The Guardians of the Halahala

by Shatrujeet Nath

  Varahamihira noticed the emphasis in Vararuchi’s words. “Once we have fresh horses, we can pick up speed,” he said.

  “Right,” Vararuchi replied tightly, keeping his gaze averted.

  “You don’t like the idea of having the chariots,” the engineer’s eyes twinkled as he smiled.

  “Well, they are slowing us down,” Vararuchi admitted with a shrug.

  “Agreed, but we need them. We don’t have any archers, so we must have some sort of range weapons.”

  Vararuchi looked back to Varahamihira. “The chariots have hardly been through any trials. Are you certain they will work?”

  “We shall find out today.”

  Vararuchi turned away with a dissatisfied frown to see Kalidasa come up the knoll. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry, but was disappointed when he saw the giant’s somber face.

  “The stable master doesn’t have a thousand fresh horses to spare,” said Kalidasa. “At the most he can give us three hundred and fifty, maybe sixty. But honestly, even that looks difficult, as some horses are still recovering from illness.”

  “But how’s that possible?” asked Vararuchi in consternation. “This is a large station.”

  “Apparently, most of the horses that were here have been relocated to the west to service troop movements along the frontier. The stable master says that if he had been given a day’s notice, he could have made arrangements.”

  “Had we had a day’s notice, we wouldn’t have needed fresh horses,” Vararuchi said glumly. “If only all troubles gave a day’s notice before coming.”

  “I have anyway asked the stable master to replace as many horses as possible,” said Kalidasa. “And feed and water the rest. His men have started their work. We should be able to leave shortly.”

  Vararuchi nodded before returning to scan the southern horizon. With more than three hours of journey to go and less than a quarter of his cavalry replenished, the mounts would be on the threshold of exhaustion when his men met the pishachas crossing over from Heheya.

  The prospect of the battle suddenly appeared even bleaker to Vararuchi.

  ***

  The distant rumbling of thunder permeated Kshapanaka’s sleep, making her stir and open her eyes. She looked around vaguely for a moment, before turning to Vishakha, propped up in bed. Studying her sister’s blank face, Kshapanaka addressed one of the maids in the room.

  “The queen didn’t speak or move, did she?”

  “No, your honor.”

  “Are you certain?” The anxiety on Kshapanaka’s face was mirrored in her voice.

  “Yes, princess,” the elderly nurse replied in place of the maid. “I was watching over the queen while you had dozed off.” Approaching Kshapanaka, the nurse added kindly, “You must go and get some sleep. You haven’t slept all night.”

  Kshapanaka sighed and looked down at her lap, where a half-embroidered silk scarf lay along with a needle and a ball of fine yarn. She had been working on the scarf all morning, yet very little progress had been made, as her mind kept drifting to the events of the night before. Every minute or so, she had gazed at her sister, hoping that Vishakha would move or utter something – she had even tried speaking to the queen, repeating the words ‘rain water’ a few times, in a desperate bid to draw a response.

  But Vishakha had remained stubbornly indifferent, lost in a private world that no one had been able to fathom or breach for two years... ever since the day of that near-fatal accident. The day when joy had been so cruelly torn out of Kshapanaka and Vikramaditya’s lives, to be replaced with a shroud of irreparable sadness.

  “I’ll go in a little while,” Kshapanaka answered the nurse, picking up the embroidery. Even though she could feel the tiredness grating under her eyelids, she added, “I’m not so sleepy right now.”

  The needle went in and out of the silken scarf for a while, but as the memories came flooding back, Kshapanaka’s eyes prickled with tears and her hands dropped to her lap, limp and tired.

  Nishada was for the large part a hazy blot, though she did have faint recollections of Itti tai narrating stories to her and Vishakha by the palace pond, and of her father lifting her onto his shoulders, so she could pluck the ripe ber fruits growing in the royal orchards. Their arrival in Ujjayini was vivid, though, the size of the palace and its surrounding lake stirring awe in her. The initial years in Avanti had been carefree, the palace ringing with the shouts and laughter of children oblivious of the uncertainties and dangers lurking beyond the palace walls. But Kshapanaka’s first painful memory was the news of the Hunas sacking the kingdom of Nishada, and executing King Vallabha and the entire palace household in cold blood. She would never forget the helplessness she had felt watching Vishakha lie sobbing on Queen Upashruti’s lap that night...

