KRISHNA CORIOLIS#1: Slayer of Kamsa (15 page)

Bana nodded nervously, keeping his eyes on Kamsa and his distance from his former master as he spoke. ‘Aye, sire. The army has disbanded. The marauders are falling apart, losing men daily. And Vasudeva has been given charge of Mathura’s security.’

‘Vasudeva?’ Kamsa’s anger was instantly diverted, his outrage roused. ‘How can
Vasudeva
be given charge of
my
forces? He is not even an Andhaka!’

He moved towards Bana as he spoke, his first impulse as always to batter and punish the source of the news that caused him discomfiture.

Jarasandha stepped forward smoothly. While lean and lithe, he moved with a panther-like grace that spoke of powerful, well-oiled muscles and a wealth of experience in close combat. Combined with his intense eyes that seemed to bore into you and quiet tone, he came across as a lethal predator who had no need of showing off his strength in order to subjugate.

Kamsa instinctively took a step back. It was the first time he had ever done that for any man in his life.

‘All is well. This is to our advantage. You can claim that he deviously insinuated himself into your father’s good graces ...’ he paused, keeping his eyes fixed on Kamsa’s, unblinking, ‘or your mother’s bedchamber ...’

Kamsa flinched, his fists coming up at once. Ever accustomed to expressing his anger at the very instant it exploded, he was unable to control it quickly enough. Jarasandha’s insulting insinuation coming immediately on the heels of Bana’s disturbing news was too much for his limited self-will to control. He exploded.

Jarasandha’s hands caught his fists in grips as tight as iron vices, clutching them without so much as a downward glance. He moved closer, close enough for Kamsa to smell the pungent, sweet odour of tambul nut on his breath. ‘A
king
uses whatever he must, whatever he can, in order to further his cause. I speak not of violating your mother’s body, merely sullying her name. The accusation would be levelled at your enemy. Is it truly so hard to swallow?’

Kamsa stared at the piercing grey eyes that looked up at him from a height at least half a foot lower than his own. He recalled his old battle master cuffing him as a boy and telling him that the greatest warriors needed not height or great musculature or even elaborate weaponry; that, in fact, they were almost always short, lithe, of small build and deceptively childlike in appearance. ’Tis
not what you have,
’tis
what you do with it that counts,
old Venudhoot had said, before hawking and spitting a gob of phlegm in the dust of the training field. Kamsa had learnt everything he knew about hand-to-hand combat from the old teacher before he had finally bested him on the wrestling akhada and broken his neck. He had been fourteen then and had never had a fighting master thereafter.

Now, it seemed he had one.

He looked into Jarasandha’s eyes and understood what this new master was telling him. He was not insulting his mother, not really. He was merely laying out a strategy. One that would lead to Kamsa climbing the first step on his road to ruling the Yadavas: he was telling him how to become the king of Mathura.

twenty-three

‘Dvivida, Pundra, Dhenuka, Karava, Baka,

Kirata, Pralamba, Putana, Mustika, Karusha, Akriti, Meghavahana, Bhauma, Vanga, Dantavakra, Bana, Arista, Paundraka, Canura, Bhishmaka, Bhagadatta, Purujit, Kesi, Trnavarta,

Agha...’

The list of names of kings reeled off the tongues of Jarasandha’s aides, Hansa and Dimvaka, in quick succession like honey off a bear’s tongue. Even Kamsa was impressed. He guessed that such a show of royal strength was rarely seen outside of an Arya kings’ summit.

They must surely represent half the power of Aryavarta.
Kamsa then smiled wistfully and corrected himself:
we.
We
must surely represent half the power of Aryavarta.
Add Jarasandha’s own hidden forces of half-castes, quarter-castes, and other embedded supporters awaiting his command to rise, and it was the most formidable single power ever assembled in Arya history. With such a caucus, Jarasandha could become the emperor of the world, not just Aryavarta. Kamsa felt a rush of joy and power such as he had never experienced before – not since the
days when he had discovered the joys of slaughter on the battlefield.

