KRISHNA CORIOLIS#5: Rage of Jarasandha Page 15

  As he reached the apogee of his leap, some hundred or more yards up in the air, he saw that the ditch ran all around the city, effectively halting the advance. Now his smile widened to a broad grin.

  He fell back to earth with enthusiasm, opening his arms wide and holding his mace ready for action.

  Jarasandha’s fighters were staring up at him and roaring with frustration, gesturing to him to descend and face them like a man.

  ‘You want me, you have me,’ he said, chortling. ‘But can you do me?’

  He crashed into a group of fighters like a hound on a mouse, swinging his golden mace with all his might. He felt heads explode like melons and saw and heard shoulders and spines shatter like crystal. He touched ground and felt his feet sink a yard in with the weight and impact of his fall, then, before Bhoodevi could take hold of him with her invisible embrace, he had leaped up again.

  This time he did not leap so high. He only went as high as he needed to. Just enough momentum to deliver the extra punch he required to break through their hardened bodies. His second descent was behind the first group of attackers, and in the midst of the rest who were not expecting him to land from above. He laid into them with the mace and this time they were the ones defending, too confident of their invulnerability to dodge his blows. That was exactly what he had counted on. The harder they made their bodies and more firmly they stood their ground, the easier it made his task. Perhaps easy was not the right word for it still took every ounce of his strength and each time he swung the heavy mace he heard himself issue an involuntary grunt as loud as an elephant’s trumpet. But the equation of their resoluteness and his power, gained by using gravity to his advantage, worked brilliantly.

  He smashed them into pieces like a man with a stick in a pottery store. Bodies crumpled and cracked on every side, blood and gristle went flying in every direction and shattered limbs flew recklessly. Each time, he did not wait for them to get his bearing but simply struck hard and leaped up again. Each time he landed in a new spot, using the cover of the billowing cloud of dirt from the ditch to conceal his ascent and descent. Each time he caught them by surprise, falling from nowhere with his deadly mace flailing the instant he landed.

  He wreaked great damage. As the cloud of dust passed this way, fully throwing a shroud over Jarasandha’s forces, Balarama found himself settling into a rhythm.

  Leap, land, swing, smash.

  Leap, land, swing, smash.

  Leap, land, swing, smash.

  He worked his way in one direction then the other as the dust cloud covered the battlefield like a fog, rendering it impossible to see farther than a few yards in any direction.

  Like a wraith he descended each time, cutting down a half dozen of the powerful fighters, maiming some beyond repair, killing others on the spot, shocking all.

  Ten, fifteen…one score times he rose and descended, delivering death with his bludgeon.

  The golden mace was no longer golden.

  It was coated in blood and gristle and flecks from five score bodies.

  The part of the battlefield where he worked was strewn with broken bodies, each a screaming ruin with awful gaping wounds that had once been a man, a proud powerful fighter capable of slaughtering armies.

  Balarama danced the dance of death.

  Soon, there came a moment when he landed—and found nobody to receive his blows.

  He leaped up again and landed several yards away—and once again found nothing but a half-broken man crawling and weeping piteously for mercy. Balarama gave him his mercy then leaped again.

  Twice, thrice more he leaped and the third time he found a man with his back to him. He raised his mace as the man turned around. But the look of abject terror on the man’s bloody face caused him to pause.

  The man cried out in a foreign language. Balarama had no idea what he was saying but the intent became clear when the fighter dropped to his knees and clasped his meaty fists together in an universal gesture of surrender.

  Balarama turned away in disgust and leaped again.

  This time he landed farther away, far enough to be sure of what seemed evident.

  His assumption was confirmed.

  He had destroyed the entire regiment of fighters. Every last man was either maimed and broken or dead.

  Almost as if in acknowledgement of his feat, a great cry rose from the Mathuran side of the ditch:

  ‘WE FIGHT WITH KRISHNA BALARAMA…TO THE DEATH!’

  He grinned at the approbation and hefted the mace, waving it even though he knew his fellow Yadavas probably could not see him or the weapon through this fog of dust.

  He turned the mace, resting it on his shoulder as he surveyed the field, wondering whom he ought to take on next.

  Just then, the field went silent. One moment, it was the usual chaotic shouting and screaming and whinnying and trumpeting. The next moment a pall of silence as dense as the cloud of dust fell over the world.

  In the silence, he heard a familiar sound.

  At once he knew what the Magadhans’ next move was to be. And it sent a cold shiver through his body.

  The sound was accompanied by a shouted order, echoed all around the circular frontline.

  ‘LOOSE!’

  7

  ‘LOOSE!’ cried Jarasandha, his voice amplified by asura maya and booming across the entire vast theatre of war. He grinned widely, reveling in a rare moment of expository exultation. He would show these young fools that even gods who walked the earth could not protect every mortal.

