by Rahul Mitra
The four of them remained where they were, cowering in terror, trying to fathom exactly what was going on. Aditya suddenly realized that they seemed to have been left out of the fighting. What if the entire battle passed him by, while he cowered behind a cart, and others fought and killed?
From somewhere to his right, there was the sound of khadgas clanging. “This way,” he said as he moved in the direction of the noise. The others automatically followed him.
It was a surreal experience. It seemed as if within that fierce storm of action, they were in an oasis of peace. No one noticed, no one challenged them, as they half-ran, half-walked to see what was going on. Two attackers on horseback were engaging two men on the ground, who were in a desperate position, fighting back-to-back.
“Come on!” yelled Aditya as the four of them leaped upon the horsemen.
With the arrival of these four, the tide of battle had turned. One of the horsemen swung around and leaning out of his saddle, he made a vicious swipe at Aditya. Before he could recover his balance, one of the traders had reached out and pulled him down from the horse. He was immediately dispatched to hell.
The other horseman now saw that the situation was hopeless and made a break for it. As his heart resumed its normal beat, Aditya realized that the attack was almost over.
The terrifying cries of the attackers had ceased, and had been replaced by sounds of cheering, which came from a number of different directions. Moans of the wounded and sounds of galloping horses filled the air, and the noisesof battle had almost died down. The attackers were fleeing.
Individual horsemen, who had been trapped inside the perimeter, rode round and round in confusion, trying to find an outlet. But everywhere they turned, they found the caravaneers. A few of them, who did slip through, were immediately set upon by Shilajeet and his men who were circling the carts. Others were hunted down and brutally killed inside the camp area itself.
The entire action had been sharp and swift, and the shocked caravaneers now re-grouped to take stock of the situation. It had been a costly attack. From the camp, eleven men had been killed and thirteen more were wounded. The latter were placed in the carts and nine of the bandits, who had been captured alive, were immediately strung up from the tallest tree in the vicinity. Pandi immediately ordered the caravan to pack up and move on.
***
With so many casualties, each member of the remaining group was assigned more work. There were no more sword-fighting classes or hunting excursions now, and for the next few days, the caravan moved fast, marching non-stop from morning till night. The men remained constantly alert. They were making their way towards the city of Indraprastha, where they would take a break and recuperate.
Two days later, while they were on the march, Pandi came up to Aditya.
“I heard you fought well,” he said.
Aditya smiled in embarrassment.
“How many did you kill?”
“I just killed one, Shreeman.”
Pandi smiled, “Everyone starts with one, Aditya. You did well.”
“Actually, that was with Rishabha,” said Aditya.
“It doesn’t matter. I heard you showed a lot of heart. It was your first fight and you did not panic, that’s good.”
Aditya glowed with pride at his ‘accomplishment’.
“What about the sword fighting classes? Are you missing them?” asked Pandi.
“I am,” said Aditya.
“Well, I haven’t stopped you from practicing, have I? We can’t have classes right now, but you can always practice by yourself.”
“Yes, Shreeman, I will.”
“Good, keep practicing and I promise, after we get to Indraprastha, we will start the classes again,” said Pandi.
“I will, Shreeman,” said Aditya.
They chatted for a little while and then Pandi rode off, leaving Aditya feeling on top of the world.
***
Eight days later, they reached the gates of Indraprastha. Here, the caravan stopped. Two weeks were spent in some much-needed rest and relaxation, sword-fighting classes, and hours whiled away in the madhushalas. The injured recuperated, and the goods of the dead men were sold off. The proceeds would later be sent to the widows and families of these unfortunate men.
Then, it was back to the same old routine. Once again, the caravan was on the march, and it moved relentlessly onwards, moving ever north and west across the blessed land of Bharatvarsha.
Day after day, the caravaneers prepared and loaded the animals, marched, fought, struck camp, arranged for food and water, traded and lived, loved and laughed. Camouflaged in this daily humdrum of work and life, time slipped by unnoticed.
