Fear and confusion will penetrate their ranks.
Agni’s flames will burn them,
Indra’s thunder-club shall crush them,
Ghostly figures with bloody faces
And black teeth will frighten them.
Their warriors, on chariots and on horses
And elephants, their foot soldiers too,
Will fall in battle. Vultures and eagles,
Spreading their beautiful wings over the field,
Will feed themselves on their flesh.
Their wives, waiting in their homes
Will, without adornment, with tangled hairs,
Beat themselves on their breasts, lament their sons,
Their husbands and their brothers …’
And after the incantation, followed the magic spell that was always chanted:
‘Downward blows the wind,
Downward shine Surya’s rays
Downward seeps softly the milk …
Downward sinks their soldiery!’
‘Strengthen thou, Indra, Agni, godly warriors,
By the sacrifice we offer you.’
At the very moment when the priests were about to offer the sacrifices to the fire, a troop of Bhils came charging along from a jungle road in a furious gallop, to take away from the Kalingans their trust in the gods. Sacrificial altars, fire, offerings, everything was broken down and destroyed, whereupon the riders sped away as swiftly as they had appeared. The warriors on the northern side of the river looked on in rage but it was too late to chase the Bhils: the war drums boomed like heavy drumming thunder, trumpets blared, conches screamed.
Masses of riders rode up the road to the battlefield and lined themselves up in long rows; then followed the elephants; they would provide cover for them at the rear. Behind them the foot soldiers arranged themselves and on the flanks were arrayed hundreds of war chariots.
Ashoka once more galloped through the camp, holding aloft his shining chakra, to inspire the warriors for the last time with courage and perseverance.
The answer was a thundering chorus: ‘Shiva! Shiva! Shiva!’
In the very rear of the field the Vaishyas were at work, bringing in their crops. The Emperor thought immediately of espionage and reined his horse in.
‘You are working on your land, yonder the war drums resound, Vaishya!’
‘Sire, the Brahmin performs offerings, the Kshatriya protects the country, the Vaishya works on the fields for food. So, what do I have to do with those fighters from yonder! May the gods be with our righteous Maharajah! It is not my affair!’ And the peasant went on with his work.
Along four roads an infinite number of the various squads of Ashoka’s army poured into the field in a short time – foot soldiers, elephants in the middle roads, riders and chariots on either sides. Each had its own road, moving as fast and as sure, as if it was a game on the exercise fields at Pataliputra. The reserve troops remained at the entry roads and on the field behind, to move up if an order was issued. The Maharajah had taken the highest point of the battlefield, astride on his horse, surrounded by his massive guard elephants and a hundred fast riders for the carrying of messages. Further on, he had made room for the ascetic. Not a word had been exchanged between them. The first signal was given from the other side and Ashoka saw how a tremendous force of riders broke free from the lines of the enemy camp and in a wild rush came up in his direction. It was Prince Sarata, who hoped in a daring surprise attack on the Maharajah, to bring about a decisive move. The wild roaring of the warriors, filled with hate and revenge, reached the Maharajah, who gave his orders, unperturbed.
He arranged a huge array of war elephants to oppose the riders and had strong units of chariots placed on the flanks, so that the enemy was attacked from three sides. The collision was horrendous. Ashoka’s elephants, used to the loud tumult, went on undisturbed and attempted to force the enemy to retreat but the war chariots forced them into a fight. Prince Sarata saw the danger and sent ever more riders into the field until the losses forced him to call in the elephants as well. Ashoka sent some war machines in his direction that made such a deafening noise that Sarata’s elephants, which were poorly trained and unused to noise, became deranged, so that their mahouts had their hands full. Then the Emperor ordered the infantry to move forward in two phalanxes, which worked themselves in between the fighting groups and brought with their swords heavy losses to the enemy.
Prince Sarata discovered once more an opening where he wanted to squeeze himself through with a small group of riders, in order to reach the Maharajah. Sela saw the intention and sent upon them a body of chariots, each with four horses.
