KRISHNA CORIOLIS#6: Fortress of Dwarka Page 11

  “Yes but so long as he believes we are alive, he will continue to hound us. The Magadhan will not rest until we are destroyed.”

  Balarama shrugged. “So let him sack and destroy Mathura. There is nothing of value left there now.”

  “Precisely. Which is why it will not satisfy him. Besides, don’t you think he would notice that the city is empty? He needs the satisfaction of a massacre and a sacking, both. That is his way. It’s why every kingdom fears enmity with the Magadhan empire. Once begun, it can only end with Jarasandha overrunning one’s homeland, taking what he pleases, and slaughtering as many as he desires. Nothing less will appease his rapacious lust.”

  Balarama shook his head, looking out at the glorious view of the ocean. “Bhraatr, we can never stop fighting, can we? There is always something else to be done. One more chore. One more life to save. One more battle to fight. One last mile to climb…”

  Krishna smiled. “That is the price for living a life according to dharma. Eternal struggle.”

  Balarama sighed and shook his head, moving toward the chariots. “Dharma. Where have I heard that before? I feel like all my life I’ve heard you talking about dharma and had no choice but to do as you said…according to dharma!”

  Krishna grinned. “Not in this life. That was a previous life, bhai. When you were Lakshman and I was Rama. Unlike Rama, I do not harp on dharma all the time in this life. Only when you need reminding.”

  Balarama grinned back. “Trust me. One thing I don’t ever need reminding about, is dharma. It’s second nature to me now.” He clapped his hands together. “All right, bhraatr, let us go finish this chore as well. For the sake of dharma!” He paused. “Just one thing though, how exactly are we going to give Jarasandha the satisfaction of sacking our kingdom and slaughtering our people?”

  Krishna smiled his famous impish smile. “I have an idea.”

  Balarama waggled his eyebrows. “You always have an idea!”

  They climbed their chariots, and were aloft in moments.

  KAAND 2

  1

  Jarasandha watched the column of dust as he sipped a refreshing drink. He was seated in the shade of his Imperial tent, fanned by slaves, served by slaves and guarded by hijra champions. The dust column rose a good six or seven hundred yards high and formed a waving wall that extended in a zigzag diagonal line all the way to the horizon. He had been watching it approach for the past several days and now it was within a few yojanas of his camp. He watched it with the same detached amusement with which he might watch a defeated enemy king being dismembered, his queens and children ‘tamed’, or two of his favorite champions dueling to the death. Most things in life were sport to Jarasandha, and things which were the direct result of his own actions or planning were pure entertainment.

  As was the sight of the approaching dust cloud in the distance.

  It was, of course, the dust raised by the feet and hooves of the Yavana’s army. The same Yavana to whom he had sent word through a succession of intermediaries that stretched all the way from Magadha across the several hundred disparate kingdoms that lay between Bharat-varsha and the distant land of the Yavana barbarians. To the Yavanas, and to most of the pale-skinned barbarians who resided in the lands farther north and west of the Yavana kingdoms, Bharat-varsha was a mythical land. A distant dream of elephants and jewels, golden streets and diamantine towers.

  To the barbarians of those faraway uncivilized kingdoms, forever locked in internecine wars and enmities, this land east of the Sindhu river was nothing less than a dream of heaven itself. “Indus,” they pronounced the name of the river, and called the great sub-continent by the same word. Indians, they called the people who resided here, marveling at their spices, silks, ornaments, books of knowledge, ancient wisdom, healing arts, spiritual maturity…To them, this was the land at the edge of the world itself. Beyond this, they whispered, the world fell off steeply into a deep dark bottomless abyss.

  Of the great lands and equally rich civilizations and cultures east of Bharat-varsha, they had no knowledge. The idea of anything existing beyond this point was inconceivable to their teachers and wise men. As far as they were concerned, this was high heaven and nothing more remained to be seen in the known world.

  Stupid ignorant barbarians.

  Enticing them to invade had been as easy as it was for a voluptuous woman teasing a celibate man by dancing on his lap.

  It had taken several caravan loads of treasure, gifts and bribes for every king and his officials along the long winding trade route, and elaborate stories of the untold riches waiting to be had in the legendary mythic city of…Mathura. Yes, Mathura! Of all the ludicrous targets to aim their sights at, these Yavanas were coming to sack Mathura. Because that was the gruel he had fed them, wooden spoonful by spoonful. And they had lapped it up, believing his nonsensical stories about Mathura the great, the fabulous city of wealth and wonder, the seventh heaven, wonder of the known world. And it was this fabled city they had travelled all the way to raid now, raising a wall of dust high enough and dense enough to cause even migrating flocks to change their course as they flew south.

  And now, they were here at last. Within striking distance of Mathura.

