The avatari, p.6
The Avatari, page 6
Temur and his escort, who evidently knew his way around, reached the main doorway to the palace, the servants bowing as they passed through. Numerous passages opened out into the main hallway, the entrance to each veiled with fine silk curtains. Finally, they came to a huge wooden door. Carved on it in copper was the sacred dragon serpent, its yawning jaws jutting out, its fangs drawn. The Uighur put his lips close to the snake’s head and murmured something which Temur failed to catch.
The door opened from the inside and the chief bodyguard, gesturing for Temur to enter, whispered, ‘My lord awaits you, most esteemed Governor.’
Temur nodded in acknowledgement and entered an enormous room bathed in the cheerful glow of a large fire hissing and crackling in the hearth. Set in the wooden floor at the centre of the room was a porcelain tub. It had been filled with rose-scented water and rose petals floated on its surface. Temur’s eyes went to the Great Khan, lying half submerged in the tub. Wrapped like mating snakes around his body were two nubile and naked young women attendants. Another woman, a light blue shroud covering her from head to toe, was seated on a small stool a few feet away. A man, his head covered by a cowl, stood some distance away.
Temur bowed low from the waist and, still bowed, greeted his grandfather in the approved manner.
‘Salutations to the Great Khan,’ he murmured.
‘How are you, Grandson?’
Temur looked up to meet his grandfather’s eyes and realized that he was being directed to a stool that had been placed close to the tub in anticipation of his arrival.
‘Very well, Revered Grandfather,’ he replied.
‘And how is the province of Yunnan?’
‘Its people are basking in the benevolence of Yuan rule.’
‘And the news from Annam?’
His grandfather’s voice was dangerously soft. This was the trick question Temur had expected and was loath to answer.
He took a deep breath and said with the courage of youth, ‘It is not well, Great Khan.’
The man in the tub looked shrewdly at the younger man and read the apprehension in his eyes. A half-chuckle escaped his lips.
‘Good, young man, good. I expected no less from you. They warned me I was making a mistake when I appointed you over many others, but you have proved yourself.’ The Great Khan paused and continued softly, ‘It is a large cake and in a large cake, there will be cracks.’
‘We will seal them, Great Khan. The armies are itching to do your bidding. Just give the word and we will bring you the heads of these half-men impaled on our spears,’ Temur declared with feeling.
‘Yes, Temur, it may come to that, but you will not go with the armies.’
‘Great Khan?’ Temur was puzzled.
‘You will rule in my place, beloved Grandson. It is to you that I will pass on the trust of Genghis.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, he murmured, ‘I am dying, my boy.’
Temur’s head reeled at the revelation and he felt unsteady, in danger of falling off his stool. The rumours he had heard in the city were true; the Great Khan was on his deathbed.
‘Is that what the royal physicians say, Great Khan?’ he asked. ‘We will send for others, the best from every corner of the world, my lord.’
‘The best are already in this palace, Temur,’ the Great Khan said testily. ‘I have grown weary of their ministrations.’ Then he added in a gentler voice, ‘They give me six months at the most. They lie; I have far less time left.’
There was nothing the young man could think of to say. He had contemplated this very situation – he could hardly deny it to himself – but had banished the prospect as no more feasible than a futile dream.
There was silence in the room, broken only by the splashing of water in the tub, the young attendants unmindful of the import of what was being said as they applied sandalwood and turmeric paste on the Great Khan’s rotund body.
Finally, the Great Khan spoke again. ‘Marco had told me about the Christian quest for immortality. It seems they sent their finest warriors off to bring back the cup from which their god drank. Apparently, the cup had magical qualities and the one who drank from it would become immortal.’ He waited for his grandson, who was listening intently, to nod before carrying on. ‘I do not think my soldiers will find it in time for me. No, I shall find my place alongside Genghis on the steppe. I have already dispatched your cousin, Kamala, to prepare and guard the ordos.’ It was a reference to the ceremonial resting place made of yellow felt.