‘Kill them! First, the rider in front!’ Spears and arrows pierced the Prince who was flung down from his horse; a fighter in one of the chariots gave him the final blow with his long broadsword. The fight had now spread out from the centre onto the entire area of the field. Nowhere did the Kalingans give way although the number that fell was enormous. In spite of the death of their commander-in-chief their attacks remained fierce and fearless.
Where the Maharajah sensed that his troops had weakened, he had new reserves moved up, who came storming out of the four roads in strict discipline, executing every order, correctly and rapidly, while the next ones moved up again. For the Kalingans it proved to be increasingly difficult to bring up the necessary brigades over the one road to the field. In the engagement of the various groups of battling soldiers, the Maharajah continuously brought well-trained elephant-units into action but when the enemy too brought in its war elephants, he sent in the infernal machines of war, and archers who beset the mahouts of the enemy. Only then Ashoka’s elephants followed along with the war chariots, which transported mahouts, who could catch the animals that were out of control and roaming around. Many of them were captured and led behind the lines. Messengers continuously rode up and down between the Maharajah and the fighting forces to report about the state of affairs and Ashoka directed his fresh troops accordingly, wherever his warriors were being outnumbered or a decision could not yet be made. For the Kalingans the most dangerous warriors were Ashoka’s archers and chakra throwers, warriors who had been practising for years. They placed their tremendous bows upright with one end to the ground, braced by one foot, spanned the string and drew on the heavy iron-tipped arrows that no one could avert. No shield could give protection, no rings of armour or breast-plates were able to deflect their power. The battle became more bloody; hate provoked hate, revenge called for revenge. Neither man nor animal was spared any longer because no one gave in. The savage offensive power of the Kalingans, their disregard for death, their rage, gave the fighters of Ashoka plenty of work, but provoked in them too the animal passions, madness broke loose. And from his elevated point of view the Maharajah followed hour after hour the battle, quietly, with calm thoughts, single-pointedly aiming at one goal: the destruction of the Kalingans. Where warriors were needed he did not conserve them, where the legion was too small and he expected a heavy battle, he sent his inexhaustible reserve-troops, sometimes as a phalanx, then as a squad or garudas4, as the situation called for. He calmly responded to each message of danger for his warriors by sending in fresh forces which were always ready to move up at the entrance of each of the four roads.
‘Sela’s chariots are in danger, Sire. They are fighting an overwhelming number of Kalingans. The enemy closed off everything with elephants in impenetrable ranks.’
‘Radhagupta, you take my place. You, Dala! Five units of elephants! You, five squads of chariots! You, three phalanxes of sword-fighters! You, ten bands of foot soldiers and one of sinew-cutters! You, five units of riders! These will go in front!’
The messengers sped away. Ashoka’s elephant signal was sounded and fifty of the heaviest animals arranged themselves in perfect ranks, heavily protected with iron, the tusks ringed with dangerous barbs, each manned with four armoured archers and chakra-throwers and two mahouts. A new signal was given; the horses shot forward, the ma
chinery followed, then the elephants, then the wild rattling chariot group and lastly the infantry soldiers. Swift and disciplined, the armed force approached the middle of the field, where Sela and his men fought a battle of despair. The din was deafening, screaming and howling fighters, trumpeting elephants, blaring war trumpets and conches, horns, beating drums, rattling chariots with their four horses, all in raging speed throwing themselves into the battle, screaming charioteers, furiously beleaguering swordsmen, cursing, and the moaning wounded … one goal: to destroy the enemy, who they did not know.
Arrows, spears, chakras, flew through the air from all sides; swords swung over the warriors, war-axes, knives, spears. Nothing held back. And the swelling, wild victory-cry of the Kalingans drowned out everything. Until Ashoka’s riders approached and unnerved the elephants in the arena, with a concerted attack-and-retreat-strategy. The Emperor directed his elephants with short signals into the ranks of the enemy, broke through the ring, and with new signals, had the animals move up to the front on two sides, and thus made clear a wide passage, through which the chariots, riders and phalanxes, could sweep in. Within a short time the direction of the battle was altered and all of the enemy were brutally killed. Thunderous cries resounded: ‘Shiva! Shiva!’ Sela was saved. Then, the elephants were assailed from all sides. The war-machinery brought many animals, imported from Yakshapura, and hitherto not used to the din of war, to a state of wild panic. They did not heed their mahouts anymore and ran berserk in all directions. Ashoka’s troops shot and threw off first the elephant riders; the desperate animals, without mahouts, became a danger for friend and foe. The sinew-cutters put many animals out of the fight and the felled warriors were killed.
