The Guardians of the Halahala

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “Hush dear,” the queen waved her hands urgently to silence Pralupi. Casting a glance at Himavardhan, who was sulking at his wife, the queen added, “Keep a hold on your tongue and your emotions.”

  Pralupi turned to her husband. “Why don’t you go and look at the swans on the lake?” she pointed toward the balcony.

  The prince’s face lit up and he trotted off. Pralupi took her mother’s elbow and propelled her out of Himavardhan’s earshot.

  “Why don’t you speak to Vikramaditya?” she whispered. “He loves you and will listen to you.”

  “Speak to him about what?” Queen Upashruti looked puzzled.

  “Making Ghatakarpara the next king of Vatsa.”

  The queen took a step back in surprise. “But dear, Shashivardhan is the rightful heir to Vatsa’s.”

  “Rightful?” The princess’s eyes flashed with jealousy and hatred. “If Shashivardhan were the rightful heir to Chandravardhan, he should have been here for today’s yajna. Isn’t that what’s expected of a crown prince? But no, while the rest of the royal household is here, Shashivardhan is in Kausambi, probably drowning himself in soma and squandering the treasury’s riches in some gambling house. Rightful, humph!”

  Queen Upashruti cast her eyes around helplessly, as if seeking a satisfactory answer in the dark recesses of the room. “But why would Chandravardhan even listen to your brother?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Pralupi pursued the matter. “Vikramaditya is about to become samrat, the most powerful man in Sindhuvarta. Chandravardhan is already a vassal of Avanti. Avanti’s army is infinitely superior to Vatsa’s - and the kingdom relies on our trade routes for its economy. Chandravardhan’s survival depends on us; he can’t refuse if Vikramaditya asks that Ghatakarpara be made his successor. Chandravardhan is smart enough to know that if he refuses, Avanti can crush him.”

  “Your brother will never agree to this,” the queen’s eyes were round with distress.

  “I don’t see why,” the princess’s voice was tinged with outrage at the possibility. “Doesn’t he love his nephew? Wouldn’t he want his nephew to rule a kingdom of his own?”

  “Of course Vikrama loves Ghatakarpara, dear. ” the queen fumbled, “But I don’t think he will listen.”

  At that moment, Himavardhan returned from the balcony. He held the rabbit up with both hands. “He wantss food.” “I’m talking to mother,” said Pralupi wearily, forcing some gentleness into her voice. “We’ll feed him in a little while. Please go and watch the swans.”

  “No,” Himavardhan stamped his foot adamantly, his mouth sagging. “Now, now. He wantss food.”

  Pralupi looked at her husband in exasperation, before giving in with a nod. As the prince walked toward the bedroom door, she turned back to the queen. “Talk to Vikramaditya, mother,” she hissed. “If not for me, at least do it for your grandson.”

  Queen Upashruti watched the door close behind her daughter and son-in-law and sighed. Perhaps she would broach the subject with Vikramaditya after the rajasuya yajna, she thought without relish.

  ***

  Two pairs of eyes followed Princess Pralupi and her husband as they walked out of the queen’s boudoir, descended a flight of stairs, crossed an open courtyard and disappeared down a corridor.

  The eyes belonged to two men who sat on an ironwork bench, just inside an arched arbor laced with sweet-smelling jasmine. One of them was in his late fifties, lean and tall, his austere face highlighted by a pair of shrewd black eyes under bushy gray eyebrows that complemented a thick crop of gray beard. The few wisps of hair that had escaped from under his deep purple turban were of the same gray hue. Acharya Vetala Bhatta, royal tutor and chief advisor to the king of Avanti, wore his age with pride and dignity.

  “Did she come to meet you?” Vetala Bhatta finally broke the silence, gesturing toward the retreating form of Princess Pralupi.

  The man seated beside the Acharya shook his head. He was much younger, a shade over forty, short and lean in build. His body was sinewy, the muscles constantly rippling under his skin like trapped energy looking for an outlet. Locks of jet-black hair fell down to his shoulders, and he sported a heavy black moustache on his lip and a bright red tilaka on his forehead.

  “No. Why would she? She doesn’t care much for me... never did. I’m only her half-brother, born to her father of another woman.”