  Jarasandha heard the sound of approaching carriage wheels and knew his allies were approaching. He didn’t bother to rise nor to turn as the sound of boot heels approached.

  “Emperor Jarasandha,” said the familiar voices. “A great Yavana army approaches within sight of Mathura.”

  “Yes,” he said casually, sipping his drink. “I have spasas too. They have kept me updated on the approach of the barbarian hordes.”

  They crowded around him, men grown fat with the wealth and spoils he had helped them win over the years, frowning and scowling down at him. He remained seated, unconcerned with decorum. The advantage of being an Emperor was that one never had to behave like one.

  “Their target appears to be Mathura itself. We believe they mean to besiege the capital city and overrun the kingdom!”

  Jarasandha shrugged. “It’s a free world. They can do as they please.”

  Exclamations. “But their army is enormous. It is far greater than our forces combined!”

  “And they are barbarians. Foreigners.”

  “So?” he asked.

  “They will easily overrun Mathura. They will capture the Yadava kingdom, sack its wealth and treasures, and then will take the spoils back to their foreign lands.”

  “Probably,” Jarasandha agreed.

  “But then what of our own campaign? We have come to invade Mathura ourselves. Why should we let foreign barbarians steal away our intended target?”

  Jarasandha shrugged. “Because they are stronger than us in numbers and forces? Because if we go against them, we will surely lose?”

  There was a moment of silence after this pronouncement. The tone of their arguments changed somewhat, became more petulant.

  “But how can we permit this to happen? It will cost us our greatest prize! You yourself have said so often. Mathura is Magadha’s greatest prize.”

  “Besides,” added another whinging voice, “it is the kingdom of your erstwhile son-in-law. The legacy of your future grand-children. How can you let it go without a fight?”

  Jarasandha shook his head. “I have no intention of letting it go. The Yavanas will invade Mathura, take what they desire, then leave. After they are gone, we will move in, take Mathura for ourselves, annex it to the Magadhan Empire and move on to the next target. They are merely doing our dirty work for us, saving us the time and effort and cost. For that, if they gain a few treasures, so be it. It is worth the price for us getting Mathura.”

  They looked at him incredulously. “You mean, you have planned this all along? This is your doing? It was you who sent word to the barbarians and convinced them to invade?”

  Jarasandha handed off the depleted drink to a slave and rose to his feet. The kings took a step back, giving him room. He smiled at them from one side of his face. �
��Let us just say that I grew tired of toying with the Yadavas and playing the game of the brothers Krishna and Balarama. It was time to move the campaign ahead by force.” He gestured at the distant wall of dust. “And so I played a new gambit.”

  They frowned, not understanding. “But we have only just camped here. We have not yet attempted to besiege Mathura ourselves. What do you mean ‘tired of toying’? We have not even begun to fight!”

  “Actually,” he corrected them, “we have fought. Fiercely and bravely. Some 17 times in all. And I for one am quite weary of a battle a day for 17 days.”

  They looked at each other, wondering if Jarasandha had lost his senses.

  He chuckled. “But you would not understand. Let us just say that I have foreseen the future, 17 possible futures to be exact. And this is the 18th one. It was time for a new gambit. And this is it.”

  He moved towards his tent. They started to follow but he paused at the entrance, turning to face them. “The Yavanas will destroy the body of the Yadava nation and leave. We will pick up the bloody corpse and chain it to our chariots. The spoils of war will be the kingdom itself and all it contains. All will work in our favor. I have foreseen it. Good day, gentlemen. I highly recommend the heartblood punch. It is most refreshing.”

  And with that, he turned his back on them and went into his tent.

  2

  The Yavana was watching the city when his quarry emerged. A small-built man with hair the color of corn and eyes the color of lapis lazuli, he reacted with some surprise: in his case, this meant raising both eyebrows when his men began to call out. He was not given to large gestures or reactions. For a man to leave his homeland, gather an army made up of warring clans and barbaric tribes and march them halfway across the known world, he had to possess great fortitude.

  The Yavana had been mildly pleased when his frontlines had crossed the fabled Indus river without falling off the edge of the world. He had been thrilled beyond words when they had begun witnessing the wonders of the mythic lands east of the great river. Giant beasts with ivory tusks, one-horned creatures with armored hides, long-jawed water predators with mouths full of razor teeth and powerful lizard tails…and cows, everywhere they went, countless kine, chewing, mooing, dawdling, milking, calving…cows everywhere.

  More than once he had been tempted to divert from the path allotted to him, marked out by local guides provided by his allies who had enticed him into making this epic journey, tempted to simply rove this fabulous mythic land and see its other legendary wonders: cities paved with streets of gold, houses with roofs of precious stones, people as powerful as gods, great sages who could command the elements at will…all his life the Yavana had heard inspirational tales of the lands of the Indus and the great wonders here. Yet apart from the few exotic creatures, all he had seen until now were cows, cows and more cows.

