THE MAHABHARATA QUEST:THE ALEXANDER SECRET (15 page)

35

At the hospital

Vijay swung into the parking lot of the hospital and screeched to a halt in a vacant spot. The four occupants of the car jumped out with one accord and dashed to the Emergency wing of the hospital. Vijay and Colin reached the reception together with Alice close behind. Shukla waved them on and brought up the rear since he couldn’t run like the younger members of the group.

‘Imran Kidwai,’ Vijay breathlessly enquired at the reception. ‘We are his friends.’

‘Just a moment, please,’ the receptionist responded in a clipped tone. She looked through some papers, then typed in something and peered at the computer monitor in front of her. Finally, she shook her head. ‘No one by that name here,’ she informed Vijay.

Colin and Vijay looked at each other. ‘Are you sure?’ Vijay asked incredulously. ‘We were informed that he was brought here just a short while ago. A victim of a bombing. He’s with the Intelligence Bureau.’

The receptionist shook her head firmly. ‘I’ve gone through the records. There’s been no bombing victim here lately. And definitely no one from the Intelligence Bureau. I’m sorry. Perhaps you have the wrong hospital.’

Shukla came up to them and heard the receptionist’s words. He looked at them, a fearful expression on his face. He didn’t need words to articulate his immediate fears. They were all thinking the same thing. If Imran was not in the hospital, who had met Radha and where were they taking her?

Opportunity knocks

The car had reached Dhaula Kuan. They had just passed over the Dhaula Kuan flyover and the Airport Express metro line ran alongside and above the road to the left, disappearing briefly into the Dhaula Kuan metro station before reappearing and heading towards the international airport.

The traffic was thick at the signal next to the metro station, as they came off the flyover. Vehicles of all types converged from the Ring Road, over which the flyover passed. Cars, buses and two wheelers needing to turn right at the signal, changed lanes in a haphazard manner, mingling with traffic that needed to go straight, creating a massive traffic jam that stretched almost to the foot of the flyover.

Radha stiffened imperceptibly. This was her chance. Once they got past this signal and the next, they would be on the expressway that led from Delhi to Gurgaon. With traffic rushing at high speed on that road, there would be no further opportunity for the car to slow down.

She glanced out of the window. The car next to them was squeezed in beside them, with barely a foot between the two vehicles. There was no way she could open the door and slip out.

The car moved slowly forward, the driver trying to cleave his way through the mass of vehicles moving in different directions in front of them. The gap between the cars increased slightly and Radha tensed. The traffic light had turned green and the jam was beginning to clear rapidly as vehicles began moving in their respective directions.

It was now or never she decided and surreptitiously moved her hand over the doorlock knob.

That was when her mobile phone began ringing. The three men in the car immediately turned to look at her. It was the last thing she could have asked for.

What’s the truth?

‘She isn’t picking up her phone,’ Vijay informed the others, a worried look on his face which was shared by Shukla. In that one moment, a father and a fiancé mirrored each other in a shared sense of turmoil and emotion.

‘Try Imran,’ Colin suggested. ‘We need to inform him anyway about Peter. Perhaps he can help us with Radha’s whereabouts?’ He had a sinking feeling about this but he wasn’t going to let that dampen his spirits – it would only pull Vijay and Shukla down even further.

Vijay nodded and dialled Imran’s number. A strange and unfamiliar voice answered. ‘Yes?’

‘Er… I wanted to speak to Imran Kidwai,’ Vijay began hesitantly.

‘Who are you?’ The voice was authoritative and commanding.

Vijay was stumped for a minute. The man who had answered the call seemed to know Imran. Yet, it wasn’t Imran who had picked up the call. What could this mean?

‘I’m… um… I’m a friend of his,’ he finally managed. ‘Vijay Singh.’

‘Hold on,’ the voice commanded and there was silence for a few moments. Then the man was back on the phone. ‘Okay, you check out. You’re on the US-India task force. Sorry, Vijay, but I had to check to ensure that it was really you calling. Under the circumstances, we’re not taking
any chances.’

Vijay’s bewilderment grew. And a tinge of anxiety crept in. What were the circumstances?
Where was Imran?

He voiced his question.

‘You weren’t informed?’ the man sounded surprised. ‘There was an attempt on Imran’s life today. A rocket propelled bomb shot into his apartment from close range. The apartment was totalled. Imran is critical right now. He’s undergoing surgery. We don’t know if he’s going to make it.’

