The Boy From Pataliputra

by Rahul Mitra

  “Come on, you must get your sleep, we’ll see this tomorrow.”

  It was his elder brother Sudeepa. Meekly, Partha followed as Sudeepa led him home. There was no fighting that night, but Partha’s eyes still could not find rest for the longest time.

  ***

  He was woken up early the next morning by his brother.

  “What happened? Have they attacked?” he asked groggily. A huge kettledrum was beating steadily in the background.

  “Not yet, but its coming. Every able-bodied man has to be at the walls. How can you sleep through this?” asked Sudeepa with an incredulous face. Then he continued, “A messenger has already come and gone, asking us to surrender, but King Ashvakasena has refused.”

  Partha staggered about, half in sleep as he searched for his weapons and then followed his brother into the streets. Outside, the scene was chaotic. The lanes were jammed with people. Women and children crowded into the temples and monasteries, where special prayers had been organized, while parties of soldiers pushed through the crowds, rushing to the walls.

  “Out of the way, out of the way,” shouted a captain as a group of horsemen waded into the crowd, scattering people right and left before them.

  Arriving at the outer walls of the fort, they saw the huge mounds of earth that had recently been dug up to shore up the defences at a number of places. Massive pyramids of stones, stacks of lumber, and piles of javelins lay about in haphazard fashion. Men were rushing up and down from the bastions, and the ground underneath, had been churned up by the constant tramping of men and horses.

  “You—Sudeepa, where the hell have you been?” boomed a voice from the ramparts. It was their chieftain, Subuddhi.

  “I was just bringing my brother along, Shreeman. We got . . .” Sudeepa tried to explain.

  Subuddhi wasn’t waiting for his answer.

  “All right, all right,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hands. “Send him to join those men; we need stones up here.”

  Partha joined a group of men transporting a pile of assorted rocks up to the ramparts. These would be hurled down at the enemy when the inevitable attack came. Grunting and groaning, with his back straining against the weight, the teenager worked at it all morning, making multiple trips up and down the wall, till a halt was called. Then, he ran up to join his brother, who was chatting with a number of soldiers near the massive doors of the fort. Rumours were flying thick and fast. Some said a million foreigners had come to the valley, while others said that the enemy did not have enough food to support everyone. If they could hold out long enough, the enemy would be forced to raise the siege.

  “Come,” said Sudeepa, pointing with his fingers, “I’ve been assigned up there.”

  Partha followed his brother up to the wall, where an awe-inspiring sight greeted his eyes. The entire valley was dotted with tents. Four huge platforms built of wood and covered in hide, towered over the camp as Greeks, Persians, Bactrians, and Scythians scurried about like so many ants. The sheer scale of the attack they were now facing, finally hit him.

  Sudeepa, who was looking out over his brother’s head, felt the breath catch in his throat.

  “This is bound to end badly,” he muttered under his breath.

  Partha on the other hand, was terribly excited. It was the very first battle of his life.

  ***

  Up on the ramparts, archers were constantly shooting at the Greeks, who, under the cover of shields had advanced quite close to the walls and were digging ditches. These were to be used as sallying points for the final attack.

  Towards late afternoon, there were signs of increased activity all over the Greek lines. The ditches started filling up. Officers on horseback rode up and down, shouting commands.

  In the Indian camp, kettledrums started roaring like thunder. Men rushed to the ramparts. Every available gap in the citadel bristled with archers. Cauldrons full of hot oil were brought up. Each party knew that an attack was about to come, and many anxious moments of waiting followed.

  Finally, with yells and hurrahs all up and down the line, swarms of Bactrians, Persians, and Greeks poured out of the ditches. Terrifying battlecries, screams, and pleas for mercy filled the air, arrows rained down, and the field was enveloped in the din and clamour of battle. In the front rows of the attack, were captives from the surrounding villages, who were being made to carry ladders and extra shields for the Greeks. Terrified and defenceless, these wretched people cried out for mercy to the men on the walls. But mercy was not to be had today. Spears cut into them from behind and arrows rained down from above. They screamed, fell, got up, dashed again towards the walls and died in droves.

