Prince of Dharma (124 page)

‘Vajra,’ he said, speaking loud enough to be heard down the line. The lead elephant raised its trunk to half-mast in salute and trumpeted briefly to acknowledge the captain. ‘We have but two choices here. To stay and wait within these walls. Or to go out and harry the enemy in the open. Each course will certainly lead to our ends. You already know that the odds are insurmountable. By staying here, we may hope that the beasts change their mind halfway through and decide to go scurrying back home.’ 

‘Why would they do that, Captain?’ Sona Chita asked curiously. 

Bejoo shrugged, his eyes glinting mischievously. ‘Deva knows. Maybe they might remember some forgotten chore. Or get terrified at the sight of so many Brahmins.’ 

A wave of laughter broke out. 

Bejoo smiled. ‘Anyway, I’m in favour of sallying forth and biting the monster in the haunches as best we can before he slams us into the dirt. It’s not going to be much fun with a host that size, but it’s what we do. I for one would rather go down fighting in open country than wait cloistered here until those scum come to pick us off. But these are unusual circumstances. We are free to go as we please and fight as we will. So I leave it up to you to decide what you would do. Sally forth and nip the giant in the testicles—’ 

Another burst of laughter. 

‘Or stay here and wait for the giant to come and smash us.’ 

He spread his arms wide. ‘The choice is yours. Decide quickly. Personally, I prefer the former. I’m waiting five minutes then riding out of the gates before it’s too late. Those who wish to follow, do so. Those who wish to stay behind, do so. Either way, we’ll all feed the carrion birds come dawn and will be remembered as the Vajra who fought like lightning bolts, and died just as quickly!’ 

He turned his horse around to avoid seeing the men’s faces and influencing them unduly. When five minutes was up, he nudged his horse forward, whispering affectionately to her, ‘Come on, old lady, let’s go for one last ride together.’ 

She whinnied and trotted towards the side gate that had once been used as the route to the sally port. Because the layout of the city was identical to that of Ayodhya, that was one less hurdle to cross. The odds were huge enough as it was. The captains at the gates had been told to let his Vajra leave if they wished to do so at any time. They saluted him smartly as he rode past. He returned the salute just as respectfully. Mithila’s small standing army might be limited in numbers, but their discipline and spirit weren’t limited in any way. He felt a pang of regret for these brave outnumbered men and women who would die today without a ghost of a fighting chance. 

The bowmen on the walls waved to him as he rode past, shouting slogans of encouragement. Mostly they yelled the Videhan war cry, ‘Satyamev Jaitey!’ Truth Always Triumphs. He wished that were the case: in his experience, more often than not, truth lost out to reality. Today was yet another instance. 

He vowed not to look back until he was out of the sally port and riding across open land, headed south-east. He intended to circle the city and meet the foe as they made their first attack, staying far enough to the west to be out of range of the Mithila arrows. 

He had no knowledge of how the asura forces were arrayed but he prayed he wouldn’t find pisacas before him. He couldn’t stand any of the species, but at least rakshasas, gandharvas and vetaals walked on two legs, and nagas and uragas stood more or less upright as they slithered along. 

Pisacas crawled like the giant carapaced insectile beasts they were, and they spouted that disgustingly foul ichor when you cut them, and if they got you, they laid their horrendous eggs within your belly, fusing the wound with their flame-throwing mouths. You lay there unconscious for hours on the battlefield until the eggs were ready to hatch, at which point the younglings ate their way out of you, killing you if you were lucky, or leaving you lying there half-eaten and half-alive until eventually you succumbed. 

Please, Shani-deva
, he prayed silently,
give me anything but pisacas. 

When he was a half-mile out from the city, he looked back at last. 

Every last member of his Vajra was behind him, following in perfect attack formation, bigfoot in front, wheel and horse following. He studied them for a moment, then blinked rapidly and turned back to face forward. 

‘Looks like we’re not alone after all, old girl,’ he told the horse. She didn’t reply. Maybe she was as moved as he was. 

