An eerie silence hung over the vast chamber. Their footfalls and the clanking of the guards’ armour and weapons echoed and rang out through the empty space. Bharat and Sumantra reached the end of the gritty pool of light coming in from behind, and ventured into the sightless dark ahead, making their way towards the dais, not knowing what lay in wait for them.
‘Maharaja Dasaratha?’ Sumantra’s voice was clear and filled with concern. ‘Are you well?’
‘Pitashree?’ Bharat called, using the formal term of address required by propriety when addressing his father in public. ‘Are you seated on the throne? Where are you?’
There was no answer to their queries. The deafening silence loomed before them like the thick, dense darkness through which they proceeded.
Sumantra gave a guard beside him an order to fetch torches. The man passed the message down the line, but Bharat guessed it might be several minutes before the light arrived. It was still bright afternoon outside and the torch-lighters would not be in use yet. They would have to be fetched, and that would take a moment or two longer.
As he stepped slowly ahead into the wall-thick darkness, Bharat could feel the hairs standing on the back of his neck and hands, and a sensation like ants crawling up his thighs. Behind him, several guards spoke invocations softly, urgently. All Arya Kshatriyas feared sorcery far more than they feared mortal injury. The unmistakable sense of magic was thick in the silent, dark assembly chamber.
Bharat felt his shin bang against an obstacle. He restrained the impulse to slash wildly with his sword, his mind reassuring his warrior instinct that it knew what the object was.
‘The royal dais,’ he said softly, more for his own benefit than for Sumantra’s ears.
The prime minister replied nevertheless, whispering to be heard only by the prince: ‘Bharat, you go to your left, I’ll ascend from the right. We meet at the top in the centre of the dais, by the sunwood throne.’
Bharat whispered a curt ‘Okay’ in response. He moved left, knowing the prime minister would communicate the same message to the guards to ensure that they didn’t tangle with each other in the darkness. Where were those torches? They ought to have arrived by now. He went up the high steps of the dais, lifting each booted foot carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible. The dais, like the rest of the chamber, was carpeted, but the structure itself was wood and would produce a muffled noise if he hit it with his heel. Surprisingly, even the guards behind him and on the other side of the dais made no sound as they ascended the seven foot-high steps to the topmost level.
As he lifted his foot to climb on to the seventh step, light returned to the hall. It blazed forth with such startling suddenness that Bharat was momentarily blinded. His sword hand instinctively flew up to shield his eyes, his Kshatriya responses regarding the assault as being an attack like any physical strike.
If an assault, it was devastatingly effective: for a few precious seconds Bharat could see only stars exploding and bright colours flashing. If the enemy had chosen to strike him down at that very instant, he would have had no chance. As it was, he was loath to lash out with his sword for fear of accidentally hitting his father, whom he still expected to be somewhere about here. Somehow, the torches in the hall had all regained their light at once. It was impossible, he knew, but it had happened and he had no time to waste debating that trivial detail when all his attention was focused on seeing what the sudden infusion of light enabled him to witness.
The sight that met his eyes when they adjusted was the last thing on earth he expected to see.
Maharaja Dasaratha was seated on his throne, in that familiar pose in which Bharat had seen him countless times before. A forward-leaning posture, the maharaja’s right elbow resting on the end of his right thigh, almost at his knee. His chin rested on his curled right fist, as he stared pensively into the distance. His crown was on his brow. Although still showing the wasted appearance caused by his cankerous disease, he sat with the dignity and majesty born of a lifetime of ruling and generations of Suryavansha kings.
‘Pitashree?’ Bharat approached the sunwood throne cautiously, lowering his sword but still unable to rid his mind of the certainty that something was still amiss here. From the far right of the large dais, the prime minister also approached, lance still in hand but point now lowered, his face reflecting the
same confusion and suspicion that Bharat felt.
‘Maharaj?’ Sumantra said cautiously.
Dasaratha blinked twice, as if pulling his mind out of some vexing contemplation that had involved him for several moments. He looked up at Bharat and his face creased in a weary smile.
