This time, he somersaulted; neatly landing just before me on the ground so that the sword thrust would be from an angle below. Once again, I remembered my lessons and used the Asi to parry, pulling back to give myself enough space to use the Khadaga. Vishnugopa, realizing how vulnerable that left his neck, rolled away and quickly sprung back on his feet.
Round three. This time I attacked, unleashing my quick-silver thrusts to force Vishnugopa to fight conventionally, not giving him the time to use his acrobatics to break my rhythm. Hack. Hack. Hack. My Asi hissed in the air nicking his forearms and neck, forcing him to pull back to catch his breath. I saw a look of wariness in his eyes – Vishnugopa had no idea I knew Silambam. And without the novelty of his martial art, he was no match for me in brute strength or stamina.
Round four. I rushed in, swirling the Khadaga broadsword. Beloved of Yama, the God of Death, the Khadaga is a deadly weapon when yielded with the right amount of force and at the right angle. Broader and heavier than the Asi, it can shatter smaller swords and cleanly decapitate a man in the blink of an eye. Hack. Hack. Hack. Once again, I was too quick for Vishnugopa to try his tumbling and pirouetting. As he saw the Khadaga swish in the air, he pulled back in alarm, just in time for the blade to neatly slice through his breastplate, exposing his torso to its lethal lick.
‘A broadsword to take on a whipcord?’ shouted Vishnugopa. ‘How’s that a fair fight?’
I shrugged. ‘Drop one of your weapons and I will do the same,’ I said.
Vishnugopa dropped his metal whip. He realized that without his Silambam moves, the metal whip would not be as effective as a sword. I let the Khadaga drop to the ground and saw relief flood his eyes. His shorter sword against my Asi was, to him, as level a field as it could get. What Vishnugopa didn’t know was though I could use both hands to wield a weapon, I was in fact left-handed. So my thrusts would come at an angle he would find very difficult to block.
Round five. I allowed Vishnugopa to return to position and then rushed in with full force. I saw the surprise in his eyes as I moved the Asi from my right hand to my left, and moments later I was angling a flurry of lunges that each targeted his now exposed flank. The blows came down at him from left to right, which meant that his left flank was left unprotected by the sword in his right hand. Vishnugopa clumsily blocked the first couple of slashes but the speed and the angle were disturbing his weapon’s rhythm. My Asi hovered around his left flank, making him focus on defence rather than attack. Five, six, seven, eight, nine … On the tenth thrust, the Asi tip found the flank it was looking for and dug in. Vishnugopa flinched in terror, giving me time to retrieve my weapon and come back for his jugular. He saw the Asi tip sail through the air and tried to lean away from its tongue. Unfortunately, he stumbled on his own metal whip and fell backwards, twisting his sword arm in the process. I walked over and held the tip of my Asi at his throat.
For what seemed like an eternity, Vishnugopa held my gaze. And then, slowly, he lowered his eyes.
‘Had enough?’ I asked.
The grey eyes looked away as if trying to take in the destruction all around. Then he looked up to meet my gaze. The thin lips stayed pursed for a moment more and then he murmured the words I wanted to hear.
‘I humbly offer atma nivedan to your Garuda protection, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘I swear I shall always be a loyal ally to the empire.’
I turned around to bump straight into Harisena. There was no arch on my best friend’s brow. Harisena looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘It’s Princess Angai. She’s surrounded.’
I looked at Vishnugopa, still slumped on the ground next to his weapons. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ whispered Harisena. ‘Go. Before it’s too late.’
I jumped on my horse and galloped through that seething, teeming, raving mass of men, holding my Garuda pennant aloft for my men to see and pull back, allowing me to ride through.
I heard the howls first. My men sounded like a pack of jackals, bloodthirsty and maddened with hunger. She was hobbling, her armour shattered, her metal whip flung to a far corner, her clothes torn. She was covered in scratches and there was a deep gash on her right thigh. Her forearms were bloodied and her once blindingly swift movements were now slow and heavy, as if draining her of whatever energy was left in that lithe body.