Vijay’s brain was spinning. So the news about the attack on Imran was true! His mind quickly pieced the information together. If Imran was, indeed, undergoing surgery as they spoke, and if they were at the wrong hospital, it meant that Radha had been duped. And if the people who had met Radha, pretending to be IB agents, had known about Imran being bombed, it didn’t augur well for her. He was willing to bet that the fake IB agents were working for whoever had tried to kill Imran.

‘Vijay,’ the man said, ‘are you there?’

Vijay didn’t know how to respond for a moment. Then he asked, ‘Who are you?’

A certain stiffness crept into the man’s voice. ‘I am Arjun Vaid, the Director of the IB. We’ve met.’

Vijay cringed. Of course he knew Vaid. Imran’s boss. They had met last year after the entire adventure was over. But how could he have known that Imran’s boss was going to pick up the phone. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Vaid,’ he stammered, ‘I didn’t recognise your voice. But I really wasn’t expecting…’

‘That’s fine,’ Vaid’s voice came back. ‘Where are you at this moment? And is Radha with you? We aren’t ruling out a link to their visit to Titan Pharmaceuticals today.’

A cold fear gripped Vijay. He and Radha had been over this many times before. When Imran had requested their participation in the task force, Vijay had initially refused. Their ordeals during their misadventure the previous year had scarred him. And he had a secret to protect. It was Radha who had persuaded him to join the task force.

‘Who better than you to be a part of the task force,’ she had argued. She knew about his secret and so did Colin. He had felt compelled to share it with the two most important people in his life. ‘This is your chance to contribute not just to your country but to the entire world. Chances like this come once in a lifetime, if at all.’

So he had reluctantly agreed. But he hadn’t bargained for Radha’s desire to be a part of the task force as well. Imran had been keen on her joining but Vijay hadn’t. He had argued persuasively but lost.

‘It is too dangerous,’ he had remonstrated.

‘Oh, so it is dangerous for me but not for you,’ she had retorted, her eyes flashing in her characteristic way. ‘Because I’m a woman and you’re a man?’

‘No, it isn’t that,’ he had feebly protested. In his mind, he futilely despaired at the irony of her statement. It was she who had pushed him to accept! So how was he discriminating against her? But he knew better than to voice his thoughts and finally threw in the towel.

Now, he thought, it was coming back to haunt him. And his worst fears had come true. Radha had, for the first time in her life and against better wisdom from Imran – no less – participated in a field mission. And now, even Vaid didn’t know where she was.

He brought Vaid up to date on what had happened. Vaid agreed with his assessment about the fake IB agents being somehow mixed up with the people who had bombed Imran’s apartment.

‘Don’t worry,’ Vaid assured him. ‘We’ll put an immediate trace on Radha’s phone. If it is GPS enabled and the GPS is active, we’ll be able to locate her in no time. And I’ll ensure that you are updated about Imran’s condition. God knows we all want him to make it through this. Stay where you are for now. I’m sending agents over for you. It just isn’t safe for any of you for the time being.’

‘Thanks,’ Vijay disconnected the call and briefed the others. As he spoke, a thought crossed his mind like a flash. It was a comment that Vaid had made. Suddenly he knew how the blonde man had known about them all being together at the fort. And it also explained why the blonde man hadn’t known about Shukla.

36

September, 328
bc

Samarkand, modern day Uzbekistan

The Sogdian palace was lit up with lamps and torches. An air of bustle and gaiety prevailed. The conqueror was hosting a banquet at the palace. After an unexpected rout, he had retreated to Balkh and regrouped his army. He had then sent four mobile units across the river valleys of, what is, modern day Tajikistan and one unit across modern day Uzbekistan to reunite in Samarkand. The chiefs of the rebellious tribes, along with their families, had retreated to the Sogdian rock, which was to be Alexander’s next stop. For more reasons than one.

But for now, Alexander was celebrating. He was the emperor of Persia. And tomorrow, he would conquer the Rock. Nothing seemed to stand in his way.

Within the palace, the banquet was in full swing. Wine flowed like water and tables were heaped with choicest Sogdian delicacies.

Generals and soldiers, Macedonians and non-Macedonians alike, mingled in the halls and partook of the feast and drink. For a while, rivalries and politics were forgotten, the wars behind and ahead were consigned to oblivion, and bonhomie prevailed.

