The Boy From Pataliputra

by Rahul Mitra

  Seleucus Nicator, the captain of one the Silver Shields units, was riding at the head of the procession, surrounded by his junior officers. His chief lieutenant now asked the question that was playing on everyone’s minds.

  “What do you make of the elephants, Sir?” asked Demetrios

  “Me? What do I think of the elephants? Nothing! I think nothing of them! Our King has a plan for them in mind, and all I do is obey.”

  “But the horses seem terrified. What does the King have in mind?” persisted Demetrios.

  “You shall know when the time comes my friend,” said Seleucus with a mysterious smile. He was always trying to give an impression that he was much closer to Alexander, than he actually was. The real situation though, did not quite match up to his propaganda and Seleucus frowned as he mulled over what exactly Alexander had in mind.

  His thoughts were interrupted. A party of thirty excited horsemen had just arrived—the Indians had been spotted. Seleucus immediately handed over charge to Demetrios and galloped away to deliver the news himself.

  Alexander and his generals quickly interrogated the party.

  “How many were they?” asked Hephaestion.

  “A huge host, my Lord. Must be one to two thousand Indians with hundreds of chariots.”

  “Atheas! Call Atheas!” came the order from Alexander.

  Atheas was the captain of the Dahae, the one thousand-strong brigade of Central Asian horse archers, who had been added to Alexander’s army after the war in Bactria. He was rushed over by the orderlies, a spare looking Scythian attired in black pantaloons, sleeved tunic and pointed helmet, typical of his tribe.

  “Round up your men, and throw them at the enemy en masse—en masse, get it? Meet them as far forward as you can. Go quickly! Give them everything you’ve got!” Alexander gestured excitedly.

  Atheas dug his heels into the sides of his horse and sped off, followed by his countryman Maues. Orders were shouted in their strange language, the troops rallied and a thousand horsemen trotted ceremoniously out of the Greek lines. Once on open ground, they spread out into a loose semi-circular formation and broke into a gallop.

  They had hardly covered the distance of a few miles, when they saw the Indian cavalry come careening across a bend in the river, advancing towards them like an avalanche. In an instant, the air was rent with blood-curdling war cries. The Indians perceived what seemed to be a lightly armoured and smaller band of cavalry, and immediately flung themselves at the enemy. The Central Asian line seemed to waver for just a moment. The archers were drawing their bowstrings back, even as they bounced up and down on their horse’s backs.

  A thousand different bows, with arrows drawn now pointed up towards the sky.

  “Steady men! No one is to shoot until they cross that banyan tree to the left!” shouted one of the officers.

  There is a particular, eerie sound made when thousands of bows are drawn in unison. This sound was missing, trampled underfoot by the thunderous stampeding of hooves, the neighing of horses and the battle cries of the Indians. But, the sounds that came after, were heard by all.

  The distinct ‘whoosh’ of a thousand arrows speeding through the air. The sickening, full-blooded sound of arrows thudding into flesh, bone, and cartilage.

  Shok! Shok! Shok! Shok! Shok! Shok!

  The arrows pierced the ground, instantly creating a zigzag line that marked the outermost range of the bowmen. Others pierced deep into groins, thighs, and shoulders. Death rained mercilessly from above. Still, the Indians rushed on towards them like an irresistible wave.

  In one of the leading chariots, hurtling madly onwards was Pururajkumar. His stomach had tied itself into knots and his mouth was dry. The chariot jolted and jerked as it moved over the ground, and the air around him was filled with the screams of men and the neighing of horses. An enemy’s dart shot past his head with a whoosh that made the blood sing in his ears.

  “Kill, cut, kill, shoot, shoot, shoot!” he shouted in a frenzy, entirely unaware that he was babbling away.

  The three bowmen in his chariot were shooting at the double, working like mad machines, their whole existence boiled down to drawing back the bow, aiming, releasing, and then picking out another arrow from the quivers by their side. One of them found his mark, his arrow going in with such force into one of the Scythian officers, that he was knocked straight off his horse. The man’s screams were immediately stifled by the oncoming rush of horses behind him.

