Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (30 page)

Govinda chuckled. ‘I’m really impressed with your analysis. And, for what it’s worth, I quite agree with you. War against
Jarasandha is a bad idea for many reasons, including the very persuasive ones you’ve just pointed out.’

Panchali rose from her seat in a sudden move, forcing Govinda to take a step back. She set her hands on her hips in a gesture
of defiance, tilted her head back to stare straight into the tall man’s eyes. ‘But you won’t change your mind, will you?’

‘No, I won’t,’ he admitted.

‘In that case, let me speak frankly. You can’t go to war. You shouldn’t go to war. You’d never win.’

‘What should I do then, Princess?’ Govinda asked, a gleam in his
eyes. ‘Ask Jarasandha nicely? Maybe tell him it’s someone else’s turn to play on the imperial throne?’

Panchali squared her shoulders and declared, ‘Assassinate him. It’s the only way.’

GOVINDA PACED THE SMALL ROOM BHIM AND HE WERE SHARING
in a nondescript inn a day’s ride from Jarasandha’s capital. Pensive and grim, he scratched at his three-week-old beard.
He desperately longed for a shave, but that minor inconvenience aside, their plan or, rather, Panchali’s plan was working
perfectly.

‘Jarasandha will soon realize what we’re up to,’ she had pointed out to Dharma after convincing a visibly impressed Govinda
of her scheme. ‘Maybe we can get him to believe that driven by our own arrogance we mean to challenge him in open war. If
we move Kuru forces eastward and get Yuyudhana to lead the Narayaniya troops through the south towards Magadha … And ask my
father to move the Panchala Eastern Guard through the Kosala kingdom. It would surely distract Jarasandha for long enough
before he realizes that the armies are a feint.’

‘Distract him from what?’ Dharma had asked.

‘Our assassin,’ Govinda replied.

Dharma had winced visibly at that. He had said no words of approval or encouragement, but he had done nothing to stop them
either. That had been enough.

The chosen assassin was one of Shikandin’s most trusted soldiers. He was a pleasant-looking man of Govinda’s years, half of
which he had been spent serving in the notorious Panchala Eastern Guard and the other half as Shikandin’s spy. He had neither
family nor friends other than his brothers-in-arms and his eyes held a fearless honesty. Above all, he was willing to do the
deed, not for money or honour but simply because Shikandin had ordered him to. Govinda had liked him instantly, more so when
the soldier had received the name of his
quarry without as much as a murmur. The man also took with the same equanimity the news that he had, as Shikandin had phrased
it, less than a trasarenu molecule’s worth of a chance of returning alive.

About a week after the man had set out, his identity and the exact details of his assignment a secret from all but Shikandin
and Govinda, the armies were mobilized. It was then that Govinda had announced his intentions to ride to Magadha.

‘But why?’ Dharma had protested. ‘Yuyudhana leads your men and Partha leads the Kuru armies.’

‘I want to be there, just in case,’ Govinda had insisted.

‘In case of what …?’

Panchali had coldly finished, ‘In case the assassin fails.’

This had only perturbed Dharma more. ‘And if he fails …?’

‘We deny all responsibility, of course. Though I doubt anyone will believe us.’

‘It’s too dangerous, Govinda. If your man fails, we’ll have no choice but to meet Jarasandha in battle. He’ll attack even
if we don’t. We can’t risk open war with the Emperor. It’s suicide.’

‘We’ll see,’ Govinda had flippantly dismissed.

Despite Dharma’s anxious protests, Govinda had left the very next day with Bhim. The two had marched with a single battalion
of soldiers along the mountain roads almost till the borders of Vidharbha. There, in full view of imperial spies, they waited
and met up with Yuyudhana and the soldiers from Dwaraka. The trio, along with their armies, then ostensibly continued towards
Magadha, their progress slow and confusing to anyone who kept watch.

