KRISHNA CORIOLIS#6: Fortress of Dwarka (14 page)

“Besides,” added another whinging voice, “it is the kingdom of your erstwhile son-in-law. The legacy of your future grand-children. How can you let it go without a fight?”
 

Jarasandha shook his head. “I have no intention of letting it go. The Yavanas will invade Mathura, take what they desire, then leave. After they are gone, we will move in, take Mathura for ourselves, annex it to the Magadhan Empire and move on to the next target. They are merely doing our dirty work for us, saving us the time and effort and cost. For that, if they gain a few treasures, so be it. It is worth the price for us getting Mathura.”
 

They looked at him incredulously. “You mean, you have planned this all along? This is your doing? It was you who sent word to the barbarians and convinced them to invade?”
 

Jarasandha handed off the depleted drink to a slave and rose to his feet. The kings took a step back, giving him room. He smiled at them from one side of his face. “Let us just say that I grew tired of toying with the Yadavas and playing the game of the brothers Krishna and Balarama. It was time to move the campaign ahead by force.” He gestured at the distant wall of dust. “And so I played a new gambit.”
 

They frowned, not understanding. “But we have only just camped here. We have not yet attempted to besiege Mathura ourselves. What do you mean ‘tired of toying’? We have not even begun to fight!”
 

“Actually,” he corrected them, “we have fought. Fiercely and bravely. Some 17 times in all. And I for one am quite weary of a battle a day for 17 days.”
 

They looked at each other, wondering if Jarasandha had lost his senses.
 

He chuckled. “But you would not understand. Let us just say that I have foreseen the future, 17 possible futures to be exact. And this is the 18
^th
one. It was time for a new gambit. And this is it.”
 

He moved towards his tent. They started to follow but he paused at the entrance, turning to face them. “The Yavanas will destroy the body of the Yadava nation and leave. We will pick up the bloody corpse and chain it to our chariots. The spoils of war will be the kingdom itself and all it contains. All will work in our favor. I have foreseen it. Good day, gentlemen. I highly recommend the heartblood punch. It is most refreshing.”
 

And with that, he turned his back on them and went into his tent.
 

2

The
Yavana was watching the city when his quarry emerged. A small-built man with hair the color of corn and eyes the color of lapis lazuli, he reacted with some surprise: in his case, this meant raising both eyebrows when his men began to call out. He was not given to large gestures or reactions. For a man to leave his homeland, gather an army made up of warring clans and barbaric tribes and march them halfway across the known world, he had to possess great fortitude.
 

The Yavana had been mildly pleased when his frontlines had crossed the fabled Indus river without falling off the edge of the world. He had been thrilled beyond words when they had begun witnessing the wonders of the mythic lands east of the great river. Giant beasts with ivory tusks, one-horned creatures with armored hides, long-jawed water predators with mouths full of razor teeth and powerful lizard tails…and cows, everywhere they went, countless kine, chewing, mooing, dawdling, milking, calving…cows everywhere.
 

More than once he had been tempted to divert from the path allotted to him, marked out by local guides provided by his allies who had enticed him into making this epic journey, tempted to simply rove this fabulous mythic land and see its other legendary wonders: cities paved with streets of gold, houses with roofs of precious stones, people as powerful as gods, great sages who could command the elements at will…all his life the Yavana had heard inspirational tales of the lands of the Indus and the great wonders here. Yet apart from the few exotic creatures, all he had seen until now were cows, cows and more cows.
 

It had been a relief to finally see the distant rooftops and boundary walls of the city his guides called Mathura. They had informed him that he was now at his destination and was to wait here and lay siege to the golden city. That was their term for it: Golden City. From where he stood, and now maintained camp, it did not seem either golden or great. It looked like any city he had besieged or invaded before. A motley collection of hovels and mansions contained within battered walls. Even the early morning sunlight did not catch any reflections or cast off any highlights: those were not roofs studded with diamonds nor domes of gold.
 

He had a growing suspicion that his hosts here, especially the mysterious benefactor who had engineered his campaign and enticed him into invading the mythic land of the Indus on the pretext of sacking its greatest and richest city had done so with ulterior motives. It was a shrewd plan: entice a foreign invader here to sack and destroy an enemy city, wait for the foreigners to depart as they surely would in time, and then take over control of the defeated kingdom for oneself.
 

Had the destination not been a city in the fabled land of the Indus, no foreigner would have been foolish enough to fall for that old ruse. But the land of the Indus was a mythic place unexplored by any Yavana king or chief. And the Yavana prince was seeking to make a name by going where no Yavana had gone before. And so he had bitten the bait. But now that he was here, he could see it clearly for what it was: a ruse. Nothing more or less. He would have words with the mysterious benefactor who had lured him here. And then he would have swords with him too. He had decided this, calmly, before his men had
 
even begun setting up camp last evening. And had woken this morning with the full intention of seeking out that treacherous rogue and asking him a few pert questions at sword-point before dispatching him to the land of his Indic ancestors.
 

But this morning, before he could do much more than his ablutions, the gates of the city had opened. And now a man had sallied forth. The excitement in the Yavana’s camp was palpable. Even he could not help but feel intrigued. Whatever he might have expected, this was not it. He had expected the city to react aggressively to the sight of the great foreign invasion force: to send out heralds perhaps, to beg for mercy. To send arrow swarms. Champions. Hawks. Fabulous creatures on foot or by air or even beneath the earth. But not this. Not this at all.
 

He frowned, squinting as he peered from horseback at the distant speck moving away from the city gates, which were already closing behind him. So apparently the individual had been sent forth solo. That must mean he was a herald of some sort. Even a champion would bring at least a page or servant to carry his weapons. Well, it would be interesting to see what this Indic herald might have to say. The Yavana prepared to wait.
 

