‘I’m sorry, Shikandin. I’m sorry for everything!’ Partha said.
Shikandin did not quite understand, but knew better than to dig too deep. At last, Partha let go of him, and turned to Govinda.
‘How …’? he asked, too perplexed for more words.
Govinda laughed and let out a shrill cry, the likes of which Partha had never heard before. The others looked around at Govinda, surprised. The call was answered with a faint but similar peal, as a huge brown and white eagle circled down from the sky. A cry of amazement rose from the men as the massive bird swooped down over their heads and came to rest on Govinda’s gauntlet.
‘My trusty messenger,’ Govinda introduced the bird to them, ‘courtesy of an ever-faithful old friend …’ He whispered words of thanks and endearment to the majestic creature and clucked his tongue in a series of signals that the bird clearly understood, even enjoyed. The eagle then deftly stepped off his wrist to perch comfortably on his shoulder.
A whisper of admiration ran through the gathered men and many of them spontaneously saluted Govinda. He returned the gesture with a polite nod and turned to Partha.
‘Now what, Cousin?’ Partha asked, his voice filled with respect and affection.
‘Now,’ Govinda replied, ‘you go home.’
‘You mean we go home …’
‘No.’ Govinda was grave once more. ‘Not me. I have some unfinished business to take care of.’
23
KASHI, LIKE MANY NATIONS OF ARYAVARTA, WAS A NAME SHARED by the kingdom and the capital city. In this case the nation’s fame rested indeed on that of its capital city, home to one of the oldest and largest temples to Rudra, also known as Hara, the Destroyer. Of equal fame had been those who had worshipped there – the most beautiful of princesses, as also some of the first Firewrights.
But fame was fickle, Govinda mused, as he looked down at the city from a small hillock on its outskirts. The Firewrights were gone, though many self-declared magicians remained in the city claiming to possess knowledge of the most powerful spells. As for the princesses – ever since Ambalika and Ambika had been taken to Hastina as Vichitravirya’s brides, no one spoke too loudly of the beauty of Kashi’s women.
That distinction, though, is well-deserved, Govinda noted with a smile as he remembered his encounter with the attractive Kritya at Pragjya.
‘Who knows … perhaps you’ll see her again,’ Shikandin teased, guessing what ran through his friend’s mind.
‘Perhaps …’
The moment passed and both men were grim as they considered the scene before them. They stood on a hillock overlooking Kashi city. The gates to the city had been shut, the roads around it wore a deserted look, and the boats and barges on the river were anchored upstream, well ahead of the small harbour. The Great Temple to Rudra dominated that scene of despondence, its stone spire rising as high as the columns of smoke that billowed out from the huge square courtyard that stretched from the main sanctum all the way to the riverbank. A little while ago a huge funeral pyre had come alight, blazing into sudden existence like some primordial beginning. Inside the Great Temple of Kashi, the killings had begun.
The Firewrights, Govinda pensively noted, had supposedly been the ones to perfect the arcane ritual known as the ‘purushamedha’ – human sacrifice. But few knew what it involved, beyond what the name suggested, and when the Wrights were destroyed this was one of the many secrets they took with them. That in this day and age, an Arya would and could actually resort to this ritual was nothing less than a nightmare come true. But so it was. And it also explained something Govinda had found very puzzling.
Ever since they had survived being ambushed by Sudakshin’s men a week ago, it had constantly bothered Govinda that an admittedly small vassal kingdom could so quickly grow to dominate enough vassals and build such a mighty army. It was, to him, a sign that the diplomatic strategies and the administrative processes of the imperial campaign – and the empire that would result at the end of it – were sorely lacking. What disturbed him even more was the fact that Sudakshin’s rise had been fuelled by none other than Devala Asita. In any case, Govinda had decided, this was one enemy they could not leave standing.
And so, as Bhim, Partha and their armies had started for Indr-prastha, he had headed straight for Kashi city. To his surprise, Shikandin had insisted on joining him, despite Bhim and Partha’s fervent urging that he would be needed on the trail back home.