In fact, Govinda and Bhim disappeared, leaving Yuyudhana to lead the men. Playing the role of wandering mercenaries – two
more in that teeming breed of battle-trained Sutas who would never have the honour or title of being true warriors – they
had quickly travelled north until they were close to the borders of Magadha. This was a perfect disguise, for they rode their
horses and carried their weapons without drawing attention to themselves. But they were also forced to choose rather simple
inns and rest-houses for their lodgings. The two men cared little for such inconveniences and, in fact, found the variety
of fellow-lodgers and the colourful tales they told rather entertaining. The one story, the news they waited for, however,
never came.

Much was whispered about the omens of war – both man-made and supernatural – and in all those tales Jarasandha was spoken
of as being alive and well. Either their assassin had yet to make his move, or had perhaps died even before getting close
to his target. There remained, of course, the possibility that he had tried and failed, but both men tried not to think too
much about that.

Bhim cursed out loud, bringing Govinda’s attention back to the moment. He too, was rubbing his jaw and seemed equally peeved
by his rough stubble. Like Govinda, and unlike many of his brothers and cousins, Bhim preferred to stay clean-shaven. ‘All
this, to overthrow a tyrant,’ he complained, turning onto his side on the hard plank that passed for a bed.

Govinda drew up a chair with his leg and sat facing the other man. ‘Is that what we’re doing? Think carefully before you answer,
Bhim. Do you claim that this is a revolution against a tyrant? If not, what just cause do you have to overthrow him? Your
own uncle Dhritarastra owes him allegiance. You can’t just brush away Jarasandha’s legitimacy and pretend he is unfit to rule.’

‘Oh? Then how does one judge when a monarch must be overthrown?’

‘Ah! I seem to remember asking myself the same question many, many years ago. You’d be surprised how many different answers
there are to that one.’

‘How so?’

‘Consider this,’ Govinda began. ‘One fine day, a royal emissary comes to a Yadu village and claims that a seventeen-year-old
boy is the son of the Surasena princess Devaki and the Vrishni chief Shura. He claims that the child and his half-brother
had been sent away as infants to live in hiding for fear of their maternal uncle Kans, who ruled over the kingdom with an
iron fist. Tell me, Bhim, if I were that seventeen-year-old boy, would I be justified in killing Kans?’

‘But of course! Your right to do so stems from the fact that Kans
was a usurper but the people were far too terrified to say anything about it. That isn’t true assent.’

‘In that case, how can we be sure that the people of Mathura weren’t afraid of me and Balabadra? What gave
us
legitimacy but not Kans? After all, he took the throne from my grandfather because he felt the existing policies were far
too conciliatory and not in the interest of the kingdom. Either he was a justified revolutionary and so were we, or both parties
are equally guilty of tyranny. Don’t you agree?’

Bhim said nothing, but frowned in an effort to think things through.

‘Consider also,’ Govinda continued, ‘that the same policies that made Kans take the throne led him, in the longer run, to
put the whole of Surasena to sword and fire. He imposed unbearable taxes to fund the Emperor’s campaigns and his soldiers
often seized grains and livestock, leaving many to starve. When our turn came, out of sheer desperation and anger, the cowherds
of my village stood up to Kans’s vassal lord with what little weapons we had. Everything that followed was social inevitability.
In the end, the people rose against their hated ruler. That’s what truly happened, no matter how unromantic the tale is.’

‘The people placed you on the Surasena throne,’ Bhim argued. ‘The people deposed Kans. Choosing their new ruler was their
lawful right.’

‘And that brings us back to where we started. Are we really overthrowing a tyrant? Jarasandha has been a good ruler to his
people, and what we’re doing hardly qualifies as a revolution. But then how many does it take to dissent? Has he truly been
a good Emperor in everyone’s eyes? Is it in Aryavarta’s interest to align with outsiders such as the Yavanas to wage war against
our own people?’

‘No king can hope to please everyone. All that matters is the greatest good.’

‘And how do you decide what is the greatest good? Who decides?’

‘The kings, the rulers of Aryavarta! That is what they’re here for. How difficult can that be?’ Bhim exclaimed.

