Chankya's Chant (67 page)

He spat out a thick pellet of phlegm as he watched his prey. His eyes, bloodshot from excessive drink, matched the dark red tilak that was prominent on his forehead. This particular tilak, however, had not been made using vermillion pigment. It was a blood mark from his latest victim. In his hand he held a cutlass, his lucky charm, not so lucky for the thousand throats it had slit open. In his other hand was a sword that had been gifted to him the previous night. It was worth it, thought Bibhatsaka. Each victim had not only yielded loot but had also provided sacrifice to the Goddess Kali. He had built a temple for her by the riverbank and always ensured that the blood of a fresh victim was offered to her each day. The spot where his temple stood was avoided by all and sundry. It was called
Kali Ghat
.

‘We shall strike when they camp for the night,’ said Bibhatsaka. ‘There are too many people in the party, including guards. Better to catch them completely unaware. This is going to be fun!’ His men—around two dozen in number—laughed. Their chief knew how to take care of his people. They were going to be rich.

Bibhatsaka was already rich. The clandestine midnight meeting with Sharangrao had ensured he would be paid irrespective of the haul. Sharangrao had then handed over to him the sword belonging to Bhadrashala and asked him to ensure that Dhanananda was killed with it, and that it was left at the scene of the crime.

‘But acharya, wouldn’t it be wise to have the coronation of Maharaj Paurus as emperor of Magadha immediately?’ asked Indradutt.

‘The Venus-Charybdis conjunction around twentythree degrees Sagittarius, is tightly wrapped around Maharaj’s natal Neptune and, of course, the Saturn- Uranus opposition is present on Maharaj’s natal Mercury. Therefore the theme of this coronation must revolve around His Majesty’s critical Mercury-Saturn-Neptune- Charybdis pattern,’ said the plump rajpurohit as they sat in the massive pleasure chamber of Dhanananda. Chanakya suppressed a grin. Astrology was such a wonderful science. You could get it to say whatever you wanted without ever having to actually say it.

‘What does that mean?’ asked a bewildered Paurus.

‘It means that you shall have to wait for two more days and two more nights for the high noon of your coronation, O mighty King,’ interjected Chanakya.

‘But what shall I do till then?’ asked Paurus.

‘I think I have just the solution to keep His Majesty occupied,’ suggested Chanakya, as Vishaka gracefully walked in like a tigress.

‘Is the tiger ready?’ Chanakya asked. Jeevasiddhi nodded. ‘Good. Have your secret agents keep him caged in the jungle till Chandragupta reaches there. You shall uncage him once Chandragupta’s in sight, is that understood?’ instructed Chanakya as he handed over the pouch to Jeevasiddhi. ‘Make sure the animal’s water is spiked with this. It will make him drowsy and sluggish,’ he said.

The largest member of the cat-tribe and the most formidable of all living flesh-eaters was the preferred sport of kings of Magadha. The most common hunting technique was
hanka
—the beat—by which the beast would be driven towards the waiting hunter by baiting it with live buffaloes tethered in the jungle while drummers drove it into more tightly defined territory. Chandragupta was stationed in a
machaan
—a treetop platform— hidden away twenty feet above the ground. Smeared on his face was a disgusting, lipid-rich, foul-smelling fluid that had been previously extracted from the urinary tract of a slain tigress. His helpers lay crouched on other machaans in the area waiting for the mighty cat to make its appearance. There was complete silence in the forest, the only sound being that of bated breath.

The hundreds of beaters and baiters accompanying Chandragupta had no clue of the elaborate manoeuvres that were being orchestrated backstage by Jeevasiddhi. Jeevasiddhi nodded to his aide and the man pulled the rope that opened the gate of the cage and quietly released the magnificent beast into the target area. The drowsy animal walked out of the open cage and sniffed. Tigers were blessed with acute hearing, keen eyesight but not very accurate smell. But this smell was different and any male tiger would be a fool not to pick up on it. It contained pheromones that induced sexual excitement.

As the tiger sauntered into the tightly constricted space that lay below Chandragupta’s machaan, the noble king jumped down to the ground and faced the feline squarely, instead of hurling his spear from above. The narcotised animal could barely keep its eyes open—all that it knew was that it needed to find the source of the scent—the pheromones of love.

The animal soon realised that the bouquet was emanating from the cheek of the lovable hunter in front of it. Chandragupta kneeled down, his spear ready to take care of any unfortunate miscalculation, just as the gigantic beast opened its jaws, put out its tongue and lapped up the terrible stinking gob on Chandragupta’s cheeks before passing out.

