‘Your wish,’ Brihannala shruggedand started to walk away.
‘Stop,’ Thimma said. He had no other choice. He would have to take the chance. Brihannala climbed into the chariot.
‘Let us talk as we travel, swami. There are ears everywhere.’
The chariot shot forward and Brihannala and Thimma huddled together to plan.
TWENTY-NINE
Ally
Ally sat roasting a rat on a crude tripod made of twigs. The rat was hung from its tail with a string and it turned slowly as the fire below cooked it. Ally closed her eyes and savoured the delicious aroma of the meat. She wished she had some spices to garnish it; some salt would have helped as well. But this in itself was a luxury. They had been eating either the raw fish or fowl that Jeemotha caught. There had been no way they could light a fire. They had no flint and their attempt to light one by striking stones had yielded no results. The grass was damp and the island they had somehow crawled onto was squishy with mud that oozed a foul smell.
Then the rains had come, and with it, thunder. Jeemotha had been making love to her at the time. When the thunder struck and a tree burst into flame, she had pushed him away and run towards it. He had struck her for that, but later they had made love near a blazing fire.
She hated him then and she hated him now, but Achi Nagamma had taught her well. Achi used to say that, for a woman, sex was her greatest strength. Morality was nothing but a chain invented by man to enslave women. So, for Ally, sex was a tool by which she could control Jeemotha. He might be a fearsome pirate, but he was a man too. Ally knew she was beautiful and she used her beauty and sensuality the way she used her sword. She needed information, and if making love to Jeemotha would give her that, she would do it without any guilt or qualms. The pirate had grown friendly, but so far, he had been frustratingly clever. He would taunt her with bits of information, use her, and then hold crucial information back. There wasn’t much she could do about it though. She wanted to get out of the island, but the swamps were treacherous and the river merged with backwaters and hills in the distant horizon. No civilization was in sight as far as their eyes could see.
‘It smells awful,’ Jeemotha said, crinkling up his nose. He was sitting on a rock a few feet away, fishing.
‘For you, perhaps. For me it brings back lots of childhood memories. When famine struck our village, as it would happen often, rats were the only thing we had to eat. I used to hunt them in the sewers or the dry fields with my brother, and for many days, my family survived on my hunting skills,’ Ally said, turning the rat to cook its other side.
‘No wonder you stink so much,’ Jeemotha said and howled with laughter. She did not reply. Memories of her long-lost brother had overwhelmed her. They had been hunting rats in an abandoned palace some distance from their village. Her brother was harassing her with questions and she had snapped at him to keep quiet. He was a curious boy, but in her experience, rats tended to hide unless they were as silent as death. When she had spiked a big fat one, she had turned to show it to him and found he was gone. Vanished. She had no clue what had happened to him. There was no blood, nothing to indicate that he had been caught by a leopard or a tiger.
‘What are you thinking?’ Jeemotha asked.
‘About my brother,’ she said and told him the story.
‘Hard luck,’ he said, but she observed that he was not looking at her.
‘Did you do it?’ she asked, trying to catch him off guard.
He laughed. ‘Wench, I have done worse things, but I am not the only thug around. Your king’s men pay anyone who brings them a boy. If you ask me why the king’s men need boys, I do not know. Maybe they are as fond of boys as I am of pretty girls like you. Who knows? Who cares a rat’s arse for that?’
She hated him from the bottom of her heart. He was sickeningly handsome and gloriously evil. Maybe she should think of killing him. She was about to retort when she observed a huge tree trunk floating by on the river. Perhaps it had fallen in yesterday’s rain. But what caught her eye was the figure on it.
‘It’s a man,’ she screamed, pointing at it.
‘Yes, looks like it,’ Jeemotha said, and turned back to his fishing.
‘What the hell are you doing? Go and save him, jump!’ she screamed. He looked at her in amusement. The log was flowing by rapidly with the current. Ally ran to the river and dove into it. She gasped for breath as the current pulled her down. The water was muddy and swift and the river frothed and foamed around her. When she surfaced, she started swimming towards the log and the current carried her to it swiftly.