  Every man caught up in that mad frenzy had only one thought on his mind—to get to the safety of the walls. Private Philotas too, was caught up in this mad rush. Shouting and screaming with a throat-burning intensity, blind with terror, he rushed along with his shield held up overhead, hardly able to see anything in front as he ran, pushed, and stumbled towards the walls. Deadly sharp-tipped arrows whizzed about; they thudded into his shRunning against this murderous barrage, Philotas stumbled on a body and fell to his knees. He was immediately knocked flat by the man coming up behind him. People were running into him from behind, pushing him down and trampling over him, but Philotas somehow struggled to his feet and ran on.

  Miraculously, he made it to the walls without a scratch. Nearby, a scaling ladder had just been thrown up. A Persian officer stood next to it, and was shouting out commands that got lost in the all-pervading din. Bellowing out curses and orders, the officer took Philotas by the arm and literally pushed him onto the ladder. With no time to think, Philotas clambered up. Only then did he realize that he had lost his shield in the confusion of his fall.

  Up on the ramparts, Sudeepa was firing away into the dense crowds rushing onto the walls. Sweat dripped off his body, his jaw was clenched tight and his hands shook compulsively. But it did not matter, for the tightly packed mass of bodies made it almost impossible to miss. He was hitting someone every time he fired. Yet, for every one person he hit, five more soldiers rushed forward to fill in the gap. They just kept coming and coming, like an army of ants.

  Scaling ladders had come up all along the walls and one had come up very close to where he was standing.

  “There. There. Get those ones!” he shouted to his brother, pointing towards it.

  Then, closing one eye, he pulled back on the bowstring, taking aim at the first man up the ladder. Meawhile, Partha, who had been standingholding a huge cauldron of hot oil, now sprang into action. He and his partner, another young boy of his age, staggered towards Sudeepa, balancing the enormous pot between them, by means of a sturdy wooden stick.

  “Out of the way, out of the way!” they shouted as they heaved their burden through the throngs of soldiers.

  Down below on the ladder, Private Philotas cowered behind the body of the man climbing above him, but here too, the fates had other things in store for him. The man on top was struck by a rock and he fell on Philotas, who, in turn was dislodged from the ladder, falling twelve feet down to the ground.

  He landed on his side. His shoulder crumpled in and the wind was knocked out of his ribs. For a moment, he lay there stunned, as arrows thudded into the ground all around. Luckily for him, the archers on the battlements were concentrating on the men climbing the ladders. Fortune had saved him once again, for just at that moment, someone threw boiling oil on the soldiers who were still on the ladder. Shrieking in agony, a whole bunch of soldiers dropped like flies and lay writhing in torment on the ground below.

  The archers on the walls above, now started aiming at these fallen men. Bloodcurdling screams of pain rent the air, as arrows rained upon them. One of them had gotten up and was flailing about blindly. He let out a non-stop howl of pain that turned men’s hearts to mush and sucked away the courage of everyone around. An arrow thudded into his neck, but instead of killing him, it turned his wail into a hideous, gurgling plea for mercy. A cr
imson stream of blood spurted out, even as he continued flopping about like a fish out of water. Finally, he was put out of his agony by another merciful arrow.

  Meanwhile, the Indians had toppled the ladder and a number of soldiers were trying to raise it once again. Philotas, taking advantage of this distraction, clambered to his feet and running to the wall, he pressed himself against it. This was the safest spot available. Cowering in terror, he now realized that there was another person taking shelter there—a Bactrian archer.

  “Where’s your bow?” he shouted at the Bactrian.

  “Chi?” said the Bactrian.

  “Can you understand Greek?” Philotas shouted back.

  The Bactrian let lose a volley of gibberish. Philotas could not understand a single word. He was stuck there, spread-eagled against the walls of the fort, with a terrified Bactrian for company till night eventually fell, allowing them to sneak back to camp.

