First, money. Lots of money. A small fortune, by their standards.
Second, the magic name of the Empress Shakuntala. Even here, in the remote coastal forest, the word had spread.
Andhra lived, still. Still, the Satavahana dynasty survived.
For the woodcutter, Andhra was a misty, even semi-mythical notion. The Satavahanas, a name of legend rather than real life. Like most of India's poor, the woodcutter did not consider politics part of his daily existence. Certainly not imperial politics.
Yet-
The new Malwa rulers were beasts. Cruel and rapacious. Everyone knew it.
In truth, the woodcutter himself had no experience with the Malwa. Preoccupied with subjugating the Deccan, the Malwa had not bothered to send forces to the coast, except for seizing the port of Suppara. Isolated by the Western Ghats, the sea-lying forests were of little interest to the Malwa.
But the coast-dwellers were Maratha, and the tales had spread. Tales of Malwa savagery. Tales of Malwa greed and plunder. And, growing ever more legendary with the passing of time, tales of the serene and kindly rule of the Satavahanas.
In actual fact, the woodcutter-for that matter, the oldest great-grandfather of his village-had no personal memory of the methods of Satavahana sovereignity. The Satavahana dynasty had left the poor folk of the coast to their own devices. Which was exactly the way those fishermen and woodcutters liked their rulers. Far off, and absent-minded. Heard of, but never seen.
So, after much hesitation and haggling, the young woodcutters had agreed to guide Kungas and his men to the fortress. They had not inquired as to Kungas' purpose in seeking that fearsome place.
Their work was done. Now, the woodcutter waited apprehensively. Would he be paid the amount still owing, or-
Kungas was a hard, hard man. Hard as stone, in most ways. But he was in no sense cruel. So he was not even tempted to cheat the woodcutter, or toy with the man's fears. He simply dipped into his purse and handed over three small coins.
A huge smile lit up the woodcutter's face. He turned and waved at his two fellows, showing them the money.
Kungas almost smiled himself, then. The other two woodcutters, still waiting twenty yards up the trail, had obviously been ready to bolt into the forest at the first sign of treachery. Now, they trotted eagerly forward.
"And that's another thing," grumbled Kujulo. "I miss the trusting atmosphere of the Vile One's palace."
The Kushans who were close enough to hear him burst into laughter. Even Kungas grinned.
The noise startled the woodcutters. But then, seeing that the jest was not aimed at them, they relaxed.
Not much, of course. Within seconds, they were scampering down the trail toward their village ten miles away. Being very careful to skirt the five hundred Kushan soldiers coming up that trail.
Kungas strode forward.
"Let's take a look at this mighty fortress, shall we?"
Twenty minutes later, Kujulo was complaining again.
"I don't believe this shit. Those are guards? That's a fortress?"
Kungas and the five other Kushan troop leaders who were gathered alongside him, examining the fortress from a screen of trees, grunted their own contempt.
They were situated southeast of the fortress. The structure was perched on top of a small hill just before them. Two hundred feet tall, that hill, no more. On the other side of the hill, still invisible to the Kushans concealed within the trees, stretched the huge reaches of the ocean.
The forest which blanketed the coast was thinner on the hill. But not much. Some trees-mature, full-grown ones-were growing at the base of the fortress' walls. The branches of one particularly large tree even spread over part of the battlements.
"What kind of idiots don't clear the trees around a fortress?" demanded Kujulo.
"My favorite kind of idiots," replied Kungas softly. "Really, really, really idiotic idiots."
Kungas turned to face his subordinates. For once, he was actually smiling. A real, genuine smile, too. Not the crack in his iron face that usually passed for such.
"What do you think? Can we do it?"
Five sarcastic grunts came in reply. Kujulo pointed a finger at the fortress' entrance. The heavy wooden gates on the fortress' south side were wide open. In front of them, in the shelter provided by a makeshift canopy, eight Malwa soldiers lounged at their ease. Only one of them was even bothering to stand. The rest were sprawled on the ground. Two were apparently sleeping. The other five seemed to be engaged in a game of chance.
"Fuck the scaling equipment," growled Kujulo. "Don't need it. I can get my men within ten yards of those pigs without being seen. A quick rush and we've got the gate."
"How long could you hold it, do you think?" asked Kungas. The Kushan commander studied the trees growing on the hill. "You can get your men up there without being seen. But I don't think I can get more than three other squads close before they're spotted. The rest of us will have to wait here until you start the attack."
He glanced up, gauging the weather. The sky was overcast, but Kungas did not think it would rain anytime soon. Not for several hours, at least. He lowered his gaze and examined the hill itself. Estimating the distance and the condition of the terrain.
"Five hundred feet. Muddy. Steep climb. It'll take us two minutes."
Kujulo sneered.
"Two minutes? You think I can't hold a big gate like that against those sorry shits? With the help of three other squads? For a lousy two minutes?"
Kungas was amused. Kujulo's complaint, this time, was filled with genuine aggrievement.
"Do it, then. Pick whichever other squads you want for immediate support. While you're working your way up the hill, I'll get the rest of the men ready for the main charge."
Kujulo began to rise. Kungas stayed him with a hand on the shoulder.
"Remember, Kujulo. Prisoners. As many as we can get-especially the ones who're manning the cannons. We'll need them later."
Kujulo nodded. An instant later, he was gone.
The other troop leaders did not wait for Kungas' orders to start organizing the small army for an assault. Kungas did not bother to oversee their work. He had hand-picked the officers for this expedition and had complete confidence in them. He simply spent the time studying the fortress. Trying to determine, as best he could, the most likely internal lay-out of the structure.
Despite the slackness of its guards, the fortress itself was impressive. A simple square in design, the walls were thick, well-cut stone, rising thirty feet from the hilltop. The corners were protected by round towers rising another ten feet above the battlements. Two similar round towers anchored the gatehouse guarding the entrance. Along with the usual merlons and embrasures, the battlements also sported machicolations-enclosed stone shelves jutting a few feet out from the walls, with slots through which projectiles or boiling water could be dropped on besiegers below. The open embrasures were further strengthened by the addition of wooden shutters, which could be closed to shield against missiles.
Those battlements would have posed a tremendous challenge-if the walls had been manned by alert guards. As it was, during the minutes that he watched, Kungas saw only four soldiers appear atop the fortress. From their position, it was obvious that they were moving along an allure, or rampart walk, which served as the fighting platform for the battlements. But the Malwa were simply ambling along, preoccupied with their own business. Not one of those soldiers cast so much as a glance at the surrounding forest.
He tried to spot the location of the three siege guns, but couldn't see them. He knew they were there. Days earlier, from fishermen brought aboard Shakuntala's flagship, Kungas had heard good descriptions of the fortress' seaward appearance. There was some kind of heavy stone platform on the fortress' northwest corner. Atop that platform rested the siege guns. From that vantage point, the huge cannons could cover the harbor of Suppara less than half a mile to the north.