Chankya's Chant (60 page)

‘Would that be all?’ asked Megasthenes apprehensively.

‘Not quite. Your master, Seleucus, is yet to overthrow the other claimants to Alexander’s throne. He still needs to fight Antigonus and Dmetrius, both claimants to Alexander’s dominions. Our emperor would like to provide you with five hundred and one elephants to terrorise your enemies and thus contribute to your victory! Five hundred and one is an even luckier number, eh?’

‘And would there be any expectations in terms of compensation for these elephants?’ asked Megasthenes anxiously.

‘Tell your old ally, Paurus, that he can invade Magadha, enjoy her pleasures for the night, but must leave the next morning. His affair with Magadha shall be a one-night stand, not an enduring relationship!’ said Chanakya with a devilish gleam in his eye.

It was too frigging late. He had been duped and Paurus was angry. His intelligence chief, Abhaya, had informed Paurus about Chandragupta’s coronation in Takshila. Chanakya, that old bastard, had been present to administer the oath of office. There was obviously no rift between teacher and student. But it was too late to do anything about it. His army was already on the move and one simply could not halt a massive war machine in its tracks. Dhanananda already knew that Paurus was on his way to fight him. If Paurus withdrew, what could prevent Dhanananda from attacking him? No, it was clear. He would have to proceed as planned.
But I shall not fucking share the spoils with Chanakya or his puppet, Chandragupta
, thought Paurus. Magadha was his, all his.

His luxurious tent pitched in a field a few yojanas from the border of Magadha was an island of tranquillity surrounded by a tumultuous ocean. The cacophony of sounds produced by a hundred thousand men, forty thousand horses, four thousand charioteers and three thousand war elephants, was deafening. His tent, if it could be called one, was made of wood. It would be assembled each time they camped in a new place. The wooden walls were draped with thick fabric to absorb sound. Within the king’s tent stood a four-poster bed and an ornate desk and chair. Silken rugs and fine linen bedspreads conveyed an aura of softness in a room that was otherwise filled with instruments of war—his armour, helmet, swords, daggers and spears.

Abhaya was standing before him. He shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. The old king had kept him waiting on his feet for over an hour. The pins and needles in his soles were beginning to bother him. ‘Chandragupta has married Cornelia— the daughter of Seleucus. Seleucus has handed over Arachosia, Gedrosia, Paropamisadae and Aria to Chandragupta as dowry. Megasthenes, Seleucus’ ambassador in Chandragupta’s court, has assured Chanakya that the mighty Paurus shall have no claim to Magadha’s throne,’ informed Abhaya as Prime Minister Indradutt gazed at the map of Magadha that lay before them.

‘Who does Megasthenes think he is?’ thundered Paurus. ‘He can’t make commitments on my behalf. I’m no longer a servant of the Macedonians! Magadha is mine! It’s my divine duty to capture it and unite it with Kaikey. No one can stop me—not even God!’

Abhaya shifted a little more. He kept his eyes glued to his toes. He was never comfortable conveying delicate news to Paurus. He flew into tantrums so easily. ‘After all is said and done, a lot more is said than done, O King,’ suggested Indradutt wisely. ‘Megasthenes and his master are fully aware they do not have any bargaining power with us. Let’s attack Magadha and use it as a bargaining chip.’

‘O wise Prime Minister, there’s more bad news. The king of Kalinga, desirous of throwing off the yoke of Magadha’s suzerainty, has pledged to attack with fifty thousand troops. He will be attacking from the east as we move in from the west. He may also be a contender for the throne,’ said Abhaya quietly.

‘That arsewipe who has meekly accepted enslavement by Magadha for the past sixty years now thinks he can sit on the throne of the most powerful kingdom on earth?’ asked Paurus with hauteur. Indradutt kept quiet although he would have liked to remind his pompous king that he too had accepted being slave to the Macedonians not too long ago.

‘Maharaj, let’s not worry about Seleucus or Kalinga. These are not the real obstacles in our path to Pataliputra,’ advised Indradutt.

‘Then who is?’ asked the angry Paurus.

‘Chanakya,’ replied Indradutt.

In a dusty old warehouse in Paricharak lane of Pataliputra, no one paid any attention to the several men pounding away at a rather strange mixture. Each man used oversized stone pestles and mortars to grind the curious concoction into a paste. Surrounding them were various quantities of the ingredients—some of them imported— including costmary, sweet flag, hypericum, gum, sagapenum, acacia juice, illyrian iris, cardamom, anise, nard, gentian root, dried rose-leaves, poppy-tears, parsley, casia, saxifrage, darnel, long pepper, storax, castoreum, frankincense, hypocistis juice, myrrh, opopanax, malabathrum leaves, round rush, turpentine-resin, galbanum, carrot seeds, opobalsam, rhubarb root, saffron, ginger, cinnamon, vinegar, and honey. Supervising the men was Jeevasiddhi, continuously referring to the little notes that had been sent by Chanakya using pigeon post.

