As his aide rushed away, Bhagirath saw his enemies rowing out towards the kund. And yet another shower of arrows was fired.
‘Don’t move!’ shouted Bhagirath, keeping his men in check. ‘Let them land first.’
In order to inflict maximum casualties Bhagirath would allow a large contingent of enemy soldiers to land ashore before launching a three-pronged attack from the adjoining forest. An impregnable phalanx of his infantry, standing shoulder to shoulder, shields in front, would advance and push at the frontline Magadhan soldiers with unstoppable force. The enemy soldiers bringing up the rear would inevitably be forced into the water. Weighed down by their weapons and armour, they would drown. The frontline, hopelessly outnumbered, would then be decimated.
‘Shields!’ ordered Bhagirath once again as he saw the arrows being lit.
His gut feel was that this would be the last volley. Enemy soldiers were jumping off their boats onto the sands of Bal-Atibal. Brutal hand-to-hand combat was moments away. Bhagirath could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He could almost smell the blood that was about to be shed.
‘Charge!’ bellowed Bhagirath.
Kartik rode furiously with his two-thousand strong cavalry. Even through the dense foliage, he could see fire arrows being shot from Magadhan ships. They had commenced battle, which meant that the southern contingent of the Magadhan army was in position.
‘Faster!’ roared Kartik to his horsemen.
They could see that the ships at the centre of the fleet had already caught fire. The devil boats had struck. Bhagirath was obviously hurting the Magadhan navy. What was surprising though, was that the southern end was also aflame. The Vaishali forces must have arrived and were attacking the Magadhan navy from behind.
Kartik was distracted by the din up ahead; it was the sound of a fierce battle between the southern contingent of the Magadhans and Divodas’ Brangas.
‘Ride harder!’
Surapadman’s men had probably shot fire arrows here as well, for parts of the camp were on fire. But this served as a beacon for Kartik’s horsemen. They kicked their horses hard, spurring them on. The Brangas at the southern end were hard at work, holding almost twenty thousand soldiers at bay. The Magadhans, who had expected to decimate an unprepared enemy, were shocked by the fierce resistance they were facing. Things would get a lot worse though, for the Magadhans did not expect danger from the back as well.
‘Har Har Mahadev!’ yelled Kartik as he drew his long sword.
‘Har Har Mahadev!’ roared the Branga horsemen as they charged.
The last rows of the Magadhan foot soldiers, completely unprepared for a cavalry charge from the rear, were ruthlessly butchered within minutes. Kartik and his cavalry cut a wide swathe through the Magadhan units, their horses trampling hapless soldiers, their swords slicing all those who stood in their path.
Initially, the rear attack of the Branga cavalry went unnoticed due to the massive size of the rival armies and the brutal din and clamour of a battle well joined. Quickly overcoming their surprise, many brave Magadhan soldiers leapt at the horsemen, stabbing at the beasts and even fearlessly holding on to the stirrups, hoping to bring them down. Sensing that he led the cavalry charge, a clutch of infantrymen tripped Kartik’s steed bringing them both down in a crash. They would soon wish that they hadn’t.
With cat-like reflexes, Kartik sprang to his feet, viciously drawing his second sword as well, and cutting at the first of the soldiers pressing on to him. The Magadhan crumpled in midstep and fell silently to the ground, his windpipe severed, a gush of air bursting from his slit throat, splattering blood on those around him. A second soldier charged, and was cut down before he’d taken two steps, a single stroke of Kartik’s blade slicing through his torso, almost to his spine.
The remaining soldiers paused, cautious now of this boy who could kill with such ease. They spread out in a circle around him, swords at the ready. Kartik knew they would charge together from all sides, and waited for them to make their move.
The charge came, two from the front, one from the back and a fourth from the left. Kartik crouched, and with near-inhuman speed sidestepped to the left and swung fiercely. Generating fearful blade speed through his swinging strikes, he brutally sliced limb, sinew, head and trunk all around him. Blood and entrails were splattered all over.
He paused, panting, the swords in his hands dripping red with blood. He looked around him, selected an opponent and charged again. As the Bhagavad Gita would say, Kartik had become Death, the destroyer of worlds.