‘Stop,’ I shouted. ‘I command you.’
In that tumult, my voice had been drowned. The circle was closing in on her. The mob screamed and jeered, laughed and poked her with their swords and spears. She tried to fend off the attacks, in vain. There were just too many of them. I saw the panic in her eyes. Meenakshi, I liked to call them, unblinking like those of a fish. The blades pushed and prodded, making her jerk and flail her Kampu staff, the only weapon she had left. And then it happened.
I watched in horror as a spear flew through the air in slow motion and buried itself in her belly. She stumbled and fell. I spurred my horse into that bloody circle, half-crazed with grief and rage. I slid off the horse and ran full tilt into the still baying crowd, my sword unsheathed. ‘Stand back,’ I roared. ‘Anyone who touches her is a dead man.’
My men moved back, surprised, frightened to see their emperor rushing in. I pulled out the spear with one big heave and used my uttaria scarf to tightly bandage her abdomen. She groaned and licked her cracked lips. I lifted her up and carried her to my horse. She slumped against me and sighed, almost relieved. I held on to her tightly so she wouldn’t slide off the horse but she turned limp in my arms. Her head lolled forwards. Her warm skin, which once breathed fire into my soul, was now cold and clammy. Her breathing was shallow, laboured. I felt life draining from her. ‘Don’t give up,’ I shouted into her ear. ‘You’re a warrior. Fight back.’
As I rode away from the battlefield, I heard her speak softly into my chest. ‘You came back,’ she said, gently smiling.
It took us several days more to hammer out the treaty that officially declared Kanchi’s atma nivedan to the Garuda banner. Angai remained in bed all through though she slowly regained strength with each passing day. By the time we were ready to leave, she could sit up when I dropped by to visit. We walked on eggshells around each other, talking about this and that – the weather, the rice payasam that Harisena had acquired a taste for, my Silambam practice and my daily trips to the ocean’s edge.
‘For someone who has grown up surrounded by land, you sure are the Ocean’s Own,’ she joked.
‘I close my eyes and all I see is a blue eternity,’ I said.
Angai laughed. ‘As you should, Maharaja Adhiraja Samrat Sri Samudragupta. Destroyer of kings. Ruler of the world. Prithivim Avitva Divam Jayatya Prativarya Virya (king of kings, ruler of heaven and earth, protector of all four realms).’
I laughed, not wanting to talk of the destruction and bloodshed that had come with that title, not knowing what to say that wouldn’t hurt either of us. I was leaving Kanchi a ghost of its former self. I couldn’t forget what we’d done any more than she could forgive.
Then she said, ‘You must write it in stone. So people won’t forget. That there was once a man who wanted to own the ocean. And it ended up owning him instead.’
I smiled. ‘Tell your tale in stone,’ she continued. ‘It will survive long after our memories have died.’
I looked away and saw Harisena patiently waiting for me at the doorway. He caught my eye and smiled. No more arched brows – my best friend was just happy to be going back to where we belonged. Away from the ocean. Away from Angai.
I turned back to her and saw her staring at the bright, cloudless sky through the window. I watched her profile silhouetted against that unspoiled blue and closed my eyes to sear the moment in my head. Years later, the memory of that proud head outlined in shadow against a brilliant patch of sky, was all I could remember of our last few moments together. That, and the lingering smell of Mogra and sandalwood.
‘I don’t think we will meet again, Princess,’ I said. ‘Not unless your brother and nephew get ideas in their h
ead about just how serious I am when it comes to the letter and spirit of the atma nivedan.’
‘My kinsmen may be proud but they are not suicidal,’ she replied quietly. ‘They know what you expect. They won’t risk having you back at our doorstep again.’