At the mention of his cousin’s name, Temur stiffened almost against his will. His reaction did not escape the Great Khan’s eye.
‘Do not worry, young man,’ he reassured his grandson. ‘My choice is made and I have conveyed it to the Kuriltai, the assembly of princes, which is to elect the next Khan on my death. They will abide by my decision.’ He paused. ‘You will treat your cousin with justice and he shall be given what is his right.’
It was an order.
Temur bowed in assent. ‘It shall be as you wish, Great Khan.’
‘After my death, an offering is to be sent to the monastery of Sogomber Khan, the Buddha, in Lhasa. I expect it to be accompanied by a large entourage that will enjoy your official protection. They shall not, under any circumstances, be stopped or checked.’
‘Your command will be obeyed, Great Khan.’
‘Good, that is settled. There is one more thing of much importance.’ There was a twinkle in the old eyes now. ‘You will marry this young woman.’ The Great Khan now glanced at the woman in blue sitting on the stool. ‘She will be your royal consort.’ He nodded at the woman, who got up and let her cloak slip off her body and fall in a puddle at her feet.
Temur drew in his breath sharply. She was exquisite, from her large, limpid eyes and chiselled features to the full, high breasts and long, shapely legs. He tried to avert his gaze, but could not take his eyes off her.
‘I see you have no objection,’ the Great Khan observed, shaking in merriment. ‘Your marriage will take place on the tenth day of your ascent to the throne, by which time the official period of mourning will be over. You may take as many wives as you wish, young man, but the firstborn of your marriage with this woman will be your heir. Promise me this on the blood of our ancestors.’
‘I promise,’ Temur said solemnly, unable to resist glancing at the young woman who smiled and gently turned away, picking up the robe and slipping back into it.
‘Very well, Grandson. Rule well and justly. May your courage never fail you.’ He paused, seemingly lost in thought, then said, ‘Are you familiar with the sayings of our venerable ancestor Genghis Khan?’
‘Yes, Great Khan. I know every one of them by heart,’ the young man replied, his voice tremulous with feeling.
‘Good. Do not forget them.’
He waved to the younger man in polite dismissal. The interview was over.
Temur got up and bowed low, then left the room. The Uighur was waiting for him outside and escorted him to the place where his horse was tethered.
As soon as Temur had left the room, the Great Khan turned to the young woman in the blue cloak and asked, ‘Are you pleased with my choice, shine utga urmullah?’ These were the Mongol words for ‘mother’.
She nodded demurely, not raising her eyes to meet his gaze.
The robed man in the room, whose head was covered in a cowl, nodded to himself. Few people at the court knew that he was Markos the Ongud.
CHAPTER 5
Malaya
APRIL 1956
‘Huzoor?’
The tone was low, but he recognized his batman’s voice as the canvas flaps which served as doors for the bamboo hut parted. The hut had served as a classroom before the villagers fled. He had been awake for some time, quietly smoking a cigarette while he waited for the boy. He drew on his cigarette to make the end glow so that he could see the dial on his wristwatch. It wasn’t yet four, but soon enough it was going to be time. The air was heavy with moisture and the rain, which had just let up, was still dripping off the roof in a steady trickle. His batman, a wiry young boy with a brutal regulation haircut, wore a khukri on his belt which, to his private embarrassment, had not yet been blooded.
‘Yes, Kamal Bahadur,’ Ashton said, acknowledging the boy’s presence and sitting up.
His bronzed body was covered in a sheen of sweat. He drew the panels of the cotton mosquito net aside and felt the cooler breeze on his skin. It was a welcome relief.
‘Chai, huzoor,’ the batman announced, setting the enamel mug of tea down on the wooden stool which served as the only item of coir mat in the hut, other than the chair and the torn coir mat. ‘Maile tato pani rakhechu. I have kept hot water for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Ashton responded in English. Though he was fluent in Gorkhali, his sergeant had asked him to stick to English, especially with the fresh recruits, so that they could pick up the language.