He was out of range of Mithila now, and riding directly toward the dustcloud. It loomed impossibly high above the landscape, dwarfing everything around, seeming to stretch like a wall reaching up to the sky itself. Now the sound of the asura hordes was audible; he could hear the keening, wailing and howling of the species as they smelt the sweet blood and soft flesh of the mortals in their walled city. It was a sound that made babies stop crying in sheer fright. No human ear could hear it and be unmoved. 

Bejoo glanced back one last time at his Vajra. Pride swelled in his chest like a gorge of fire. He raised his sword, urging them on, then pointed the sword forward, indicating a small hillock from which they could make a more effective downward rush. Strike like lightning, die like thunder. 

‘Jai Shree Shaneshwara,’ he said softly. There was no need to shout it. In moments, when the army beneath that vaulting dustcloud arrived, the noise would be too great to hear anything. Even his own last prayers. 

TWELVE 

‘Guru-dev,’ Rama said softly, ‘I ask your leave to go to the first gate and face the assault.’ 

‘And I ask your leave to go with Rama and fight by his shoulder,’ Lakshman said. 

Sita looked at her father. His face was wan and pinched. His eyes were riveted to the looming dustcloud. It was now less than a yojana distant and closing fast. Already, the top of the cloud reached twice as high as the three-hundred-yard-high Sage’s Brow, darkening the entire horizon from west to east. The slanting light of the setting sun, almost at its nadir now, continued to glow red and deep purple where it caught the countless dust motes of the approaching cloud, turning it into one enormous blood wave. 

‘Father,’ she said, ‘I too wish to fight. I will not sit in my chambers and wait until the demon hordes break through. I wish to use my last moments defending our city and our heritage. I beg of you, do not deny me this last honourable act.’ 

Janak gazed ahead with unfocused eyes. The maharaja seemed to have reached a place beyond anger, hate or fear. He had the preternatural slowness of a saint, oblivious to every worldly pain or pleasure. But when his eyes rested on Sita, life returned to them. He strode forward, enfolding her in his arms. 

‘My beloved child,’ he said, his voice filled with the tears his dry eyes were not shedding. ‘If this were a normal day, by this time you would be married and would be the wife of Rajkumar Rama Chandra. You would be embarking on a new life, a new hope, a new future.’ He gestured at the approaching cloud. ‘Instead, you face this. And now you ask my leave to go out into that monstrous … thing and fight to the death? What can I say, my lovely Sita? Do you think any father can tell his child yes, go out into that storm and let yourself be torn to shreds by creatures from the lowest levels of hell?’ 

Sita shook her head. ‘If Rama and Lakshman can go, why can’t I?’ 

‘If your sisters can stay, why can’t you?’ Janak replied. 

Vishwamitra held up a hand. ‘Hush, Sita, Janak. Neither will you be required to sacrifice your lives defending Mithila, nor will the rajkumars of Ayodhya need to do so.’ 

All eyes turned to the sage. He pointed his staff at the cloud, now turning violet and indigo with the darkening light. The sun was sliced in half by the western sky, its southern side shimmering in the haze of the approaching dustcloud. 

‘This was all ordained and foreseen,’ he said. ‘The reassembling of the asura armies, the building of the vast fleet, the crossing of the great ocean, the subterfuge and spying and deception to avoid the Arya nations learning about the invasion in time to prevent it, even Ravana’s attendance at your swayamvara, Rajkumari Sita. Everything was foreseen and foretold by the omens and the astrologers. Right up to the siege of Mithila and beyond.’ 

‘Siege, maha-dev?’ Janak’s voice was bitter but not angry. ‘What siege? We will be overrun in moments by that host. This is a massacre, great one. It is no siege.’ 

‘And yet a siege it is. For Mithila is only a symbol of the Arya nations as a whole. All of Arya is besieged by the asura menace, in the same way that a noble person is constantly besieged by impure thoughts and desires. What else is mortal life if not one long siege against the weaknesses and temptations of the flesh? Today, this eternal conflict is played out in reality, with the body of Mithila being invaded by the asura hordes. And as mortals individually combat their mortal desires, so also must Mithila defend itself against the invaders.’ 

‘But how will we do so?’ Janak asked, the desperation in his voice making Sita wince. ‘Give us a way and we will do it, mahadev. Show us a road and we shall take it.’ 