Govinda inclined his head slightly, thinking. ‘When I was a young
boy,’ he said at last, ‘we had a particularly bad monsoon and our cows were starving for lack of pasture. All over Surasena
vassal lords sent orders to each village, instructing them to slaughter half their herds as an offering to Indra. I was livid,
not only because I’d loved each and every one of those animals as a brother or sister but also because I saw that it was only
the beginning. Depleting our herds would simply increase our dependence on the seasons and the fickle yield of the land.’

He grimaced, and added in a low growl, ‘Of course, our noble saamanta and his priests argued that I was committing sacrilege,
and that by giving up half the herd we could save the other half. But for that you wouldn’t need the blessings of the gods
– if you killed half your herd you’d have only half left to maintain over the same stretch of pastureland. The problem is
that with fewer cattle the land you can till is less and you need to use human labour, which is not as effective. We’d also
have less milk and so would need more grain, but without cattle to help till the land there’d be no more grain, do you see?’

‘Not really,’ Bhim pointed out. ‘Those cows might’ve perished anyway.’

‘Except,’ Govinda countered, ‘a random loss of livestock is very different from planned slaughter. One cow means the world
to the common peasant, but what’s it to a vassal lord who owns many herds? Also, those with larger herds would stand to gain
more because pasturelands are common resources, but cattle are not. The fewer cows others have means more pasture for my herd,
even if I have to lose an animal or two myself.’

‘Yes …’

Govinda continued, ‘So, what is the greater good? Who decides what is just? A few years after I’d become prince, I refused
to order another culling. Then, the very same lords who’d once agreed with me began to find my policies unjust. Mathura was
in an uproar, and the vassals and chieftains were appealing to Jarasandha for help, asking him to get rid of the crazy prince
with his new-fangled notions. And so the Emperor marched against us in the interests of the greater good – the greater good
of the powerful.’ His voice remained even throughout, but his eyes burned with fervour.

Bhim regarded him with a slight touch of awe. At length, he said, ‘It’s not my place to ask, Govinda, but why …?’ He hesitated.

‘Why did I surrender Mathura?’ Govinda coldly prompted.

Bhim chose his next words with care. ‘You’re not a coward, my friend,’ he began. ‘You didn’t leave because you were afraid.
I can only assume that having been brought up a gwala you failed to see that your duty, your honour as an Arya, lay in fighting
Jarasandha. Don’t get me wrong …’ he hastily added. ‘You might’ve thought that bricks and mortar were not worth human lives,
which I completely agree with. But perhaps you didn’t see that you gave up the very identity, the sovereignty of your people.
Their honour was lost, along with yours …’

‘My honour?’ Govinda raised an eyebrow.

‘I’m sorry, I …’

Govinda waved him into silence. ‘I’m not offended, if that’s what you’re apologizing for. I just find it rather amusing. Most
of us, including you, Bhim, talk of honour and nobility as the things that define us. How then can something so essential,
so fundamental, be given or taken away? And that’s why I neither explain nor apologize for what happened.’

‘Fine. I ask for neither explanation nor defence, but I do want to test my conjecture. Won’t you tell me the true reason why
…?’

Govinda sounded detached. ‘My people were on the verge of civil war, Bhim. The Surasena kingdom was the last bastion of Yadu
unity and it had held together only because of a shared terror of Kans. Giving up Mathura was the only way to avoid a bloodbath.’

Bhim merely nodded in response. They sat silently for a while and then, as a matter of discipline, went to bed. It took Bhim
a long time to sleep that night.

IT WAS NEARLY EVENING BY THE TIME GOVINDA AND BHIM
looked down from the peak they stood on at Jarasandha’s capital
city, Girivraja – so named because it was nestled in a valley between five hills.

‘Truly impregnable,’ Govinda noted. ‘No wonder Jarasandha can afford to be such a conqueror – these hills protect his own
people from assault and the verdant abundance makes food and water available in plenty. But I think I understand why he wanted
Mathura so badly …’

‘Oh?’ Bhim was curious.

‘In a way, Jarasandha is not unlike me, a cowherd at heart,’ he indicated to the huge flocks that grazed on the hillsides.
‘How could he not be tempted by another pastoral heaven like his own home? It explains why he wanted Mathura, and why, even
now, he nurtures hopes of conquering Dwaraka.’