  The reverberating command was echoed all along the yojanas-long frontline of the Magadhan forces. It rippled around the city of Mathura, circumscribing the great circle of the invading army’s siege line.

  At the command, over two hundred and fifty thousand longbow archers loosed the first volley. The whickering of bow-strings resonated loudly enough in the smoke-fogged air that it sounded like the flight of a great flock of migrating birds taking wing. In a sense, it was a great flock taking wing: except that their migration was only across the great ditch—and into the Mathuran ranks.

  The sound ululated in the still silent morning as every living being for yojanas around listened intently. For this was an age when war was an everyday matter and the sound of certain weapons could instill dread into the stoutest of hearts. This particular sound was familiar to every man, woman and child in Mathura City and the defending forces that surrounded the capital. This sound meant only one thing: Death was in the air.

  In the smoky obscurity of the Mathuran ranks, every face turned up to the skies, keen ears attempting to follow the path of the volley. The arrowheads sang as they hurtled up into the air, seeking to fly high in order to breach the large ditch. The wooden shafts spun behind the metal tips, singing a harmony of their own.

  In the frontline of the Mathuran army, Krishna was the only one who did not need to raise his head. Around him, every last one of the senapatis was looking skywards, tracing the path of the volley. Several gasped and some exclaimed as their faces turned to the apex and then their heads swiveled, looking back over their shoulders.

  ‘They shot too high!’ said the youngest senapati who had spoken up earlier. ‘They will miss our frontlines entirely.’

  Krishna replied grimly, ‘They are not aiming for our frontlines.’

  Across the Mathuran ranks, the realization rippled. Jarasandha’s forces were not firing at the Mathuran frontlines as expected.

  ‘They are probably afraid of shooting into the ditch,’ said one captain derisively. ‘They are shooting high to be safe.’

  His second-in-command, an older man with more battle experience, frowned as he tilted his head, listening to the path of the volley. ‘Nay. Even so, they would not need to aim that high. They are going to miss our ranks entirely.’ Suddenly, his face went slack as realization struck him.

  He looked at his captain. The man was younger and less experienced, but knowledgeable to understand the implication. ‘They are not aiming at us at all!�
�� he cried, turning around in alarm. ‘They are—’

  ***

  ‘—aiming at the city,’ said Ugrasena, rising to his feet in horror. ‘The craven!’

  Vasudeva’s face drained of blood. He stood with Ugrasena, staring at the terror approaching from the skies. The dust raised by the digging of the ditch had risen to a hundred and fifty yards over the city, encircling it on all sides and forming a smoky shroud.

  Now, penetrating through that shroud and rending it to shreds, came a horrifying threat. Two hundred and fifty thousand metal-tipped deadly longbow missiles, fired so high up into the air that each was now descending from a height of more than three hundred yards.

  At a length of one yard each and a deadweight of some 100 grams, they would each fall from such a height with a force of several kiloes. That would be the equivalent of a spear flung from a score yards away with all the force a very strong man could muster. Force enough to punch through inch-thick armor—if the arrowhead did not shatter first. And when it came to flesh, blood and bone…sufficient to drill through any of them as easily as a hot needle through warm butter.

  ‘Dear Lord Vishnu preserve us,’ Vasudeva said, tears springing to his eyes.

  Across the courtyard, the prayer was repeated in varying forms.

  Across the city, a million faces turned skywards to view the oncoming destruction.

  From loosing to landing, the flight of the first volley lasted barely fifteen seconds. It was an interminably long time as the first realization turned almost instantly into horrified shock.

  And then the volley came to ground.

  A hail of death fell upon Mathura.

  Arrows punched through people’s necks, chests, backs, faces, heads…through children, old and young, male and female alike…through houses, walls, roofs, carts, windows, wagons…into livestock, sheep, cows, calves…

  The hail of death lasted barely a few seconds. Yet it seemed forever.

  Thousands were struck in that first volley alone. For it took everyone by surprise: Ugrasena and Vasudeva, their senapatis, their advisors…even Krishna and Balarama.

  Of all the possibly ploys, tactics and stratagem they might have expected Jarasandha to deploy, this was not one.

  Nobody had ever dreamed of Jarasandha ordering an attack upon Mathura itself, on the citizenry. It defied all the laws of warfare and honorable combat. So long as the defending army remained on the field, it was the enemy’s right to attack them and assault them in a wide variety of ways. But not to simply bypass the army and attack the citizens themselves. It was not acceptable or conceivable in that day and age.

  Yet Jarasandha had done it.

  And because it was so unexpected, because there were only seconds from the time everyone realized the true destination of those arrows and their coming to ground, there was nothing to be done to save the victims.