The fighting raged for half an hour as the tide of the battle tipped more and more against the Magadhans. But they fought on as no quarter was given either by Kartik or his army.
Slowly the screams of the dying lessened, and then were silenced as Surapadman’s army perished. Soldiers stopped their slaughter and stood quietly on the battlefield, leaning exhausted on their swords and panting. But Kartik did not slacken, pressing attack after attack on all those that remained standing.
Divodas tried to run as he approached Kartik, but his legs were weak and trembling, and he could scarcely manage more than a stumbling trot. He was covered in blood from a dozen small cuts, and a deep gash on his shoulder left his right arm dangling limply to his side. ‘My Lord,’ he called out, breathless and hoarse, ‘My Lord!’
Kartik swung viciously, the speed of his movement building formidable power in his curved blade. Divodas took the blow on his shield as his hand reverberated with the shock of blocking the brutal blow, numbing his left arm to the shoulder.
‘My Lord!’ he pleaded in desperation. ‘It is I, Divodas!’
Kartik suddenly stopped, his long sword held high in his right hand, his curved blade held low to his left, his breathing sharp and heavy, his eyes bulging with bloodlust.
‘My Lord!’ shrieked Divodas, his fear palpable. ‘You have killed them all! Please stop!’
As Kartik’s breathing slowed, he allowed his gaze to take in the scene of destruction all around him. Hacked bodies littered the battlefield. A once proud Magadhan army completely decimated. Divodas’ frontal attack combined with the rear cavalry charge had achieved Kartik’s plan.
Kartik could still feel the adrenalin coursing furiously through his veins.
Divodas, still afraid of Kartik, whispered. ‘You have won, My Lord.’
Kartik raised his long sword high and shouted, ‘Har Har Mahadev!’
The Brangas roared after him, ‘Har Har Mahadev!’
Kartik bent down and flipped a Magadhan’s decapitated head with his sword, then turned to Divodas. ‘Find Surapadman. If there’s life left in him, I want him brought to me alive.’
‘Yes, My Lord,’ said Divodas and rushed to obey.
Kartik wiped both his swords on the clothing of a fallen Magadhan soldier and carefully caged the blades in the scabbards tied across his back. The Branga soldiers maintained a respectful distance from him, terrified of the brutal violence they had just witnessed. He walked slowly towards the river, bent down, scooped some water in his palms and splashed it on his face. The river had turned red due to the massive bloodletting that had just occurred. He was covered with blood and gore. But his eyes were clean. Still. The bloodlust had left him.
Later in the day, when the dead were counted, it would emerge that seventy thousand of the Magadhan army from amongst seventy-five thousand had been slaughtered, burned or drowned. Kartik, on the other hand, had lost only five thousand of his one hundred thousand men. This was not a battle. It had been a massacre.
Kartik looked up at the sky. The first rays of the sun were breaking on the horizon, heralding a new day. And on this day, a legend had been born. The legend of Kartik, the Lord of War!
Chapter 24
The Age of Violence
The golden orb of a rising sun peeked from the mainland to the right as a strong southerly wind filled their sails, racing them towards the port of Lothal. Shiva, with Sati at his side, stood poised on the foredeck, eyes tran
sfixed northwards, wishing their ship all speed.
‘I wonder how the war has progressed in Swadweep,’ said Sati.
Shiva turned to her with a smile. ‘We do not know if there has been a war at all, Sati. Maybe Ganesh’s tactics have worked.’
‘I hope so.’
Shiva held Sati’s hand. ‘Our sons are warriors. They are doing what they are supposed to. You don’t need to worry about them.’
‘I’m not worried about Ganesh. I know that if he can avoid bloodshed, he will. Not that he’s a coward, but he understands the futility of war. But Kartik... He loves the art of war. I fear he will go out of his way to court danger.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Shiva. ‘But you cannot change his essential character. And in any case, isn’t that what being a warrior is all about?’
‘But every other warrior goes into battle reluctantly. He fights because he has to. Kartik is not like that. He’s enthused by warfare. It seems that his swadharma is war. That worries me,’ said Sati, expressing her anxieties about what she felt was Kartik’s personal dharma.
Shiva drew Sati into his arms and kissed her on her lips, reassuringly. ‘Everything will be all right.’