  With nowhere to go, the orphaned sisters continued to reside in Ujjayini, where the harsh realities of the times slowly became more and more obvious. Not a day went by without bad news, as one by one, the raiding Hunas and Sakas conquered smaller kingdoms like Nishada. And even when the larger kingdoms of Sindhuvarta rallied together, tidings of defeat and death were commonplace.

  Kshapanaka remembered the day King Mahendraditya was brought back from the battlefront, grievously injured from a stab wound in his abdomen. She remembered watching his funeral procession leave the palace a few days later, and Vararuchi take an oath to rule Avanti till Vikramaditya was old enough to be king.

  With time, under the watchful tutelage of Acharya Vetala Bhatta, the children of the palace grew into skilled warriors – all except Vishakha, who abhorred violence in any form. Meanwhile, first under Vararuchi’s fierce leadership, and then – following his coronation – under Vikramaditya’s command, the kingdoms of Sindhuvarta regrouped, and inch by inch began forcing the invaders back till the last of the barbarian horsemen fled into the haze of the Great Desert.

  In the years of peace that followed, Vikramaditya wed Vishakha – a foregone conclusion, considering the couple had set their hearts on one another very early. The palace of Ujjayini quickly became a bower of great happiness and tranquility, but all that changed one sunny winter morning when calamity returned with a vengeance.

  That morning was indelibly branded in Kshapanaka’s mind, the glorious sunlight even now searing her soul, her heart pounding to the beat of horse hooves as Vishakha’s laughter, sparkling like freshly melted snow, filled her ears...

  The sisters had been riding in a meadow outside Ujjayini, ribbing each other playfully, when Kshapanaka had dared Vishakha to try and ride her horse. Although Vishakha was the more proficient rider, Kshapanaka’s mount was a notorious temperamental beast that few could master. Vishakha, however, accepted the challenge. A few gentle rounds around the meadow seemed to indicate that Vishakha had got the better of the horse, so she upped the pace to a full gallop, laughing gaily all the while at Kshapanaka’s astonishment.

  Then suddenly, without warning, the horse had reared, bucked and kicked wildly. Before either sister could react, Vishakha was thrown off the saddle, her head striking a rock protruding from the grass. Dhanavantri had later diagnosed that the fall had probably caused Vishakha a severe brain injury.

  All Kshapanaka knew was that it was the moment when her sister had gone away...

  “Princess, the queen mother is here,” the nurse whispered gently in her ear.

  Kshapanaka snapped out of her thoughts, deftly wiping her wet eyes before turning to the foot of the bed, where Queen Upashruti stood flanked by Princess Pralupi and Dhanavantri. Prince Himavardhan stood behind his wife, his mouth hanging open as he stared at Vishakha’s inert form.

  “Child, you look dreadful,” the Queen Mother exclaimed, observing Kshapanaka’s drawn face with concern.

  “It’s nothing, mother,” Kshapanaka struggled to summon a smile as she stood up. “I just haven’t slept much.”

  “You haven’t been up all night, have you?” Queen Upashruti paused before surveying the nurse and the maids with a critical shake of her head
. “Why didn’t you make sure the princess caught some sleep?” she demanded sharply.

  Before the nurse and maids could say anything in their defense, the queen came around the bed and took Kshapanaka tenderly by the shoulders.

  “Go and get some rest, child,” she said in a gentle, maternal fashion, almost bringing Kshapanaka to tears again. “We are all here to look after Vishakha. I promise that you will be informed if your sister shows even the slightest sign of revival.”

  Kshapanaka smiled gratefully at Queen Upashruti. At that moment, however, Himavardhan slipped from Pralupi’s shadow and approached Kshapanaka, his eyes on the embroidered scarf in her hands. He stared at the piece of cloth for a moment before sticking a hand out for it.

  “I want,” he said, looking at Kshapanaka awkwardly, his voice adamant. “I want.”

  Kshapanaka smiled wanly and unfurled the scarf, but didn’t hand it over to the prince. “Do you like it?” she asked.