  Indians in ones and twos had closed in on the Scythians. This trickle now turned into a flood, as wave after wave of Indian horsemen crashed into the Scythian lines, and a desperate hand-to-hand battle broke out. The lightly armed Dahae cavalry was no match for the Indians. Soon, they were in full retreat.

  Cries of exultation now rose to the skies.

  With triumphant yells, the Indian cavalry drove the enemy before them and pursuing, ran straight into the Companion Cavalry, which had ridden up to the aid of their comrades. The two lines collided with the soulless metallic sound of spearheads striking shields, the mixed war cries of different parties, and the dull hacking, cutting, and killing business of war began.

  General Vasudhana, leading his men from the front was unhorsed at the very moment of collision. Lying stunned on all fours on the ground, he was immediately set upon by a Yavana horseman. The General braced himself on his knees and held up a wicker shield. It was immediately hacked to pieces by the Yavana. As the man went in for the kill, someone kicked the General on the back; he fell forward and felt a foot pushing him into the ground. Someone literally stepped on his back and engaged the barbarian.

  Vasudhana was rescued by his bodyguards. He immediately got himself on another horse and leapt into the thick of the fighting, a shouting, raging, killing machine covered in mud, as he rallied his troops into the closed and confused melee.

  Meanwhile, a wheel of the Pururajkumar’s chariot was stuck in the soft mud of the riverbank. The prince had realized too late that this was no expeditionary force, but the main body of the Greek army that had crossed over—and that now surrounded them on all sides.

  The small Indian force was heavily outnumbered, and the crown prince himself was trapped. Yavanas swarmed about on all sides, even as the Indians led a desperate defense of their prince. In the scuffle, the charioteer was killed, as Pururajkumar himself warded off attacks with a javelin.

  “Get me a horse! A horse!” he screamed above the din.

  The clanging of steel, the terrified neighing of horses, screams, and grunts filled the air. Men were fighting and dying all around him. The mud had been churned up into a morass almost knee deep— an assortment of bodies and horses lay dead or half-dead on the ground, while the living fought a desperate, hand-to-hand battle all around the chariot. One of the prince’s bodyguards had driven his khadga into the body of a Yavana, and was desperately trying to pull it out, while another now stood weaponless on the ground, surrounded by the surging mass of horses as he attacked one of the barbarians with only a dagger in his hands.

  The man whose khadga was stuck in the dead Yavana, struggled frantically with it, trying to yank it free, even as another enemy came into the attack. The Rajkumar saw the man’s eyes widen in terror, and then go dead in seconds, as a spear ripped through his throat, and fresh crimson blood spurted out of his neck.

  The attacker now turned his horse towards the chariot, but he too, was dead in seconds. Pururajkumar had driven his javelin straight through the man’s guts with such force that it ripped through his stomach and came out at the back, slimy and blood red. The Yavana toppled off his horse into the heap of bodies that lay in the mud. It had been a close encounter.

  The prince now realized that he was sitting duck as long as he remained in the chariot. Taking his wicker shield and two spears, he jumped off.

  “A horse! A horse!” screamed the prince as he waded through the sticky mud. His shield bearers and an inner circle of bodyguards immediately encircled him, their shields providing a pe
rilous cover as they fought off the Yavanas surging against them on every side. Stumbling through the mud, the Rajkumar now slipped over the slimy entrails of a dead horse.

  low and proceeded to summon his officers.

  The Dogs of War

  The news fell upon them like a bolt from the heavens. Yet, no grieving was permitted. If Maharaj Puru shed a tear or wavered, he did so in private. No reaction, not even an acknowledgement, was shown in public. On no account was the army to be demoralized before the battle.

  Meanwhile, the entire camp was in an uproar. Elephants were being readied, groups of scouts and cavalry rode out of camp in a flurry of noise and activity, messengers ran to and fro, and officers rushed about shouting orders. Squads of infantry were forming up in the wide, open plains next to the camp. Others were still getting their equipment together.

