The Guardians of the Halahala

by Shatrujeet Nath

  Varahamihira gave this thoughtful consideration. “You’re right,” he said at last. “Stuffing the Imperial Army with the best brains defeats the purpose of creating a strong Frontier Guard. We must...” He paused as his glance went to the door, where Vetala Bhatta had just made a re-entry. “What happened, raj-guru? Is there a problem?”

  The Acharya remained silent as he returned to the table, lowered himself into his chair and studied the faces looking at him. When he turned to the samrat, his tone was sober and measured. “The rider has brought news from our spies in the east. King Siddhasena is dead.”

  A hush fell over the chamber, which was broken by Dhanavantri. “Poor man, he didn’t look too well to me when he was here for the rajasuya yajna. I intended prescribing him...”

  “Siddhasena didn’t die of illness or age,” the raj-guru interrupted the royal physician. “He was apparently killed-pushed down a flight of steps in the palace of Girivraja.”

  The expressions on the councilors’ faces turned to shock and revulsion.

  “Who pushed him?” Vikramaditya demanded.

  “It seems it was his bodyguard, Sajaya.”

  “That’s impossible,” cried Vararuchi. “I have seen Sajaya in battle by Siddhasena’s side. He is the sort of soldier who is prepared to give his life for his king. He couldn’t have been disloyal to Siddhasena.”

  “Yet, it is being made out as a Kikata conspiracy against Magadha,” the Acharya shrugged. “Sajaya belonged to the Kikata tribe.”

  “Were there any witnesses to the guard’s act?” the samrat leaned forward and scrutinized Vetala Bhatta’s face closely. “There was one – Shoorasena himself.”

  The king raised his eyebrows in surprise. “And the guard has admitted to killing the king?”

  The raj-guru shook his head slowly. “It seems he was killed by Shoorasena in revenge.”

  As the councilors digested this news, the samrat leaned back in his chair. “Things are not going well in Magadha,” he said, staring into the distance.

  “Not well, meaning...?” Vararuchi asked cautiously.

  “I mean what’s happening in Magadha is bad news for the rest of us in Sindhuvarta.” Vikramaditya looked at the puzzled faces staring at him. “I’ll explain... When the deva Narada was here, trying to buy our friendship and negotiate an agreement for the dagger, there was something that he said which struck me.”

  The king paused for breath, and Kalidasa cut in. “I remember him saying that there is trouble brewing in the east.”

  “Precisely,” said Vikramaditya, snapping his fingers. “Perhaps this was what Narada was referring to.”

  The councilors exchanged glances, their faces pensive. At last Varahamihira spoke.

  “The Hunas and Sakas in the west, a sightless, nameless evil from the south, and now Magadha to the east... I wonder what nasty surprises the north has in store for us.”

  ***

  Muffled footsteps accompanied the hooded figure as it slipped through the darkened bylanes of Udaypuri, keeping to the shadows as far as possible. The figure was moving in a northerly direction, away from the fort and the town center, heading toward the seamier quarters of Udaypuri, where the houses got progressively smaller, and the streets became narrower and more squalid.

  The only thing that appeared to increase in this congested part of the garrison town was poverty. And organized crime.

  Yet, the figure pressed forward without the slightest hint of trepidation, leaping over open, overflowing drains, and twisting in and out of the stench-filled maze with familiarity. Finally, having climbed up a small deserted alley, the figure came to a halt in front of an anonymous building with a rough, wooden door.

  Making a quick check of the surroundings, the figure rapped on the door, four times in quick succession. Almost immediately, a latch rattled inside, and the door opened a few inches. Dim light squeezed out of the crack, as a rough voice spoke from behind the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” the figure mumbled, pushing the hood back to expose his head and face.

  The man inside raised a lamp in inspection. The next moment, the door swung open to admit the visitor.

  “Welcome, sir,” said the man, ushering the guest into an anteroom before bolting the door behind him.

  “It hasn’t started, I hope?” the visitor inquired as he shrugged off his cloak.