Vishwamitra nodded. ‘That is my dharma. That is why the Seven Seers were ordained. To be The Ones Who Show The Way. I do indeed have a road to show you, my good Janak. But you must prepare yourself. For as often happens with such choices, the road that lies before you is almost as treacherous as the dilemma in which you now stand.’ 

Janak rubbed his forehead with his knuckles, a gesture he made when troubled. ‘You speak in riddles, maha-dev. And yet I listen with all reverence. Show me the way.’ 

Vishwamitra nodded. ‘Very well then. I shall show you.’ 

The brahmarishi reached into the folds of his robes and pulled something out. It was an object so small, it fitted into his closed fist. ‘This was given to me this morning by the maharishi Gautama, when I restored his wife to him.’ 

Vishwamitra looked at Rama and Lakshman. ‘The rajkumars assisted me in that mission, as did certain other brave companions.’ He didn’t look at Sita and Nakhudi, and he didn’t name them. The maharaja still knew nothing of his daughter’s escapade, and, Rama thought, this was no time to speak of the matter. 

‘The maharishi Gautama gave this to me willingly, for one seer may give it to another if he pleases. I made the trip to save Ahilya and restore her to her estranged husband for the express purpose of securing this favour. As you shall see, it is not a thing easily obtained, but once obtained, the owner desires to give it away as soon as possible. Yet it may not be given into the wrong hands. The maharishi Gautama actually thanked me for taking this immense burden from him, for very great power such as this object brings is a burden.’ 

Rama looked at the sage’s closed fist, willing himself to see through the bunched fingers. All he could see was the fine tracery of scars around the back of the sage’s hand, marking the many times he had stopped a blow with his sword pommel and had been cut on the hand. 

‘Maha-dev,’ the maharaja said, staring with equally rapt intensity at the closed fist, ‘will this object of power be able to help defend Mithila from this invasion? Will it perhaps enable us to hold the enemy at bay long enough to receive help from the other Arya nations? Turn this slaughter into a siege, as you put it yourself?’ 

Vishwamitra sighed softly. His face, caught by the fading light of the almost set sun, looked every bit its age. Five thousand years of living and abstinence and hard penance and guiding the lives and actions of his mortal fellows had taken its toll, Rama realised. And what a toll it was. 

‘Nay, raje,’ the seer said sadly. ‘What I received from Maharishi Gautama and which he in turn received from mighty Brahma himself will help in neither defence or delay. It will destroy the entire asura force in one blow!’ 

He opened his hand and showed them the object in his palm. It was a tiny scroll, they saw now. A little piece of parchment weighed down by some mystic force - even the fierce wind buffeting them didn’t stir it. There were words in Sanskrit written on the piece of parchment. A mantra. Like so many other great keys to Brahman power. 

‘This is the Brahm-astra. The weapon of the Creator Brahma himself. It is the most potent and terrible weapon ever created. And it exists for one purpose only. To wipe out one’s enemy. Not to conquer, defeat, or achieve victory over, but simply toannihilate . It would be like slaughtering the entire force of Ravana in one flash of an eyeblink. More terrible and awesome than even the one-sided slaughter that the lord of asuras seeks to inflict upon you. For at least you and your supporters can lift a sword and cut down an asura or ten before they kill you. By using the Brahmastra, you will massacre them without a chance of survival. The entire horde you see approaching now, less than five miles from the city gates, will cease to exist. They will in fact be uncreated through the cosmic power of Brahma’s own weapon.’ 

He reached out the hand to Maharaja Janak. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I give you this Brahm-astra. You may use it but once. And by doing so, you damn your soul to an endless cycle of karmic rebirth. No more will you be able to redeem yourself through good words, good deeds, good thoughts or prayer. By using this most terrible of all weapons in creation, you give up your right to absolution for ever. You will never attain salvation, or nirvana, or enlightenment. And never will you attain oneness with Brahman.’ 

Janak staggered back. Sita and Nakhudi both reached out and supported him. He remained on his feet but his face was drained of all colour. The last tip of the setting sun was all that remained above the western horizon. Its rays caught the maharaja’s face and cast it in a deathly pallor.