such a short time; an entire generation of memories had sprouted and borne a harvest of bitter fruit in three days.

  “I would ask you to come with me, except that I know you won’t,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  “All these years and you choose this moment to bring that up?” Shanku’s voice wavered and cracked a little. With an effort, she composed herself. “You are right. I wouldn’t come. My loyalty lies with my king. So should yours.”

  “I can’t make myself do it,” the giant muttered tightly. “I have seen the cruelty of this throne.”

  “And I have seen its mercy and kindness.”

  Neither had anything more to say, and their hobbling conversation broke down to a standstill. They rode in silence under the bright noonday sun. Rounding a corner, they turned into a main street. A hundred yards away, the city’s wall rose. The north gate was directly ahead, at the end of the road.

  Between them and the gate, a posse of thirty horsemen stood blocking their path.

  Kalidasa’s hand went to his sword before he realized that the men were samsaptakas, with Angamitra at their head. The men’s weapons were sheathed, their postures non-threatening.

  “Salutations, commander,” said the captain, and the men followed suit.

  “Salutations… men,” the giant corrected himself at the last moment. They were no longer his men.

  “We came to… say goodbye…” Angamitra struggled to bring the words out. “.and wish you luck, commander.”

  “I wish you luck too, brave men.” Kalidasa let his eye dwell on every face before him.

  “May I ask where you are going, commander?” Angamitra asked.

  “I will go wherever my destiny takes me.”

  One of the samsaptakas, a young man, spurred his mount forward a couple of steps. “Wherever you go, we are prepared to follow you, commander,” the boy said. “I definitely am.” Kalidasa’s eye strayed to a fresh scar on the young man’s chest, a pink, puckered line from beneath his right collarbone to the edge of his shoulder. The bright cadet whom he had nearly killed that morning in the training ground, he remembered in a flash. He recalled Angamitra speak highly of him.

  “Hush, boy,” Kalidasa raised his hand. “Never utter such foolish, mutinous words. You are the Samrat’s men. Your job is to protect your king and your kingdom. That is why you took the Death Oath. Never forget that. And about coming with me… my battles are my own to fight, but your battles are here.” He gave a heavy pause, loaded with meaning. Pointing at the gate, he said, “Your battles will come in through there. Prepare well to meet them.”

  Angamitra prodded his mount forward. “The men will do as you say, commander.”

  The giant gave a small smile. “You are a brave warrior, one of the best I have known. It is now time for you to be more than a warrior. It is time for you to lead the men as their commander. The men will hereafter do as you say. Marshal the
m well.”

  The captain stared at the giant, too overwhelmed for words. Kalidasa nodded once and nudged his horse, and the samsaptakas quietly made way for him and Shanku. They rode down the street with Angamitra and his men trailing behind, until they were in the shadow of the massive gate. While the guards bowed to them, Kalidasa turned to the girl one last time.

  “I wish you luck,” he said stiffly.

  “I wish you luck as well in wherever your destiny takes you. Or should I say, wherever you force your destiny to take you next?”

  The giant held Shanku’s piercing gaze for a moment. Without answering her, he wheeled his horse around and rode out of the gate, picking up speed as he raced past the burnt-out dwellings outside Ujjayini’s wall.

  * * *

  Aatreya was finding it hard to believe his ears.

  “Since when have they been seeing each other?” he asked.

  “For a week maybe, maybe from even earlier,” said Governor Satyaveda. “Chirayu has been observing their meetings over the last week or so.”

  Aatreya grimaced and rested his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers under his flabby chin. His eyes flitted from one corner of the dusty, rundown room to the other, processing what the governor had just told him.

  “How and where did my daughter meet him?”

  Satyaveda shrugged. The muted roar of men cheering and shouting filtered up from beneath the wooden floorboards. The cockfight was due to begin anytime now, and he wanted to be down there by the mud pit, watching the bloodletting. Instead, he was stuck on a divan, listening to Aatreya put forth silly questions.

  “She must know who he is, right?” the merchant asked. “I mean.”

  “Apparently not. Chirayu tells me that when they meet, Ghatakarpara makes it a point to pass off as a plain soldier of the Frontier Guard. He hasn’t even told her his real name.”

  Aatreya shook his head in disbelief. As he returned to his ruminations, the governor almost heard the thoughts and emerging possibilities buzz and click through the fat merchant’s mind. His daughter, the object of a prince’s infatuation – even love, perhaps? – and not any common prince. A prince of the Aditya dynasty, nephew of the samrat himself. Satyaveda could see what an attractive proposition this presented to a greedy old pig like Aatreya, and the thought disconcerted him. He needed the merchant on his side…

  “The girl is a fool to think anything will come of this,” the governor spoke harshly. “She thinks her father will approve of a match with a lowly soldier of Avanti.”

  “But he isn’t really a soldier,” Aatreya blurted, confirming Satyaveda’s fears.

  “No, he is not. But when your daughter does discover his real identity, she would be stupid to believe that the palace would entertain a proposal for the prince from a modest millet merchant.” The governor looked at Aatreya pointedly, before deciding to puncture any remaining hopes floating around in that head. “Especially one who has been trading Avanti’s military secrets with the savages from the Marusthali.”

  Satyaveda had the pleasure of seeing Aatreya’s fledgling ambitions flag and falter. “Yes, very stupid of Aparupa,” the merchant nodded glumly. Snapping erect, he said, “I shall put an end to this whole business. I will drill sense into her, and send her away to her grandparents’ place in Balipura, if necessary.”

  “No, my friend, don’t do that,” the governor waggled a cautionary finger. “Say nothing to her. You know how rebellious youth is. Forbid her and she will devise ways of disobeying you and meeting him. And even if you send her away, the prince might still be able to learn of her whereabouts and seek her out.”