A dark, well-built man was lying on his stomach, unconscious. She tried to get hold of one of the branches of the tree, but she was nervous that it would roll and topple the man over. Was he dead, she wondered as she struggled to keep up with the fast-flowing tree. There was a festering wound on his back and flies were buzzing around it. Dead—she felt a wave of disappointment wash over her. It was a corpse she was chasing. She was about to leave and swim back when the man’s fingers twitched.
‘He is alive!’ she cried. She saw Jeemotha diving into the water. He swam with long strokes, confident and easy.
‘Hurry, hurry, rapids ahead,’ she cried. She could hear the river bashing against rocks a few hundred meters ahead. The water was turning choppy and white crests started appearing over the waves.
Jeemotha caught hold of the log and shook it.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she cried in panic. The man was sure to fall.
‘Shut up, wench,’ he cried over the roar of the river.
The tree rolled, and when it rolled back, the man had vanished.
‘Bastard, you killed him—oh god, oh god, oh god,’ she cried. There was no trace of the man.
‘Jeemotha—’ she called, turning to look around. The pirate was not to be seen either. Only the tree was entering the rapids, rolling and pitching in the swirling currents. She struggled to keep herself afloat and swim against it, but inch by inch she was being dragged back.
‘Jeemotha…’ she cried, scared that she had lost the pirate along with the man she had hoped to save. Then she saw him. He was struggling to drag the man to the shore. She swam towards them. She saw Jeemotha losing his grip on the man and the man vanishing into the raging water. She took a deep breath and went down. Under the surface, the water was calm, and she saw a dark figure slowly settling to the bottom. She was running out of breath, but she knew the man would be lost if she gave up on him now. She swam to him and tried to lift him. She was unable to budge him an inch. Her lungs were screaming for air. She was tempted to leave him and go up for a breath, when she saw his foot was caught in the crack of a rock. Using the last drop of her determination, she swam down. She freed his foot and, holding the man by his armpits, she kicked herself up. Jeemotha was climbing up onto the shore when she came up, gasping for air.
She sucked in air, but the current was carrying her again towards the rapids. The man was slipping from her hands.
‘You look like a water nymph, temptress,’ Jeemotha said, watching her and biting a blade of grass.
‘Shut your foul mouth and come and help me. This man is as heavy as an elephant,’ she cried.
Jeemotha laughed and said, ‘I am no fool to get into the river again. Let me see how much strength you have in your lovely legs.’
Enraged by his words, Ally’s determination doubled and she managed to fight the current and swim to the shore. She climbed up, panting and puffing as she struggled to drag the man up onto the riverbank.
‘Give me a hand instead of gawking at my body, bastard,’ Ally said to Jeemotha, slightly out of breath, and he helped her pull the man up. She started pressing his stomach.
‘The bastard is dead. Throw him back. At least the fish will have a feast,’ Jeemotha said.
Ally ignored the pirate and pressed her lips to the man’s mouth, blowing air into his lungs.
‘Whoa, you are an expert at this. Maybe we should try this tonight
,’ Jeemotha said, kneeling beside her.
‘You drown, and maybe I will do this for you. Or maybe I won’t,’ Ally said between breaths as she continued pressing the man’s stomach.
Jeemotha laughed and muttered, ‘Bitch.’
‘He is breathing, he is breathing,’ Ally cried suddenly, as the man coughed and spat water and slowly opened his eyes.
‘Who are you?’ Ally asked him.
‘The maharaja of Mahishmathi, he is. Woman, can’t you understand he is a bloody slave?’ Jeemotha said, shaking water from his long hair. The rescued man was whispering something. Ally ignored the pirate and put her ears near his lips.
‘Kattappa is his name, he says,’ Ally said.
‘Who cares about a fucking slave’s name? If he lives, he will fetch a good price. That is all that matters,’ Jeemotha said, laughing at the look of hatred on Ally’s face.