  Meanwhile, up on the ramparts, King Ashvakasena was studying the battlefield. Exposed, dithering, and with piles of bodies building up in front of the walls, the attack was losing momentum. This was the instant that could decide everything. He turned towards the officers surrounding him, and motioned towards the cavalry assembled at one of the small sally gates below.

  Within minutes, the gates were thrown open and a force of three hundred horses charged out of the fort. They fell upon the attacking infantry and drove them back. It was the final straw and the attack broke as the Greeks threw down their weapons and ran back to camp. A terrible slaughter ensued, as the Indian cavalry cut them to pieces.

  ***

  The first attack had been beaten back, and so were the second, the third, and the fourth, as well as all the attacks that came after them. For nine days and nights, this small fortress held out against the innumerable hordes of Alexander.

  The siege was bloody, the defence stubborn, and the attacks relentless. On the third day, Alexander himself was wounded when an arrow struck him in the ankle. On the fifth day, King Ashvakasena was killed, shot through the heart by one of the gigantic arrows issuing from the siege engines. His mother, Kripi, now took up command of the forces and the battle raged on. As more and more of the defenders fell, women took up arms, standing shoulder to shoulder with the men to defend the walls.

  Men fell in droves before the walls of the city. Realizing the futility of this bloodletting, Alexander again offered terms to the tribesmen. Dispirited by the loss of their chief and advised by Kripi, they settled for a truce. The Asvakayanas handed over the fort to the Greeks, and started making their way out of the city, for Alexander had sworn to allow them safe passage.

  But it was not to be. Having gained possession of the city through his fraudulent oaths, Alexander set out after the tribesmen and pounced upon them, while they were on the road along with their wives and children. Every last one of them was put to the sword, but the great conqueror’s thirst for revenge was not quenched. Even the buildings of Maskavati were burnt and razed to the ground and the city was reduced to rubble.

  Out of the entire population of Maskavati, it was said that only one person survived, a young boy called Partha. Alexander ‘The Great’ had arrived in India, and rivers of blood were about to flow.

  ield and fell to the earth all around him.

  Enemy at the Gates

  It was at the start of winter that the first rumours about the invaders started filtering into Takshashila. Soon, bands of refugees started showing up at the borders of Gandhara. They brought with themselves tales of atrocities, of unspeakable barbarity, and of a vast, bloodthirsty horde that destroyed everything in its path. The cities of Maskavati, Arigaon, Pushkalavati and Aranya Pura had been sacked and burnt to the ground. Men, women, and children had been murdered in cold blood in Maskavati and Aranya Pura, after surrendering against oaths of amnesty.

  As the barbarian army swept through the border kingdoms of Bharatvarsha, this trickle of refugees soon turned into a flood. Cartloads of people and bundles joined together in long, endless columns that poured across the borders of Gandhara, crossing over the Indus in wave after wave. These dishevelled and terrified refugees now made their way towards the capital, Takshashila, bringing chaos and upheaval in their wake.

  Outside the gates of the city, the refugees clamoured to be let into the safety of the citadel but Maharaj Ambhi, seeing the potential for disorder, refused. Bitter and desperate, the refugees now squatted on every available piece of land. Almost overnight, an entire city sprang up on the other side of the Tamra Nala.

  The condition of their camp was pitiful. People lived in the open, sitting or sleeping on their bundles and boxes. Impossible houses constructed with bits and pieces of scavenged bricks and wood, and cloth sprang up everywhere. An all-pervading stink hung in the air. Women washed vessels in the stream, naked children ran about everywhere, and men with nothing to do, and no prospects, hung about in groups, discussing and arguing among themselves, trying to come to grips with a world that had changed overnight. Fistfights broke out frequently and the people’s mood fluctuated alternately between rage and apathy.

  The miserable, helpless state of the refugees caused outrage in Takshashila. Long united by bonds of kinship, language, and culture, the sympathy of the common people lay firmly with the hapless Kambojas, Pakhtas, and Kats. The monks of the vihara instructed their followers to donate food and clothing to the refugees. Students and teachers at the University, many of them Pakhtas or Kambojas themselves, took the lead in organizing relief efforts. One of the most senior teachers in Takshashila, Acharya Pundarikaksha petitioned the King to grant land to the refugees and settle them in Gandhara.