  “What should I do then?”

  Satyaveda brought his lips close to the merchant’s ear and whispered, “Better the prince disappears, no?”

  Aatreya stared at the governor, taken aback.

  “Aparupa doesn’t know who he is. If he disappears, poof –” the governor raised a clenched fist into the air and suddenly opened his fingers to mime a vanishing act “– well, he is a soldier. He could have been posted elsewhere along the frontier, or recalled to his garrison. He could just have tired of her and gone away without even a goodbye – that is what is expected from heartless soldiers all the time, isn’t it? It will break her, but she will reconcile herself. And where will she go looking for him even if she wished to? She doesn’t even know his real name.” Satyaveda smiled at the merchant. “Simple, isn’t it?”

  Aatreya nodded. “It sounds fine, but how do we make the prince disappear just like that?”

  “You forget our friends from the Marusthali, dear fellow. What wouldn’t they do to get their hands on a royal hostage?” The governor gave a cunning chuckle. “The king’s nephew, no less. I would think the reward for that would be more than handsome.”

  “How do we even do it?” the merchant asked in wonder. “Aparupa will help us.” Seeing the confusion in Aatreya’s eyes, Satyaveda added, “Not that she would know, of course.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “I do.” The governor smiled and gave the merchant a friendly smack on the shoulder.

  Later, sitting in the private cubicle overlooking the amphitheatre where gamecocks slaughtered one another as people placed illegal bets on the birds, Satyaveda’s mind strayed from the sport in the arena to the one he was playing with the palace of Avanti.

  They had denied him a place at the council table, him – grandnephew of chief councilor Acharya Vedavidya, and son of councilor Sagopana. A seat in the royal council had been his by virtue of birth. Yet, when the time came, they had overlooked him, picking the orphaned princess from Nishada – a woman! – in his place. They had made him Governor of Malawa instead, making it sound as if it were a great honour. But all he remembered was what he was not – royal councilor of Avanti. Later, adding insult to injury, they had appointed that treacherous Warden’s daughter Shankubala as councilor. A slip of a girl, a traitor’s daughter! Obviously, the palace had respect for neither tradition nor true talent. And then, finally, this inexperienced fool of a prince, Ghatakarpara. Benefitting from being the king’s nephew, what else. Love-struck idiot!

  Thank heavens the prince was love-struck, Satyaveda hastily corrected himself. He couldn’t have dreamt of a more perfectly tailored opportunity to finally have his revenge on Avanti.

  * * *

  “Why didn’t you stop him, Vikrama?”

  The samrat didn’t respond immediately. For a long while, he just sat holding Vishakha’s white, limp hand, feeling the softness of her skin on his palms. He ran a finger over the jade ring adorning her middle finger, then traced the blue veins along the back of her hand, back and forth. At last, he looked across Vishakha’s bed at Queen Upashruti.

  “What good would that have done, mother?” he asked. “The only way of stopping him from going would have been by imprisoning him. After everything else that Avanti has done to him, putting him in chains and locking him away would be the ultimate travesty of justice.” Vikramaditya shook his head. “No, mother. Giving him his freedom is the least we could do to atone for what happened.”

  “But you do know where he is going, don’t you?” Mother and son were alone in Vishakha’s bedchamber. The matron and the maids had vacated the room temporarily, so Upashruti spoke freely.

  “His exit from the north gate fooled no one; even he knows that,” the king nodded. “He has gone in search of his roots.”

  “And you know what that means. He knows every little secret of ours. Every trapdoor, every secret tunnel… he probably knows the exact number of swords in each of our armouries.”

  “I know, mother.”

  Upashruti heaved a resigned sigh. “Let us hope he doesn’t altogether forget all those years of kindness we showered on him. Maybe he will respect your friendship enough not to betray us.”

  The samrat did not reply. The three lamps guttered, and shadows stretched and jigged along the floor and across walls. The night was otherwise silent. They sat quietly for so long
that the Queen Mother began feeling drowsy, and her eyelids drew down over her eyes. Blinking rapidly, she gave a start and was about to rise from her chair to wish her son good sleep when Vikramaditya looked at her.

  “Why have I failed so miserably, mother?” he asked.

  “What? I don’t see how…”

  “I promised to protect her.” Vikramaditya gestured toward Vishakha’s inert form. “I failed in doing so. I took oath to protect the people of Avanti from harm. I failed in that too. My best friend came to me seeking justice. I failed to give him that. I failed our friendship. Why, mother?”

  “You are being too hard on yourself, Vikrama,” Upashruti spoke sternly but kindly. She came around the bed to stand by the king’s side. She stroked his hair and drew his head to her, cradling it in a comforting embrace. “None of what has happened was in your control. Vishakha and the people of Avanti… what befell them was the outcome of the devas’ and asuras’ greed. And Kalidasa… It wasn’t your fault, son. You weren’t even there. You weren’t even king then.”

  “I am now, and still I failed. I fear I will fail next in honouring the trust that the Omniscient One has placed on me.” The samrat placed Vishakha’s hand gently back on the bed. He then took Upashruti’s hands into his own and gazed up at her. “Why has everything suddenly started coming apart, mother?”

  “The Mother Oracle warned us about an eclipse. This is probably the dark of the sun.”

  With a tired little nod, Vikramaditya let go of his mother’s hands and turned to lean his head against her. Upashruti’s palm brushed over his forehead, caressing the worry lines. The samrat stared into Vishakha’s eyes, far away from the anxieties that beset her husband. Had Zho E’rami actually ordered the massacre in the court of Nishada?

  “Who knows how much darker it will get before the eclipse wanes,” he wondered aloud, “…if it wanes at all.”