‘Arya-putra,’ he said, hoarsely but warmly. ‘Approach me, my son.’
Bharat went to him, sheathing his sword. He felt curiously vulnerable doing so, but had no choice. He couldn’t very well approach the enthroned king of Kosala with naked steel in hand, even if it was his own father—especially if it was his father! On the steps of the dais, caught by the abruptly returned illumination in various poses of stealthy climbing, the palace guards also blinked at one another and sheathed their weapons hastily. They retreated backwards down the steps as Bharat went to his father, bowing their heads and muttering formal apologies for their transgression.
Bharat stood before his father’s throne and bent his knee. He felt Dasaratha’s heavy hand rest on his head a moment. It felt unusually warm. The maharaja was running a fever. That was not unusual in itself; the maharaja was ill, after all.
‘My son, rise now. I have important work for you. I wish you and your brother to take two divisions of the army apiece and ride separately to Kaikeya and to Gandahar at once. There you will warn your respective grandfathers of the imminent asura invasion and stay to help them defend their cities. Only after you have repelled the invaders successfully will you return with whatever forces you can muster to help defend Ayodhya.’
Bharat looked up at his father after this astonishing speech. The maharaja’s words left no room for confusion or question. But he still couldn’t comprehend what he had just been told. More than that, it was the bizarre circumstances in which he had been given the command that disoriented him. One moment ago, he had been advancing through the pitch-black hall, anxious that his father had been attacked by some treacherous means, perhaps even by that very Vajra rider Bheriya—even though the man had been checked and found to be exactly what he claimed to be, a Vajra Kshatriya come to deliver a message. And now here was his father issuing a command to Bharat to undertake the most momentous mission of his entire life. Two divisions apiece? With only four in total, that meant half the army would go with Bharat to Kaikeya, the other half with Shatrugan to Gandahar! The entire Kosala army, leaving its capital city unprotected.
Pradhan Mantri Sumantra came to his rescue. Bowing formally to his liege, the prime minister asked in his typical unassuming, sincere way, ‘Maharaj, forgive my asking, but what makes you fear an asura invasion of the capital cities of Kaikeya and Gandahar? We have no word of such enemy intrusions from these Arya nations.’
Maharaja Dasaratha raised his hand and gestured to the far right of the dais. All eyes, riveted on him these past few moments, turned to look at that part of the hall.
‘He brought me the news, under instructions from the Brahmarishi Vishwamitra himself. The unfortunate man suffered mortal injuries and was not aware of it. After delivering his message his strength was drained and he dropped dead, accidentally striking that gong as he fell.’
The man named Bheriya lay at the foot of the ceremonial gong. Even from where he stood, Bharat could see the telltale trickles of blood from the man’s ears, nostrils and mouth that could only mean deep internal injuries.
For that one instant, as every pair of eyes in the hall stared in amazement at the fallen courier at the corner of the dais, nobody noticed the maharaja’s face change. For the briefest of moments, Dasaratha’s features flickered like a shadow cast by a torch, seeming to ripple and alter into the visage of his greatest enemy, the Lord of Lanka. His eyes, naturally a clear greyish-blue, glowed and turned ruby-red for that same fraction of an instant, and his lips curled slowly to reveal his teeth in a shadow of a ghostly grin. Then, before anyone could spy this shocking change, his face composed itself once more, and he was Maharaja Dasaratha again.
TWO
Maharaja Dasaratha’s weary eyes peered down at his sons and the captain of his guards.
Bharat and Shatrugan had expressions of relief on their faces. ‘Pitashree,’ Bharat said, ‘thank the devas you’re safe. When we heard the gong sound and rushed in to find the hall in pitch darkness, we feared the worst.’
Dasaratha nodded. ‘I was alarmed too when all the torches went out at once. Captain Drishti Kumar, do you know what might have caused such an unusual phenomenon?’
The smartly uniformed young officer bowed his head to his sovereign. ‘Forgive me, Maharaj. I am equally at a loss to explain it.’