  Out in the open field, the divisions of students from Takshashila were also formed up, tension and excitement writ large on their youthful faces. Brahmin priests, Buddhist monks, and religious leaders of all persuasions, circulated through the crowds and were mobbed everywhere. The shrill trumpeting of the elephants added to the noise and confusion. As more and more of these majestic beasts started arriving, the soldiers and archers who were to sit on the elephant platforms, now ascended their mounts with shouts of ‘good luck’ and ‘farewell’.

  Maharaj Puru himself arrived, sitting atop a gigantic elephant. The bards started beating on the drums, and war cries and slogans rippled through the crowds. Indian forces were marching out to battle.

  Maharaj Puru had given his orders—bulk of the army would march out to face the infiltrators, while a small force would be left behind at camp—ready to repel any attempts at crossing by the Greeks on the opposite bank. Seventeen thousand infantry now marched—hundreds of columns, filling out the open spaces and extending back as far as the eye could see. Towering over them like bastions, were a hundred elephants, each one of them equipped with their own deadly load of archers and javelin throwers who sat on platforms attached to the elephant’s backs. Four thousand horsemen, comprising of the very flower of Kekeya’s nobility made their way through the thronging masses.

  The vast horde of men and animals marched a distance of three kos to the site that had been pre-selected for battle. Officers and messengers now moved back and forth through the crowds, marshalling the men into battle order. Having secured and occupied the battlefield, the Indians now settled in to wait.

  ***

  It was about mid-day by the time the two armies came face to face. The Greeks were still marching towards the Indian camp when a group of Thracian scouts discovered the Indian army waiting for them, drawn up in full battle array. News flew back to the Greek lines and threw them into a frenzy of activity. Sarissas were screwed back together. Helmets, which were being carried slung across backs, or casually under arms, were worn in a jiffy, pulled down over the face. The Phalanx, which had been marching in loose order now, became a single compact body; a wall of shields in front and a dense, bristling mass of speartips swaying in the wind, jutting high above the men’s heads. Alexander, accompanied by his officers and bodyguards, immediately galloped up to study the battlefield and the disposition of the enemy.

  The Indians had chosen wisely. Their right flank was anchored by a small mountain and on their left, was the river. There was no way the numerically superior Greeks could outflank them. Instead, they would have to narrow their own lines in order to reach the Indians.

  The bulk of the Indian army, their infantry, occupied the centre. Huge war elephants projected over the multitude of heads, raising their trunks and trumpeting. They stood spaced out at equal intervals, all along the line, providing a protective screen for the men standing behind them. Detachments of heavy cavalry stood on both sides, protecting the flanks of the infantry. A handful of chariots stood in front of the two detachments of cavalry, screening them, just as the elephants were screening the infantry. In addition, a large number of bowmen and skirmishers had taken up positions on top of the mountain, from where they intended to harass the Greeks.

  A single look had convinced Alexander that the Indian Cavalry was significantly inferior in numbers to his own. He was right, for while the Greeks had six thousand heavy cavalry and almost a thousand horse archers at their disposal, the Indians had only four thousand, a force that had been split into two units of two thousand each.

  “We are on higher ground than they are my King!” observed Lysimachus, one of Alexander’s bodyguards.

  It was true. The land sloped gently down towards the Indian lines almost a mile and a half away. On the Greeks’ right was a small ravine, where the land fell steeply, down to a narrow corridor of land that extended along the riverbank.

  The height of this ravine decreased steadily as the elevation on the Greek’s side sloped down towards the Indians and the ravine disappeared altogether just in front of the Indians' lines where the sloping land finally reached the ground level of the riverbank.

  “Why has he allowed us the higher ground?” asked someone.

  It looked like an awful mistake made by the enemy.