The Malayan Emergency, as it was called, was now in its eighth year. It had begun with the murder of three white settlers in 1948 and had spread insidiously through the entire country. There was talk of it soon being over; the communists had apparently had enough. But then, that had been said before. With an insurgency, Henry Ashton mused, you never knew. There were no victories, there were few contacts with an elusive enemy and success was usually measured in terms of the number of incidents – or lack thereof – depending on which side you were on. Anyway, there had been none in the three months they had spent in their fort inside the jungles of Kasek Baru, a two-day trek – in dry weather, that is – from the road to Kuala Lumpur, where the battalion headquarters was located.
Ashton finished his tea and inhaled deeply, savouring his cigarette, well aware that it would be a long time before he smoked one again. When you were out in the jungle, smoke, even from a cigarette, was a dead giveaway. He ducked into the forty-pounder tent just outside his shed which served as a toilet, careful not to hit his head or knock the pole down. He used the hole and quickly washed from the water in the tin. He got back to his shed, where the batman was waiting with a towel, his foldable mirror and an enamel mug of hot water. Ashton shaved, donned his fatigues, slung on his carbine and was out of the shed. Squinting in the dark, he headed in the direction of the tree that stood in the middle of a clearing, where a hazy impression of movement told him the men had quietly fallen in line.
Major Ashton had patiently worked towards this day. He had abided by what, in counter-insurgency warfare, was loosely termed the ‘fishpond’ theory. The designated target area was the ‘fishpond’ and he had ensured that his company gave it a wide berth while patrolling and operating all around it. Moreover, he had let it be known to the locals that their area of operations did not extend to the ‘fishpond’. Not wanting the ‘fishpond’ to be disturbed, he had also kept his intelligence sources there to the barest minimum. If his intelligence was reliable, the area should now be teeming with ‘fish’ and the time to harvest had come.
As Ashton approached the assembled men, there was a quiet murmur. He saw them quickly come to order, chivvied by the ferocious whispers of the non-commissioned officers.
Their ‘source’ was a thin boy of Malay and Chinese parentage. He spoke pidgin in an excited, high-pitched squeak, making up for his lack of vocabulary with sweeping hand gestures. A slow and well-meaning lad, he appeared to be without a family or, at least, one that bothered about him. The boy was standing to one side, looking curiously at the goings-on. He had come to the camp two days ago. It was a strange thing, the major thought, that while others of his age were playing rugby in England, this scruffy young boy was risking his life for half a bag of rice. They had kept him with them so that he could serve as a guide for the operation. Ashton’s sergeant, Durga Bahadur, or Duggy as he liked to call him, had his misgivings about the plan, one of the reasons being his conviction that their ‘source’ was a halfwit. But being the good sergeant that he was, he had gone along with the company commander’s orders. He had not, however, let the boy out of his sight for the two days that went into the planning and preparation of their mission for fear that the operation might be compromised. It was not unlikely either that the other side had got to him as well. Loyalty and reliability were luxuries one did not take for granted when dealing with ‘sources’ who held information.
They left the camp, following the trail which skirted the village and led to the village of Khemsa. The neighbouring village was ‘white’, which meant its people were loyal to them, but then again, you never really knew. For the past week, Ashton had led his men along this track at the same time every alternate day, the purpose being to form a cordon around the villages further down and follow it up with a search at daybreak. To anyone observing them, the manoeuvres would have looked routine. Even the local dogs had got used to the movement of soldiers and didn’t bark as they passed the village. It was after they crossed the first village that their party had broken up into two groups, one heading along the trail for Khemsa and the other, smaller one, consisting of about twenty men, moving into the jungle. Ashton had been amused at the bickering that had broken out among the men as they were divided into the two groups – one assigned to cover the target area, the other entrusted with carrying out their deception plan; everyone wanted to be a part of the action. He felt the indescribable pride of leading good soldiers. There was, he knew, no greater feeling in the world.
