The King Within

By Nandini Sengupta

373 AD. In the thick forests of Malwa, an enigmatic stranger gallops into an ambush attack by bandits to rescue a young courtesan, Darshini. His name is Deva and he is the younger son of Emperor Samudragupta. That chance encounter, first with Deva and later with his two friends, the loyal general Saba Virasena and the great poet Kalidas, forges a bond that lasts a lifetime. From a dispossessed prince, Deva goes on to become one of the greatest monarchs in ancient India, Chandragupta Vikramaditya. But the search for glory comes with a blood price. As Chandragupta the emperor sets aside Deva the brother, lover and friend, to build a glorious destiny for himself, his companions go from being his biggest champions to his harshest critics.A sabre-rattling tale of love, revenge, friendship and ambition, The King Within is about the often-difficult choice between the power of passion and the passion for power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Jul 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9789352645862

Nandini Sengupta

Nandini Sengupta is a Pondicherry-based writer and journalist. After a chance trip to the Ajanta and Ellora caves in 2007, she began researching third and fourth-century India which quickly deepened into an obsession with India's glorious past. She now lives in Pondicherry's quaint French quarter with her little daughter, Kiki. Her first book of fiction, The King Within, was published by HarperCollins India in 2017.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

THIS ISN’T A LESSON in narrative history. This is primarily a story that takes place in the historical past, featuring some well-known and some lesser known historical figures. Apart from Chandragupta himself, many of his friends too are real characters. Kalidas is easily the most recognizable, but Saba Virasena, Amrakarddava, Varaha Mihir, Harisena and a number of others in court are also real people, described with a little imagination here and there to breathe life into names on copper plates and stone inscriptions. The entire royal family, including the Vakataka in-laws, are, of course, taken from history but they have been fleshed out with a generous dose of poetic licence. As is Chinese pilgrim Fa Hien, though much of what he says about Buddhist pilgrimage sites across India is historically authentic.

But rubbing shoulders with them are some entirely fictional characters and incidents. Ancient India does not have the wealth of contemporary accounts that enriches medieval Indian history. In their absence, I have used my imagination to fill in the gaps and there are places in the story where I have taken poetic license with history. For instance, there’s nothing to suggest Govind Gupta was the bastard child of Emperor Chandragupta Vikramaditya. But there’s nothing to suggest that this is entirely unlikely either.

Similarly, the underground movement that led to the face-off between the two royal brothers is also completely imaginary. Contemporary accounts offer several different versions of the story but for the sake of drama and continuity, I have reimagined the blood feud and the fratricide that followed. I have also borrowed—names mostly—from writers of historical fiction whom I admire and whose works I have grown up reading. Foremost among them are noted historian, archaeologist and writer Rakhaldas Bandyopadhyay and author Sharadindu Bandyopadhyay. From the former, I have borrowed titbits of the queen’s ancestry—more fictional than historical given how little is known about it—and from the latter I have taken the Buddhist incantation ‘Namo Tassa’.

The basic premise of the story is historical and culled from a variety of sources including Devi Chandraguptam. But beyond the basics, the embellishment and the flow of the narrative is entirely fictional. This story of four friends and the tumultuous events that drove India’s glorious destiny sixteen centuries ago, I feel, will engage readers even if they are not interested in history. After all, it isn’t very different from life as we know it today.

Part 1

Power of Passion

1

373 CE

MUCH LATER, LOOKING BACK, it all seemed like a dismembered dream. As if she’d imagined it—the dusty forest path, the still heat of the afternoon and the taste of fear in her parched mouth. That’s how she would always remember that day—the day it all began. The day that lasted a lifetime. The day in the sixth month of the year 373, the thirty-eighth year of the rule of His Illustrious Majesty, Emperor Samudragupta.

There were seven of them. Darshini knew they were there, even before she saw them, even before they appeared out of nowhere, as if by magic. They looked like atabic tribesmen, their faces smeared with warpaint—grotesque in the dappled light of the forest—beads of bones strung round their necks, naked except for their grass skirts. They moved noiselessly among the trees, but Darshini could feel them closing in, her fear making her alert to the slightest movement in the stillness of the afternoon.