When necessary, Radhagupta, now in Ashoka’s stead, brought in new brigades into the fray in other parts of the field, where the battle raged with the same barbarity, until Ashoka’s troops were in charge everywhere. Now, the Maharajah sent a strong troop of elephants to the only road of the Kalingans and had it barricaded. Those of the enemies who were still alive on the battlefield screamed out their hatred for Ashoka’s warriors, but nothing could save them anymore: they were either killed or imprisoned. The battle continued on the sloping road. Elephants ran forward, war chariots followed and dragged along everything in their downward dash, killing, trampling or shattering all under their wheels. Continuously, Radhagupta’s fresh troops thundered down the road. Ferocious fighting broke out on the fields along the Mahanadi. The Kalingans were in the grip of panic, they knew their case was lost and nothing could be saved anymore. Yet, many of them fought until death since that had been drummed into their minds, they did not expect mercy: they would not have shown it themselves. A few groups tried to save their lives by crossing the bridge of tree trunks. But on the other side, they were attacked by the desert-riders, Bhils or Rajputans on their swift horses, and killed, or driven back over the bridge where Ashoka’s troops awaited them. He, who abhorred one fate as much as the other, threw himself in the stream of the Mahanadi, to drown himself.
More than a hundred thousand of the young and strong enemy littered the battlefields, more than a hundred and fifty thousand awaited their fate as prisoners, and hundreds of thousands in the country missed their breadwinners and protectors. In between the dead bodies, lay the cadavers of an incalculable number of animals, massive bodies of elephants, horses, stretched out, dead, or writhing in the final throes of death.
27
THE QUIET
t was as though the Maharajah only now woke up from the stupor of the war. The senseless carnage was still raging, wherever there were fanatical Kalingans who refused to surrender, but the Emperor wished for a halt. The Kalingans who kept on fighting were overpowered by surprise, either captured, or killed. The thunder of the battle abated, but the moaning and screaming of the wounded, which had earlier been drowned out by the noise of battle, now rose up from all over the battlefield. Elephants that had run amok rushed around, inflamed with rage, trumpeting, trampling viciously both friend and foe, grabbing and tossing anew. Ashoka was horrified to behold the havoc they still caused.
‘Catch the animals, or kill them, and clear a way through the battlefields!’ In spite of their fatigue, the warriors dragged everything to the side.
‘Carry the wounded on chariots to our tents. Tend to them on the fields, friend and foe!’ At last, he directed his elephants that had survived back to the camp. Too aghast for words he went his way, pursued by the moaning, screaming, groaning, cursing or the deliriousness of the wounded from all sides. ‘Water!’ ‘Kill me, kill me!’ ‘Punish the heretic!’
The Maharajah halted, looking at the wretched figures.
‘Sire, the head of the King.’ Ashoka looked at the fine silk scarf adorned with gemstones and pearls that still covered the smirking, severed head.
‘Put it with his body.’ He looked around with infinitely sad glances. Was hell like this? No, surely not this bad! Chopped-off heads, legs, arms, some glittering with rings of gold and silver and precious stones. In between were the killed animals, broken chariots, flags, smeared with blood, countless arrows, swords, axes smashed in half or still holstered around the shoulders of the dead bodies, tridents, clubs with iron heads, spears still driven into pain-contracted bodies. Corpses everywhere. Ye gods! Was mankind insane? Was he insane? What was it all these fools yearned for when they were still alive? And now, gone! That smell of blood and mud … A hell without fire or was he the fire? Or, the extinguisher? Doomsday of the world, without a judge. Or, was he the wretched judge? Or, the executioner? Asandhi, Asandhi!