  “No sir. We have a little more time to go.” After a pause, the usher added, “Your friend is awaiting you in the last room.”

  The visitor walked past the anteroom into a long passage with doors on both sides. Making his way to the far end of the passage, he pushed a door open without bothering to knock.

  A fat, middle-aged man was inside the room, seated on a battered divan. This was Aatreya, one of the biggest merchants of millet and turmeric in the province of Malawa.

  “Come, come,” said Aatreya, looking up with a smile. Patting the vacant spot on the divan, he added, “Do be seated. For a moment I thought you wouldn’t be coming today – I’ve been waiting for half an hour. What took you so long, governor?”

  “There’s no way I wouldn’t have come,” Satyaveda hummed in response, pressing a few rebellious strands of hair back on to his sparse scalp. “After all, tonight’s fight is special. It’s just that there are these guests from the royal palace whom I had to entertain – that’s what delayed me.” Once the governor made himself comfortable, Aatreya leaned closer to him. “So, do you have anything useful for me?” he asked, dropping his voice.

  Satyaveda searched the folds of his robe and extracted a crude palm leaf scroll. Handing it to the merchant, he said, “This has all the information on the troops that have been deployed along the frontier of Malawa. The strength of troops at key points, defense installations, signal systems that have been set up... everything.”

  “Excellent,” Aatreya beamed. “I shall have this sent across tomorrow.”

  “Careful you don’t lose it – I got my hands on it with a lot of difficulty. Also, let the courier know that the garrison is now under the command of Councilor Amara Simha, who is personally overseeing troop movements. I’m sure your friends from the desert would remember him.”

  “Our friends from the desert,” Aatreya corrected. “I assume the councilor is one of the guests from Ujjayini whom you’re busy entertaining?”

  “Yes,” replied Satyaveda. “The other is Ghatakarpara, the king’s nephew.”

  “Nice, nice... This information should fetch us a bonus.” Aatreya reached into a bag he was carrying and pulled out a small pouch tied with a string. He shook the pouch and grinned at the heavy jingle of coins. “Here’s your share for the previous bit of information.”

  The governor smiled as he accepted the pouch. “Come now, let’s go. We shouldn’t miss the fight,” he said, rising.

  The two men retraced their steps down the passage and turned left into a filthy storeroom, where the man who had ushered in Satyaveda sat on a stool. On seeing the guests, he rose and went to a large metal chest standing in one corner. Pushing the chest aside, he opened a trapdoor on the floor.

  Satyaveda and Aatreya slid through the concealed trapdoor and climbed down a rough, wooden ladder. At the bottom of the ladder was a small room, with a window set in the far wall. The window was covered with a wire mesh, through which lamplight poured in. The murmur of conversation also wafted in from the direction of the window.

  Satyaveda approached the window and looked out, his eyes shining in anticipation. The window overlooked a mud pit, with wooden seats arranged around it in rising tiers. The crude amphitheater was packed with men of the working class, talking and shouting jovially. On opposite sides of the mud pit sat two men, each holding a large gamecock. One bird was black and the other was reddish brown.

  “Which one would it be, sirs?”

  The governor turned to see the usher standing behind him and Aatreya. “I will go with the defender, of course,” said Satyaveda, throwing the pouch that
he had just received from the merchant to the usher.

  “A costly mistake, my friend,” smiled Aatreya, handing another pouch to the usher. “My money is on the black challenger tonight. I’ve heard he’s quite a champion in the province of Gosringa.”

  “But there’s only one champion in Malawa and that’s my red king.”

  “Red king indeed... red with his own blood tonight, I say,” chuckled Aatreya as he joined Satyaveda at the window.

  “His blood or the challenger’s... we’ll see,” the governor retorted.

  The two men watched the mud pit from their private cubicle, one of three reserved for special guests of the house. Guests born into nobility or holding offices of rank and privilege; people who couldn’t be seen mingling with the rabble of Udaypuri. Yet, people wealthy enough to wager huge sums of money on the illegal sport of cockfighting.