But not for too long.

In one part of the hall, Alexander, with Hephaestion and a group of men from his inner circle, held sway. Loud voices and shouts, punctuated by bouts of raucous laughter indicated the level of drunkenness that prevailed in that corner of the hall.

Before long, the effects of the wine had taken a stranglehold on the men and Hephaestion stepped forward.

‘Silence, good men!’ A few of the generals and soldiers nearby gave him their attention but he was mostly ignored in the immense din that prevailed. Someone passed a rude remark aimed at Hephaestion and Alexander burst out laughing, prompting a smile even from the subject of the joke.

Hephaestion decided to show people who was in charge. He jumped onto one of the tables laden with food, dumped the contents of two bronze serving dishes and banged them together violently several times.

The noise in the hall lowered to a murmur as the clanging of the bronze dishes attracted attention. Something was happening and people wanted to know what it was. If Alexander’s lover was banging dishes on a table and the conqueror himself was in splits, it was worth taking notice.

Satisfied that he had the attention of as many people as was possible, Hephaestion gestured to one of the men sitting next to Alexander.

‘Lend an ear, good men, to the verses composed by Pranichus, our local poet,’ Hephaestion chuckled and jumped off the table.

Goaded by shouts of encouragement, Pranichus took Hephaestion’s place on the banquet table and began reciting the verses.

This was the turning point of the night. A large section of the men in the hall laughed and joked at the verses or passed remarks among themselves as Pranichus recited them. But there was a section of men whose faces darkened and became hard as the recitation progressed.

These were the men from the old guard, the veterans who had served under Philip, Alexander’s father. They had also fought by the young conqueror’s side and had been instrumental on many occasions, including the battle of Gaugamela, in turning the tide in favour of the Macedonians. They did not like what they heard now.

The verses were based on a defeat suffered by Alexander’s generals at Samarkand, the rout that had forced Alexander to retreat to Balkh in the winter of the previous year. In the verses, the generals were being mocked for their resounding defeat at the hands of the Bactrian tribes.

The veterans began murmuring among themselves. One of them, Clitus, who had been recently appointed Satrap of Bactria and Sogdia, was especially incensed.

‘Macedonians are being humiliated before barbarians and enemies,’ he said through clenched teeth, his anger growing. ‘How can we stand by and watch this happen? Will no one among us stand up and be counted as a man? Shall we stay silent as they continue to mock us?’

‘When there is success, Alexander is responsible. When there is defeat, it is the generals,’ another veteran complained. ‘This was never so in the time of Philip.’

Clitus turned on him. ‘Then why do you not speak up? Stop this nonsense now! We have always had freedom of speech under Philip and even with Alexander. Surely they will see reason in our thinking?’

‘They are drunk,’ another man admonished. ‘Too much wine has addled their brains. It is best not to interfere at this time. Remember what happened in Persepolis.’ He was referring to the drunken banquet after Alexander had marched, victorious, into Persepolis, the capital of the Persian empire. During that banquet, a drunken Alexander had decided to set fire to Persepolis. And in doing so he had destroyed one of the most magnificent cities in the world of that age.

‘And don’t forget when Philip got drunk and tried to kill Alexander,’ another veteran spoke up, referring to the occasion of Philip’s wedding to Cleopatra, a Macedonian girl from high nobility. Cleopatra’s uncle, Attalus, had remarked that Philip would finally produce a legitimate heir, implying that Alexander was illegitimate. And, even though Olympias herself had claimed that Alexander was not fathered by Philip but by Zeus, Alexander had been enraged. He had thrown his cup at Attalus upon which Philip stood up and drew his sword to kill Alexander. In his state of drunkenness, he had charged at Alexander only to trip and fall on his face.

But it had demonstrated the extent to which events could escalate after a night of heavy drinking. And tonight had been the same. The veterans did not want to provoke an incident.

But Clitus was determined. ‘This has to stop,’ he insisted. ‘Now. If none of you are man enough, I will do it. I saved Alexander’s life at Granicus. And don’t forget that he handed half the army to me and the other half to Hephaestion after the execution of Philotas. He will not turn a deaf ear to my entreaties.’

He pushed his way through the throng and reached the banquet table where Pranichus held sway.

‘Enough!’ he commanded, addressing Pranichus. ‘No more!’