  It had been a relief to finally see the distant rooftops and boundary walls of the city his guides called Mathura. They had informed him that he was now at his destination and was to wait here and lay siege to the golden city. That was their term for it: Golden City. From where he stood, and now maintained camp, it did not seem either golden or great. It looked like any city he had besieged or invaded before. A motley collection of hovels and mansions contained within battered walls. Even the early morning sunlight did not catch any reflections or cast off any highlights: those were not roofs studded with diamonds nor domes of gold.

  He had a growing suspicion that his hosts here, especially the mysterious benefactor who had engineered his campaign and enticed him into invading the mythic land of the Indus on the pretext of sacking its greatest and richest city had done so with ulterior motives. It was a shrewd plan: entice a foreign invader here to sack and destroy an enemy city, wait for the foreigners to depart as they surely would in time, and then take over control of the defeated kingdom for oneself.

  Had the destination not been a city in the fabled land of the Indus, no foreigner would have been foolish enough to fall for that old ruse. But the land of the Indus was a mythic place unexplored by any Yavana king or chief. And the Yavana prince was seeking to make a name by going where no Yavana had gone before. And so he had bitten the bait. But now that he was here, he could see it clearly for what it was: a ruse. Nothing more or less. He would have words with the mysterious benefactor who had lured him here. And then he would have swords with him too. He had decided this, calmly, before his men had even begun setting up camp last evening. And had woken this morning with the full intention of seeking out that treacherous rogue and asking him a few pert questions at sword-point before dispatching him to the land of his Indic ancestors.

  But this morning, before he could do much more than his ablutions, the gates of the city had opened. And now a man had sallied forth. The excitement in the Yavana’s camp was palpable. Even he could not help but feel intrigued. Whatever he might have expected, this was not it. He had expected the city to react aggressively to the sight of the great foreign invasion force: to send out heralds perhaps, to beg for mercy. To send arrow swarms. Champions. Hawks. Fabulous creatures on foot or by air or even beneath the earth. But not this. Not this at all.

  He frowned, squinting as he peered from horseback at the distant speck moving away from the city gates, which were already closing behind him. So apparently the individual had been sent forth solo. That must mean he was a herald of some sort. Even a champion would bring at least a page or servant to carry his weapons. Well, it would be interesting to see what this Indic herald might have to say. The Yavana prepared to wait.

  But as the moments passed and the figure travelled farther from the city gates, it became evident that this was no herald. The person who had left the city was not even coming towards the Yavana forces. He was heading in a different direction altogether.

  His men realized it at the same time as he did: they turned to him as one and watched his reaction.

  “It must be a courier,” they said. “Despatched to some ally kingdom to ask for aid and reinforcements. What shall we do, Prince of India?”

  The title had been conferred upon him before his departure. It had been his mother’s idea. By naming him as the conqueror of the land he was setting forth to invade, she said, he would already be regarded as successful. Once a name caught on, the reality hardly mattered. He expected that he was now and would forever be, Prince of India. It was a name he could live with. After all, he was Prince of India now, was he not?

  But who was this lone figure leaving the besieged city and where was he heading?

  He mused on his course of action. Ordinarily, he would send out a few men to catch and kill the escapee, ensuring that if he was a courier, his message would not reach its intended ears, and thereby sending a message to the besieged that he was not to be trifled with. But he felt inclined to let the courier get away unharmed this once. After all, he had not come all the way from Grekos just to set up camp and put his feet up. If the courier fetched more Indians and that led to a stiffer resistance, so be it. The Prince of India wanted a fight: he had come halfway across the world looking for one.

  He was about to give the order to let the man pass when something happened. The air before him rippled, as if in a heat wave, and a shimmering figure took shape in the haze.

  3

  “Lord of the Yavanas,” said the Indian sage.

  His long white beard and red ochre robes were clearly visible, despite the insubstantial nature of his appearance. Yet he was only an apparition. The Prince of India could easily see his closest advisors and other men through the hazy form of the sage: they were waiting patiently for his response and command, accustomed to his long periods of introspection, respectful enough to wait as long as was needed. They had ridden and fought with him a dozen years or more and all trusted his judgement enough to know that even if he chose not to speak while the escapee got away, it was for good reason.

  What they did not know, could not know, was that he was distracted by a ghostly apparition o
f an ancient Indian sage that had suddenly appeared in their midst; an apparition not visible to their eyes. How this was possible, the Yavana did not know or care. All he knew was that the sage was here again and that he was the same sage who had guided him on this long journey, assuring him that the trip would not be wasted or his efforts in vain. And he was more than pleased to see him, since he had a bone or two to pick with him