Hansa and Dimvaka, each speaking from what appeared to be a carefully rehearsed and orchestrated script, spelt out the domains each king would govern as part of the agreement signed with Jarasandha. Kamsa, unable to write his name clearly in Sanskrit or even commonspeak, had let one of the aides write his name on the list of signatories and seconded it with the impression of his thumb, ignoring the pretty calligraphy of the others. What use did a king have with writing, art, music and all that nonsense? He desired only power. And for what Jarasandha was offering him, he would have given the Magadhan king his mother’s
corpse
if he desired, not merely her name sullied by rumour. What use was a mother who did not stand up for her son, after all? His heart had hardened towards everyone back home on hearing the news from Mathura: they were carrying on as if he had been an oppressor and tyrant, not the liberating hero he truly was! The fools! Allowing Vasudeva to run Mathura! Were they utterly blind and brainless?

After the formalities were done, Jarasandha rose again.

‘My kings,’ he said.‘We are all of an accord. Time now to cast the die; to start out upon the long path that will take us to our shared destiny.’

He gestured to his aides. Dimvaka, the larger and stronger of the two, picked up what appeared to be a sigil on a pole. He raised it high above his head, muscles heaving, and waved it to and fro. The red flag flashed in the evening sunlight, probably visible across the length and breadth of the city below.

At once, in response, a great roar rose from below.

Jarasandha gestured to the assembled allies.‘Come, see for yourself the launch of our great juggernaut.’

Kamsa joined the rest at the edge of the promontory, careful not to step too close to the rim. He did not trust any of his new allies enough not to suspect them of trying to shove him over. After all, the fewer of them there were, the greater each one’s kingdom. But there seemed to be none of that petty rivalry here. Seeing how politely and graciously they moved and made space for one another, he instantly felt ashamed of his bumpkin-like behaviour. These were real kings already. He was merely a rough boy who liked killing and power so much that he wanted nobody above him to tell him what not to do.

He caught Jarasandha watching him with that sly, knowing gleam in his cat-grey eyes. He nodded curtly, pretending to look down, but he knew that Jarasandha had caught his moment of self-loathing and weakness. The Magadhan seemed to see deep within his soul with those eyes.

The next moment, he looked down, and forgot everything else.

Magadha was being set ablaze.

Riders were racing through the city, riding like madmen with blazing torches in hand, setting light to houses, rooftops, hayricks, wagons ...

A dozen fires were already blazing furiously. After the heat of the day, the close-packed houses were taking light like tindersticks. Soon, the whole city would be a morass of smoke and ruin.

‘But why?’ he said, before he realized he was speaking aloud.‘Why would you do such a thing?’

Heads turned to glance at him. Several faces wore sardonic, sympathetic expressions for the young novice who had yet to learn so much about politics and kingship. Others glanced scornfully at him before turning away with a shake of their heads. He knew that there were some who questioned if he even deserved to stand among them in this alliance. After all, he was the only one who was merely a crown prince, and a shamed and self-banished one at that, not a king in his own right. But Jarasandha had no such contempt or scorn creasing his smooth features.

‘I told you, Magadha is not a city or a kingdom; it is a word that means out-caste. No-caste. Non-varna. This gathering of hovels you see below ...’ he gestured expansively, ‘was merely a temporary refuge; not a permanent abode.’

‘But still...’ Kamsa wrestled with words, trying to frame his thoughts in a way that would not make him seem too ignorant and naïve.‘How can you burn your own houses?Your own people?’

Several kings snickered. Kamsa turned red with anger and embarrassment. Jarasandha put a hand on his shoulder, reassuring him. ‘The people are safely away; and all the warriors and fighters ... in our forces.’

Kamsa swallowed and turned his head, listening. ‘But...Icanhearthemscreaming...onthewind.’He glanced down.‘You can see them too. There are people there ... dying in the fire.’

Jarasandha shrugged. ‘Only the very young, the very old, the infirm.’

One of the older kings, Bhagadatta, grunted and quaffed a large goblet of wine, the spill staining his white beard crimson. ‘Women, children, olduns, infants, sick men ... of no use to an army on the move.’

Kamsa stared at Jarasandha, who nodded. ‘From now on, we are an invading force. Ever moving, unstoppable, undefeatable. Like the great god Jagganath who was a relentless force of nature, ever moving onwards. By killing their families, their loved ones, burning their houses and leaving them nothing to come back to, I remove every distraction that my soldiers might have in the campaign ahead. Now, they have nothing left to do but fight, win, destroy; and if they triumph, rebuild a new city, raise new families. This is the Magadhan way. First destroy. Then rebuild.’