‘Why?’ Govinda had asked him, when they had found a moment alone.
‘I have to. I have to see Kashi,’ Shikandin had admitted, a catch in his voice.
Govinda had said no more, and the two men had immediately ridden out, leading three hundred fit and fresh soldiers of Bhim’s army and the four soldiers of the Panchala Eastern Guard who had survived the last battle. Devajit, one of the survivors, had gone ahead as a scout and spy.
Dressed as a less-than-prosperous merchant, Devajit was in the perfect guise to spend a few days in the city and visit the better, though still-inexpensive, taverns and brothels that were favoured by the palace attendants as well as soldiers of the Kashi garrison. In two days the Panchala captain had heard much and overheard even more. He silently noticed what he needed to and spoke just enough to appear commonplace. When he considered his task completed to satisfaction, he left, after haggling a little over what the innkeeper charged him, but not so much as to draw excessive attention.
He had met up with Govinda and Shikandin about a day’s march from Kashi city. After a few polite but quick words of greeting, Devajit promptly began his report. ‘Kashi is astir with just one topic, other than the usual and many merry tales of the king’s debauchery …’
Govinda chuckled and Shikandin laughed softly. ‘Go on,’ he urged.
‘It …’ Devajit paused and chose his words carefully. ‘I don’t suppose this is true but what’s important is that many … most of Sudakshin’s soldiers believe it completely! There’s talk of Firewright magic. Some say a powerful magician now advises Sudakshin.’
Shikandin’s response was a derisive grunt, but Govinda was curious. ‘What sort of magic?’
Devajit looked uncomfortable, caught between scepticism and the clear possibility of danger if the impossible were indeed true. ‘It seems that the erstwhile Emperor Jarasandha of Magadha had earlier captured fourteen men, Magadhan princes all. He had, it’s being said, planned to offer them as human sacrifice. The talk goes that Sudakshin had them somehow smuggled out of Magadha after Jarasandha’s fall and held them in his prison. Over eighty-six more were taken over these past two years – lords of the Kashi–Kosala region, and others of their families. Sudakshin is set to begin the sacrifice …’
To his surprise Govinda broke into a grin. ‘Ah, it’s our privilege to see such great minds at work. You’ve seen what the Kashi soldiers are like – ruthless, tough and convinced of their own infallibility. If we let Sudakshin go through with his so-called sacrifice, his men will be convinced that they can’t be defeated despite the battle they lost against us.’
‘You mean you don’t believe there really will be such a sacrifice?’
Govinda thought for a moment, staring into the distance. ‘The original fourteen captives were nothing more than Jarasandha’s political prisoners. I suspect that the others Sudakshin imprisoned are also troublesome vassals – probably those who were eager to join Dharma’s empire. He means for them to die all right, but the talk of sacrifice is probably nothing but a trick to make the Kashi army believe it is invincible and to force the citizens to suffer wartime taxes without complaint. Or it may be that Sudakshin truly believes it will make him invincible. Unfortunately, if the rest of Aryavarta believes it too, it may even lead to him making a bid for the empire, eventually!’
‘What if the sacrifices are real?’ Devajit questioned, hesitant. ‘I mean, if there really is some power in …’
‘Then we have a much bigger problem than we imagined.’
Now, Govinda wondered if th
e worst had come to pass, after all. He found it ironic that the bedrock of civilization, of the rule of law and Divine order, had come to this. Though many dark histories had been lost, perhaps wilfully, in the mists of time, the truth remained that from the most ancient times people had fought each other just to survive. Sometimes they had fought over who had the greater share of a hunt, sometimes it had been tribes warring over hunting grounds. Even prosperity had not stopped war, leading only to greater fear and distrust. It only made tribes grow larger, stronger and more afraid for their future. Food was survival. The thought that someday it would run out was never too far from all minds.