She realized now how foolish she had been to send her escorts looking for water, leaving only two guards by her side. This was wild country—a lawless no man’s land that no monarch had yet managed to completely subdue—and the forest folk never lost the chance to pillage a convoy: raping, looting and ransoming at will. Her guards would give fight. They were armed and seasoned warriors but they would be outnumbered three to one. And there was no saying whether this was the main gang of bandits or just a scouting party. Either way, the guards would, at best, delay the inevitable and no more.

The company had dispersed an hour ago, once it had become obvious they had lost their way. The original idea had been to hug the banks of the Narmada all the way from Bhrigukachchha (Barygaza) to Bagh and onto Ujjayni. But Saka country was not known for its administrative efficiency and Malwa had been battered by so many attacks from both within and without that it had long ceased to be truly safe for any traveller, no matter how well-armed the caravan.

By now, her guards were ready for the attack, sturdy staff in one hand, dagger in the other . . . waiting for the bandits to make the first move. Darshini closed her eyes almost involuntarily, her lips moved in silent prayer—O enlightened one, o Sakya Muni, may thy will be done, thou giver of light, show me the way . . . Amitava . . . Amitava . . .

She waited in terror for the war cries but instead heard hoofbeats—the unmistakable clop-clop-clop of a horse in full gallop jolted her out of her trance. When she opened her eyes, everything was a blur—the man, the horse, the swordplay and the severed head. By the time she regained her focus, the fight was on at full pelt but her guards, sensing victory, were now attacking the bandits, and not just defending their flanks.

Amidst the furious whirl of the battle, Darshini’s eyes followed the newcomer, thrust-and-parrying on both sides as he used his white mount to trample a bandit underfoot. He was carrying a sturdy leather shield in one hand and a short sword in the other, wielding both with effortless ease, making them extensions of his limbs. He used the height of his mount and the surprise of his attack to wreak havoc on the bandits—he was so lightning quick that neither the bandits’ javelins nor their arrows hit home, even though he wasn’t wearing a breastplate.

By now the bandits were focusing attack on the newcomer, trying to bring down the horse with axe blows on the unguarded left flank while arrows rained on the rider. In a flash, the young man swung his sword, half swivelling on the left and catching a bandit on the shoulder. The blow nearly severed the bandit’s weapon arm, reducing him to a howling heap in the undergrowth. Using his shield as a cover, he fended off the shower of arrows. Drawing a narrow bladed dagger from his belt, with one fluid throw, he caught the archer on the neck. The man took a few seconds to realize what had happened as blood gurgled out and he hiccupped to a collapse minutes later.

Four of the original seven bandits were already down, their bodies a mangled mass of blood and flesh, and the rest were suddenly looking vulnerable. The attackers hadn’t expected much resistance, least of all from a cavalry officer, and they were now slowly moving away from the clearing, back towards the heart of the jungle. Three quarters of an hour later, the fight was over as the bandits melted into the thick foliage, their grass skirts providing camouflage for a tactical retreat.

The young stranger walked back to the clearing where Darshini still cowered in her litter. ‘The bandits have gone, my lady, do not worry,’ he said, helping her to her feet. ‘My name is Deva . . . and you are?’

Darshini took in the young man’s obviously noble bearing, the Scythian-style long coat and narrow trousers he was wearing and decided her saviour must be part of the Saka court, if not a kshatrap or a Saka leader himself. ‘Thank you for saving my life, noble Kshatrap . . . I shudder to think what would have become of me if you hadn’t come upon us when you did.’

The young man grinned, showing startling white teeth against his deep bronzed skin. ‘Kshatrap? Well, why not? You don’t have to thank me, my lady. I did what any Kshatriya would have done in my place. But tell me, who are you and where are you going?’

‘My name is Darshini and my companions and I are going to Ujjayni,’ she said. ‘We have been invited by the city magistrate, Vishaypati Betra Varma, to participate in the festival of song and word that, I am told, will be held with much fanfare this year.’

‘That would make you a poet and possibly also a singer, correct?’

Darshini smiled. ‘No, my lord . . . that would make me a nagar nati, a courtesan-actress.’

They were interrupted by more horsemen but this time, the young man raised his arm in friendly greeting rather than drawing his sword. The small party of ten riders was headed by another young man dressed in the same fashion as Deva.

As he drew closer, the rider slid off the horse and the two men embraced each other.

‘Greetings, Kumar! I was rather hoping you would leave me something to do but, alas, you were always a poor sport.’

‘This cheeky lad is my best friend, Saba Virasena. Please pardon his impertinence,’ said Deva.

