“He views from above,” said the old woman, “with a few of his men. See.” She raised a finger, pointing at a figure in one of the high stalls. And yes, there sat Bhumika’s husband, calmly observing as the champions of Ahiranyi independence were executed. She could see Vikram’s advisors around him, and Santosh at his side, in a position of honor the man did not deserve.
She had learned more of Santosh’s nature, from the girl who had served wine on the night Vikram had entertained Santosh and a Saketan prince; from the older woman who swept all the guest rooms, including Santosh’s own. They had spoken to Khalida, who had spoken to Bhumika, and confirmed that her low opinion of Santosh was entirely correct. He was not a clever man, but he was a driven and ambitious one. He would require watching.
The mahout led the elephant away. There was a pause. Bhumika fanned her face with a hand and wondered at the delay. The execution groundskeepers ran out in groups, lugging straw and firewood with them, and giant buckets of a viscous liquid that they poured over the wood as it was laid. Bhumika leaned forward to get a closer look, but she could not be sure what it was. Oil? Ghee?
There was another roar, as more rebels were finally brought out. These figures were not hooded, their faces bare to the crowd. From their short stature, their figures, Bhumika knew they were the women. Maidservants.
Someone had dressed them up like brides.
A ripple of noise ran through the crowd, an uneasy shift that moved the press of bodies like a physical tremor through muscle.
Bhumika’s whole body revolted in an instant, a wave of revulsion sweeping through her. She pressed her own hand to her mouth to hold back the nausea.
She could not afford to be sick or horrified. Later, perhaps. But not here, and not now.So Emperor Chandra intends to purify our women, she thought, with forced detachment.How generous of him, to murder us thus.
The women were forced to climb the pyre. Their hands were tied.
One of the men brought forward a torch.
Bhumika did not look away from them. It was important to remind herself of what was at stake: how easily the tensions in Ahiranya could bubble over, how delicate the balance she had struggled to cultivate alongside her husband truly was.
The air smelled of rancid smoke. The crowd was screaming.
She forced herself to think.
Her husband would not return home for some time. His advisors were with him. Lord Iskar’s haveli was nearest. They would go there. There would be drinking, and rounds of catur, and in the midst of all the gambling and games of strategy and dice would be the business of politics. She knew the way of it, for men like them.
And Lord Iskar, of course, would be keen to cultivate Lord Santosh’s favor, now that it was eminently clear that Ahiranya would be the place where Emperor Chandra tested his particular brand of faith, and where Santosh would, perhaps, soon be regent.
So she waited, hands clasped in front of her as the arena emptied. She waited and breathed with shallow, steady care, mindful of her roiling stomach and the sick, cooked smell of the smoke. She waited until she heard the creak of the stairs, and the old woman said, “My lady.”
Then she turned and watched as the mahout touched his hands together in a gesture of respect. He still smelled of blood and the beast. He raised his eyes.
“Lady Bhumika,” he said.
“How are your girls, Rishi?”
“Well, well. I have a son, now.”
“My congratulations. And your wife’s health?”
“Well. She’s well.”
“Thank you for indulging in pleasantries with me,” Bhumika said. She gave him a smile. She saw some of the tension in his shoulders ease. “And thank you for coming to speak with me.”
The mahout inclined his head again. “I owe your family a debt, my lady. I don’t forget.”
“And I am grateful for your loyalty,” she replied sincerely. “Now please. Tell me. They were tortured?”
“Yes.”
“The women too?”
He nodded silently.
“What did they say?”
“They admitted they have support from Ahiranyi highborn. Funding for dissemination of their poetry.”