In an adjoining room sat another group of men wearing thick cotton masks. They were preparing an even deadlier brew. They were roasting
orpiment
, an orangeyellow mineral found along the eastern borders of Magadha. The result was an ayurvedic compound called
phenashmabhasam
—white arsenic. ‘Fool!’ Jeevasiddhi yelled at one of the men who was using his bare hands to dust off the residue from his mortar. ‘Wash your hands immediately! Then apply some of the
mithridatay
solution from the other room!’

Why am I stuck with these idiots who have no fucking clue to what they’re dealing with,
he thought. He paused to reflect. He then smiled. He realised that they were willing to do the job only because they had no clue. It was always better to operate on a strict need-to-know basis. And these simpletons didn’t need to know anything at all.

The creaking bullock cart wound its way through the new chariot road that ran from Indraprastha to Pataliputra. The cart was old and had seen better days, but the bullocks looked surprisingly well-fed and strong. Little bells around their necks tinkled to the swaying motion of the lumbering beasts of burden. Seated on the cart were three men. One of them was old, dark, and had a pockmarked face. He was stark naked—without even a loincloth around his privates. His long hair, beard and moustache were unkempt. Sandalwood paste and cremation ash was smeared across his face and body. His appearance indicated that he was an
Aghorpanthi
—one of a fierce and eccentric sect of yogis who worshipped Shiva, and whose name translated to ‘non-terrified’ because they did not fear death. Aghorpanthis believed that everything in this world was created from divine matter and thus nothing could be impure. The aggregate of the universe was sacred and flawless as God himself. Aghorpanthis sat for their meditation and penance in cremation grounds, praying for the souls of the departed and consuming the flesh of the dead. They were necrophagists.

The two other men were quite obviously his disciples. One was sitting in front, directing the bullocks, while the other was seated opposite his guru. Both followers wore scanty loincloths of the same greyish-white colour, stained from ashes of the dead. Aghorpanthis were not to be messed around with. They were human symbols of Shiva himself. They lived in cemeteries precisely because these were the very places that Shiva dwelt. Aghorpanthis roamed around stark naked because their nudity reflected their complete detachment from the illusory world of ordinary mortals. There was a method to their madness. Through their terrible penance they transcended human emotions of attachment, pride, jealousy, and hatred, thus becoming true yogis.

Their cart was not stopped at any of the border checkpoints along the way. The guards were simply too terrified of being cursed by them, or worse, being eaten alive. The three men in the cart chuckled to themselves as they saw the fear in the eyes of all those who passed them. Chanakya, Chandragupta and Sharangrao made the journey to Pataliputra pretty quickly.

Inside the palace grounds, Dhanananda was busy pouring rivers of clarified butter, honey, milk, grain and soma into the grand sacred fire being tended by a hundred and ten Brahmins of the kingdom. It was a fervent plea to the Almighty to grant him victory over the scoundrels who wanted to usurp his throne. After the ceremonies were over, the Brahmins would be led to the royal dining hall where ten senior Brahmins would be fed on crockery of pure gold. The one hundred junior Brahmins who had stood in the background reciting Vedic hymns would also eat, but on a hundred plates of solid silver. Pleasing the Brahmins was the equivalent of pleasing God and Dhanananda had taken out some time from his usual schedule of pleasing himself to attend to the sacred rites.

Prayers over, the Brahmins were led to the dining hall where they were shocked to find three Aghorpanthis sitting before three of the golden plates. ‘This is preposterous! How can we sit here with these disgusting men who live among corpses and eat rotten flesh?’ asked the chief Brahmin among them. Dhanananda was also livid. Why had his guards allowed these obscene mystics into the premises?

‘They said that they would curse me and that my intestines would pour out of my stomach, which they would consume with relish!’ said a hysterical guard to Dhanananda. His commanding officer, a handsome young man with an exceedingly well-oiled moustache said in alarm, ‘Your Highness, they said that my limbs would fall off and fly spontaneously into your sacred fire. They said that the meat hanging on my bones would be nicely roasted before they took a single bite!’

‘O King, we may be Aghorpanthis but we came here to seek divine intervention for your victory. Our powers are far greater than the hundred and ten fat Brahmins who are present in this room. By insulting us you have brought the wrath of Shiva upon you. Shiva’s blood shall poison your wells and your citizens shall die of thirst with the enemy baying like wolves at the city gates. Nothing can save you or your kingdom now—not even another a thousand sacrificial fires!’ shouted the naked Chanakya as all three men stood up with plates still in their hands. They threw their plates down on the floor in rage and stormed out of the dining hall. None of the guards blocked their exit. Dhanananda too stood motionless, paralysed with fear. It was only a few minutes later that his guards saw the puddle of urine around his feet.