Five months passed by. Five months, in which they made their way through the janapadas of Magadha, Panchala, Kuru, and Uttarakuru before reaching their destination—the great city of Takshashila in the Gandhara janapada.
e, falling to the ground with a dull thud.
The Shahenshah
The merchants arriving in Takshashila could hardly have guessed that events, which would have severe consequences on their future, were being played out in the distant lands of Persia. Over a hundred yojanas away from Takshashila, in the city of Rhagae (modern Ray or Tehran, Iran), the curtains were finally coming down on one of the most dramatic chases in history.
For the last four months, the Greek army had been hot on the trail of the fleeing Persian Emperor Darius, following him from Persepolis to Isfahan to Ecbatana. For eleven days and nights, Alexander led a force handpicked for its mobility, charging northwards at furious speed from Ecbatana. They turned off the main road to try and trap the Persian Emperor, but he had vanished into thin air. With his customary indecisiveness, Darius had changed direction a number of times, keeping the Greeks guessing.
Disappointed, Alexander returned to the royal road and halted at Rhagae to allow his forces to recuperate. As the rest of his army caught up, Alexander fretted and fumed, Darius made his getaway, and the equally riveting struggles of the common soldiers serving these monarchs continued unabated and unrecorded in history.
Just like Alexander was closing in on Darius, Private Philotas was closing in on a flock of five delicious-looking chickens in a small village outside Rhagae. They had been hidden in the tiny attic-like space under the roof of a peasant’s hut, and were now running about in the kitchen garden behind the house.
“Come on, come to me . . . come on,” panted Philotas. He had his eye on the large, healthy-looking rooster, which was strutting around nervously.
Philotas lunged at it.
“Puka-pukk-pukk-pukk-pukk-pukk-pukk!” Cries of alarm filled the air, and the entire flock immediately separated in a furious ‘whirrr’ of wings.
The rooster had run out of his reach, and now stood there, looking indignantly at him, its head bobbing up and down in a perfect fit of self-righteousness. Red-faced and panting, the balding Philotas cursed his luck as he stopped to wipe the sweat dripping off his brow. This was proving to be trickier than catching the Persian king, he thought to himself. A different approach was required.
Now, moving very slowly, he started creeping up to where the rooster was perched. It regarded him with an icy stare, and Philotas stiffened, every limb frozen in position, his mouth half-open. Finally, the rooster turned away from him, and started nervously pecking at the ground.
This was what he had been waiting for. He swooped down upon his target like thunder from a cloudless sky, diving forward like a madman . . .
. . . but alas! His hands only came upon empty air, as he went sprawling onto the ground. The rooster kicked dirt into his face, as it jumped up into the air and ran about with a furious flapping of its wings.
“What’s this tomfoolery going on here?” came the voice of that young whippersnapper who was leading their company.
“We found some chickens, Sir! Philotas is trying to catch them.”
Philotas looked up red-faced at his partner, who instead of helping him, was stand
ing in the doorway laughing. He wiped the chicken shit that covered his hand in the dirt and got up, smoothing his hair across his bald pate.
“You idiots, have you never been on a farm before?” the lieutenant snapped as he strode into the back garden.
He had the broad, big-boned face of a country bumpkin. It was Karanos, who had recently been promoted to the rank of Lochagos, a captain of sixteen men, for his bravery in fighting against the rebels.
“Go and get me some grain,” ordered Karanos.
His partner rushed to do his bidding, as Philotas stood shamefaced.
“You have to get them to come to you, and then you can get them easy, when they are feeding.”
The grain arrived and taking a handful, Karanos started strewing some on the ground.
“Ella, ella, ella . . .” he pronounced gutturally as the chickens came up to him pecking on the grain. He now motioned to the other two to do the same. Under his expert guidance they soon bagged the entire flock and then stepped outside with the helpless chickens dangling upside down in their hands.
