Chankya's Chant (61 page)

‘If a snake isn’t poisonous, all the more reason that it should pretend to be so,’ muttered Chanakya quietly to Chandragupta and Sharangrao as they left the premises.

‘Hurry up! Get the phenashmabhasam poured into all the wells before sunrise. Why must I deal with a bunch of incompetent cretins!’ muttered Jeevasiddhi as he supervised the gangs of men who were busy poisoning the wells, cisterns, tanks and reservoirs of Pataliputra.

‘Why must we kill innocents to take over Magadha?’ Chandragupta had asked Chanakya.

His guru had replied, ‘The first ones that drink water in the early hours of the morning are animals. This is the reason that the poisoning must be done at night— human loss shall be extremely limited. Word regarding the curse of the Aghorpanthis has already spread. It’s a matter of time before the populace is willing to do anything that we demand.’

‘And what happens when the council calls us and pleads with us, requesting that we revoke our curse?’ asked Sharangrao.

‘Simple. We tell them that Dhanananda must make a supreme sacrifice to rectify the breach. He must leave his palace to live in the forests—in exile. In the meantime, Jeevasiddhi shall get his men to pour the antidote prepared by us—the mithridatay—into the very water sources that were poisoned the previous night. Miracles do happen!’ laughed Chanakya.

‘But how do we take control of the city?’ asked Chandragupta. These complex schemes of his guru always perplexed him. He much preferred a straightforward battle that he could sink his teeth into.

‘Dhanananda’s commander—Bhadrashala—has been completely bought over by Jeevasiddhi. The moment Dhanananda exits the gates Bhadrashala will hand over command of the entire Magadha army to you, Chandragupta, so long as we pay him the predetermined bribe.’

‘But we shall still have Paurus and the king of Kalinga standing at the eastern and western boundary walls itching for battle,’ countered Chandragupta.

‘They will not have to fight us. We will welcome them as allies with open arms,’ said Chanakya.

‘So we’ve gone through this excruciating journey running around naked like crazy cannibals just so that we can open the city gates and hand over the keys to the enemy?’ asked Chandragupta, irked at the notion that the conceited Paurus was to be welcomed into Pataliputra.

Chanakya laughed. Turning serious, he said, ‘Chandragupta, you seem to have forgotten one of the very first things I taught you. Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.’

Bhadrashala stood to one side watching the procession of chariots, horses and elephants as the mighty Dhanananda left his palace and his kingdom to renounce the world along with his unfortunate wives and servants who didn’t seem to be in any mood for renunciation. Bhadrashala was relieved—his debts had been cleared and he was now a very wealthy man.

Jeevasiddhi had been told by Chanakya to make sure Suvasini was nowhere near the king while his entourage moved out. She would still be needed for one final negotiation—or so he convinced himself. He was too proud to admit his lifelong infatuation with her.

‘I want him killed,’ said Chanakya to Sharangrao as he watched Dhanananda ride off in his chariot. The emperor looked as if he had aged ten years in a single day. Gone was the permanent evil smirk that adorned his face. Gone was the arrogant swagger. And gone was the kingdom of Magadha.

‘If we have him eliminated, the entire populace shall think that we’re behind it—and rightly so,’ argued Sharangrao.

‘Our bigger problem will be Bhadrashala. He seems to think he’s still entitled to his position as army chief. He’s been in touch with Rakshas who’s been using our carrier pigeons to stay in touch with him,’ whispered Jeevasiddhi.

‘Has he formally surrendered his sword to us?’ asked Chanakya.

‘No,’ replied Jeevasiddhi.

‘Get that done immediately. I need his sword. I have a plan,’ said Chanakya as Magadha’s populace celebrated Dhanananda’s departure. As the entourage left the gates of Pataliputra, Chanakya ordered that a message be sent to Paurus and the Kalinga monarch that they could enter the fortified city and expect a rousing welcome.

‘You’re allowing them inside against my will,’ suggested Chandragupta to Chanakya. His teacher smiled. ‘My problem,’ said the acharya, ‘is that you have a strong will but I have a weak won’t!’

The two armies of Kaikey and Kalinga poured into Pataliputra. Chanakya stood at the entrance of the palace to greet the honoured guests. A hundred drummers beat a deafening welcome as their chariots rolled in.

The king of Kalinga was not as tall as Paurus but seemed just as strong. He wore a bronze helmet encrusted with cat’s-eyes, a stone that was astrologically auspicious for him. Across his chest was a leather-padded vest armoured with ribs of iron. A long-handled broadsword hung from his belt. He stepped out of his chariot and was greeted by Chanakya. ‘Welcome to Pataliputra, O great King,’ he said conspicuously and then added softly, ‘I sincerely hope that this kingdom shall be blessed by your benevolent rule.’