‘Ah, but the difference is, Govinda, you wouldn’t covet his kingdom for your own.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure, Bhim. If I knew I could have it, I might just want it.’

The two men gazed down at the city for a while longer, until Bhim said, ‘What now?’

‘We wait for morning and make our way in with the throngs. It’s full moon tomorrow night …’

‘Ah! Market Day!’

Govinda laughed at that. ‘My dear Bhim! We’ll make a gwala out of this Kuru prince yet! Yes, Market Day. Should make for a
fair crowd in the city.’

‘And once we’re in?’

‘I just want some news, Bhim. We can scout around a bit and hopefully get out by evening. We can head back to one of the outpost
inns and wait there. What else can we do?’

‘And I thought this would be quick and dirty!’

‘It’s politics. Dirty yes, but hardly quick. But enough of all that. Be a good man and light a fire, will you. I’ll see to
our horses.’

As the sun went down, the light of many small campfires could be seen on the hills around the city. A little after dawn, all
the campers began making their way down the hillsides to join the already teeming
masses on the road to Girivraja. Govinda and Bhim fell into that crowd, mingling unnoticed into it.

It was not long before Govinda frowned, clearly not at ease. Bhim nudged him and threw him a questioning glance.

‘It’s too crowded,’ Govinda replied.

‘You don’t like crowds?’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. It’s too crowded for just another Market Day. Something’s happening.’

‘The city seems to be on high alert. There are guards posted everywhere.’

‘Hmm. Look over there.’

Bhim glared at the convoy that marched in a slow, steady rhythm, coming at them from within the city. At a shout from the
guards, the crowds shuffled off the road and to the sides, making way for the troops. He cursed under his breath. ‘He’s sending
out the troops. He’s marching to war!’

Govinda stopped in his tracks for a moment, considering something. He then turned to a group of men walking next to him and
struck up what appeared to be a completely frivolous conversation. Bhim walked patiently alongside, watching him joke and
laugh with the men, who looked like they were farmers from the Magadhan countryside. When Govinda ended his banter and turned
back to Bhim, his face was grim.

‘It’s no simple Market Day, Bhim. There’s to be an execution … Careful now, they’re watching. Look excited. Laugh!’

Bhim forced out a loud guffaw, as though delighted at the prospect of watching some criminal die a gory death. He quickly
quietened down into a morose silence. ‘It could be someone else,’ he said. ‘Some thief or rapist or …’

Govinda did not reply.

The two men did not have to wait long to find out. The crowd took them directly to the central square of the city, where a
makeshift platform had been set up. People filled the square on three sides while the fourth, which opened on to the path
that led to the royal
enclosure, had been sealed off with a light wooden barricade. Soldiers stood guard in front of the platform, vigilant and
watchful. Two elephants also waited there, swaying restlessly from side to side. Occasionally one of them would let out a
loud trumpet, the noise ringing over the square and sending the gathered throng into a renewed bout of frenzy. Horror, excitement
and the strange relief of being a safe spectator hung in the air.

Govinda found the moment disconcertingly familiar. It reminded him of another crowd, another would-have-been execution. At
the end of that day there had been another king, a dead one who had set him on the path that had brought him here today. Taking
a deep breath, he shut out the noise and all thoughts of the past.

‘Look!’ Bhim exclaimed.

The crowd began jeering as a group of guards made their way on to the platform dragging a bloody, mangled figure along by
his chains.

‘Mih!’ Both Bhim and Govinda swore under their breaths as they got a good look at the prisoner. The sockets of his eyes were
bloodied and empty. Strips of skin hung from his naked frame like tattered cloth. The flesh was gone in some places, probably
burnt away, and the white of his bones showed clearly for all to see. The jubilant crowd had suddenly fallen silent, shocked
at the sight of the living remains of what had once been a man. A stink rose as someone retched nearby. Some spectators looked
away, even as many others stared, transfixed. A young man sobbed quietly and whispered what sounded like a prayer.

‘Is that …?’ Bhim asked in a low whisper.

Govinda nodded. Despite the state of the prisoner, he had no doubt that it was indeed the man they had sent.