  Vetala Bhatta glanced sharply at his companion. “I don’t think that’s true – she does care for you. She just doesn’t show it easily.”

  The younger man turned and smiled at the Acharya sadly. “You know that’s a lie, raj-guru.”

  Vetala Bhatta gave this some thought before inclining his head. It was a lie and Vararuchi, half-brother to Princess Pralupi and King Vikramaditya, had seen through it.

  “The truth is that Pralupi probably doesn’t care much for anyone other than herself,” the Acharya said, choosing honesty this time, and speaking from his experience of having tutored the children for years and seen them grow up. “So, don’t judge her too harshly.”

  “I don’t,” replied Vararuchi. “Actually, I feel a strange sympathy for her. She is the princess of Avanti, the most powerful kingdom in Sindhuvarta, but she has to live with a man who can barely take care of himself. I don’t think father acted wisely when he decided to marry her off to Himavardhan. She deserved better. I’ll never understand why he did it.”

  “Those were hard times, Vararuchi... you were old enough, so you should know that,” Vetala Bhatta reminded patiently. “The Hunas and Sakas had to be repelled, and Avanti needed to form strong alliances to fight the invaders. Chandravardhan of Vatsa was an obvious choice, but he declined to accept Pralupi’s hand in marriage. Instead, Chandravardhan proposed her marriage to his brother and... Well, King Mahendraditya made that choice for Avanti.”

  The two men sat quietly for a while. It was obvious that despite the difference in age – and their relationship as mentor and pupil – the two shared a close bond. At last, Vararuchi raised his face to the clear blue sky.

  “Father would be a very proud man today. He always believed that Vikramaditya was destined to achieve great things... he would often tell me so when we went hunting,” the sadness lifted from Vararuchi’s eyes as he spoke. “Today his son, the king of Avanti, will become samrat of Sindhuvarta.”

  Vetala Bhatta studied Vararuchi briefly before nodding. “Yes, he would be proud – of both his sons. Of his younger son, who will soon be Samrat Vikramaditya... and of you, for having ruled Avanti wisely till Vikramaditya was old enough to become king.” The Acharya clapped Vararuchi warmly on the shoulder and smiled. “Vikramaditya and the court of Avanti owe you a great deal.”

  The younger man returned the smile. “Thank you for your kindness, raj-guru. But everything I did was out of love for my little brother. And because of the promise I made to father on his deathbed. I gave him my word that as his elder son, I would always stand by my brother and ensure that Avanti’s glory remains untarnished.”

  The Acharya squinted up at the sun and quickly began rising to his feet. “In that case, you had better hurry up and get ready. The auspicious hour for your brother’s yajna is nearly upon us.”

  ***

  A metronomic clanging of temple bells and gongs rent the morning calm, sending droves of frightened pigeons into flight. Below, under an ancient banyan tree, stood the royal temple, white smoke wafting out of its doors and windows. The atmosphere was redolent with the scent of sambrani and camphor, while somber incantations pervaded the space between each toll of the bells. Outside the temple, junior priests clad in white stood in two rows, their lips moving silently as they repeated the mantras and hymns being recited inside.

  Behind the priests and slightly to the left, a group of four men were standing, conversing in low voices. They were Acharya Vetala Bhatta, Vararuchi, Dhanavantri and Amara Simha, the last a short, brawny man with a barrel-like chest and heavily muscled arms. His head was a shock of reddish- brown hair, and his large b
eard and big curling moustache were the same color. He had fierce black eyes that tended to stare combatively at everything.

  The pealing of the bells and the incantations ceased, signaling the end of a sacred rite. As the priests outside began raising salutations to the gods, three figures emerged from the temple’s smoky sanctum. While the first was a Brahman priest, senior in age and bearing, the second was Queen Upashruti.

  The third was a tall and stately man of about thirty- five. He had a calm and assured gait, and it was plain that authority rested easily on his broad shoulders. Glossy, black hair reached down to his shoulders, while perceptive black eyes gazed out from under finely arched eyebrows. A rich moustache complemented the strong, chiselled chin. The man possessed a unique kinetic magnetism, and all eyes were drawn to him the moment he emerged into the open.