  Meanwhile, wild rumours about the coming of the storm swept through the city. Public opinion had been shocked at the destructiveness and cruelty of the Yavana army and now, as this danger knocked on the very doors of Gandhara, the rumours grew ever more urgent and fantastic. Many believed that the Yavanas were not men, but Rakshasas. They were said to eat human flesh and gain supernatural powers at night. Such tales spread by word of mouth in the markets, the gurukuls, the taverns, and even in the corridors of power.

  Within the cosmopolitan student body of Takshashila, feelings were running particularly high. One faction of students agitated to send a force from Gandhara for the assistance of the beleaguered border kingdoms. Another influential group led by Acharya Chanakya had sent emissaries all across India, urging the different ganarajyas to unite in the face of this threat. The Yavanas had brought with them, the winds of change, and a period of trouble loomed on the horizon.

  As often happens in our part of the world, the rulers slept blissfully through all this, while the population simmered and the enemy advanced steadily towards Takshashila. Winter turned into spring and the enemy was at the gates. Things were bound to come to a boil.

  Utthisht Bharata

  It was late afternoon and the sun hung low in the western sky like an angry ball of fire. With the last of its remaining strength, it beat down its bloodthirsty, scorching rays on the backs of the five students who sat in a semi-circle on the ground. They were at Pandi’s gurukul on the wide, flat stretch of ground adjoining the Takshashila stupa. A duel was in progress.

  The three students instinctively bunched together as they advanced; their bodies taut and the khadgas gripped tight in their outstretched arms. Aditya bounded up to meet them, stopping just outside the range of their swords. He started swinging his khadga in an arc ahead of him; creating a perimeter of slashing steel around himself. There was an infinitesimal pause as the opponents sized each other up. Ever so slowly, the three attackers started detaching themselves from each other, spreading outwards and away, in a bid to encircle their target.

  A macabre dance was set in motion. His opponents were like a snake that had coiled itself in a semi-circle around him. Each time the head of the snake got close, Aditya would charge furiously towards it, driving it back under the weight of his onslaught. Even as the head backpedalled rapidly, the tail woul
d charge towards him from behind. Aditya would then disengage from the head and charge the other end of the semi-circle, driving it back even as the head recovered and tried to rush him again. They were stuck in a stalemate. The three were looking for an opening, but so far, Aditya had managed to keep them at a distance with the speed and force of his charges.

  The attackers had every reason to be circumspect, for they were practicing with real swords and Aditya was the best sword fighter in the class. Sooner or later, one of the parties would have to advance within range of the other’s sword and the onus was on the attackers, since they were more in number. Meanwhile, Aditya kept just out of their reach, even as he moved up and down the line, first threatening one and then another, preventing them from breaking out and encircling him.

  Pandi stood on one side, his head cocked. The students on the ground watched in absolute silence, waiting for one of the players to roll the dice. Unlike the sword fighting scenes in the local Natya parties, in real life, most khadga fights are short and brutish. All it takes to end a fight is one false stroke followed by one true one. At most, there might be an additional stroke required, to end the job like a professional. The spectators knew this and they kept their eyes peeled, waiting for the first move that would set everything off. One of them poked the other in the ribs.

  “Wanna bet?”

  “On whom?” the other one whispered back hoarsely, his eyeballs dancing in tandem with the fight.

  A grim dance was playing out in the middle, a lioness holding off a pack of jackals.

  “I’ll bet on Aditya.”

  “No . . .” said the other.

  Just then, one of the attackers lost patience. As Aditya charged at the student on his right, the attacker on his extreme left closed in with intent. Aditya immediately disengaged, but instead of charging straight left, he backpedalled at an angle, moving slightly backwards even as he moved left. His attacker now made a fatal mistake. By moving left at an angle, Aditya had moved out of his range, and when his khadga shot forward, it sliced through the air just inches away from Aditya’s stomach.