1. THE VULTURE-
Grey flakes of ash spiralled towards the sky. The air reeked of stale blood and burning pages. The pages were from the library of Taxila University burning in the distance. The blood was from his father's corpse next to him.
The boy had tear stains on his cheeks, his face devoid of expressions-just like his father's. He had sat next to his father throughout the night, staring at his semi-lit, pallid face. His fist clenched tightly around the silver elephant figurine that his father had handed him before he died. His dying words reverberated across his eardrums.
His sight, then turned towards the sky, for daylight was accompanied by the hungry. A wake of vultures swooped from the sky, aiming for edible ruins of war. One of them landed on his father's face and perched on his nose. He saw no point in making it go away. As the bird's sharp beak pierced through his father's right eyeball, he looked towards the cinder block that had once been a library. His father's words made way to his lips:
"All for the Empire. Everything for the Empire."
2. THE RIVER-
It was a warm day. The town seemed too gloomy for the festival it was supposed to celebrate. The river Shipra flowed with a vengeful ferocity, as if looking to settle some old score with the muddy banks of Ujjain. The wind carried a taste of the long dormant war that had been summoned to haunt the land once more. Official men rushed across one another by the riverbank. A corpse lay somewhere in their midst.
Haridatta and Vahaatava- two junior officers stood by as the investigation progressed around them. They were new enough to the job to not be trusted with the delicate handling of a crime scene and old enough to not be bothered for their idleness.
"I know who did it," Haridatta whispered in his partner's ear.
"Of course."
"It's the Huns."
"Enough with the stories," Vahaatava shot out a spittle of tobacco, "Stop believing in everything your grandfather tells you."
"I've had many sources confirm it, you know?"
"Oh, really? Is the Maharaja, one of them too?"
Haridatta's nostrils flared up. Before he could come up with a rebuttal, his eye caught the arrival of an old, slouched man with a weather-beaten brow. They arched their backs and saluted him as he passed them by.
Supratik, the Chief of Police and Internal Security at Ujjain, walked rapidly up to the riverside, just as the body was being fished out. The officer supervising the operation turned around and saluted his commander immediately. He knew the first question that Supratik would ask. So, he answered it beforehand:
"Ministry of Defense."
Supratik flashed an appropriately sized smile at his foresight. Giridhar, the supervising officer was as old as Supratik, their eyes equally swollen around the eyelids, their faces equally wrinkled. He stared around at the desolate want-ridden bazaars in the distance.
"One way to begin Diwali, huh?"
Supratik's lips lined to form a half-smirk.
"I had forgotten all about Diwali," He admitted, "Remind me to buy some lamps for the wife." They started walking up to the body that had now been fished out.
"Same as the other two?" He asked Giridhar on the way.
"Couldn't get a very good look. But it's about the same. Sewn lips. Sewn eyelids. Throat sliced open."
One nauseating exhale later, he reached the body. There wasn't much of anything other than what Giridhar had told him. Chitrarath- the Defense Minister, lay dead in front of them with his throat carved open.
"Send out men to question any possible witnesses in the vicinity," He ordered Giridhar, kneeling beside the body.
"I already did."
"Good," He rested next to the body. His stare observed Shipra's moody currents. He wondered about all the secrets she had swallowed and then faced the one that she had just spit out.
3. THE COINS-
Supratik averted his stare from the shopkeeper's joyful eyes. He was his first customer since sunrise. Multichromatic lanterns lay unwanted on his cart. Supratik picked a cylindrical crimson lantern, removed three coins from his pocket and handed them to the shopkeeper. They were new coins issued by the king- misshapen, unevenly minted. Their sorry appearance made him want to spend some more. He picked up the lantern and moved onto the next cart. There, he selected three clay lamps and handed the shopkeeper five coins in exchange for them.
"Don't mind my saying this," spoke a hesitant voice behind him, "But that seems a bit overpriced."
He turned to see who it was. Two timid fellows stood next to one another. Both seemed to be of the same age. One of them flashed an angry glare at the other. Supratik stared at them, puzzled.
One of them cleared his throat, "I am Junior Inspector Haridatta. This is my partner Vahaatava. We believe we may have worthwhile information about the Minister's murder."
"Why don't you approach your immediate superior?"
"We did."
"He didn't pay us much heed."
"What makes you think I will?"
They exchanged confounded looks. There was a brief, shy silence.
"We may have worthwhile information about the Minster's murder."
"You already said that."
"Actually, it's just him," Vahaatava clarified.
Haridatta glared at him for a second. Then, started explaining:
"For months now, I have been hearing stories, um, reports of Huns in hiding in the capital, plotting covert operations against the empire. I have long suspected that they had a hand in all of these murders. You see, after Samrat Skandagupta thwarted their first invasion, they seem to have resorted to other, more devious means."
"Get to the connection already," his partner interjected, "This morning, after we had returned from the crime scene, we got a complaint from the local brothel from a Vaishya."