  The man nodded, his eyes shining with eagerness.

  “It is not fully done, see?” Kshapanaka explained kindly, turning the scarf around to display the work. “Let me finish it. Then I promise to give this to you. Is that alright?”

  Himavardhan smiled and nodded his agreement before retreating to Pralupi, who exchanged a small smile of appreciation with Kshapanaka. A small crisis had been averted.

  Once Kshapanaka took her leave, everyone turned their attention to Vishakha. Dhanavantri once again checked her pulse and pupils, and gave the nurse a set of instructions.

  For a while, the Queen Mother stood watching Vishakha. When she saw that Dhanavantri was done, she nodded to Pralupi to signal that it was time to depart. “I shall be with the child for a while. You may leave.”

  As Pralupi exited the bedroom with Himavardhan trailing her, there was another roll of thunder, this time closer, coming from the north.

  “The thunder is almost constant. More rain in the offing, I suppose,” remarked Queen Upashruti to no one in particular.

  Dhanavantri nodded, but when he looked toward the open window, his eyes were uneasy. Something gave the physician the impression that it was not thunder, but the distant beat of horse hooves being carried their way by the wind.

  ***

  The state room at the palace of Girivraja was crammed with councilors, courtiers and palace attendants, pressed shoulder to shoulder in three tight concentric rings that went all the way back to the walls in descending order of rank and nobility. This formation left an open space in the center of the room, where Shoorasena and Kapila sat on their high chairs. Facing them was an elderly man with a gentle, soft-spoken disposition – Pallavan, a special envoy from the court of Kosala.

  “Do accept my heartfelt condolences on behalf of King Bhoomipala and the entire kingdom of Kosala,” the envoy addressed the brothers. “King Siddhasena was a dear friend of Kosala, one of the most honorable of men. His passing is not just a loss to Magadha, but the whole of Sindhuvarta.”

  The brothers exchanged fleeting glances before Shoorasena spoke. “Thank you for your kindness, noble sir. The commiserations of King Bhoomipala and his subjects are well appreciated by Magadha’s royal council – and its grieving citizenry.”

  Pallavan paused to reflect briefly on the prince’s choice of words. Earlier that morning, his cavalcade had passed through the streets of Girivraja en route to the palace, and from what he could tell, more than grief, Magadha’s citizens were displaying signs of murder and pillage. He had witnessed armed mobs roaming the capital, looting and burning houses and establishments belonging to Kikatas with impunity, and his cavalcade had heard of fleeing Kikatas being hunted down and killed in the countryside.

  It was plain that the rioting mobs had the sympathy, if not the active support, of Magadha’s law enforcement machinery – and by extension, that of the state.

  “Indeed a sad moment,” the envoy shook his head mournfully. “A moment of blind insanity that took the good king away. But we should show good judgment and restraint in these trying times.”

  “It was not blind insanity that cost the king his life,” Shoorasena corrected Pallavan tartly. The prince was smart enough to see where the envoy was trying to lead the conversation. “On the contrary, it was an act of calculated wickedness on the part of the Kikatas, backed by the republic of Vanga. An act aimed to strike at the very heart of Magadha’s sovereignty, an act that has rendered the people of Magadha fatherless. So, they are understandably angry.”

  “Yet their rage could end up claiming innocents lives,” Pallavan tried to reason through the rhetoric. “After all, the Kikatas are Magadha’s subjects as well.”

  “They plot against us and we are expected to protect them?” Shoorasena scoffed as he looked around the room with a cold smile that was meant to rally support. “I wonder if the good diplomat would advise his royal court to show as much magnanimity toward Kosala’s own enemies.”

  Pallavan noticed heads nod and a sneer spread around the room. Gauging the belligerent mood, he concluded that this wasn’t a track worth pursuing. Anyway, the fate of the Kikatas wasn’t his problem – he was in Girivraja with a very clear mandate, the first of which had been to pay Kosala’s condolences to Magadha.

  That he had done. Now it was time to broach the second topic on his agenda.