Bharat said thoughtfully, ‘It must be sorcery. Our enemies were angered because the Vajra lieutenant succeeded in delivering his message and struck him down through the use of black powers. Then they darkened the hall, maybe with the intention of causing harm to you as well, Father.’
Dasaratha looked impressed. ‘A commendable explanation. You may well be right, son. Who knows what powers the Lord of Lanka possesses?’
He rose to his feet unsteadily. Both Shatrugan and Bharat came forward to help him but he gestured them aside. He walked across the royal dais slowly, the effort showing on his illness-ravaged features.
Ignoring the corpse of the dead Vajra Kshatriya, Dasaratha made his way to a large wall fresco that portrayed the fan-like shape of the subcontinent, with geographical features painstakingly depicted and the borders of the seven Arya nations clearly delineated. Pradhan Mantri Sumantra, anticipating his king’s need, handed him a three-yard-long pointer which the maharaja used as he spoke.
‘Once again, I’ll explain my orders to make sure that both of you are clear on what you are to do. Bharat, you shall take two divisions of the army and ride post-haste to your grandfather’s palace at Kaikeya. Shatrugan, you will take two divisions and proceed to your grandfather’s palace at Gandahar. You will both remain there with your forces to defend those two great nations against the coming asura invasion.
‘As I have explained, the asura armies will land on the western coast, travelling north-east up the Indus valley until they reach Gandahar and Kaikeya, followed by Bharata. If you stem the attack at those two northernmost kingdoms, they will never make it across the Sindhu Kush pass. We shall break their attack in the very first stage of the war. Once they have been repelled, they will attempt to make their way down to the great Kutch desert, then turn towards the north-east. They will avoid going fully north as that will put them between the Jat clans and the Five Rivers. Instead they will march further east until they reach Kosala and then Videha, where they will launch their second campaign.’
Shatrugan frowned. ‘But Pitashree, if Bharat and I take our entire army with us, how will Ayodhya defend itself when that happens?’
Bharat spoke for his father. ‘We shall have returned long before then. The asura forces may be able to travel swiftly now because they cross the ocean in ships. But over land as harsh and hostile as the Kutch desert, it will take them several weeks to reach the borders of Kosala and Videha. We will be back home and ready to meet them long before they arrive.’
Shatrugan frowned. ‘But what if they don’t retreat down the Sindhu river valley? Or if they divide their forces into half and leave half to besiege Gandahar and Kaikeya while sending the other half to Kosala and Videha?’
‘Well said, my son,’ Dasaratha said. ‘Guru Vashishta taught you well at his gurukul. As well as you, Bharat. Your grasp of military strategy makes me proud. It is indeed possible that Ravana may choose to divide his forces at that point. If he makes that mistake, then I shall send word to one of you, most likely Shatrugan, to return with his half of our army. Then all the seven nations shall unite our forces in a two-pronged attack,’ Dasaratha jabbed with the pointer at the sinuously winding line of the Sindhu river and then at the western border of Kosala, ‘and we shall drive them back into the briny ocean whence they came!’
He smiled as both the rajkumars broke out into spontaneous applause, joined by the palace guards who had been watching and listening to their king’s explanation with rapt interest.
‘It will take more than numbers to defeat us, I can promise you that,’ he said, handing the pointer back to Sumantra. ‘Whatever they may choose to do, we will prevail in the end.’
He gestured at the corpse of Bheriya lying beside him. ‘Couriers such as this brave Vajra warrior will bring word of any new decisions I make to each of you. Now, I urge you to ride for Gandahar and for Kaikeya with all the speed that the devas and nature gifts you. Do not stay even to wish your mothers goodbye or to speak to anyone else. Captain Drishti Kumar and Pradhan Mantri Sumantra shall go with you to ensure that the army assembles at once. Since we are already on full alert, it will be a matter of only a few hours before they are ready to embark on the journey. Now, let us spend no more time on words when swords are what are needed. Go at once, my sons. Ayushmaanbhav!’