  A referee stepped into the mud pit and started reading out the rules, but his voice was almost drowned by the cheering of the men around the arena. At last, the referee stepped back and gestured for the fight to commence. Instantly, the gamecocks flew from their owners’ grasps and began circling one another, hackles raised.

  As a roar went up around the mud pit, Satyaveda licked his lips and watched the birds, his eyes popping out of their sockets, perspiration beading his brow. And when the cocks lunged at one another, filled with murderous rage, the governor’s eyes partially closed in ecstasy.

  It wasn’t the prospect of winning a wager that excited Satyaveda. At one level, he didn’t particularly care if his favorite red king was slaughtered by the black challenger and he had to leave the clandestine arena empty-handed. What really set his pulse racing was the sight of the birds hacking and pecking at one another, feathers flying in all directions as they clawed and gouged in a desperate struggle to stay alive.

  The thrill these bloody fights offered was the only thing the governor lived for these days.

  Besides the deep, bottomless yearning for revenge, that is.

  ***

  Dhanavantri awoke with a start.

  For a second or two, disoriented, he stared at the dimness around him. Then his mind slowly registered the soft glow of a low-lit lamp, the insistent pressure of a hand shaking his leg, and a woman’s voice coming from somewhere near the foot of his bed.

  “Get up...”

  The physician struggled to push himself up on one elbow. “What is it?” he mumbled, blinking his eyes at the small, stout silhouette of his wife Madari standing by the bedside.

  “The samrat has sent for you,” answered Madari. “There’s a chariot waiting outside to take you to the palace. It seems you are needed at the queen’s bedchamber.”

  “Why? What’s happened?” The physician’s voice rose sharply in alarm as he slid off the bed. “Is the queen all right?”

  “The messenger with the chariot says Vishakha spoke... and she moved her eyes.”

  “What!”

  Dhanavantri stopped in his tracks and looked at his wife in amazement.

  “He doesn’t appear to know anything more than that,” Madari shrugged.

  The physician gathered himself with an effort. “Let the messenger know that I will be with him in a moment,” he said.

  When Dhanavantri hurried into Vishakha’s chamber ten minutes later, he was greeted by the anxious yet hopeful faces of the palace household. Vikramaditya stood by one side of Vishakha’s bed, while on the other, Kshapanaka sat stroking her sister’s hand gently. Queen Mother Upashruti sat on a stool beside Kshapanaka, conversing with the nurse in low tones. The Acharya, Vararuchi and Kalidasa had arranged themselves a little behind the king.

  Vishakha herself, however, lay inert on her bed, staring vacantly into space.

  Approaching the bed, the physician looked around the room. “Who can tell me exactly what happened?” he asked softly.

  “They said she spoke,” said Kshapanaka looking up, her lips quivering, eyes moist with joy. “She’s recovering.”

  Dhanavantri nodded, overcome by a sudden surge of compassion for Kshapanaka. As a junior physician, he had had occasion to treat King Vallabha for gout, and it was during those visits to the kingdom of Nishada that he had first seen the sisters as little girls. Even back then, Kshapanaka and Vishakha had shared a close bond, one that grew stronger after their father left them in the protection of Avanti, so he could fight the Hunas without fearing for their safety. It was the girls’ attachment and interdependence that had helped them overcome the trauma of the massacre at Vallabha’s court, the tragedy bringing the sisters even closer in the years that followed.

  And then the horrible accident had occurred. Dhanavantri was aware that Vishakha’s condition had not only deprived Kshapanaka of her closest companion, it had also orphaned her emotionally. Which was why, for two years, she had lavished Vishakha with all her care and attention, doing everything in her capacity to revive the queen’s old self. So, it was only natural that a small spark of hope had now been kindled in the younger sister’s heart.

  “Who heard the queen speak?” he looked around the bedchamber, gulping at the small lump that had formed in his throat.

  Two maids stepped forward in response to the question. “What did she say?” asked Dhanavantri. “Tell me everything in detail.”

  “Your honor, as usual, I was seated by the queen when I noticed that a draft had begun blowing through the room,” said one of the maids, speaking with remarkable coherence.

