The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2 (6 page)

As Emperor, he had no interest in the affairs of government, in the endless disputes over water and land, or old, ridiculous feuds of honour between tiny fiefdoms that he had never heard of. The many nations were constantly scheming to edge up just another notch in Aryavarta’s complex hierarchy. Much to his disgust, their kings commonly bartered loyalties, and formed and broke alliances at will. Dharma genuinely believed that his duty was to uphold the supremacy of divine law, the sacred precepts laid down in the scriptures. But the political was now imperative and the spiritual merely optional.

His brothers could not understand his agony, leave alone share his burdens. The four of them had been brought up to believe that Dharma would guide them, and were incapable of even temporarily adopting the role of a leader. They were exceptional, no doubt, in their own ways, but none of them had the acumen for government. Nakul was charming, but lacked humility. Sadev was both humble and as wise, some said, as Vidur – Dhritarastra’s renowned royal counsellor and half-brother, and thus also their uncle. That may have proved to be his folly, for Sadev tended to avoid conflict at all costs. And Partha, of course, was dashing, brave and god-like. When it came to matters not connected with romance he was, however, notoriously indecisive. There was little argument against Bhim. He was brave, well-spoken and, above all, reliable. But Dharma had always thought of him as the strong, simple one among them, their protector and shield, never their leader.

The Emperor gnashed his teeth unwittingly as he confronted the thought that had irked him every moment in these past months. He, Dharma, was no better than his brothers. They were, at least, as strong as they were flawed. Each of them had their claim to distinction. But not he. The so-called flawlessness, the devotion to virtue that he was known for, meant nothing. And that meant he was nothing. For, all that he had he owed to the efforts of another. Govinda Shauri, Commander of the armies of Dwaraka.

Dharma tried hard to ignore the questions that sprang to his mind and the memories that surfaced in answer. Govinda’s actions at the Kandava forest, Govinda during the imperial campaign, Govinda in Vidharbha, Govinda at the Coronation… With great effort, he drew his mind back from the inevitable question:
Why? What was in it for Govinda?

For the longest time Dharma had believed that it was he who had convinced Govinda to take their side, tempting him with the thought of his bloodline sitting on the throne of the Kurus and eventually on the imperial throne – Govinda’s sister, Subadra, was Partha’s wife, and their son Abhimanyu had been declared as the heir to Dharma’s throne well before Govinda had set out to consolidate Dharma’s kingdom for him. It had been so easy to assume that Govinda had acted in his nephew’s interests and, indeed, he often claimed that he loved Abhimanyu as his own son, a bond that Dharma had been happy to encourage. Now, the Emperor could not help but wonder if there was another explanation for all that had happened.

He dismissed the thought. It was best, he reasoned, that as Emperor he remain ignorant of certain things. He could not be held responsible for what he did not know. He was Dharma, the just and virtuous. It would remain that way. And he would continue to believe in Govinda’s best intentions and, in turn, owe everything to Govinda. His empire, his throne and even his wife, Panchali. The last thought brought to his mind another memory that he longed to forget.

Two days after the coronation, as they had lain in bed still covered in the sheen of their lovemaking, Dharma had asked Panchali what she felt like now that she was the ruler of an empire. Panchali’s answer had held neither awe nor romance. ‘The Emperor is powerless, yet susceptible to blame,’ she had said, ‘and the empire is stable but weak.’

He knew she was absolutely right. Theirs was an empire of consensus, held together partly by the threat of force and mostly through diplomacy. He, as Emperor, was nothing more than an uncontroversial individual, the kind who neither enjoyed great support nor suffered acute enmity. The many nations of Aryavarta, the Emperor’s vassals as they nominally were, found this to be an expedient arrangement. For the most part, their affairs were their own, but their problems were the Emperor’s. Every niggling impediment could be referred to the Emperor and easily resolved at some cost to the imperial treasury, while every failure could now be blamed on him. Most of the kingdoms found their tribute a reasonable price to pay for such immeasurable conveniences. They found it to be an acceptable arrangement, so acceptable, in fact, that it had taken just about a hundred days for the new empire to become their way of life.