  Glancing in the direction of Vetala Bhatta, the man spoke briefly to the head priest. He then approached the Acharya, folded his hands and bowed deeply.

  “Bless me, raj-guru,” he said.

  “You have my blessings, my king,” the royal councilor replied.

  “I seek your blessings not as your king, but as your pupil,” the man insisted. “Guide me with your wisdom as you have in the past, and help me lead Avanti to even greater glory.”

  Vetala Bhatta’s face softened and he smiled. “You have my blessings, Vikramaditya. As samrat of Sindhuvarta, may you rule wisely and justly, and be known as the greatest of kings.”

  Vikramaditya turned to Vararuchi and bowed. “I seek your blessings too, brother.”

  “You already have more than that,” Vararuchi smiled at the king. “My life is at your service, brother. Lead Avanti well, Samrat Vikramaditya.”

  The king looked down at Vararuchi affectionately. “I am not samrat yet, brother. Not till the yajna is over.”

  “To father and me, you always were samrat.”

  At a loss for words, Vikramaditya stared at Vararuchi for a moment. Then, in a rush of emotion, he embraced his brother. As they disengaged, Vararuchi spoke again.

  “Mother sends you her blessings.”

  The king looked at his brother in surprise. “Oh, but isn’t she coming for the yajna?”

  “A palanquin was sent to fetch her, but she couldn’t come. It’s the arthritis.”

  “Is it getting worse?” Vikramaditya searched Vararuchi’s face in concern.

  “She’s in great pain,” the elder brother shrugged, his eyes clouding with worry.

  “Why doesn’t she...” The king interrupted his train of thought and addressed Dhanavantri. “Isn’t there something you can do for badi-maa?”

  “Why wasn’t I informed about this earlier?” The fat councilor regarded Vararuchi with the peculiar reproach that practitioners of medicine reserve, when confronted with ailments that have aggravated owing to lack of care or indifference. Turning back to Vikramaditya, he said, “I had prescribed her some medications a while back, and I believed she had got better. Nobody told me that she’s... Anyway, I will pay her a visit as soon as we’re done with the yajna”

  Reassured, the king turned his attention to the Acharya.

  “Has everyone else arrived?”

  “Chandravardhan and his court are here. As are King Baanahasta, King Bhoomipala, and the five chiefs of the Anarta Federation. And I’ve just been told that King Siddhasena and his sons from Magadha arrived at the palace a little while ago.”

  “And King Harihara?” Vikramaditya glanced back at Dhanavantri.

  “We escorted him safely to Ujjayini last night.”

  “He was a friend of father’s, and is one of our oldest allies,” the king nodded in satisfaction. He began walking toward the palace grounds, where the sacrificial fire was lit, and palace staff and priests were busy preparing for the yajna. As the others fell in step, Vikramaditya turned to Dhanavantri.

  “So Kulabheda didn’t really present any problems, did he?”

  “Hardly,” Dhanavantri shrugged his fat shoulders. “From what Kalidasa tells me, the rogue was too busy getting drunk on soma and courting Princess Rukma to offer much resistance.”

  “Well, at least he gave Kalidasa and you a break from the monotony of peace,” the king smiled. “Kalidasa keeps insisting that this peace is getting too tedious.”

  “And so he gets rewarded with a battle, while my axe accumulates rust from lack of use,” Amara Simha grumbled good-naturedly. “Some people have all the luck.”

  “I admit it was unfair to have denied you a battle, Amara Simha,” the Acharya permitted himself a grin. “Unpardonable.”

  “Yes, but sending both Kalidasa and Amara Simha to remove Kulabheda would have been like using a hammer to crush an ant,” Vararuchi remarked, putting a friendly arm around Amara Simha’s hefty shoulders.

  “Then I should have been sent to Heheya instead of Kalidasa,” Amara Simha insisted stubbornly.

  “If you had gone there, King Harihara’s palace would have needed a lot of rebuilding before it became habitable again,” Dhanavantri chuckled and poked Amara Simha in the ribs. “And that would have been the end of the Avanti- Heheya alliance.”