‘He’s been tortured badly,’ Bhim went on. ‘Do you think he’s talked?’

‘No, but he doesn’t need to. Our armies are less than a fortnight’s march away. It’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?’

The two men watched in uncomfortable silence as the prisoner was brought forward, his legs twisted and useless, the result
of broken knees and ankles. The guards threw him unceremoniously on the floor of the platform and stood in a loose formation
around him, laughing
as they kicked him and prodded him with their lances to make him squirm some more for the crowd’s entertainment.

Shouted conversation soon picked up.

‘So it’s true,’ an old man said. ‘I’d heard that the Emperor had been attacked.’

An equally wizened figure next to him added, ‘The medics feared for his life. It was a blow to the neck, almost. A lesser
man would’ve died.’

A young man argued, in a rough whisper, ‘Liars! I heard nothing of the sort.’

‘Of course you didn’t, you rascal! You think they’d announce that the Emperor is fighting for his life?’

‘So how do
you
know, old man?’

‘My son is a palace cook. Even so, he swore me to secrecy, till today … He saw it all, you know! Happened to be waiting on
the king when that son of a whore attacked.’

‘And what did your son do? Hide?’ the young one taunted.

‘I’ll have you know he nearly died for his Emperor,’ the old man retorted. ‘He would’ve throttled the assassin with his bare
hands, but Lord Jarasandha ordered the guards to take the man alive.’

‘A relief for your son, I’m sure!’

‘Why, you fly-ridden dungpile …’

‘Now, now,’ the first man gently intervened. ‘It all ends well, that’s what matters. Our Emperor is invincible. The old blood
of the Solar Line runs true in him. These wretched Kuru kings and their hired killers can’t do a thing to him, Hara be praised!’

‘Puuya!’ the young man swore. ‘Who needs the elephants? If you ask me, we should tear that man apart ourselves for what he
tried to do!’

The words seemed to ring through the mob, infecting it. Two men broke through the light barricade and vaulted themselves on
to the platform. The guards gave them an indulgent look and made no move to stop them. Urged on by the crowd, the men ran
up to where the prisoner lay. One of them bent down, and spat with accuracy into the empty eye sockets. The other pulled aside
his waist cloth and began urinating on the near-dead man, to wild applause from the mob.

Govinda watched without flinching, his hand in a strong grip around Bhim’s wrist. ‘Keep calm,’ he said. ‘We can’t do anything,
Bhim.’

‘Can’t, or won’t?’ Bhim growled.

Govinda gave him a piercing look, and turned his attention back to the bloodied prisoner. The brave man had been a steadfast
soldier and done what he had set out to. Govinda would have liked to tell him so, to assure him that despite what was happening
to him he had kept his honour and died well. But he knew better than to waste time or emotion wishing for it.

A trumpet trilled from the roof of a nearby building. Immediately, the soldiers threw the commoners off the platform and stood
to attention in two straight lines that flanked the prisoner.

‘The Emperor! The Emperor!’ The excited whisper built up into a shout and then into a resounding chant. ‘Hail the Emperor
of Aryavarta! Hail Jarasandha the Mighty!’

The thunder of hooves drew close and loud as Jarasandha’s ceremonial chariot trundled towards the square and drew to a halt
behind the platform. More soldiers ran forward, forming a guard of honour leading from the foot of the vehicle to the platform.
A courtier, whom Govinda supposed was Jarasandha’s minister, led the Emperor on to the stage.

As one, the crowd bowed, many going down on one knee or both.

‘Get down!’ Govinda hissed and pulled on Bhim’s arm.

‘For what?’

‘This is
his
realm. He is its ruler till our task is done. It won’t kill you to bow to him.’

Grudgingly, Bhim went down on one knee, but both men raised their heads to look up at the Emperor.

Jarasandha was a huge man, one who deserved his reputation for strength. His hair was more grey than black, but the muscles
of his arms were taut and his girth was hardly soft. Even at the slight distance, the battle scars on the Emperor’s right
forearm and shoulder were clearly visible. There was, however, no obvious
evidence of an injury from the assassin’s attack. Bhim and Govinda exchanged glances.