Outside, twelve elderly men of the village were all lined up against the mud walls of one of the huts, while seven Greek soldiers stalked about. At a distance, stood a number of older women, some of them holding infants. The young men and women had already fled, and these were the only ones the Greeks had found. They looked properly cowed into submission.
Thirty sacks of grains, mostly wheat and barley, were dumped on the ground in front of them. There were three goats too. A house-to-house search had also turned up a quantity of dry fruits, some flour and vegetables, all of which was dumped in miscellaneous packets.
The villagers stared sullenly at the soldiers, while an ancient-looking man, who was almost entirely blind and toothless, babbled something in Persian.
“What’s he saying?” asked Karanos.
The Persian, who was acting as an interpreter, stepped forward.
“He says this is all they have, My Lord. The Persian army stripped them of everything on their way through and they don’t have anything left. Whatever providence hath bestowed, they lay upon your feet, My Lord.
“Tell him, he’s a lying son of a bitch,” said Karanos.
He knew they were lying. No one ever gave up all their food atthe very first go. He absolutely had to find more supplies—their army was in a desperate situation. All the while that they had been chasing Darius, his company had been growing smaller, as more and more soldiers deserted him, while the Greek army had been growing larger. Six thousand fresh Macedonian soldiers had joined them at Ecbatana, bringing the total count of the army to over fifity thousand men.
Only three thousand mounted soldiers were present in Rhagae, but more and more units of the main army were arriving everyday. In an area of isolated tribes, even the merchants and camp followers could no longer provide them with sufficient food.
Karanos clenched his jaw and mentally decided to do whatever was necessary. He too, was a farmer’s son, and hated to do this, but he had no choice. His noticed the infant crying loudly in its grandmother’s arms and motioned to Philotas to grab it. As Philotas snatched it away from the woman’s arms, all the wrinkled old hags started wailing loudly. Philotas wrenched himself free from one of the old crones who had grabbed him and proudly marched up to Karanos, bearing the baby in his arms.
“Kill it,” Karanos motioned towards the wee bairn.
Philotas was bouncing the tot around in his arms and patting its back.
“Me, Sir?” he looked at it doubtfully.
The baby had large brown eyes, and sparse hair on its oversized head. It was bawling its heart out and could not have been more than a year old.
“Oh, damn you,” Karanos went up to the old man who seemed to be the leader of the group and caught him by the hair. The man immediately dropped to his knees and started babbling in Persian. He reached out to touch Karanos’s feet but was dead before he could even touch them. In one smooth movement, Karanos had whipped out his The headless body crashed to the ground, as warm, red blood spurted out of the stump that was a neck, and ran down the bare earth in tiny rivulets. The wailing and breast-beating increased ten-fold, as one of the women ran forward and collapsed on the body, slapping her own chest and crying out loudly. With a look of distaste, Karanos stepped out of the pool of blood.
Holding his sword against the toddler’s belly, he turned to the interpreter with a desperate look in his eyes.
“Now, you tell them that unless they tell me where the rest of their food is, I will really kill this baby. By the gods, I swear it!”
The Persian gave him a look of pure, unalloyed hatred, and translated what he had just said. There were the few tense seconds of a stand-off, till finally, one of the villagers caved in. In a whimper, he told them about the stocks of grain they had buried in the fields behind the village.
Karanos let the infant go.
***
The horsemen were loosely strung out over the vast, rolling plains to the north-east of Rhagae. More than two-and-a-half thousand in number, they rode with great intent and purpose, kicking up a huge cloud of dust that followed them everywhere.
They were in the heart of the Central Persian Plateau—miles and miles of undulating grasslands alternating with the dust-coloured up-and-down landscape of the arid regions. Here could be found the huge, treeless, brown hills, which seemed to rise up seemingly from nowhere, as also the shocking green of the fields that would suddenly come into view, when going over a crest. Far away in the distance, stood the Alborz mountain range, from where the snow-covered peaks of Mount Damavand, the mythological symbol of Persia’s sovereignty, looked down grimly upon the intruders.
