Beloved of the Gods

PROLOGUE Kashmir 275 b.c.e. Swarthy, bearded mountain men emerged from the early morning mist that hung about the base of the foothills like the thin, errant smoke of smoldering campfires. Edging their shaggy ponies out onto the open grassland, more than a hundred rebel fighters armed with javelins and battleaxes accelerated to a gallop, confident of surprising the Taxila Viceroy’s encampment. Too late, they saw they had underestimated their enemy. Pada, son of a warrior of high caste, gripped the reins of his war horse and dug his heels into its flanks as shrill rams’ horns blared the signal to charge the approaching fighters. The war elephants, massed ahead of the cavalry, led the Taxila army. Deceptively slow to overcome inertia, they bore down swiftly on the stunned mountain horsemen. The ground hadn’t been softened by rain during the night, so when the elephants charged, the ground shook. Their pounding hooves drummed a background for the fierce yells of the rebels and horns sounding the charge. As the cavalry, led by the Prince himself, spread through the wide meadow overrunning everything in front of them, archers on the elephants’ backs aimed at the riders below. When elephants and horse soldiers got close enough for the archers to shoot, Pada saw the bearded enemy faces contorted in a mixture of rage and fright. Lumbering among the enemy horsemen, the elephants trumpeted, while their drivers maneuvered into position for the archers to aim. Although javelins flew they fell away from the thick leather armor protecting the elephants. The excitement of battle struggled with fear in Pada’s heart, beating wildly beneath his breastplate. Along with five other fourteen year olds of high caste, he rode for the first time into a life or death test of his fitness to become a warrior. The line of rebel horse soldiers dashed into the melee swinging their heavy swords with both hands. Pada’s archery training flowed from memory to muscles without prompting. His horse twisted and reared with little direction from his rider. With his knees and thighs, he hugged the horse, loosing arrows when he found himself in range of a mountain man. Fear slipped away as he saw the shaggy hides worn by the enemy for protection turn red with their blood where his arrows struck. He shouted exultantly, blending his own hoarse war cries with others’, with the screams of the wounded, and the neighing of horses. Reaching over his shoulder to grab a fresh arrow from his quiver, he threw his head back to keep balanced on the horse and was momentarily blinded by the blaze of sun just rising above the rim of the foothills. He blinked, quickly fitting the bulbous notch of the arrow into the bowstring as the horse settled in a position for his shot. Then, a javelin crudely tipped with metal thudded into his shoulder, missing his breastplate. He gasped, feeling the bone break as he hunched over pulled by the weight of the heavy missile. The rider who had hurled it galloped in with battleaxe upraised to crush his skull. Pada, paralyzed with shock, his fear returning in a rush, clung to his horse’s neck, amazed as a war elephant intervened, tearing into the chest of the charging horse with barbed tusks, then trampling the fallen fighter. On the command of the elephant driver, the sinuous trunk reached out and coiled about the man even as his wounded horse crumpled. Pada, his cheek pressed into sweaty horsehair, saw the body flung to the ground. The wrinkled, gray leg of the beast, as thick as a tree trunk, smashed the man’s chest before moving on. The giant foot rimmed with hornlike nails dropped crushing the rib cage as if it were no more than a reed basket. A command from above stayed the thick hoof from falling next on the victim’s terrified face. The last thing Pada saw before blacking out was the blood gushing splintered bone in a red, pulpy mass onto the stubby grassland. He clung to the mane with his right hand, his left arm swinging, almost disconnected, spattering the blood now pouring from somewhere deep. He never knew who found him still draped over his horse when the brief skirmish was finished. Someone loosened the spiked leather bit from the horse’s mouth and led them to hospital wagons in the rear. He woke, half way back to the camp, jarred painfully by the rough bumping of the wagon carrying him along with other injured. Strapped into immobility, he looked up into the plangent blue sky and mumbled a prayer, partly relief to be alive, partly a plea that a village was near. Herbs of oblivion grew in these high mountains, the surgeon told him. Brought from Kabul. With a grimace at the bitterness of the thin potion he swallowed, Pada handed the cup back. He guessed that meant he was lucky to have the numbing drink. Nevertheless, the journey back to Taxila was excruciating.