‘One must burn the grass in order to grow it anew,’ said a younger, sly-looking monarch named Meghavahana who kept fingering a large emerald ring on his heart finger.

Jarasandha continued speaking softly: ‘Once the city is burnt, we shall descend again, and take our places at the helm of our forces assembled outside the gates of the city. My army will lead, with the others bringing up the flanks. We shall cut a swathe across Aryavarta like the greatest herd of uks ever seen, bulls rampaging across the land, and when we pass, we shall leave none standing. We shall take what we please, do as we will. We are warriors one and all, we are kings.’

Kamsa nodded, understanding. And now that he understood, he could even take pleasure in the sound of the screams, the cries and wails of the dying, desperate, abandoned ones. As the smoke rose and the city blazed, and the kings around him drank and jested and bickered and talked, he felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. To burn his own city, put his own weak and infirm to death, what an epic warrior and commander Jarasandha was! He had never known one like him before. He looked at his new friend, admiringly, fondly, and felt proud that he had made such an ally. He found himself unable to take his eyes off this magnificent man, this incredible leader.

Jarasandha glanced at him from time to time and smiled slowly.

When it was time, they descended the hill, brushing aside the stench of burnt corpses and houses. Horses bore them through the gutted streets. Kamsa gazed in morbid fascination at the sights that met his eyes: mothers and infants clutching one another in the last throes of agony, burnt black. Old men sprawled across pavements, infants curled into foetal balls in the agony of burning. Everywhere he looked, he saw
a charnel house; burnt corpses leering down at them from the scorched remains; twisted bones and cracked skeletons oozing putrid juices. The kings rode on without a care, the hooves of their horses crushing the charred skeletons underfoot, sending up a terrible percussion as they galloped through the devastated city. The kings laughed.

Kamsa thought it was easy for them to laugh. These were only low castes to them, not real Aryas. He wondered how they might feel if it had been
their
cities turning to ash,
their
women and children and olduns trampled underfoot ... He thought they might not be laughing as generously then. He caught Jarasandha glancing at the backs of the heads of the other kings and knew then that the Magadhan was thinking the same thing.

He does this to prove that he will go to any lengths to succeed,
Kamsa thought with a flash of insight.
For only through his own cruelty and example does a leader command the fealty of his followers. By showing how far he can go, Jarasandha has outmatched them all before the war has even begun. Now, they know that they dare not cross him. For what might not a man do when he is willing to slaughter his own in order to succeed?

He smiled secretly to himself, pleased to have gained this insight into Jarasandha’s strategy.

He spurred his horse and rode on, following his new teacher and guide. To the end of the earth, if required.

twenty-four

Kamsa bellowed a warning as he galloped forward and threw himself off his horse. He fell upon the pair of assassins, bringing them down to the ground, where all three of them sprawled, the two attackers struggling, twisting, vying furiously to stick their knives into him as they rolled in the dust. He tasted blood and knew that one of their knives had slashed his lip and cheek. He felt hot blood spilling down his neck. He ignored it and grasped the assassin’s neck. With some surprise, he found that it was a girl, her head shaven and disguised with a scarf. She bit into his forearm, drawing blood. He roared and threw himself back, slamming himself onto the ground as he used the force to jam her head in a death- lock. He felt her neck crack satisfyingly and released her, just as the second assassin flew at him with a dagger curved like a bull’s horn. This one was barely a boy. They struggled in the dust for a few seconds, then Kamsa swung the boy down with a sudden, jarring impact, smashing his shoulder and loosening his grip. With a second swift action, he rammed the hilt of the curved blade back towards the boy, through the assassin’s own chest, punching through the bone
and into his heart. With a moan and a gurgle of blood, the boy died.

Kamsa rose to his feet, looking around warily, ready for more attackers. But there were none. Jarasandha dismounted his horse, examining the dead assassins quickly. Behind him, the city they had just ransacked echoed with the clash of fighting and the screams of the dying. Kamsa leaned against a brick wall broken by a downed elephant. The beast’s tusks lay close enough for him to touch. The house upon which it had fallen lay exposed to the sky, filled with muddy water from a huge cistern that had broken and spilled nearby. Chaos reigned.