Ashton’s party was light; they carried just a platoon mortar and three light automatics as they moved swiftly, their khukris out, dodging branches that blocked their way and slicing their way through the undergrowth. Knowing that he had a good scout, Ashton was confident of the way and did not feel the need to look at his compass.
They covered about six miles before they began climbing. They chose a difficult route through a re-entrant, so they could be shielded from view. With daybreak, they could clearly see where the sun’s rays penetrated the thick canopy of trees. They reached the top of the hill, which was shaped like an elongated sausage, and worked their way along its spine, fifty metres below the crest. At around 3 p.m., they reached the edge of the feature and halted, the men fanning out and the scouts moving cautiously ahead. The scouts came back after some time.
‘The camp is visible below,’ Ashton’s corporal reported. ‘There seem to be fifteen or twenty of them. Not a very disciplined group; they have a fire going, with much smoke rising from it. And clothes have been hung out to dry.’
‘Any lookouts?’ his company commander asked.
‘Not that we can tell. There was one on this hill – we could make out from the cinders – but not for two weeks, at least.’ The corporal paused, looking at the sergeant. ‘And sahib… ’
‘Yes?’
‘There are some women and children too,’ he said, hastily adding, ‘not many.’
Major Ashton made no comment. Instead, he quickly called out the names of the men he wanted with him. They followed the scouts, crawling through the rocks and dirt till they reached the edge of the hill, from where they could see the insurgent camp. It lay almost 150 metres directly below them across a small rivulet which skirted it. The camp had at one time been a cluster of storehouses for a rubber plantation, which now lay abandoned because of the insurgency. It consisted of three long, barrack-like structures with thatched roofs; stakes driven into the ground marked its perimeter. Ashton allowed the men to take a good look. Then they all drew back and made a quick plan.
The men prepared their beds after washing down a pre-cooked meal with the bitter, plastic-tasting sterilized water from their bottles. Ashton lay with his head on his rucksack and dozed, waking up in the middle of the night and longing for a cigarette; his eyes stung where the sweat from his brow had washed down some insect repellant. There was a movement. Ashton made out the restless form of Duggy next to him. So the sergeant too had trouble sleeping, he thought.
‘Huzoor…’
‘Yes?’
‘There is no other way; it has to be this or nothing.’
Ashton thought about Yorkshire and the smiling, windblown pink cheeks of the children cycling over the cobblestones.
‘Yes, I understand,’ he said ‘Thank you, Sergeant. Now I think you had better get some sleep.’
They were in their positions by 5 a.m., moving silently from the loose outer-cordon positions to the fire positions they had selected for their final cordon. The insurgents had a two-man observation post overlooking the track beyond the rickety old suspension bridge over the rivulet. Two men had been posted on their side of the bridge. Both had been withdrawn, as Ashton and his men had guessed they would be, at 4 a.m., without being replaced. Ashton received a whispered netting call on the radio from all the stops and the fire base. They were waiting for his signal.
His own position overlooked the rivulet at the point where it was shallow – the direction in which he expected the insurgents to make their escape. Unlike the previous day, the sun was partially obscured by clouds. Ashton would have preferred a little more light to accurately pick up the fall of shot, but he couldn’t afford to wait; it was late enough and the camp would soon begin to stir. He whispered his signal into the receiver which Kamal Bahadur, who was also his radio operator, held up to his mouth.
There was a muffled thump from the hill feature they had been on, where he had sited the mortar position. The bomb arced, invisible in the sky, and landed plumb in the centre of the camp, throwing up a small black cloud of smoke; the sharp crack followed a fraction later. Ashton muttered a silent prayer of thanks. They didn’t have the luxury of ranging; the insurgents would be out and away if they weren’t on target. More worrying was the fact that his stops were too close. He had sited them at the minimum safety distance, but could make out they had moved in much too close, each stop trying to improve their chances of killing. The bombs came crashing down in rapid succession and he was glad to see that the fourth round was white phosphorus; the pungent white smoke, mixed with high explosive, would add to the confusion. The mortar NCO had remembered his orders.
