KRISHNA CORIOLIS#5: Rage of Jarasandha Page 8

  They rode steadily in silence for the next hour or so. Then, as they came around a winding curve that bypassed a rocky upcrop, he saw something odd to the east.

  A dust cloud.

  No ordinary dust cloud either.

  This was a great huge one.

  Daruka had traveled widely enough to have seen dust clouds before. Like most good horsemen or charioteers—both of which had been his profession oftentimes before—he could estimate the size of a group by the dust cloud raised in its wake.

  He had never seen a dust cloud this large before.

  The closest he had seen was a gigantic dust cloud raised by an army on the march.

  This one was at least thrice that size. It seemed to be growing steadily by the minute, rising to fill the entire western sky.

  What could possibly be raising such a cloud?

  He paused, keeping a light touch on Sri’s neck to indicate to her to wait a moment as he contemplated his next move. If he turned westward to investigate the cause of that cloud, it would take him several hours out of his way. Yet if he ignored it and rode on to Mathura, the memory of this sight would nag him all the way.

  Besides, if he was not mistaken, the dust cloud appeared to be moving in the direction of Mathura.

  He swallowed nervously, his throat suddenly parched even though he had only just consumed fresh water at the brook when he had stopped.

  His decision made, he touched the side of Sri’s neck again, indicatin which way to go. Without question, she turned and made her way off the beaten path, riding up the rocky upcrop, heading westwards.

  It took the better part of the morning before he reached a vantage point which showed him the source of the dust cloud. By then, he had watched the great mass looming in the distance long enough to be certain of its cause. No other mobile group could raise such a cloud. Not a grama train, not even a dozen grama trains.

  His instinct was right.

  He came over a rise and looked down at a flat plain that was sprinkled with large boulders and a few solitary scrubs.

  The source of the dust cloud lay visible below. Not entirely visible, for it was too vast to be seen in its entirety at a single glance, even from this vantage point. For that matter, it probably could not be viewed entirely except from a high mountain. It was that large and spread out.

  Daruka stared at it and felt his heart grow cold. He watched the juggernaut move steadily across the plain until there was no doubt that it was headed towards Mathura.

  Then with a nudge of his knees, he turned Sri’s head and broke into a trot, then a canter and then a gallop. ‘Ride, my beauty, ride,’ he whispered in the mare’s ears. ‘Take me to Mathura as fast as you can. A million lives may depend on it.’

  10

  KRISHNA and Balarama heard the commotion and came out on the balcony of their bedchambers. They were not yet asleep but were preparing for bed. They stood on the verandah and looked down at the palace courtyard. The guards appeared to be restraining a man. The man appeared to be very agitated and trying to convince the guards to let him into the palace.

  ‘Who is that man?’ Balarama asked. ‘I don’t recognize him. Do you?’

  ‘Me neither,’ Krishna replied. ‘But from the dust on his clothes and the foam on that mare’s muzzle, he’s been riding hard to get here. Whatever his message it must be important.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s word from Hastinapura,’ Balarama said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Krishna said non-committally. ‘Let’s go see for ourselves.’

  They emerged from the palace foyer into the courtyard moments later, just as the soldiers were dragging the man back to the gate. Another soldier was leading the man’s horse away as well. They were clearly evicting the stranger.

  ‘Halt,’ Krishna cried out to the guards.

  At the sound of Krishna’s voice, the guards stopped at once. They waited as Balarama and he approached and saluted him smartly.

  ‘Who is this person?’ he asked. ‘Why does he seek to enter the palace so urgently?’

  ‘My Lords Krishna and Balarama, he is a stranger, a foreigner no less,’ said the Captain of the palace guard derisively. ‘You need not concern yourselves with his kind. He probably thought to slip in on a false pretext and ask for some gratuity or pilfer something or other. We found him trying to slip past the gatewatch.’

  ‘No,’ cried the man. ‘I am no thief. I only tried to get past the guards because they refused to let me see you. Lord Krishna, Lord Balarama, I am an honest man with an urgent message.’

  Krishna and Balarama frowned.

  ‘Stand aside,’ Krishna said to the guards. ‘Captain, let the man speak. I would hear what he has to say.’

  The captain did not argue. But he stood close by the foreigner, ready to restrain him if he made any threatening move. Unlike Kamsa’s soldiers, these men would give their lives to protect their Lord Krishna—whether or not he needed protecting.

  ‘Who are you?’ Balarama asked curtly. ‘What is your business here at this time of night?’

  ‘My Lords, my name is Daruka,’ said the man in an accent foreign to Yadava dialects. ‘I am a speaker to animals.’

  ‘A what?’ Balarama asked.

  ‘I have a gift for communicating with animals.’ He indicated the horse whose reins were held by the soldier a few yards away. ‘I have worked as a courier at times, a trainer of prize horses, prize bulls, even a charioteer on occasion.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Krishna said. ‘What brings you and your gift to Mathura?’

  He glanced up suddenly at Krishna with an expression of such intense adoration that the Captain of the guard stepped closer. ‘My Lord Krishna, you did.’