But as the moments passed and the figure travelled farther from the city gates, it became evident that this was no herald. The person who had left the city was not even coming towards the Yavana forces. He was heading in a different direction altogether.
 

His men realized it at the same time as he did: they turned to him as one and watched his reaction.
 

“It must be a courier,” they said. “Despatched to some ally kingdom to ask for aid and reinforcements. What shall we do, Prince of India?”
 

The title had been conferred upon him before his departure. It had been his mother’s idea. By naming him as the conqueror of the land he was setting forth to invade, she said, he would already be regarded as successful. Once a name caught on, the reality hardly mattered. He expected that he was now and would forever be, Prince of India. It was a name he could live with. After all, he was Prince of India now, was he not?
 

But who was this lone figure leaving the besieged city and where was he heading?
 

He mused on his course of action. Ordinarily, he would send out a few men to catch and kill the escapee, ensuring that if he was a courier, his message would not reach its intended ears, and thereby sending a message to the besieged that he was not to be trifled with. But he felt inclined to let the courier get away unharmed this once. After all, he had not come all the way from Grekos just to set up camp and put his feet up. If the courier fetched more Indians and that led to a stiffer resistance, so be it. The Prince of India wanted a fight: he had come halfway across the world looking for one.
 

He was about to give the order to let the man pass when something happened. The air before him rippled, as if in a heat wave, and a shimmering figure took shape in the haze.
 

3

“Lord of the Yavanas,”
said the Indian sage.
 

His long white beard and red ochre robes were clearly visible, despite the insubstantial nature of his appearance. Yet he was only an apparition. The Prince of India could easily see his closest advisors and other men through the hazy form of the sage: they were waiting patiently for his response and command, accustomed to his long periods of introspection, respectful enough to wait as long as was needed. They had ridden and fought with him a dozen years or more and all trusted his judgement enough to know that even if he chose not to speak while the escapee got away, it was for good reason.
 

What they did not know,
could not
know, was that he was distracted by a ghostly apparition of an ancient Indian sage that had suddenly appeared in their midst; an apparition not visible to their eyes. How this was possible, the Yavana did not know or care. All he knew was that the sage was here again and that he was the same sage who had guided him on this long journey, assuring him that the trip would not be wasted or his efforts in vain. And he was more than pleased to see him, since he had a bone or two to pick with him
 

“Sage Narada,” replied the Prince of India, waving to his aides to leave him. They complied without question or curiosity, accustomed to his eccentricities and whims. Every ruler had his peculiarities. Some drank. Others used substances other than alcohol. Some had vices or appetites that could only be described as…excessive. The Yavana prince was relatively simple to understand: he craved only to conquer and expand his empire. Since their reputation and career advancement was reliant upon his success in achieving his goals, they were happy to comply with his minor whims. If he chose to address invisible Indian sages from time to time and ask them for guidance or advice, so be it. They had all known lieges who had indulged in far, far less tolerable eccentricities. On the list of intolerable eccentricities of kings, talking to non-existent sages was probably ranked among the lowest. They retired to a distance sufficient that they could still observe and protect their lord, yet could not hear his words.
 

“Prince, I am pleased to welcome you to the land of power and plenty,” said the ancient sage, bowing gracefully with joined palms in the Indian manner. “We have a saying in our culture: Atithi Devo Bhavya. It means ‘A Guest Is As A God’.”
 

The Yavana smiled. There was a sword edge in that smile. “If that is so, then you treat your Gods most strangely.”
 

“My Lord,” the sage appeared puzzled. “Do I sense discontentment in your tone?”

“You do,” said the Prince of India. “Thus far, I have seen nothing resembling your much-promised land of gold and treasure.” He gestured to the city in the distance. “All I see are common structures and a land attractive in some ways yet no more plentiful or treasure-strewn than the Grekos islands. Indeed, I have seen more treasure and exotic sights in lands much farther east. The great city of Babylon and her neighboring kingdoms are far richer in sights and spoils.”
 

Narada inclined his head. “Do not be too hasty to judge my homeland, great prince. A wealthy man does not put his greatest treasures out on the street for all to see. Some lock their wealth behind steel coffers. Others disguise it in mundane garb.” He gestured to the same city in the distance. “Besides, Mathura itself is only a stepping stone to the true wealth that awaits you.”

The Yavana drew his sword. The sound was keening and audible on the still morning air. Even his aides several dozen yards away heard the distinctive sound and caught the flash of early sunlight upon the tempered steel. They turned to glance curiously as their Prince pointed his weapon at a point in the air that might correspond to the height of a tall man’s throat—except that there was no man standing before their Prince. They quickly averted their eyes and pretended to be absorbed in some mundane conversation, not wishing to embarrass their lord by witnessing his self-delusion.
 

To the Yavana’s eyes, the point of his sword lay precisely at the bobbing bulge on the sage’s throat. The point touched the skin delicately enough to prick it without drawing blood. He did not know if the apparition could be harmed by Grekos steel but it was more the gesture and attitude he wished to present than any actual threat.
 

The sage’s face reflected his displeasure. “What means this insolence, Prince?”
 

“I am not sure if you are to be trusted, sage,” said the Yavana. “I did not conquer so many great nations and overthrow so many powerful kings without learning much about human nature and the myriad ways in which human beings manipulate one another to achieve their own ends.”

“I see,” replied the ghostly apparition, moving so that the sword point passed through his throat and emerged behind his spine without causing any apparent harm to his person. “As you can see, your mortal weapons cannot harm me. I speak to you from another plane through the use of a Vortal. Even your formidable army will not avail you here.”