They were the Greeks. Just two days earlier, they had received some extremely valuable news. There had been a mutiny in the Persian camp, and Darius had been arrested by his own officers. Alexander had immediately set out from Rhagae on receiving the news, and they had been riding almost non-stop since then.
After two days spent in the saddle, resting only in the afternoon heat, Demetrios was now, nauseous and giddy. His heavy bronze cuirass was cutting into his shoulders and under his helmet, his hair clung to his scalp, damp with sweat. He was getting too old for this sort of thing, he thought to himself, as he noted the sweat rolling off the back of his horse.
“Hey, you got any water?” It was the old General Coenus, shouting as usual.
Demetrios grinned and shook his head. His goatskin had been empty since afternoon, he realized, as he licked his parched lips.
Tired and hungry, Demetrios now employed a trick that had helped him many times in the past. He lost himself in reverie and tuned out completely from the hardships of the present. The amber hues of a Macedonian evening filtered softly into his mind and he was once again back in his homeland, his heart bursting with pride at the full fields of barley that swayed gently in the wind. In one scene, he chased his youngest daughter through the golden-coloured terrain, as she giggled hysterically, while in another, he saw his wife waiting for him after dinner, sitting at the table—her dark eyes shining in the light of the lamps. In his dreams, she always looked as young and as beautiful, as she had been on their marriage day.
Lost in these thoughts, Demetrios was smiling to himself, when shouts and whoops at the head of the procession brought him abruptly back to the present. They had found the Persian camp!
As Alexander accompanied the scouts, Demetrios followed, pushing his way through the crowds. There, in the shadow of the large, rocky bluff were the unmistakable signs of a camp—holes for the tent pegs, heaps of ashes and timber and scraps of food. The entire group came to a standstill, as Alexander conferred with his closest advisors.
The news now spread by word of mouth—the Persians had camped here only yesterday. As soon as he heard of this, Demetrios slipped away to get his reserve horse ready and to relieve himself.
Just as he had anticipated, Alexander insisted on immediately following the Persians, and when the a
nnouncement for fit men with fresh horses was made, Demetrios was fresh and among the first to volunteer.
Six hundred horsemen now set off again in a mad dash through the night. Ahead of them, stretched the vast, arid salt desert known as the Dasht-i-Kavir. Pebbles and white powdery sand crunched softly underfoot, while great hills of sand rose almost forty meters into the air, shimmering a ghostly grey in the moonlight. The temperature dropped sharply through the night, but nothing was going to stop Alexander. He had smelled blood.
They rode forty miles of this alkaline waste between dusk and dawn that night, and at last, as the morning sun began to heat the rocks, a convoy of carts could be seen in the green distance. The prey was finally within sight, and with the handful of horsemen who had managed to keep up with him, Alexander again charged forward.
Demetrios was right up there with him, keeping ahead, as they finally caught up with their target. A long procession of almost thirty carts was lined up by the road, seemingly abandoned. Demetrios rode up to secure the head of the procession, and to guard against any surprise attacks, but the soldiers seemed to have fled.
Near the head, a fat, hairy man standing by one of the carts started wailing in fear.
“Peace, Peace . . .” Demetrios shouted to him in Persian.
“Peace,” the man shouted back and then launched into a rapid babble of heavy-duty Persian that the Greek could not understand. The man was clearly terrified.
“Hello, hello, hello . . .” he said in the invaders’ tongue, as he reached out to touch Demetrios’s feet.
“Hey Aristemos, search that cart and get this man away from me,” he shouted out to one of his soldiers.
“Hello, hello, hello . . .”
Inside the cart were his wife and young daughter. It was evidently a merchant’s cart, and the man had been travelling with the Persians, selling them his wares.
Demetrios left this drama behind to go and check on the other carts. Each of the vehicles were now being strip-searched, but apart from servants and camp followers, there was no one else in the group. Unknown to them, the Persians had been thrown into chaos, on seeing the cloud of dust following them, and everyone who was important had escaped.