  “As you see fit... lord,” he said, struggling to find the right form of address for Shoorasena. With King Siddhasena dead, it was logical to assume that Shoorasena, the crown prince, was successor. Yet, there had been no formal coronation or announcement to that effect; neither did Shoorasena show any indication of being the new king. Even this meeting was taking place in the state room, and not in the royal court that housed the throne of Magadha. A meeting there would have helped decode the new power structure at Magadha.

  “Before I take the royal council’s leave, there is one more matter that I would like to discuss,” the envoy chose his words carefully. “With your permission...?”

  Shoorasena waved a hand in weary condescension.

  “The late king had promised to Matsya three thousand soldiers and three thousand archers as reinforcement against a possible Saka threat.”

  Pallavan could sense Shoorasena stiffen and pass a sidelong glance at Kapila.

  “I’m afraid you have your facts wrong,” the prince shook his head. “Father never made any specific commitments about sending Magadhan troops to Matsya.”

  “But he did... prince,” Pallavan hesitated, casting a quick eye around the room. “Last week, your father sent written messages to King Baanahasta, King Chandravardhan, King Bhoomipala and Samrat Vikramaditya, confirming that the three thousand soldiers and three thousand archers would leave Magadha for Matsya’s borders.”

  Shoorasena sat still in his chair, his brow furrowing over eyes that looked stunned at what had just been revealed. At last, he shook his head softly, “It... it’s not possible.”

  “It is true,” insisted Pallavan, beginning to enjoy the prince’s discomfiture in a twisted sort of way. “My king received the message in Kosala five days ago – that’s how I know. And the message was from King Siddhasena, for it bore his royal seal.”

  Shoorasena chewed on his upper lip and looked around at the circle of councilors and courtiers, who, in turn, shuffled their feet and exchanged furtive glances. The envoy’s shrewd mind understood that the news of Siddhasena’s messages to the other kings had unsettled the whole bunch.

  “Okay, perhaps father did send those messages,” Shoorasena broke the silence. “What of it?”

  “The kings of Sindhuvarta sincerely hope that the late king’s promise to Matsya will be honored, lord.”

  “Must you be in so much of a hurry... like... like vultures?” Shoorasena demanded hotly, taking recourse to indignation. “The ashes of my father’s pyre are still warm.”

  “Do pardon us, but war may soon be upon Sindhuvarta,” Pallavan spoke gently. “The old king would have understood the urgency. Besides, like his ashes, his promise is also
warm.”

  “If the promise was his, he should be the one to fulfill it.”

  Pallavan appraised the tall prince carefully. He seemed to have regained his composure, and from the manner in which he sat in his chair – back upright, chest thrown out and the chin thrust combatively in front – it was clear that he had had enough with fudging around the matter.

  “Are you saying...”

  “I am saying we are not bound to fulfill that promise,” Shoorasena’s voice had acquired a decisive ring, and the envoy immediately sensed the mood perking up in the room. “If the king made that promise, he did so without consulting the royal council of Magadha. So the council cannot be held accountable for that. So, unfortunately, his promise dies with him.”

  “Wouldn’t you reconsider this in the name of your father? ” the diplomat pressed. “The kingdoms of Sindhuvarta face a threat...”

  “The kingdoms of Sindhuvarta should learn to deal with their own problems,” Shoorasena snorted. “Magadha is faced with a serious challenge from the Kikatas and Vanga, but do you see me running from one kingdom to another for help? We make do with what we have – my suggestion to all your kings is to learn to do the same.”

  The prince rose from his seat, his manner implying that the interview was over. “Do stay for lunch, noble sir,” he added. “I’m told the royal kitchen has prepared a sumptuous spread of the choicest culinary treats of Magadha especially for you.”

  As Pallavan left the state room, Shoorasena’s voice echoing in his ears, he realized that it didn’t need a formal coronation or a throne – or a royal council, for that matter – to see where authority and power was vested in Girivraja.

  ***

  A dour drizzle beat down upon the plain, mingling with the mist rolling in from the nearby mountain passes, reducing visibility even further.

  The fifteen hundred horsemen stood in three rows, facing south, those in the foremost row bearing long lances to skewer the vanguard of an attack. The horsemen in the rows behind, armed with swords and shields, were to engage in melee combat once the lancers blunted the opening assault.