‘My lady, my humble apologies,’ said Virasena. ‘But I must admit, given our comely audience, there are far better ways to show cheek than by parrying words with you, my prince.’

The word ‘prince’ caught Darshini’s ear. Scythians didn’t call themselves king or prince and the two young men were speaking a Magadhi dialect that did not sound like what was spoken in the Saka court. Who were these people? They were clearly in disguise, but why? Her guards had returned by then and were milling around, waiting for her orders.

Deva had a quick word with his men and then walked across to her litter. ‘May I request permission to accompany you to Ujjayni? Malwa desh isn’t safe for travellers, particularly a lady . . .’

Darshini heaved a sigh of relief. The prospect of wandering around this lawless stretch with just four guards did not seem very appealing to her. And after the adrenalin rush of the afternoon, she was suddenly feeling exhausted. ‘If it isn’t too much trouble, I would be grateful for your protection and help, my lord,’ she said with genuine warmth. ‘Thank you.’

X

The little jade statuette felt delightfully cool in the palm of her hand. She closed her fingers around it and felt its weight, heavy with the memories of another life. Did Father ever imagine his last gift to me would see me stranded in the middle of the wilderness with strangers for company? she thought bleakly. Why does life never cease to surprise me with adversity?

The memories of her father, his big booming voice filling up their airy, two-storeyed home in Vallabhi’s merchant quarter, brought a lump to her throat. How long ago was it, her enchanted childhood? Ten, twelve years? Already the memories are beginning to fade, she thought. His laugh and the tinkling bells on her feet . . . that’s all I can remember of my parents.

The rustling of dry leaves behind her brought her back to the present. She half-turned to see Deva standing right behind her, silhouetted against the glow of the camp fire. He still looked enigmatic and, because she couldn’t see his face clearly, a little threatening. ‘I can’t see your face,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell who you are.’

She heard him chuckle softly, and then he sat down on the ground beside her. ‘Do you always look for faces in the dark?’

‘I like to look at the light.’

He turned away, half-facing the camp fire. ‘There, now I am all lit up. Go on, read my forehead and make a prophecy—perhaps that I’ll rule the world before I turn thirty?’

Darshini laughed. ‘If you’re Alexander, you will. But if you’re Alexander, why would you need a prophecy?’

Deva grinned and handed her an earthen pitcher. ‘Would you like some water? I promise not to demand a prophecy in return,’ he said.

‘And I promise not to read your forehead in the dark,’ she said, laughing. ‘I can’t lie to the man who just saved my life.’

The pitcher was nearly full and as she tipped it to her mouth, the water felt deliciously cool and fragrant. She hadn’t realized just how thirsty she was, how exhausted by the relentless journey and the scorching midsummer heat. ‘Will we make it to Ujjayni before the rains set in?’ she asked. ‘The heat seems unbearable right now so the rains can’t be that far off.’

Deva shrugged. ‘That depends on how well you travel,’ he said. ‘Do you ride?’

Darshini smiled. ‘I wasn’t always a courtesan,’ she said. ‘My father taught me all sorts of things, including riding. He used to say, It’ll help you handle life’s little surprises with more confidence. After all, there isn’t much a man can do that a woman can’t do better.’

Deva threw his head back and laughed. ‘Your father taught you well. A woman is weakest between her ears. And a man . . . well, never mind!’

She blushed at the obvious hint, unused to this kind of bawdy humour, and then hurriedly changed the topic. ‘So do we ride tomorrow?’

‘At day break and I suggest you rest well tonight. And if you don’t mind, may I suggest you wear a disguise? You could borrow my tunic and trousers and Vira can lend you his turban. It’ll help you blend in, you see.’

Darshini smiled. ‘You want me to turn into a man? I am stronger between my ears than you think.’

‘I don’t doubt your strength. But why take a chance with someone else’s weakness?’

X

He heard it long before he saw it, the roar of the waterfall. What Virasena didn’t expect was the sharp drop—the rocky outcrop ended dramatically in a precipice and it took all his strength to rein in his horse, its hooves skidding dangerously close to the precipice. Deva came up next, restraining his whinnying white mare just inches from the sudden drop. Darshini was still at the further end of the outcrop, her horse cantering, her long hair flying behind her like a pennant and her hand casually holding both reins.