"A Rupajivika," Haridatta corrected him, "You see, a group of four foreigners have been renting out a room in the brothel for the past week. The proprietor of the place got fed up with them after they started suggesting clients to the women there. He confronted them last night and one of them attacked him with a dagger, severely wounding him."
"Okay," Supratik closed his eyes and massaged his forehead, "And, you think that these men are secretly Huns."
"Yes sir."
"Did the Vaishya say that?"
"Well, she that mentioned that their appearance was unlike anyone's from this kingdom."
"How does that make them Huns specifically?"
"You see, the dagger reportedly had intricate engravings on its hilt. It seemed like something a warrior would carry."
"A warrior?"
"Um, yes sir."
"Exactly."
"Sir?"
"Huns are a warrior race," Supratik explained in a dismissive tone, "They thrive in battle. They crave combat. No amount of defeats can change this. They'd rather get maimed, mutilated or beheaded in a battlefield than spend their nights planning out clandestine schemes in a foreign brothel."
The two officers continued staring at him. He handed them the jute bag carrying the lantern and lamps.
"Just deliver it to my wife before sunset," he instructed before walking away.
As he walked past decrepit houses and unattended fields, his mind examined the case. Three members of the royal court, similarly killed, found dead far from one another. Agnimitra, the Minster of Religious Affairs, murdered in the royal monastery at dawn. Paramchakra, the Royal Army Chief, slain in his tent on the battlefront at night. Then, there was Chitrarath. The killings were well-planned. The assassin was aware of the victims' routines. They had been studied, scrutinized for vulnerabilities. The sewing of their lips and eyelids made it seem like the work of a deranged individual. Maybe that was the point. Maybe it was someone in the royal court, orchestrating a mutiny, intentionally defacing the corpse to throw off the investigation. But what if it was someone who was both equally deranged and clever? A disillusioned soul fed up with the machinations of power and greed that had landed everyone in this decade of war and poverty. A hapless bystander to this slow-setting rot. An heir to the war. The questions made his head hurt. When he entered his office, there were two men awaiting his arrival.
"Glorious be the Empire," they greeted him.
He returned the greeting, took a seat at his table and gestured them to do the same.
Giridhar was one of them. He introduced the young man next to him, "Charudatta was one of the officers collecting witness testimonies this morning."
"What do you have for me?" Supratik asked.
"We worked our way upstream to find the point from where the body had been dumped. Around midnight, an old washerman saw the silhouette of a man dragging an oblong shaped object towards the river and dumping it into the water."
"Did he see his face?"
"No. It was quite dark. But this gave us a general range for investigation. So, we paid a visit to every major establishment nearby. Devdhar, who owns a local eatery claimed to have seen Chitrarath. He said that since the Minister's wife had left for her parents for Diwali, Chitrarath had been eating at his place regularly. He came alone, he told me. But he found company to leave with."
"A woman," said Giridhar, "provocatively dressed. A Vaishya maybe."
Supratik corrected him with a smile, "A Rupajivika."
Every town has two parts: the part where the people who love the town live and the part where the people who the town hates live. The brothel was situated in the latter part. A single window on the top floor lit the whole place. Supratik passed through a crowd of half-visible female faces before he reached the room on the top floor. A lamp cast shadows over its grimy walls. Haridatta, Vahaatava and Charudatta accompanied him. The woman who had lodged the complaint with Haridatta stood in the middle of the room. Her eyes were directed towards the floor.
"Where are they now?" He looked around at the minimally furnished room.
"They left last night," she answered in a meek voice, "After they stabbed Lalit, I ran out of the building threatening to fetch the police. I saw them leaving the building from a distance."
"They left in haste," Haridatta pointed out, "They didn't take everything with them."
"You said they were picking clients for the girls?" Supratik ignored him.
"Just the one." She briefly looked up, stealing a glance, "Last night. They had been trying to have more control over us ever since they had arrived. Last night, they made Urvashi leave with a man they had been stalking for about a week."
"Made her pick him up by Devdhar's eatery?"
"That was the location they gave her."
Haridatta's smile widened from ear to ear. His chest broadened with pride.
"They must have left something valuable behind," Charudatta hoped.
"The Shivalinga!" Haridatta pointed to a Shivalinga idol sitting on a shelf, "Mihirakula, their leader, is Lord Shiva's devotee. If there is something of value, they would've kept it near the Shivalinga."
Everyone turned to Supratik for approval. He pursed his lips and nodded approvingly. Haridatta walked towards the idol, closed his eyes and mouthed the necessary prayers. Then, he picked up the idol and placed it aside.
"There are papers here!" He clasped a handful of them in his hands and waved them around.
"I knew we were right about the Huns!" Vahaatava wagged his fist in the air. Haridatta threw a furious glare his way, passing the papers to Charudatta.
"There is enough information here to create a kundali," He skimmed through the pages.
"Anyone in particular?" asked Supratik.
"Yes," Charudatta's inhaled a deep breath.
"Who?"
He folded the pages and held them tightly in his fist. Then, he raised his grave visage to face Supratik:
"The Prime Minister."
