She rapped the side of the palanquin—three raps, an easy way to alert the bearers to slow their pace. A moment later, she saw a figure exit one of the dwellings—an ancient woman with thick white hair piled upon her head in a neat, knotted bun, dressed in a plain gray sari with a brown shawl thrown loosely around her shoulders. The woman bowed her head. Waited.
Bhumika’s palanquin bearers lowered her to the ground. Bhumika alighted, ignoring the twinges of her body as she bent and stood, her spine and hips burdened with the uneasy ache of the child in her belly. She thanked the servant who offered her an arm, taking it gratefully so that she could rise to her feet with some modicum of dignity.
“Are you sure this is best?” Her servant was frowning.
“Yes,” Bhumika said. “Entirely.”
She had not cultivated servants and followers who obeyed without question. But sometimes she tired of all the hesitation, the concern. It had grown so much worse since… well.
She touched her fingertips to her stomach, then tucked them away once more beneath her shawl. The old woman nodded at her in greeting.
“It’s begun,” said the woman. “We can watch from the east.”
She guided Bhumika and her servant to a staircase that led to a tower overlooking the execution grounds. Within the walls was a macabre theater of death. There was a watching crowd—a thick throng of men standing shoulder to shoulder, with the wealthiest watchers seated above them, in high stalls—and soldiers stationed in the opposing watchtowers, ready with arrows.
At the center of the grounds were the elephants. Parijati war elephants were enormous, heavy-tusked, and small-eyed. Bhumika had never liked elephants, and these were blinkered and whip-flayed, their tusks already wet with gore. One unfortunate scribe—recognizable by his tonsured head—was being forced down to a plinth of rock, his head pressed to the surface as the mahout led the elephant close and urged it to raise its leg. And lower it.
The noise of the scribe’s screams and the wet splinter of his skull were only partially masked by the yells of the crowd. Bhumika watched and listened and did not wince. In some ways, she was a temple daughter, still.
“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.