  The first volley fell like a hail of dissolution upon Mathura. Killing children, infants, women, men and animals indiscriminately. Entire families fell, riddled with arrows, spouting blood, gasping for breath around bloody mouthfuls of air. Old men who had survived a dozen wars and the reign of Kamsa and had only recently celebrated living over a hundred years died with arrows through their throats and eyes and ears. Young women, unwed and uncourted as yet, died. Mothers and aunts. Fathers and uncles. Children and pets. Cows and calves. Dogs died yelping piteously, pinned to the dirt by yard-long arrows. Stray cats and even birds pecking at crumbs died. Uksan drawing carts were brought to their knees, hearts drilled with arrows.

  Hundreds fell, never to rise again. Thousands more were wounded or maimed for life.

  The royal pavilion was covered with a thick overhang. While it could not prevent arrows from passing through entirely, it deflected them. Old King Ugrasena was struck by one arrow in the forearm, punching through the bone of his hand and passing through it. Another three or four nicked or slashed or passed entirely through his flesh without harm to his vital organs. Vasudeva was miraculously spared as was Devaki who happened to be indoors at that precise moment, seeing to the preparation of the day’s repast.

  The screams of the dying ended mercifully quickly for the wounds were grievous and the shock of being struck just as damaging as the missiles themselves. But the cries and wails of the bereft and the wounded and maimed rose like a lamentation to a lost god.

  8

  KRISHNA could scarcely believe what he saw and heard. Using the power of his divinity, he sent his vision scouring Mathura, as if he himself were flying across the city and seeing and hearing everything taking place everywhere at once.

  In moments, Mathura had been transformed into a battlefield, one where an army lay defeated and helpless, capable only of being hurt and killed, incapable of defending itself or fighting back. The sight of thousands dead, dying, maimed and wounded wrenched his heart.

  In the royal pavilion, Vasudeva and Ugrasena sprang to action at once. ‘TAKE COVER!’ they roared. At once, their aides passed on the message. All those who knew what would follow took action as well.

  Across the city, every Yadava who could stand and speak was doing the same. ‘TAKE COVER!’ people shouted to loved ones, to friends, or to strangers alike.

  ‘TAKE COVER!’ the words were repeated and echoed across Mathura.

  Even the soldiers in the Mathuran ranks standing outside the city, were staring back at their home, stupefied. Their lips moved as well, warning their loved ones and families and friends and neighbors and fellow citizens: ‘Take cover, for God’s sake take cover.’

  At once Mathura responded.

  The Yadavas had not expected such a move. But once made, they would not simply stand by and be massacred either. They were a resilient enough people to react and do what was needed to survive.

  Those fortunate enough to have survived the volley unharmed helped those who were wounded. Dragging people under roofs, into houses, behind overturned uks carts, beneath bridges and overhangs. Taking shelter behind any structure that seemed sturdy enough to resist a volley of arrows.

  The wounded who had no help crawled to shelter as fast as they were able, helping each other when possible.

  Across the city, mingling with the moans and cries of the wounded and dying came the shouts of those who knew the danger of remaining as they were.

  ‘Take cover.’ And they cajoled and ordered and requested their comrades to do so, even as they crawled and hopped and rolled to take shelter themselves.

  Sadly, many of them chose badly, not realizing the capacity of these arrows and the height from which they fell. Not many Mathurans had experience with longbow arrows. Those who did were soldiers and all the soldiers were on the field. These were civilians and citizens and all they knew was the arrows came from the sky and the best way to protect oneself from them was to take shelter. Under what, it did not matter. Many picked up straw baskets or bales and crouched beneath or behind them. Others climbed into the backs carts, not realizing they had cloth covers. Others huddled in houses without being aware of windows and gaps in the roof and walls, for not all Mathuran houses were stone-solid or closed on all sides—indeed, being a herding nation, many lived in open proximity with their cows and calves.

  And many did not even have time to take shelter at all. Many were too badly wounded to simply get up and run. They were still struggling to regain their feet, or unable to pull or crawl to safety. Some were pinned down by the deadly missiles, impaled by arrows that had passed through bone and flesh with several inches of the arrowhead imbedded in the ground, or in wood, or between paving stones on the street. They could barely stay conscious let alone move.

  The second volley followed almost immediately after the first and its effects were just as devastating. Those who remained exposed were subjected to a shower of impalements, a punishment so dire and agonizing that even the mythic tortures of the deepest levels of hell might seem mild in comparison. The long heavy missiles, falling from great heights, backed by considerable drawing power and accu
mulated momentum, punched through living bodies mercilessly, reducing people to tortured masses of raw flesh.

  Many were betrayed by their choice of shelter. Arrows punched through bales and into bodies, through cloth overhangs, through open windows, through cracks in door joints, through gaps in brick walls, through wooden makeshift roofs. In some places, a cluster of arrows fell with sufficient combined weight and force to break through brick roofs or shatter adobe tiling, and in at least one instance, a clump of some several hundred arrows broke an entire small dwelling apart, reducing it to rubble.

  The third volley was in the air even before the second volley fell.