‘If only …’ Bhim whispered. ‘If this isn’t misfortune, what is? To get within striking distance, and fail …’

‘I think it’s more than misfortune. Our man wasn’t one to take chances or be careless. The Emperor knew. He was ready.’

‘He knew? But … that would mean …’

‘Yes. We’re expected. Perhaps betrayed.’

‘By whom?’

Govinda did not answer.

Jarasandha raised his right arm, calling for silence. A heavy stillness fell over the square. Govinda imagined he heard a
soft whimper of pain, but could not tell whether it came from the prisoner.

‘My citizens, fellow men and women, people of Aryavarta …’ Jarasandha’s deep baritone boomed over them all. It was enough
to make the mob snap. They rose to their feet, cheering and praising their Emperor, until Jarasandha held up his hand again.

His tone was honest and warm, though in no way lacking authority, as he gently conceded, ‘Truly, it’s your love for me, your
prayers that keep me safe and alive. But wait. Hear me out completely before you give voice to your joy once again.’

The crowd murmured softly and soon settled down, urged by the occasional stern look from one of the soldiers posted to keep
order.

Jarasandha continued, ‘For nearly a week now, Kuru and Yadu armies have stood at our borders. But the attack they’ve made
is not the one you might think. Snivelling cowards as they are, they’ve sent a mangy jackal to hunt down a lion – an assassin
to murder their Emperor!’

Despite the Emperor’s injunctions, the mob was in uproar. This time Jarasandha let them shout themselves hoarse, watching
with an indulgent, paternal smile.

Govinda turned to the astonished Bhim. ‘You didn’t expect this, did you? You didn’t expect that people would actually like
him?’

Bhim shook his head, letting some of his horror show.

‘It’s we who make monsters of our enemies, Bhim. We call them
evil demons and pretend we do the world a favour by killing them. It’s the only way we can live with ourselves.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Bhim snapped before he could restrain himself. ‘I’m a prince. It’s my sacred duty to conquer and rule.’

Govinda considered the statement and then shrugged. ‘That delusion works, too, I suppose.’

Bhim made to retort, but realized that the crowd had fallen quiet and the Emperor was about to speak.

Jarasandha came straight to the point. ‘I have ordered this public execution,’ he announced, ‘not only to show to our enemies
that we will not take aggression lightly, but also as a sacred sacrifice. Even as I speak, as we stand here, the mighty armies
of Magadha have begun marching towards central Aryavarta. In two weeks’ time, our brave soldiers will meet the Kuru and Yadu
armies at our borders in open battle, while forces from our garrison at Mathura will attack from the west. Unlike my enemies,
I make no secret of my plans, but lay an open challenge for them to accept, if they dare. Or else …’ The Emperor laughed and
let his words ring in a terrifying growl as he declared, ‘We all know that this isn’t the first time that men have fled before
the might of Magadha. But let this be the last! Jayati! Victory!’

The crowd was jubilant. ‘Jayati! Jayati!’ they took up the victory chant. Even those who had flinched or turned from the tortured
prisoner now looked on him with fearless pride. This was war and he was but a sacrifice, the first of the enemy to die.

Jarasandha folded his hands in prayer and with a charming smile stepped aside. He nodded his instruction to the executioner-mahouts
and one of them led his elephant forward. The platform creaked with the weight of the animal as it made its way towards the
prone prisoner in a drunken stupor that would allow it to kill on order. At the same time, soldiers came forward to carefully
position the prisoner on his back. The tendons of the man’s neck had already been severed and his head lolled back towards
the crowd for them to see his face.

‘Stand back!’ the Emperor ordered the mahout and also waved off
the soldiers around them. The men retreated to a respectful distance. Drunken elephants were not to be trusted. Jarasandha
reached out to caress the royal elephant’s trunk, whispering to it some words of affection, or possibly command. He led it
forward, unafraid of its uncontrolled might, till both he and the animal stood over the condemned man. An expectant quiet
fell over the crowd. At a gesture from the Emperor, the elephant raised a foreleg and brought it down precisely on the prisoner’s
stomach.