Uncontroversial, unremarkable, acceptable – the epithets in honour of mediocrity were endless. And Dharma was just that – a harmless, powerless, mediocre ruler whom no one took seriously. He had tried not to give in to the maddening thought, but within weeks of his coronation it had consumed him completely. The memory of Panchali’s dispassionate assessment had made him want to take his own life simply to enjoy the anxiety and concern she would have displayed at losing him. Or perhaps, he noted, she would have been apathetic, the way she responded to most things these days. Panchali was no longer the fiery, outspoken woman she had once been. She had turned into a calculating diplomat. Silently, efficiently, she ran the empire. She took no credit for the things that went right, and ensured that her name was never mentioned anywhere by always acting through Dharma and his brothers, and the host of trusted diplomats who were her link to the outside world. Even in the presence of their closest companions, Panchali kept up the pretence of being nothing more than Dharma’s intermediary, merely conveying the Emperor’s orders and never giving her own. No matter what it looked like, though, he knew the truth as did many others associated with the royal court. Everything, from financing the armies, granting titles and collecting taxes to redistributing vassaldoms, setting up various industries and judging disputes, was in Panchali’s care. Courtiers, courtesans, spies – they all served her with a loyalty he had not anticipated.

‘You were raised to rule, Dharma,’ she had once told him. ‘You believe that loyalty, respect and obedience are yours by divine right as soon as you’re crowned. It’s quite natural; don’t torment yourself so.’

‘And what do you believe, Panchali?’ he had wanted to know.

Hesitantly she had replied, ‘I believe that these things must be earned.’

That day, Dharma had finally understood what it was he wanted the most – one chance to earn fame and bring glory upon his line. One chance to make Partha look at him with respect, to make Panchali yearn for him as women did for warriors. It was not a matter of vanity; it was one of duty. Destiny was an instrument of divine justice; the gods never blessed men with what they did not deserve. As far as Dharma was concerned, to doubt his merit to rule was to doubt the notion of Divine Order itself. He could not let that happen. He wanted the chance to irrevocably establish that Divine Order was everything, to prove that destiny towered over them all. He wanted to prove that he deserved to be Emperor of Aryavarta.

The need fuelling his quick, firm strides, Dharma entered the building that served as his private residence. Panchali smiled as he came in to the study. He returned the gesture with affection and a hint of desire in his eyes. Her years were yet to take a toll on her, and she had remained the shapely, attractive woman whose smouldering beauty had once drawn every king and prince in the realm to compete for her hand, the utility of having her father as an ally notwithstanding. Her dark skin reflected a golden glow from the huge bronze chandelier overhead, making her look like a fiery mirage. The silk of her red robes seemed to glide lovingly over her smooth skin, and her long hair rested in a heavy knot at the nape of her neck, highlighting the strong but graceful line of her shoulders.

Unable to resist her proximity, Dharma ran a finger over her full lower lip and then pulled her into a passionate embrace.

She protested, ‘Patience! There’s work to be done. Besides,’ she teased, ‘it’s a short wait till nightfall…’

Reluctantly, Dharma let go of her and turned his attention to the scroll she handed him for his seal of assent. He frowned as he read through it. ‘What is this?’ he snapped.

Panchali said, ‘As you can see, this is a decree removing all taxes and tolls throughout the empire on goods made by the Naga ironsmiths. The current tolls and taxes that the kings of the various nations impose are far beyond the capacity of individual ironsmiths and craftsmen. They have no choice but to sell their wares to the saamantas and vassal chieftains at a ridiculously low price, or else work as bonded labour in their forges. The vassal lords, on the other hand, can well afford to make the investment and reap the benefits tenfold, if not more. If we don’t do away with the toll, our new empire will only serve to to make rich lords richer. It doesn’t hurt the imperial treasury in any way – in fact, as a sort of inducement, we could even offer to reduce the levies we impose on these kings. The increase in charges paid by foreign merchants to the empire for the right to trade here will more than make up for any loss of revenue to us.’

Dharma stared at the scroll as he considered Panchali’s words. He had no doubt that her simplified statement of the situation came more from her belief that he knew what she was talking about than a lack of understanding or analysis on her part. In fact, he would not be surprised if he found that she had already consulted with his advisors, even his brothers, before putting this proposal before him. Nevertheless, she had failed to see the basic problem, one that had nothing to with the wealth of the empire.