THIRTY
Skandadasa
Even after a week, Skandadasa could not believe that he had achieved his dream. The promise he had made to himself many years ago had been fulfilled. He ran his fingers over the contours of the new chair. It was a gift from his mentor Parameswara. It was an honour and Skandadasa was moved by Parameswara’s gesture. The chair was a wooden one, with a high back but the seat was small for him. It was uncomfortable to sit in. That was the whole purpose of it, Paramesawara had told him with a wicked smile when he had made Skandadasa sit on it for the first time. The new mahapradhana chuckled at the thought. He remembered his mentor fondly. By the time, men reached the post of mahapradhana, they were normaly shrunken with old age and were not bulky like a bear, Parameswara had joked. That comment from anyone else would have made Skandadasa seeth with anger, but when Parameswara said it, he had laughed with him. He was the youngest mahapradhana in the history of Mahishmathi. His hard work had paid off.
He owed everything to Parameswara. And to the maharaja, who had overruled objections from the noblemen when he had announced that Skandadasa was to be the mahapradhana. They had brought up his alleged lack of morality, citing the episode near Kalika’s inn to stress their point. Maharaja Somadeva had laughed it off, and asked the priest Rudra Bhatta whether the penance Skandadasa had undergone was not sufficient to wash away his sin. Of course the priest could not say the pilgrimage had been worthless. Reluctantly, the nobles had to agree to his appointment.
Skandadasa was aware that the noblemen were still fuming within. He had no lineage to speak of, no formal education, and he belonged to the lowest of low castes, yet the maharaja had chosen him over others. The responsibility was huge and he was sure to get only reluctant cooperation from his subordinates. Parameswara had warned him about the open hostility that his elevation would bring about in many powerful men. He would try to win them over. He would do only what was right and just. He would work harder than anyone. He was determined to prove that he could be the best mahapradhana ever.
But before any other task, he had to pay back someone a small favour. He called for Roopaka. The assistant came in with a morose face and gave him a reluctant bow. He knew Roopaka resented working under him. He passed on a written order to Roopaka and watched his face closely.
‘Swami!’ Roopaka exclaimed.
Skandadasa had expected this reaction. ‘If you think I am closing down Devadasi Street because they insulted me, you are mistaken. Such places of sin destroy the moral fabric of the country and instil criminal tendencies in the minds of our youth. It is our duty—’
‘Swami, Kalika is powerful and influential—’
‘Not anymore. She will get a small pension and she should learn to live with it.’
‘The noblemen will be up in arms,’ Roopaka cried.
‘The same noblemen who were accusing me of moral turpitude a few months ago? I don’t think so. They are all noblemen, as you said. Why should they care about a woman who sells her body for a living?’ Skandadasa said with a smile.
‘There will be riots in Devadasi Street.’
‘Ask Dandanayaka Pratapa to send sufficient dandakaras to ensure that there is no trouble.’
‘Many women will be out of a job, swami,’ Roopaka said.
‘They can work as sweepers or maids if they are illiterate. Or, we can find suitable positions for them.’
‘Swami, the Devadasi system has thousands of years’ tradition behind it. You cannot tamper with it.’
‘I did not call you to give me a lecture on ancient systems. Please execute my orders. Any discussion will be done at the durbar in front of the maharaja,’ Skandadasa said in a tone that brooked no argument.
Roopaka bowed stiffly and turned on his heels.
‘I did not give you permission to leave, Roopaka,’ Skandadasa said.
‘But—’
‘Send those orders across to Pratapa, but you are coming with me.’ Skandadasa stood up from his chair.
‘Where?’
‘To the workshop where Gauridhooli is made. Lead me there. As mahapradhana, I want to see how the work is done.’ Skandadasa did not give Roopaka any time to argue. He started walking out and his assistant had no choice other than to follow him.
Skandadasa had decided that he would record everything for posterity. So much esoteric knowledge had been lost because it was passed on orally. He did not want the same thing to happen to the technology of extracting Gauridhooli. He had almost completed his project of mapping the fort. If possible, he wanted to learn the technique of extraction. He was no ironsmith, but he believed there was nothing he could not learn, provided he worked hard. He had taught himself so many things and reached the top; he could learn the technology of Gauridhooli too.