Driven by enlightenment, or perhaps by a mixture of need and fear, the people welcomed what they now called civilization. The rule of might was replaced by the rule of law. The chief or king, sometimes a queen, was no longer just the strongest one who led the hunt, but the one who divided the kill. It was the beginning of an era of prosperity – life was less perilous and food more plentiful. Populations grew faster, and small migrant villages became huge, permanent cities. The fear of a return to the older, perilous times grew just as quickly.
Civilization responded yet again, this time by turning to the gods. Earth became a mirror of the Heavens. The ritual sacrifice of animals was born. Every morsel consumed was dedicated to the gods, all food divided only after it had been sanctified. There were no slaughters, only sacrifices. The whole city would gather to receive their rations of the sacrificial animals, and there was always plenty; but never excessively so. Implicit in every ritual prescription, in every detail of worship, was the notion of justice.
That rule of law, that noble way of life, had thrived here, at Kashi. The sacrificial courtyard of the Great Temple, Govinda knew, was stained brown with the blood of centuries; blood that was spilt for the sake of peace, never in excess, never in violence.
Till now.
‘Hai!’ Devajit sounded despondent. Shikandin squeezed his shoulder in encouragement, then turned to Govinda.
‘That’s the garrison,’ he pointed out, ‘that’s the temple and, of course, the courtyard itself. To the left is the palace. Behind that, I think, is the royal boathouse …’
Govinda said, ‘Sudakshin knows we will attack him sooner or later. He may even expect us to try and stop the sacrifice.’
‘In that case,’ Shikandin continued, ‘he’ll have troops around the temple and near the river, but …’
‘… not many in the main city itself,’ Govinda finished.
‘Be that as it may, we’re too late,’ Devajit said, his voice full of regret. ‘Too late to stop the travesty.’
‘But not too late to avenge the dead,’ Govinda declared as he urged Balahak to rear up and spring into a gallop. The men followed.
The sun shining bright off their armour, Govinda, Shikandin and their men crashed down on the main gates to Kashi city like a bolt of lightning across a cloudless sky. The few sentries on duty stood awestruck at the sight of the two men in the lead – one with long, matted hair and blazing eyes, the other bearing a huge, fierce-looking eagle on his shoulder as if it were a tame pigeon. They scrambled for cover as the riders broke through in an unstoppable tide.
Unchallenged, Govinda and Shikandin led their men through the crowded mix of marketplace and dwelling houses that formed the first section of the old city. Both men could have sworn that they were in Hastina or even in Kampilya. It was only when they entered the more affluent quarters reserved for the nobility that the city would take on its own, unique look.
Speed, and the element of surprise, gave them the upper hand as they thundered down the main street towards the Great Temple. However, as they entered the huge square that fronted the Great Temple it was their turn to be caught unawares.
‘Pull back!’ Shikandin ordered his men as the first rain of arrows showered down on them. He and Govinda managed to guide their horses under the wooden awning of a nearby structure, just in time.
‘Go!’ Govinda commanded the bird, still perched on his shoulder. Immediately, the eagle took wing. A few of the archers tried to shoot it down, but it wheeled deftly to avoid their shafts, and was gone.
Govinda turned to Shikandin. ‘Now what?’
Before Shikandin could reply, a hail of stones rained down from the rooftops above them, cutting them off from the rest of their forces. Taking advantage of the moment, the soldiers guarding the temple set fire to a couple of hay-filled carts nearby and completely barred the way.
‘I’ve no clue,’ Shikandin said. He swore loudly and added, ‘Where in Yama’s name did so many men come from? And how did Sudakshin get them fitted and mustered so quickly?’
Govinda solemnly gave him the answer to that and many other unspoken questions. ‘Devala Asita.’
‘That miserable Firewright! If we get out of this alive I’ll rip his head off his neck!’
As if to punctuate Shikandin’s wrath, a powerful explosion ripped through the air. The ground shuddered with the impact and the awning above them came crashing down, throwing both him and Govinda off their horses. Coughing and cursing, they quickly got to their feet, shaking the collapsed awning off them. Shikandin spat out the blood pooled in his mouth from a cut lip, while Govinda pressed at his head, trying to rid it of the unbearable ringing in his ears. It took both men a few moments to realize that the explosion was not the work of the enemy army. Their own soldiers looked on, unharmed and astounded, as Sudakshin’s men ran wild with terror. Many had thrown down their weapons and were screaming like madmen.