Drawing in an irritated breath, he began, ‘You want me to remove taxes… No, wait, let me restate that. You want me to interfere in the internal affairs of one of Aryavarta’s nations, at the risk of enraging all the monarchs in the realm, so that the Nagas can defy their lords and their rightful king Takshaka, to whom they owe allegiance by law and scripture? If this is a joke, Panchali, it’s in rather bad taste…’

‘Maybe we should have thought of that before moving the Nagas out of Kandava or walking on the roads they helped build in order to conquer the far reaches of our empire. Don’t we now owe something to those who toiled for us? Aren’t the Naga subjects your subjects too, Emperor Dharma?

Forcing back his anger, Dharma tried to explain, ‘No subjects will be served by destroying the moral and spiritual fabric of Aryavarta!’

‘But…’

‘Have you seen this?’ He reached into his waistband and took out a small ring of black iron, which he threw on the table between them.

Panchali picked it up. Trying her best to conceal her excitement, she ran her fingers over the dark metal band and the rough engravings on the ingot at its bezel. ‘It’s a ring. Of no consequence, I may add.’ She was intentionally disdainful. It served the purpose.

Dharma snatched it from her and, with an expression of disgust, slid it on to his finger. He fumbled with it a little, but finally managed to set it with the round ingot turned inwards, resting partly on his palm. Using his thumb, he pressed down on an indiscernible catch set into the band. At the same time, he curled his fingers tight, pressing on the ingot. A sudden flick of his wrist, and his palm was open.

Fire.

It spluttered up as a small tongue of flame, an iridescent haze of blue coming from the ring itself. It lacked ethereal beauty, the floating appearance of what was known in legend as the dancing flames of Agneya, the so-called magical fire the Firewrights could invoke and hold in the palm of their hands. The mechanism used here was a poor imitation of the fine craft of the Wrights, but Panchali’s eyes lit up. The ring was no less a marvel for her – a marvel of science without the illusion of sorcery. It was possible to see, explain and understand its function without relying on lores of celestials and demons.

‘Hara be praised,’ she finally gushed. Breathless and excited, Panchali held out her hand, asking to take a closer look at the ring, but Dharma moved his hand away, closing his fist tight as he did so. Panchali looked up at his face to realize that something was wrong. ‘You don’t look pleased, Dharma. Every era of prosperity has come on the wings of new inventions and discoveries, be they farming implements or wind-driven barges. Surely, this is what you as the Emperor dream of, to raise Aryavarta’s fortunes back to the great heights of the Golden Age, and make it a land of progress and peace once again?’ To consign these lands to the depths of Kali, the age of blackness, is not a dream, Panchali. It is a nightmare. This…this abomination is Wright-work!’

‘What is it with you and this obstinate hate for what the Wrights created? Oh, Rudra forbid that we use Wright-work to light hearths in dark homes rather than burn down forests and fields for some noble conqueror! Hai!’ She knew her sarcasm would hit a sore point by reminding Dharma of the times he had relied on Wright-weaponry to build the empire, but she didn’t care.

Dharma stood his ground. ‘What I did wasn’t for selfish reasons and it certainly was not to challenge the Divine Order. I have always acted with the blessings of the Vyasa himself and if Wright-work was involved, it was merely a means to further the purpose, the righteous purpose of the Firstborn. It wasn’t a profane attempt to harness the elements, the powers of nature, to suit human conveniences or to change destiny.’

‘Destiny? Is it our destiny to never aspire to anything more than what our forefathers had? What about using the alloys that make up weapons like the Gandiva bow to create splints, or even surgical instruments that make incisions and blood-letting easier, more precise and painless? Or use those very same metals to make faster chariots and ships, not for war and conquest but for trade and travel?’

‘I once found your innocence rather becoming, Panchali. You were young, and your idealism had…a…what’s the word…passion. Yes, you had passion, a fervour that was compelling. But you are the Empress now and I can’t go on indulging your childish ideas. You’re not a fool. You must learn to see what is best for you, for us, for Aryavarta…’