They reached the underground labyrinth in the afternoon. Roopaka led Skandadasa through a complicated maze of underground tunnels under the palace. As they neared the workshop, the air grew thin and hot. Skandadasa could smell acrid fumes. The cobwebs on the roof were black with soot. He wondered how the slave ironsmiths lived in this cramped space for the better part of their lives. Why were they not tempted to escape or rebel? He had read the reports about a worker escaping from the cellar with a few stones. He wondered how he might have escaped. And who had helped him? Who communicated with him? There were only a few people in the upper echleons of the government who knew about the existence of the workshop. And there were fewer people still who knew where it was. The only people who had access to this workshop were the mahapradhana, Senapathi Hiranya and the king. So how did the man know how to escape?
The huge stone door creaked open and the din of hammers meeting metal assaulted his ears. The heat was unbearable inside the workshop. Fires blazed from the furnace and a pale blue colour stuck to everything. The acrid smell, the hiss of metal being cooled in water, the clang of metal on metal, the heat, and the dark, sooty underground room made Skandadasa claustrophobic. He was finding it difficult to breathe in the smoke.
Dhamaka, the head ironsmith, bowed to the new mahapradhana. Skandadasa started talking to him, and asked for each of the ironsmiths’ names. This was new for the slaves. No mahapradhana had ever asked for their names before. Roopaka walked around with a frown on his face as Skandadasa stopped by each worker and discussed the process in detail. Dhamaka began to feel uneasy and tried to distract the new mahapradhana, but Skandadasa continued his interaction with the slaves. One young man grabbed Skandadasa’s hand and a collective gasp went round.
Dhamaka screamed, ‘Move away, you scoundrel. How dare you touch the mahapradhana?’
Skandadasa asked Dhamaka to be quiet and smiled at the young man. With renewed confidence, the young man led Skandadasa deep inside the cavern. They weaved their way past vaults in which molten metal was cooling and furnaces blazed. Roopaka and Dhamaka followed behind, sulking.
The young slave stopped where there was a patch of water on the floor. He pointed to the roof. Skandadasa looked up and a drop of water fell on his nose. The roof had a slight leak.
‘Why has no one seen to this?’ he asked Dhamaka. The head ir
onsmith and Roopaka looked at each other.
‘It was seen by Mahapradhana Parameswara and he had asked someone to repair it, swami,’ the young slave interjected.
‘It was repaired,’ Dhamaka said, ‘but during high tide the river tries to get in.’
‘We will all drown one day, swami. We are scared,’ the young slave folded his hands in plea.
‘I want it to be sealed. Use lead, use iron, I don’t care what you do, but I do not want a drop of water to seep in,’ Skandadasa insisted.
‘I am afraid we cannot do that, swami,’ Dhamaka said defiantly.
Skandadasa’s face became black with rage. How dare a slave defy his orders?
Roopaka intervened. ‘That is a safety feature. In case Mahishmathi is attacked and conquered by the enemy, they should never learn the secret of Gaurikanta. In a situation like that, the head slave has been told to open the door with one blow of his hammer—’
‘And the river will flood in, destroying the secret forever,’ completed Dhamaka.
‘We will all die, swami,’ the young slave cried. ‘If water breaks in by accident. And the secret will be lost forever.’
Dhamaka snapped at the slave, ‘Hush, you idiot. If that door has held for three hundred years, it will hold for another three hundred. Do not scare the mahapradhana and make him do something rash.’
Skandadasa asked a slave to bring a table. He climbed up on it and started inspecting the ceiling door. He could hear the faint sound of water flowing on the other side. It must be high tide, he thought. He shuddered at the image of River Mahishi rushing into the underground workshop and flooding it. He could not understand why no one had bothered to seal it. If it was meant to destroy the workshop and the secret with it, it served no purpose when it was low tide. The river had changed course, leaving a slushy marshland. The slave who escaped with the stones had probably used this route.
‘When did it start leaking?’ Skandadasa asked.
The Rise of Sivagami : Book 1 of Baahubali - Before the Beginning Page 28