Sati smiled and rested her head on Shiva’s chest. ‘I must admit that helped a bit...’
Shiva laughed softly. ‘Let me help you some more then.’
Shiva raised Sati’s face and kissed her again.
‘Ahem!’
Shiva and Sati turned around to find Veerbhadra and Krittika approaching them.
‘This is an open deck,’ said a smiling Veerbhadra, teasing his friend. ‘Find a room!’
Krittika hit Veerbhadra lightly on his stomach, embarrassed. ‘Shut up!’
Shiva smiled. ‘How’re you, Krittika?’
‘Very well, My Lord.’
‘Krittika,’ said Shiva. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? You are my friend’s wife. Call me Shiva.’
Krittika smiled. ‘I’m sorry.’
Shiva rested his hand on Veerbhadra’s shoulder. ‘What did the captain say, Bhadra? How far are we?’
‘At the rate we’re sailing, just a few more days. The winds have been kind.’
‘Hmmm... have you ever been to Lothal or Maika, Krittika?’
Krittika shook her head. ‘It’s difficult for me to get pregnant, Shiva. And that is the only way that an outsider can enter Maika.’
Shiva winced. He had touched a raw nerve. Veerbhadra did not care that Krittika couldn’t conceive, but it still distressed her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shiva.
‘No, no,’ smiled Krittika. ‘Veerbhadra has convinced me that we are good enough for each other. We don’t need a child to complete us.’
Shiva patted Veerbhadra’s back. ‘Sometimes we barbarians can surprise even ourselves with our good sense.’
Krittika laughed softly. ‘But I have visited the older Lothal.’
‘Older Lothal?’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ asked Sati. ‘The seaport of Lothal is actually a new city. The older Lothal was a river port on the Saraswati. But when the Saraswati stopped reaching the sea, there was no water around the old city, ending its vibrancy. The locals decided to recreate their hometown next to the sea. The new Lothal is exactly like the old city, except that it’s a sea port.’
‘Interesting,’ said Shiva. ‘So what happened to old Lothal?’
‘It’s practically abandoned, but a few people continue to live there.’
‘So why didn’t they give the new city a different name? Why call it Lothal?’
‘The old citizens were very attached to their city. It was one of the greatest cities of the empire. They didn’t want the name to disappear in the sands of time. They also assumed most people would forget old Lothal.’
Shiva looked towards the sea. ‘New Lothal, here we come!’
The sun had risen high over Bal-Atibal Kund. It was the third hour of the second prahar. The bodies of the fallen Magadhans and Brangas were being removed to a cleared area in the forest where, to the drone of ritual chanting, their mortal remains were being cremated. Considering the massive number of Magadhan dead, this was back-breaking work. But Kartik had been insistent. Valour begot respect, whether in life or in the aftermath of death.
‘Has Surapadman not been found yet?’ asked Bhagirath, his eyes scanning the sands of the kund. Yesterday they were pristine white. Today they were a pale shade of pink, discoloured by massive quantities of blood.
‘Not as yet,’ said Kartik. ‘Initially I thought he was fighting on the southern front. We were unable to find him there so I assumed he would be here.’
Maatali, the Vaishali king, had proved his naval acumen by destroying the rearguard of the Magadhan fleet. Having heard of Kartik’s valour and ferocity, he now viewed him with newfound respect. Gone were the last traces of indulgence for the son of the Neelkanth.
‘How far is my brother’s fleet, King Maatali?’ asked Kartik.
‘I’ve sent some of my rowboats upriver. It is clogged with the debris of the Magadhan ships. Our boats are trying to clear up the mess, but it will take time. And Lord Ganesh is moving carefully so the ships don’t sustain any damage. So he will take some time to get here.’
Kartik nodded.
‘But he has been informed about your great victory, Lord Kartik,’ said Maatali. ‘He is very proud of you.’
Kartik frowned. ‘It’s not my victory, Your Highness. It’s our victory. And it would not have been possible without my elder brother, who destroyed the northern end of the Magadhan navy.’
‘That he did,’ said Maatali.
‘My Lord!’ hailed Divodas, crossing over from the dense forest to the sands of the Bal-Atibal Kund. Still weak from injuries and bandaged across his shoulder, he was being assisted by five men as they together dragged something with ropes.