  ‘I?’

  ‘I came to serve you.’

  Balarama raised one eyebrow, Krishna the other. ‘Serve me how?’ Krishna asked.

  ‘In any way you please, sire. I have heard so much about you and your great work. It would be my life’s blessing to serve you to the end of my days.’

  Krishna paused thoughtfully, ‘And this was urgent enough for you to attempt to steal into the palace?’

  ‘No, my Lord,’ said the man named Daruka. ‘On the road to Mathura I saw a terrible sight. Something so awful I had to bring you word immediately. That is the reason for my urgency. Something is about to happen that will be disastrous for Mathura.’

  Balarama frowned. ‘What did you see that was so awful?’

  Daruka glanced at the Captain, glowering down at him, then at the guards beside him. ‘I do not know if I should speak this in public, sire.’

  ‘If it concerns Mathura, then there is no need for privacy,’ Krishna said. ‘Speak freely. What did you see on the road to Mathura that was so terrible?’

  Daruka looked at Krishna. ‘An army on the march.’

  Balarama sucked in his breath sharply.

  ‘From which direction was this army approaching?’

  ‘From the west.’

  Krishna and Balarama exchanged a glance.

  ‘Magadha,’ Balarama said tersely. ‘I knew it! We should never have let Jarasandha leave alive that day!’

  ‘We had no cause to harm him.’

  ‘And now he returns with an army.’ Balarama turned to the rider. ‘Captain, release him. Step away.’

  The captain and the guards did as Balarama said.

  ‘How large was this army, Daruka,’ Balarama asked. ‘And by when is it likely to reach Mathura in your estimation?’

  ‘It is traveling slowly due to its sheer size,’ said Daruka. ‘It will be at the gates of the city by daybreak if not sooner. I rode exceedingly fast to reach here. The army was traveling by a remote route, avoiding passing near any of the usual trade routes and margs. Even I only happened to notice the dust cloud and went to investigate out of curiosity.’

  ‘God bless your curiosity,’ Krishna said, without a trace of irony. ‘How large do you think the army might be?’

  Daruka tilted his head, thinking. ‘I could not see it entir
ely, for it was spread across a great area. But based on what I saw and was able to estimate, I will admit I have never seen such a large force before. It was at least thrice as large as the largest army I have seen. And that was some 7 akshohini.’

  ‘Thrice as large as a force of 7 akshohini,’ Balarama repeated slowly, looking stunned. ‘Mathura’s entire army is barely 6 akshohini! Three times 7 akshohini would be…’

  ‘21 akshohini,’ Krishna said. ‘And he believes it is more than thrice times 7. So let us assume 22 or 23 akshohini.’

  Balarama looked at Krishna. ‘If it is Jarasandha and he is marching on Mathura to besiege us, that means we shall be outnumbered by 4 times!’

  ‘Yes,’ Krishna said grimly. ‘And we have but a night to prepare ourselves for his arrival.’

  Daruka looked from one to the other, his own dust-covered face mirroring their anxiety as he waited for their next words and actions.

  12

  JARASANDHA quaffed up the last of the blended concoction and tossed the solid gold gem-encrusted goblet aside, not caring to see if one of his many aides ran to retrieve it. The goblet was less valuable than its contents. The drink it had contained was a new blend he had invented himself after several dissatisfactory attempts. It involved the organs of various exotic creatures from foreign lands and numerous alchemic powders in varying dosages. But the key ingredient was derived from mortal organs—the glands to be exact. It was a potion designed to expand time-consciousness not dissimilar to the one he had secretly ordered Kamsa dosed with many years earlier.

  In Kamsa’s case, by changing the mix, he had introduced an element of disorientation, causing the drinker to experience each transition as a fugue-like state wherein he remembered nothing that he saw or heard or did. This was the perfect mix: Jarasandha would be acutely aware of every passing moment and every word and action. To him, time would pass so slowly he would feel as if each blink of an eyelid was a minute, each minute ten, each day a score of days.

  This meant that in battle he would be able to move and act and react at what would be perceived as lightning speed by his opponents. For in the time it took an enemy to swing his sword at Jarasandha’s neck, for instance, Jarasandha would be able to decapitate that enemy as well as move on and kill another dozen or two even before the first man’s lopped head struck the ground and began rolling. Similarly, he would experience an hour of battle as days, accomplishing as much in that hour as would take his enemy days to attempt.

  It was a battle potion given to his champions on numerous occasions—that was how the blend had been perfected, through trial and error. A fair number of aspirants had died due to the potion’s side effects or the experimental blends of dosage Jarasandha had given them. But it was all in the service of alchemy and he now knew exactly how much of each ingredient to blend in order to achieve certain results. He had given the champions under his command a different blend from the one he had just consumed. This one was special, specially adapted to Jarasandha’s own unique physiology and needs.

  Across the field, his vaids were moving from champion to champion, handing them their potions and checking to make sure that each one consumed their share. Some of the champions grew too proud to want enhancements and began to refuse them, insisting that they were powerful enough to function without the potions. Jarasandha could not afford to tolerate any trace of independent volition. If he ordered a potion drunk, it had to be drunk. That unshakable sense of discipline was essential to maintaining an army this size. Nobody could question any order.