I nodded. Suddenly there were no more words left between us. I stared at my sword hilt and wondered how to say goodbye. When I looked up, I met her calm, unblinking, Meenakshi gaze.
‘If you were any less the man you are,’ she said softly, ‘I would beg you to take me with you.’
‘If you were any less the woman you are,’ I replied, ‘I would beg you to come with me.’
EPILOGUE—365 AD
A Future in the Stones
SOMETIMES MEMORIES PLAY TRICKS on us. The moments that we thought would live forever fade away, like colours draining from a painting. And all we are left with is a faint whiff of forgetfulness.
It’s been thirty years since my digvijay. I never went back to Kanchi. I never met Angai again. She became the unspoken name between Datta and myself, and in time I could no longer recall the details of that proud, fierce face. But every now and then, a sudden flash of cerulean blue would bring back memories. Of a conquest and a surrender. And my nose would fill with the fragrance of Mogra and sandalwood.
I am no longer a young man. When I think back and remember, I wonder if things really happened the way they did. And then I remember the pillar. It is all cast in stone, I tell myself.
It was Harisena who found the pillar in the Kosala capital of Koshambi – one of Ashok Priyadarshi’s stone messages, beautifully carved and in almost pristine condition. I didn’t mind sharing posterity with him. This blessed land that I now claim as mine belonged to many before and will belong to many after me. What better way to celebrate that continuity than through a link with the past carved in stone for the future?
Men and memories fade away. Time draws a shroud over both glory and ignominy. But my story, I know, will beat this inexorable oblivion. My story will survive. Long after I have gone.
For I am Maharaja Adhiraja Samrat Sri Samudragupta. Destroyer of kings. Ruler of the world. Prithivim Avitva Divam Jayatya Prativarya Virya.
I am the Ocean’s Own.
More than sixteen centuries later, the Prayag Pillar with Harisena’s prasasthi of Samudragupta still stands. More than a millennia after Kacha left his imprint on the Ashokan pillar, another monarch did the same – Mughal Emperor Jahangir. History truly has a way of joining the dots for posterity.
THE END
About the Book
An empire that stretches from coast to coast is not enough 3 for the son of Chandragupta. All he desires: to conquer the untamable oceans beyond.
338 CE.
A young ruler defeats the Naga kings of the north before claiming Dakshin in a series of blistering attacks no one had anticipated.
It is his conquest of Kanchi that brings him closer to the ocean he seeks to control and pits him against Angai: a young woman unlike any he has ever known. Sharp-witted, with an even sharper tongue, she has the conqueror’s ear ... and his heart. With her by his side, he prepares to do what even his father could not have dreamed of. To ensure the world would never forget the name Samudragupta.
A powerful prequel to The King Within and The Poisoned Heart, The Ocean’s Own tells the story of a king who dared to take his sword to the seas.
About the Author
Nandini Sen Gupta is a Pondicherry-based journalist and author of historical fiction and narrative history. After a chance visit to Ajanta Ellora caves, she became fascinated with India’s past in general and ancient India in particular. For the next ten years, she read history for fun. Her book credits include the bestselling The Blue Horse And Other Amazing Animals from Indian History (Hachette), which debuted in November 2020, The King Within and The Poisoned Heart, Books I and II of the Gupta Empire Trilogy by HarperCollins Publishers India and The Story of Kalidas: The Gem Among Poets by Eicher Goodearth Publications.
The Ocean’s Own is the third and final book in the Gupta Empire Trilogy. Nandini is currently writing her first narrative non-fiction biography to be published in 2022.
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First published in India by
HarperCollins Publishers in 2021
A-75, Sector 57, Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201301, India
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Copyright © Nandini Sengupta 2021
P-ISBN: 978-93-5357-965-4
Epub Edition © May 2021 ISBN: 978-93-5357-966-1
This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Nandini Sengupta asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved under The Copyright Act, 1957. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers India.
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Cover images: Bhavi Mehta (background), Wikimedia Commons (crown)
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