It took Kartik a moment to recognise what they were dragging. ‘Divodas! Treat him with respect!’
Divodas stopped at once. Kartik ran towards them, followed by Bhagirath and Maatali. The corpse they had been dragging was that of a tall, well-built, swarthy man. His clothes and armour were soaked dark with blood, and his body was covered with wounds, some dried and black, others still fresh, red and wet. His skull had been split open near his temple, showing how he had died. His injuries were too numerous to be counted, clearly indicating the valour of this combatant. All the wounds were in the front, not one on the back. It had been an honourable death.
‘Surapadman...’ whispered Bhagirath.
‘He was on the southern front, My Lord,’ said Divodas.
Kartik pulled out his knife, bent down to cut the ropes tied around Surapadman’s shoulders, and then gently lowered the fallen prince back onto the ground. He noticed Surapadman’s right hand, still tightly gripping his sword. He touched the sword, its blade caked with dried blood. Divodas tried to pry open Surapadman’s fingers.
‘Stop,’ commanded Kartik. ‘Surapadman will carry his sword into the other world.’
Divodas immediately withdrew his hand and fell back.
Surapadman’s mouth was half open. The ancient Vedic hymns on death claim that the soul leaves the body along with the last breath. Therefore, the mouth is open at the point of death. But there is a superstition that the mouth should be closed quickly after death, lest an evil spirit enters the soulless body.
Kartik closed Surapadman’s mouth gently.
‘Find the chief Brahmin,’ said Kartik. ‘Prepare Surapadman’s body. He shall be cremated like the prince that he was.’
Divodas nodded.
Kartik turned to Bhagirath. ‘We shall wait till my brother returns. Surapadman will then be cremated with full state honours.’
Ganesh stood at the ramparts of the Magadhan fort, watching the great Sarayu merge into the mighty Ganga. The setting sun had tinged the waters a brilliant orange. King Mahendra and the citizens of Magadh, stunned by the complete annihilation of their army and the death of their Prince
Surapadman, had surrendered meekly when Ganesh’s forces had entered the city. He did not expect any rebellion, since there were practically no soldiers left in Magadh. Ganesh planned to leave a small force of ten thousand soldiers to man the fort and blockade any Ayodhya ships. He would sail out with his other soldiers to meet with his father’s army in Meluha. They were to leave the next day.
The war in Swadweep had worked perfectly for Ganesh. He was now able to block the movements of the Ayodhyan army with far less soldiers than would have been required if he was besieging Ayodhya itself.
‘What are you thinking, dada?’ asked Kartik.
Ganesh smiled at his brother as he pointed at the confluence. ‘Look at the sangam, where the Sarayu meets the Ganga.’
Even before he turned his gaze, Kartik could hear the swirling waters of the sangam. What he saw was a young, impetuous Sarayu crashing into the mature, tranquil Ganga, jostling for space within her banks. Though she sometimes relented, the Ganga would often push aside the waters of the Sarayu with surprising ease, creating eddies and currents in its wake. This jostling continued till Ganga, the eternal mother, eventually drew the ebullient tributary into her bosom till they could be distinguished no more in the calm flow.
‘There is always unity at the end,’ said Ganesh, ‘and it brings a new tranquillity. But the meeting of two worlds causes a lot of temporary chaos.’
Kartik smiled, bemused.
‘This could not have been avoided,’ said Ganesh. ‘But the stricken visage of King Mahendra was heartbreaking. Every single house in Magadh has lost a son or a daughter in the Battle of Bal-Atibal.’
‘But King Mahendra was the one who had forced Prince Surapadman to attack. He can only blame himself,’ said Kartik. ‘I’ve heard reports that Prince Surapadman had really wanted to remain neutral.’
‘That may be true, Kartik. But that still doesn’t take away from the fact that we have killed half the adult population of Magadh.’
‘We had no choice, dada,’ said Kartik.
‘I know that,’ said Ganesh, turning back to look at the sangam of the Ganga and the Sarayu. ‘The rivers fight with each other with the only currency that they know: water. We humans fight with the only currency that we know in this age: violence.’