  “He’s clearly luring us to attack,” supplied Seleucus. “If it were just infantry waiting for us at the bottom of this slope, then nothing would be simpler for our boys than to run down the slope and to drive them off at spear point. But he’s got elephants that we can’t even attack with our cavalry, as they scare our horses. He wants an infantry battle, my King. If we take the bait and attack, then his elephants will punch holes into our Phalanx and disorganize them enough for his infantry to exploit. Also, don’t forget—it’s only down there, that his flanks are securely anchored by the mountain on one side and the river on the other.”

  Seleucus now turned towards Alexander.

  “Our infantry should stay put, my King.”

  Alexander did not reply. He was thinking deeply—a number of unrelated threads coming together in his mind. Porus wanted it to be an infantry battle, whereas, Alexander’s strength was the cavalry. Porus wanted them to attack—he somehow had to lure Porus to charge uphill. One thing was exceptionally clear—if he was to win, he had to somehow avoid the elephants and convert this into a cavalry battle.

  He studied the ravine intently. The elevated land on which the Greek forces were assembling, fell away sharply on their right flank to the narrow corridor of the riverbank. The ravine wasn’t too high, but it could, nevertheless, hide a significant number of horsemen from view of the Indian centre where Porus sat on his elephant.

  A plan was already forming in his mind. He turned towards General Coenus.

  ***

  The Companion Cavalry had come up and so had the Dahae. The dreaded Macedonian Phalanx, twenty thousand infantrymen who made up the bulk of the army, were still getting into formation, with many battalions still to reach the battlefield. The two sides could clearly see each other across the distance of half-a-kos. They jeered loudly at each other and exchanged mutually unintelligible insults across the battlefield.

  Then, something happened that considerably perked up the morale of the Indians. One of the cavalrymen from the Indian side galloped almost right up to the Greek lines and discharged two javelins at them. A host of horse archers set off in hot pursuit, but none of their arrows could get him. The fellow had turned his horse around and with arrows raining down all around him, he made it safely back to his own lines. Every eye on the battlefield followed this cheeky soldier’s charge, and his flight and actions were greeted with roars oThis wasn’t the only incident, for the Indians were feeling increasingly jumpy. They had been waiting in formation for over an hour. Many of them were facing the first battle of their lives. Unknown fears coagulated and settled with a dull, heavy feeling in the pit of their stomachs. Almost the entire camp had seen the disorganized remains of the morning’s expedition come reeling back to camp—five hundred out of the two thousand who had ridden out in the morning. Rumours about the death of Pururajkumar and General Vasudhana had
also swept through the ranks.

  In the students’ section of the infantry, throats were dry. All eyes watched in fascination, as the columns of men with their gleaming shields and rows of spears jutting out like the quills of a porcupine, manoeuvred slowly into position. Each man was alone in this struggle against his inner demons.

  “It’s here, it’s here, its happening. Oh eye of a buffalo, it’s starting, it’s really starting now!” Tanku was going on and on with his hand clamped tight across Rishabha’s forearm. They were all there in the students’ infantry—Rishabha, the twins, Nala and even Radha. Aditya, Charaka, and Sameera on the other hand, were a part of the students’ cavalry, which had been stationed on their left flank.

  Acharya Chanakya now rode up in front of their lines. All sounds ceased as he held up his hands to speak. The students quietened down, Acharya’s horse bucked back and forth as it trotted up and down the lines. He was addressing them, “Students, men, my most beloved comrades! Look at me!”

  “Look at me!” Acharya called out loudly again.

  Students’ eyes were glued to the events taking place on the opposite side, the dense bristling rows of spears, the gleaming metal shields, and the horsehair plumes fluttering on those helmets. They turned their attention back to Acharya.

  “Look at me! Ignore the enemy! Look at my face and concentrate on what I have to say—ignore the enemy, I say. He is just a man, like you and me. He is a mortal and moreover, he is just as scared as you and I are.”

  “In fact, he is even more scared than you. You are here in your own country, surrounded by friends and comrades, while he is millions of kos away from his own land. If he dies today, who will cremate him here, who will light his pyre, who will complete the rituals that are necessary for his soul to find peace? Who will support his family back home? If he loses the battle today in this foreign land, where will he run to? He can’t even hide among the population, for he has no one here.