Surya sank behind the jungle turning away from the battle-scene. A blazing sunset that seemed to mirror the bloody field, quivered in the sky. In the camp, Ashoka had all those who had not taken part in the battle, fall in, and ordered them to light torches, to fill the water jars, to clear paths in the battlefields, and search everywhere for the wounded. Physicians and veterinarians of the army were to decide who could be transported, who anaesthetised, who to release.
‘The elephants have fallen prey to great distress, O, Maharajah, and the mahouts are not in control of them. The animals stamp, trumpet, flail with their trunks and nobody dares to approach them. The horses, too, are hardly able to calm down.’
Ashoka made his way to the elephant camp and whistled. It was as if a shock of joy coursed through the big animals and some of them made their way hastily towards their master. Ashoka caressed them, spoke friendly words to them. And it was as if a feeling of security returned to the distressed animals.
‘So, children, calmly now, to your places. Get some musicians, Jana, play soft music, veena, soft flute, ravanastha.’
Melancholic tunes from the flute sounded sweetly and softly through the camp, accompanied by the silken tones of the veena. Eventually, the animals calmed down and became quiet.
For a long time the Maharajah led his horse over the battlefield behind the torches. His sharp ear recognised every sound. He searched like the others. It was a gruesome trek. Everywhere men were seen roaming around, chariots carrying their load to the tents, to be saved or released. At last came the great silence. And beneath the shining stars, darkness settled below, pitch darkness. They returned to the camp, the Maharajah, too. But one more time he turned towards the battlefield.
‘Am I indeed Shiva, Lord of death?’ Suddenly he saw the ascetic, still sitting where he had ordered him to be put down in the morning. He walked up to him.
‘Well, venerable penitent?’
The penitent stood up, fell on his knees and bowed his head to the ground.
‘Sire, you are a great army commander! The gods have blessed you!’
‘Blessed, you say, penitent? Can this be a blessing? Cursed is the war, you venerable fool!’
Ashoka ordered rest to be taken and withdrew to his tent. All seemed to sleep except the physicians and attendants in the tents of the wounded, and the guards. O, that groaning from the distance.
In the middle of the night Ashoka
woke up from his sleep by a dream: He was roaming around on the battlefield in twilight, alone. No, Asandhi walked behind him, as she wanted to tie a delicate-blue scarf around his head but just before his eyes the delicate material tore asunder all the time. The head of the King of the Kalingas was lying in the mud uttering a long-drawn-out crying, whining sound: ‘Give me my body, I want to speak!’ A slave approached him: ‘Nowhere to be found, O, Raja!’
‘Then give me my legs!’ A slave brought the two legs, clad with beautiful rings and gemstones and placed them under his head. The Raja wailed louder, whimpering, as if it came from afar. ‘Dance!’ And the legs moved and danced, and the gemstones and rings rattled, and the grinning head laughed. Four beautiful slaves came floating near with chamaras1 and wanted to fan him. But the Raja was too small and suddenly, the legs grew tall, pale, and the rings grew bigger and sounded like heavy gongs. ‘Dance!’ A high-pitched shrill cry going on for a long time, and everywhere the defeated and the wounded raised themselves up. Endless rows of them, and all danced, and the Raja cried with a hoarse, rasping sound. Horses, elephants, donkeys, draught-oxen, floundered up from the red mud and they danced. ‘The dance of Shiva!’ the Raja screamed, the bedlam grew, chopped-offarms and legs rose up, fought in chaos. But the Kshatriyas gave way to them nervously, because they were of a lower varna. They were scolded. There was a hoarse barking. The Raja approached Ashoka, a head with long pale legs, white with spots. ‘Leper!’ bellowed the crowd with one voice, and a howling and barking cry from the jungle answered: ‘Leper!’ Then, Ashoka took up his chakra and threw. There was blood. The legs fell, full length, rattling to the ground, the head in the mud, and all dancers, men and animals, fell down too, stiff, upon and through each other. Silence. Only the Raja wept in the dark night …uhuhuhuhuhu … hoarsely, almost inaudibly. Then there neared, twenty-four. Ashoka wanted to grab his chakras but they were nowhere around him. Terrified, he fled into the dark, pursued by the whining of the Raja and the dead ones.
Ashoka the Great Page 69