‘It’s a divine sign!’ whispered one of the helpers of the hunt. ‘It’s a miracle! Chandragupta has heavenly aid. If this isn’t a supernatural happening, what is?’

‘I agree,’ said another. ‘This occurrence is one in a million. It’s a benediction from God. It’s celestial intervention telling the people of Magadha that their true king has arrived and is among them. That king is none other than the great Chandragupta!’

Paurus lay dead with his face nestled in Vishaka’s bosom on the silken bedspread of the chamber in Pataliputra’s royal pleasure palace, while the peacocks in the royal garden outside continued to dance.

Dhanananda’s lifeless body lay in the forest with Bhadrashala’s bloodstained sword by its side. Bibhatsaka had taken some of Dhanananda’s blood to offer to his diety in Kali Ghat by the riverbank.

The sleeping tiger in the forest snored contentedly.

Chanakya, Chandragupta, Sharangrao and Katyayan were seated in the royal council hall, deliberating their next move. A magistrate of Magadha stood before them, awaiting instructions. ‘Arrest Bhadrashala immediately and have him hanged,’ Chanakya instructed the magistrate who hurried out to obey and please his new master.

‘Bhadrashala helped us, acharya, we should be lenient with him. We know that he wasn’t behind Dhanananda’s slaying,’ said Sharangrao.

‘He wasn’t helping us but himself, Sharangrao,’ said the angry Brahmin, his eyes blazing. ‘He’ll be a liability for any ruler, be it Dhanananda or Chandragupta! Kingship isn’t about mercy, it’s about power.’

‘Rakshas will be upset. Bhadrashala was his ally,’ said Katyayan.

‘How does it matter, Katyayanji? Rakshas will come running to Magadha now that he knows Dhanananda is out of the way,’ said Chanakya.

‘But it seems Rakshas is saying he’s very comfortable being in Takshila and that he doesn’t wish to return to Magadha,’ argued Sharangrao.

‘I need that rogue Rakshas back here. His mere presence as deputy prime minister will give legitimacy to Chandragupta’s reign,’ reasoned Chanakya.

‘Deputy prime minister?’ asked Chandragupta. ‘Wasn’t he prime minister under Dhanananda?’

‘Yes. But your new prime minister shall be Katyayanji —someone who’s not afraid to tell the king what he thinks!’

The old Katyayan smiled and stood up, went before Chandragupta and bowed to his new master. Turning to Chanakya he said, ‘But acharya, you can’t force Rakshas to return. He’s living an extremely luxurious life in Takshila apparently.’

‘I trust that Mehir—who I left behind in Takshila specifically for this very reason—has taken care of that problem by now,’ said Chanakya cryptically.

‘And what were your instructions to Mehir?’ asked Chandragupta.

‘To tell Rakshas that I’m holding Suvasini hostage and that she will be held until he returns! Leave a little sugar syrup on the floor and see the ants flock to it! Suvasini is my syrup and Rakshas—my ant!’ roared Chanakya.

‘Acharya! To be frank with you, it seems positively dishonest,’ commented Chandragupta.

‘Son, one should never be too upright. You’ve just returned from a hunt in the forest, haven’t you? Didn’t you notice that it’s always the straight trees that are cut down while the crooked ones are left standing?’ asked Chanakya.

‘So I should sit on a throne that’s won by deceit?’

‘You’re the king, aren’t you? You’ve reached the pinnacle. You have power and wealth—use it wisely, O King!’ said Chanakya.

Chandragupta continued to look uncomfortable.

Chanakya spoke once again. ‘Birds don’t build nests on fruitless trees, whores have no love for poor men, and citizens don’t obey a powerless king! Do your duty, O King!’ he commanded as he tied his shikha for the first time after having untied it in Dhanananda’s court all those years ago.

Suvasini looked around the room. It was windowless but comfortable—clean, airy, and well furnished. She tried opening the door but it was locked from the outside. She frantically banged on the wood, hoping that someone would hear. It was no use. There didn’t seem to be anyone outside. Resigned to being held captive, she sat down on the bed and began sobbing quietly. What sort of wretched life was this? To be used by Rakshas, abused by Dhanananda and misused by Chanakya?

As she sat there, pondering over her pathetic life, she heard the shuffling of feet. She then heard the sound of door bolts being lifted. The door creaked open and two guards entered and stood to attention on either side of the entrance. Chanakya strode in purposefully, his hands clasped together behind his back.