Pranichus stopped in mid-verse and looked at Hephaestion and Alexander.

The young king stood up, swaying slightly under the influence of the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed.

‘And why should he stop?’ Alexander asked of Clitus. ‘He speaks the truth.’

A hush fell over the hall. This was no longer a faceoff between Clitus and Pranichus. Alexander had involved himself.

Pranichus quietly climbed off the table and retreated, as Alexander confronted Clitus, who held the conqueror’s gaze.

‘Sire, it has been the tradition since your father’s time that credit for victories and responsibility for defeat...’ Clitus began, but was cut off by Alexander.

‘My father!’ he spat. ‘You speak of my father as if he was fair and just. Did he give me credit for the part I played in his victories? You speak of my father’s traditions? The only tradition I know of is the ill will he bore me. The envy with which he regarded me. What of those? Are those the marks of a fair man?’ Alexander glared at Clitus and took another swig of wine from his cup.

‘Sire,’ Clitus responded, ‘you do no justice to your father’s memory. He began the invasion of Persia and would have done what you have done today, only many years before, had his time not been cut short by an assassin’s dagger.’ He paused, the hurt and anger bubbling up now, reason giving way to emotion. ‘You forget, sire, that you are what you are today because of your father. He laid the foundation for everything that you have achieved today. His achievements were far greater than any of yours so far. And today you believe you are such a great man that you pretend to be the child of Ammon and disown your own father, Philip!’

There was a moment of silence at his last words. It was as if the men had collectively stopped breathing at that moment.

‘Villain!’ Alexander responded, the wine clouding his sense of reason. ‘Do you believe that you will be allowed to slander me, cause discontentment among the Macedonians, without retribution?’

But Clitus remained unfazed. ‘If you cannot bear to hear men speak their mind, why do you invite free-born people to your table? It would be better if you kept the company of barbarians and slaves. They would fawn over you and kiss your Persian girdle and striped tunic!’

Alexander exploded with rage. He threw his cup at Clitus, spilling the wine on himself and the general. People scattered as Alexander went for the banquet dishes, pulling off fruit from the table and throwing it at Clitus. He looked around for a weapon but there was none within reach.

‘Summon the guards!’ Alexander yelled, his voice slurring. ‘Call the guards! Where are my guards?’

Some of Clitus’ friends grabbed the general and dragged him out of the palace, away from Alexander’s fury, across the moat, where he would be safe. Once Alexander’s anger had blown over, Clitus could return and join the party if it had not finished by then.

Alexander’s bodyguards had arrived on the scene by now and formed a protective circle around him.

The group of friends who had rescued Clitus returned and signalled for the festivities to continue. The skirmish was over and would be forgotten by tomorrow in the haze of the hangover that would follow the night’s feast.

But this night was not destined to end that way.

There was a commotion at the doorway and Clitus marched in. It was not in his nature to run away from a fight. He had stood his ground in battle and he would make a stand now.

‘Ah me! In Greece an evil custom reigns!’ his voice boomed across the hall as he marched towards the conqueror, reciting a passage from
Andromache
, by Euripides, his tone insolent.

Alexander, who had been making his way back to where his friends were seated, turned. On seeing Clitus, his rage was kindled again. His reaction was instant and spontaneous. He grabbed a spear from one of his guards and rushed at Clitus, running the spear right through the general.

‘You are no different from Bessus!’ he shouted as Clitus fell to the ground, blood spurting from where the spear had impaled him. There was a large pool of blood on the floor of the banquet hall and the men shrank back as if the blood was cursed. They had never seen Alexander like this before. It was like he was a man possessed.

As the life force drained out of Clitus with his blood, Alexander fell to his knees. Somewhere through his drink induced haze, the realisation of what he had done penetrated through. He collapsed, overcome with tears, on Clitus’ lifeless body. The general’s blood soaked his sandals and his cloak but he didn’t care.

For the first time in his life, Alexander had killed someone for daring to challenge him and express a difference of opinion. And, in doing so, he had violated two Macedonian traditions. The first was executing someone without a trial in the presence of the army. The second was Zeus’ law of hospitality which Alexander broke by killing a guest at his table. A guest who had saved his life and served the royal family with loyalty and distinction.

That night was a watershed. It was the first time Alexander had allowed his ambitions to get the better of him.

And it would not be the last.