  “When was this?” the physician interrupted.

  “About fifteen minutes ago, sir. I realized the queen would feel cold, so I asked her to fetch a quilt.” The maid pointed to the girl standing next to her. “It was while we were tucking the quilt around the queen that she spoke.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, your honor. We both heard her.”

  The second girl looked at Dhanavantri with big, round eyes and nodded.

  “What did the queen say?”

  “We are not sure, your honor, because her words came out in a moan. But it sounded like ‘rain water’.”

  Again, the second girl nodded in agreement.

  The physician glanced quickly at the faces around. “Is that all? I was told she moved her eyes as well.”

  “Yes, your honor. We were startled, so we looked at the queen. And she seemed to look straight at us. I mean, not like... usual. Then her eyes moved. First a slight flicker to the left. then she looked that way.” The maid pointed toward the window at the end of the room. “She stared into that side for a little while. Then she looked back at us and...”

  The maid’s face fell in disappointment. “...and she was back like this.”

  “Okay, I want...” Dhanavantri was about to issue a set of instructions when Vetala Bhatta took a step forward.

  “I can try to read the queen’s mind again,” he offered. With a short pause, he added, “If I have the permission of everyone here, that is. Especially you.” The raj-guru looked at Dhanavantri.

  Before the physician had a chance to reply, Vikramaditya spun around to face the Acharya. “Would you do it for us?” he asked eagerly. “You will see what’s in her mind?”

  “I can try... if our physician permits.”

  “I see no harm in it, so why not?” Dhanavantri stepped back to make room for the chief advisor.

  “Fetch me my spear,” the Acharya commanded.

  A couple of minutes later, Vetala Bhatta stood at the foot of the bed, eyes closed, one hand gripping the spear, which was adorned with two human skulls near its sharp, pointed tip. His other hand was rolled into a fist and was pressed against his chest. The raj-guru moved his lips in whispers, the incantations barely audible in the heavy, loaded silence. The skulls on the spear burned a dull red, light emerging from their cavities, as if lit from inside. The sight of the glowing skulls made the two maids shrink back in fear.

  After a considerable passage of time – it could have been minutes but it seemed like hours to those in the bedchamber – the
raj-guru opened his eyes and lowered his hand. He observed Vishakha’s face for a moment, then looked up at the ring of expectant faces.

  “I could see or read nothing,” he announced with a solemn sigh. “All I was able to hear was the galloping of horse hooves, same as the last few times. Her mind is otherwise completely dark. Nothing’s changed – I’m sorry for getting your hopes up.”

  As the Acharya moved away, Kshapanaka’s eyes brim¬med and a tear rolled down her cheek. Queen Upashruti immediately put a comforting arm around her. Dhanavantri stole a quick glance at the samrat, who looked away from the bed in disappointment.

  “Okay... Here onwards, I want the queen to be under constant observation,” the physician said, stepping forward to fill the vacuum with some hope. As he bent to examine Vishakha, he added, “If such an occurrence were to happen again, we shouldn’t miss it. Now I suggest we leave the queen to rest.”

  As the room began clearing, Kshapanaka looked from Vikramaditya to Dhanavantri with pleading eyes. “I’d like to stay awhile,” she said. “Can I?”

  The king and the physician nodded before joining the others on the way out. Once they were out of the room, everyone huddled around Dhanavantri.

  “What do you make of this?” inquired Queen Upashruti.

  “It’s hard to say, queen mother,” the physician shrugged.

  “This has never happened in the last two years,” pointed out Vikramaditya. “It has to be a sign of recovery.”

  “Probably a partial return of consciousness,” Dhanavantri agreed. “We will know for sure only if we observe it happening a few more times.”

  “Is there some new medicine that you recently administered her?” probed the raj-guru.

  “Well, it’s not really recent, but I have been prescribing her dosages of ashwagandha for the last five months. I’ve only lately discovered that ashwagandha has some curative properties for memory disorders. Perhaps the medicine is slowly taking effect.”