‘We need to warn her. If the horse shies, she could end up at the bottom of that waterfall with a cracked skull,’ said Vira.

‘She said she was taught to ride. Let’s see if she’s as good as her word,’ said Deva. ‘If she isn’t, you and I will play saviour once again.’

Vira raised his eyebrows in mock horror but before he could reply, Darshini rode in at full gallop. They had underestimated just how hard she was riding so when horse and rider came upon them, they had no time to react. Deva instinctively dove towards the horse, trying to use his body weight to push it off track and away from the precipice. But it had the opposite effect. Startled, the horse balked, its hooves skidding almost to the edge of the drop.

‘No!’ screamed Vira. ‘Stop!’

Darshini leaned back, using her body to counterbalance the skid. Then, with a steadying grip, she led the animal back, one step at a time. The horse, still skittish, took a couple of steps backwards but lost its nerve. Just half a hand away from the edge, it whinnied in panic and then reared and bucked.

Deva screamed and lunged towards the animal. Vira rushed to the side, signalling Darshini to slip off the saddle. ‘Get off the horse,’ he shouted. ‘Now!’

Darshini seemed not to hear. She remained in the saddle, clutching the horse’s mane with one hand and holding on to the neck with the other. The horse shied and reared again but then, inexplicably, it calmed down. Darshini held on to its mane, murmuring softly as it moved further away from the drop. Finally, she patted the animal, slid out of the saddle and onto the ground in exhausted relief.

‘That was close,’ she said.

‘That was fantastic!’ said Vira. ‘Where did you learn to handle horses like that? It works so much better than the whip.’

‘The monks at our local monastery taught me that the best way to ride a horse is to make him trust you—like a friend. And you don’t whip a friend, do you?’

‘No, you don’t,’ said Deva. ‘That’s a beautiful lesson, Darshini. You cannot lead those who don’t trust you. And there’s no better way to win trust than through friendship.’

X

The day’s ride and the near accident had worn everyone out so Deva’s decision to set up camp near a rivulet was greeted with cheers. It was late afternoon by the time the camp was ready and Darshini was grateful for the little enclosure that her new friends had provided her, offering privacy and the chance to take a much-needed bath in the stream. The water was so clear you could see the bottom of the riverbed. She stepped in fully clad, glad for the respite from the heat and dust. The stream was shallow but the current strong and she happily drifted along, letting it carry her to the deeper pool downstream, which was also delightfully secluded because of sheer rocky cliffs all around.

It hadn’t occurred to her that the others had also discovered the pool. The distant roar of the waterfall, the quiet of the afternoon, the still summer heat—all of it had lulled her into a stupor. She wasn’t asleep but she wasn’t fully awake either. Had she been, she’d have noticed Deva and Vira diving in from one of the cliff tops surrounding the pool. But she didn’t, and moments later, a loud splash and raucous laughter jolted her back to reality.

Darshini’s first impulse was to make sure she was properly covered though she realized the water provided better cover than her wet uttariya scarf ever could. Then she realized, with embarrassed amusement, that she had less to hide than the two men. Both Deva and Vira were stark naked. Like her, they hadn’t expected company of the opposite sex and like her, they were using the water to cover themselves.

The three looked at each other and burst out laughing. ‘You will have to get out first,’ said Vira. ‘Both for your sake as well as for ours.’

‘I will if you promise not to look,’ she said, laughing. ‘Both of you!’

‘I don’t need to look. See, my eyes are closed but I can still tell you’ve lost your emerald pendant,’ said Deva.

Darshini’s hand instinctively went to her neck. The pendant—a small stone set in gold and hung on a sturdy silk tassel—had been around her neck for as long as she could remember. ‘We bought it from the goldsmith the day you were born,’ her mother used to say. ‘He said it was meant for you—the stone is the colour of your eyes.’

‘I must find it,’ she said. ‘I just have to dive back in and check the shallow river bed upstream. I have to go. I won’t find it once it gets dark.’

She didn’t wait for their response, nor did she care that by getting out of the water in a dripping wet sari and uttariya she was doing her modesty no favours. She dashed back to the clearing behind her tent where she had stepped into the stream, convinced that the pendant must have come loose just as she had entered the water.

She looked around frantically, cutting her palms on the sharp pebbles littering the river bank, barely retaining her balance in the swiftly flowing shallow water. In her desperate search, she didn’t hear the approaching