  The men laughed heartily as the concourse slowly threaded its way toward the palace grounds. Not far away, seated under a neem tree, a sadhu watched the group closely, his keen eyes observing Vikramaditya, the same sadhu the boatman had ferried to Ujjayini earlier that morning.

  The sadhu had found the man he had come for.

  ***

  In a large room in the royal palace, a young man of around twenty stood before a full-length mirror made of bronze and tin alloy. Though not very tall, he was well-proportioned, possessing the natural agility of youth toned by hours spent in martial training. His fair, clean-shaven face was rakishly handsome, his large, black eyes full of vitality – and a touch of haughtiness that comes naturally to the high-born.

  Using an ivory comb, the young man carefully brushed the thick mop of hair away from his forehead, before applying kohl to his eyes. When he was done, he pulled on a cloak and pinned a gold ceremonial medallion of Avanti to it. Finally, he picked up a short sword from a side table and thrust it into a scabbard slung at his waist.

  He was admiring his reflection in the polished metal one last time when someone knocked at his door.

  “Come in,” he called, his eyes still on the mirror.

  The door opened to admit a sentry. “A rider from the garrison of Udaypuri seeks an audience, your honor,” he announced.

  “The rider wants to see me?” The young man turned, his eyebrows rising fractionally. He then shook his head in confusion, a few locks of hair slipping out of place and falling partially over his eyes. “What for? He should report to the command center here. That’s the protocol.”

  “He insists on delivering his message in person, your honor.”

  “Then tell him he will have to wait. It’s almost time for the yajna and I have to be with the king.”

  “I told the rider as much, but he says it’s urgent, your honor,” the sentry shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “He says he has something very important to share.”

  The young man frowned, but nodded as intrigue got the better of him. The sentry went out, and moments later, the rider stood at the door, covered in dust from head to toe. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, and from the way he swayed, it appeared he was on the brink of exhaustion.

  “Salutations to Prince Ghatakarpara... Glory to Avanti and...”

  Prince Ghatakarpara raised an impatient hand to stay the rider, then beckoned him in. “You say this is urgent, so get on with it.”

  The rider shut the door behind him and moved forward. “I bring a personal message from Atulyateja, garrison commander of Udaypuri,” he rasped hoarsely. “Three days ago...”

  “Atulyateja has sent you?” Ghatakarpara’s face cleared and he smiled. “How is my old friend? I’ve seen so little of him since he left Ujjayini to take command of his own garrison.”

  The rider was silent, un
sure about how to respond to this. The prince sensed the rider’s uncertainty and snapped out of his reverie.

  “What’s the message that Atulyateja has for me?” he demanded, leaning theatrically against an ornamental colonnade.

  “Your honor, three days ago, a captain of the Frontier Guard was found unconscious in the hills close to Udaypuri. All the fingers on the captain’s hands were missing, and he had lost a lot of blood. The physicians and nurses at the garrison tended to him, and yesterday afternoon he finally regained consciousness.”

  “Continue.” The young prince injected lazy authority into his voice.

  “The captain says that he was part of a patrol stationed at the edge of the Arbuda Mountains – the western edge, close to the Great Desert.”

  Ghatakarpara dropped the studied poise and went rigid. He sensed what was coming.

  “It seems his outpost was destroyed and all his men were massacred.” The rider paused to swallow hard. “The captain says the attackers were the band of Hunas.”

  “How can he be sure?” Ghatakarpara narrowed his eyes.

  “He says they all had the hriiz on their foreheads.”

  “How did the captain survive the attack?”

  “They chopped off his fingers and let him go – with a message for our king. They told him they are coming back to conquer Sindhuvarta.”

  The rider’s words and their horrific implications sent a chill through the prince.

  “Commander Atulyateja instructed me to deliver this to you in confidence, as he didn’t want to cause unnecessary panic, your honor.”

  Ghatakarpara responded with a grim nod. He saw why Atulyateja had dispatched a rider instead of using the suryayantras to communicate the news to Ujjayini. The suryayantra system would have been faster, but far less discreet. Too many people would have learned of the attack, and once tongues started wagging, nothing could prevent distress and fear from spreading among the populace.