4. THE MINISTER:
It was the last evening of Diwali. Firecrackers occasionally lit the sky. The festival's farewell created a melancholy atmosphere. A stout man wearing a heavily embroidered sherwani walked past mud homes with mud lamps on their porches. His steps were wary, his walk tired. Another man wearing much simpler clothes followed him. His steps were brisk, his walk steadfast. His grey cotton top concealed a serrated sickle hanging around his back. He had been following the Minister for a while now. Tonight, was the night.
Bhutpramaan, the Prime Minister, had a sister who lived on the edge of the town. He was to lead him there. He was to die for his king. He was to die for his Empire. He didn't know it as he took a left turn and entered a tall mud-layered house. The man removed the sickle from his back and followed him inside. Bhutpramaan entered through a series of rooms. Taking feline steps, the sickle-wielding man followed him. Once in the kitchen, he stopped walking, knelt down by a clay pot, filling a tumbler of water. The man raised the sickle and bent his elbow in readiness. Just as he was about to swing it around the man's throat, he felt a prickly sensation on the back of his neck.
"At least let him drink the water first," advised a voice.
He lowered his weapon and turned around to see two smiling young men, one of whom had a sword aimed at his neck.
"You left your notes behind," The man who was not Bhutpramaan stood up, "You're not the best at covert operations. Better if you just stick to pillaging villages and maiming children."
The assassin threw haphazard glances around the room. Before he could devise a plan to escape, the hilt of a sword delivered a hard blow on the back of his head and he collapsed. Supratik knelt beside him and removed a velvet pouch from his person.
He seized the pouch and instructed the others, "Take him into custody. Inform me when he wakes up."
They nodded, saluted and left the room.
He walked past the other rooms and climbed up to the terrace, where a stout man wearing an outfit identical to his stood gazing at the stars.
"Thank you for your cooperation, sir," He thanked Bhutpramaan.
"Didn't have much of a choice, did I?" He congratulated, "Good job."
"Three of them are still out there," Supratik replied, fumbling through the pouch.
"You'll see them soon enough."
"What?" Something in the pouch caught his eye. He removed it. A gold coin slid off his palm.
"Not everyone knows what to do with what they've found," The minister smiled.
Supratik picked up the coin to check again.
"It's," he was speechless. He stretched his eyes open and held it close in his sight.
"_Not the substandard, warped piece of adulterated gold that passes as currency on the streets," The minister completed his sentence.
It wasn't. The gold was lustrous and soft, its engraving unlike that on common currency.
"Royal seal," he remarked, taking a seat.
"That answers how they gained access to Paramchakra's tent on the battlefront, doesn't it?"
"Where did they get it?" his suspicious stare turned towards Bhutpramaan.
"Don't look at me like that, Supratik. They got it from where everyone else gets it," his face flashed a sly, sad grin illuminated by the multicoloured firecrackers crackling in the sky. "They got it from the Maharaja."
Supratik was silent. Bhutpramaan's narration shed light on truths he had never wished to see:
"Like I said, not everyone knows what to do with what they've found. What our young Maharaja found on the day of his coronation was a decade-long war. I think it's safe to say that he is no Samudragupta, or Skandagupta for that matter. Mihirakula, our opponent on the other hand, was far deadlier and cruel than his father. The horror on horseback, they call him. Conceived from an unspeakably brutal transgression. The slayer of three crore royal-bloods. You've heard the stories. So has the Maharaja. Luckily, our military was adept enough to hold their own against these savages. They managed to capture four Huns during battle and brought them in front of the Maharaja.
"He presented the prisoners of war with a choice. Execution or joining the royal army against their own. They chose the second option. That was it. That was what made him snap. If someone was willing to betray a king as fearsome as Mihirakula, then what chance did he have? What was keeping his own generals and ministers from turning against him?"
"He snapped." Supratik repeated, his unwavering stare pointed at the sky.
"All for the empire," Bhutpramaan snorted out a deformed chuckle.
"The first murder was simple religious zealotry," Supratik sighed, "They murdered the Buddhist monk."
"You have to feed the dogs before you take them to the hunt. That's how you earn their loyalty."
The helplessness that comes with knowledge without power settled in his heart. Everything came together. Like their sewn lips and sewn eyes. He could see it all so clearly that he wanted to blind himself.
"They're coming for you too, you know?"
Supratik closed his eyes and lowered his head.
"The whole fort's coming down in embers, Supratik. Get out before the debris find you. Run."
Supratik heard a voice rushing at him from his past. All he had to say was:
"No."
"No?"
The voice grew louder in Supratik's ears. He saw a vulture perch on the ledge of the terrace. Its black, indifferent eyes stared at him. He dug into his pocket and removed an old silver elephant figurine. Time had blackened the silver, its lustre almost entirely gone. He rolled it between his fingers.
"No."
"That's it?" Bhutpramaan let out a demented cackle, "You're just willing to lay down your life for the Empire?"
He remembered his father's last words. He felt the silver's cold touch against his palm and the vulture's cold stare against his spine. Then, turning towards the Minister, in a serene tone, asked,
"What Empire?"