Paurus had dressed up for the occasion, his pale yellow turban sported a peacock feather fashioned from emeralds and sapphires to match the blue-green hue of the regal bird’s plumage. As his towering hulk alighted from the chariot pulled by three white horses, Chanakya greeted him in humility with folded hands. ‘Welcome to Pataliputra, O Divine Emperor,’ he said, flattering the vain monarch in a loud voice. He then whispered, ‘I hope that Magadha shall prosper under your able rule.’ Paurus smiled.
I’ve taught the rogue his true place
, he thought.

When both sovereigns had settled into their luxurious accommodations, the shadowy figure went over to meet them individually. ‘I’ve already told Chandragupta to withdraw from the contest for Magadha,’ Chanakya said to each of them. ‘The kingdom cannot be left headless. If Chandragupta isn’t to rule, then the reins must necessarily be held by either one of you. Rather than getting the armies to clash, it would be better that the two great monarchs have a duel. Let the best man take Magadha,’ he suggested. He knew that the suggestion would appeal to the vanities of both men.

Paurus reached over and drew his sword. He held it lovingly, allowing the handle to become one with his hand. He readied his steel, bracing himself for the clash of metal against metal that would follow.

Kalinga gripped his blade in his left hand. Being lefthanded was actually an advantage, he thought. Most of his opponents lost their judgement when combating him. They were unused to fighting left-handers whereas he was extremely comfortable duelling right-handers.

The two danced around each other in a classic martial arts routine. As they circled one another they looked into each other’s eyes. A single blink would determine who had the upper hand. As both warriors finally enagaged, sparks flew from their clashing swordblades.

There was a sudden pause in the noise as both stood suspended in a deadlock, each with his blade at the other’s throat. The frozen stance continued for a few seconds till Kalinga blinked. Paurus thrust his weapon forward but Kalinga recovered smartly, using a threesixty- degree motion to fend off the attack. Paurus drew blood but not life.

Both antagonists hyper-charged their attacks, putting their entire strength into the fight to the finish. The titans knew that the duel would end with a death but both also knew that they needed a conclusion—and fast.

Kalinga tripped and he knew in that split-second that his life was over. But he sprang up and lunged forward to attack anyway, while Paurus calmly stepped aside and with a single swipe of his sword caused a gaping tear in the side of Kalinga’s neck. Blood gushed forth from the wound as Kalinga fell to the ground, his sword clattering noisily. In a profoundly chivalrous moment, Paurus threw his own sword to the ground and knelt before his opponent. As Kalinga’s blood flowed and life ebbed, Paurus said, ‘Goodbye, O valiant King. Paurus is proud to have fought you.’

One down, one more to go,
thought Chanakya.

The unassuming house of dance instruction on Shiva Street, in the eastern district of Pataliputra, run by the former courtesan and funded by the Peacock Trust, was ready to graduate another student. Vishaka was undoubtedly one of their very best products. Her utterly seductive hourglass body, pearl-ivory complexion, twinkling emerald eyes, perfectly full ruby lips, delicate pert nose and cascading auburn hair drew men like they were flies to honey. This particular honey, though, was venomous.

Vedic astrology was based upon the twenty-seven
nakshatras
—or constellations—that occurred in the twelve zodiacs. Each nakshatra had an arc of thirteen degrees and twenty minutes and this, when multiplied by twenty-seven, provided Vedic astrologers with a complete circle of three hundred and sixty degrees. The position of the moon during the birth of a child in any of the twelve zodiacs was known as the
raashi
—the moon sign—of the person, but even more important than the raashi was the position of the moon within the nakshatra of the individual. The ancient seers of Magadha had observed that birth under specific positions of the moon made certain women extremely unlucky for the longevity of their partners. Girls born on Tuesdays during the seventh lunar day of Vishaka possessed unfortunately potent horoscopes that guaranteed that any man they cohabited with would die. They were Vishakanyas— poison maidens.

During graduation week, Vishaka and other girls in the school would have to prove they were truly immune to poison. Each day the graduates would line up while their principal, carrying a large covered basket, would make each girl put her hand inside it. Each basket contained successively more venomous snakes and Vishaka was one of the few who went through the entire week without the slightest reaction to the bites. She was as deadly as the snakes that had bitten her. The principal knew that Vishaka was the one she would offer to Chanakya. The founder of the school could not be offered anything less.