  As he watched, one champion shunted aside the goblet offered by a vaid with the back of his hand. The vaid, a skinny physician who, like the rest of Jarasandha’s vaids, was himself dosed with a potion that enhanced mental agility at the cost of physical strength, was almost knocked over by the casual gesture. He recovered his balance and tried again, bowing his head obsequiously to avoid giving any offense.

  This time, the champion backhanded the goblet and the vaid both, with a swat that broke the vaid’s jaw and skull and sent him and the goblet flying several yards away. He crashed into the rear of two other vaids, causing them to spill their trays of goblets and potions as well. That was unfortunate. The vaid was merely a lackey with his intelligence enhanced through the giving of potions, as were all Jarasandha’s physicians. He was expendable and replaceable. Jarasandha didn’t care what happened to him. He hated to see his potions wasted. They cost a great deal of effort and time to concoct, and even more effort and time and expense went into gathering the exotic ingredients. The champion, on the other hand, was an otherwise good warrior with the quick reflexes and physical qualities that had made him a suitable candidate for recruitment to the league of champions. Formidable though he was in battle, he had only taken a year or two’s worth of potions and training to develop.

  Jarasandha strode slowly through the ranks. He saw other vaids coming quickly with goblets to resume the task that had been interrupted; regardless of what happened to their fellow physicians their job had to go on. He gestured to them to hold off momentarily. They did so at once, continuing to administer the potion to other champions further down the ranks.

  The rows of champions on either side towered above Jarasandha. These men were selected partly for their considerable size and bulk and muscularity. Whatever physical qualities they had not possessed when they were recruited, they developed through the process of dosing and training. Not a single one among them was under two yards in height, most were two and half yards high or even three. Compared to most soldiers, including the bulk of Magadha’s own army, they were giants plain and simple.

  Even without the enhancements, they would be formidable opponents in battle. With the enhancements and special training as well their self-knowledge of the power they possessed, they tended to develop the belief that they could face anything. Anything at all. The blend of potions administered to them was partly responsible for that feeling of supreme overconfidence: just as ordinary armies administered opiates and intoxicants to their best soldiers before sending them into hard combat, Jarasandha’s league of champions was kept well-drugged to make them feel euphoric and confident of victory, invulnerable even. Unlike ordinary soldiers, they were often invulnerable.

  The problem was, just as ordinary soldiers almost always grew addicted to the drugs given to enhance battle performance, the special battle potion also caused chemical changes in the champions. In some cases, it caused them to believe that they didn’t require the drug at all. That is to say, they had become so addled by the effects of the potion, they believe that they were invulnerable even without it!

  That appeared to be what had happened to this particular chap.

  ‘Siddhran,’ Jarasandha said as he approached the champion who had refused the potion.

  Siddhran was chuckling at the plight of the vaid whose head and jaw he had crushed, glancing around and commenting to his fellow champions. Some of them were chuckling as well but the instant they saw and heard their master approaching, they snapped their eyes away. Immediately they began shuffling sideways and forwards and backwards, creating a wide space between themselves and the offending man. Siddhran saw them moving away and ignoring him and stopped chuckling.

  He turned and glowered down at Jarasandha as he approached.

  ‘You didn’t have your potion,’ Jarasandha said mildly.

  Siddhran turned and loomed threateningly over Jarasandha. ‘I don’t need your stinking potion.’

  13

  JARASANDHA smiled thinly at the much larger man. ‘But you do.’

  Siddhran laughed and flexed his muscles. Jarasandha saw the exposed skin on the warrior’s face and arms and chest change in hue and texture. The man was hardening his density, preparing to assault Jarasandha. Really? Either he was a bigger fool than Jarasandha had assumed at first or the potion had completely addled his brain at last. It happened with a few subjects, an acceptable risk considering the overall success rate.

  ‘I have seen you f
ight once, Jara,’ the man said mockingly. ‘You possess the power to turn your body into a whip and lash at your opponent. Like a horse tail with the sting of a scorpion. I do not think you possess enough strength to endure a direct attack by someone as strong as Siddhran!’

  And without further ado, the champion slammed his bunched fists directly into Jarasandha’s chest.

  The impact of both fists so close together at such a vulnerable point, moving that quickly, was something Jarasandha had not expected. The champion hit him with a weight of perhaps a half ton striking at great velocity. The impact would have shattered a granite boulder. Or bent a foot-thick iron stanchion.

  Ironically, it was a move he himself had taught his champions. It was intended to be used against an armored elephant, killing the beast with a single blow while driving its corpse back several dozen yards to wipe out the foot-soldiers who invariably followed behind the armored elephant. The move was designed for efficiency but also for its awe-inspiring nature. It was a stunning sight to see a man strike a single blow and wreak such damage. It required a fine balance of speed and power and it required months of careful practice for his champions to learn how much to harden their arms for the power of the impact while keeping their torsos supple enough to swing fast.