‘Look!’ Shikandin pointed.
Many of the buildings that adjoined the Great Temple were ablaze. Tongues of flame darted out from inside some of the buildings, and a dark layer of soot stained the crumbling walls. The streets around them were littered with debris and a heavy dust hung in the air.
‘Come on!’ Govinda nodded towards the temple and began moving towards it. Shouting out instructions to Devajit to take their horses, Shikandin followed.
Ahead, the huge iron doors leading to the temple complex were shut. As Govinda and Shikandin came closer, a small wicket-gate set in the door swung open and more soldiers poured out, making straight for the two men. Slashing and cleaving, the two friends forced their way through the attacking mob, each step taking them closer to the gate even as they left bodies strewn in their wake. Finally, they managed to squeeze in through the wicket-gate. Shikandin slammed it close behind them and Govinda quickly secured an iron rod through the latch to bar the way. Then the two men turned to face the hordes that they expected would rush at them.
But the temple courtyard was empty.
24
THE KRITYA WATCHED AS THE NEXT MAN WAS LED FORWARD. His face showed neither dread nor despair, unlike the many before him. Watching them fall, one by one, he appeared to have accepted the inevitable. The guard forced him to kneel and place his head on a stone block. He did so without protest, his passive submission sending a jolt of anger through the Kritya. Yet another dull thud of an axe, and the attendants dragged the man’s headless body to the huge pyre and threw it, as though it were refuse, into the blazing depths. Another attendant reverently picked up the head and presented it to King Sudakshin.
Whispering the words as directed by a bald man dressed in robes of black, Sudakshin offered the head into a smaller ritual fire as his sacrifice to the gods. He felt the Kritya’s eyes on him and favoured her with a smirk. She returned an elegant smile, before looking over at the bald magician–priest. The one who called himself a Firewright.
Whatever it was the true Wrights had meant by human sacrifice, she knew this was not it. Those Wrights had not been murderers, they had been creators. If you truly believe it, a voice inside her mind questioned, why didn’t you kill Govinda Shauri? Why didn’t you kill the man who brought the Wrights down, and ruined so many lives?
Much as she knew the answer, she could not admit it, not even to herself. With practised ease she restrained her inner anger, and allowed the slight hint of
a smile to rest seductively on her lips.
A stifled sob broke through the quiet as the last of the men was led forward. He was young, little more than a boy, but he was Arya and the prince of a tiny territory in Kosala. The magician–priest had been clear. Nothing less than noble blood would suffice for this purpose. The Kritya had to grit her teeth to not speak, not move, not offer the boy some slight consolation. Disgust filled her being. This blood-fest was not Sudakshin’s idea, nor Jarasandha’s legacy as Sudakshin claimed it to be. The bald magician had set this in motion.
The magician, such as he was, had turned up a little over a year ago. He had not only called himself a Firewright, but claimed great prowess over the most difficult of their skills. Soon, he had Sudakshin completely ensnared, trapped by the promise of unimaginable power. He was denied nothing, no matter how abominable or difficult the request.
At first, the Kritya had found the whole affair rather amusing, so much so that she had asked the bald man in her charming, seductive way, ‘Are you really a magician?’
He had been contemptuous. ‘Hardly!’ he said. ‘When the real Wrights were forced into hiding, they spent many years living among the forest-tribes, and even the nomadic desert-people. Over generations, people from these tribes have learnt some of our skills but haven’t always imbibed the sacred meaning behind them. As a result, you get what seems miraculous and inexplicable. Still, it’s certainly not sorcery! But don’t tell Sudakshin that!’ he finished, beaming widely.
She had almost liked him, then. For the first time, she had met someone who was not fearful of her proximity. It had given her a new kind of happiness, something she had not felt before.
Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Page 42