The Thirteenth Day by Aditya Iyengar

hiding.

RADHEYA
    T he boy had balls. Great, big ones.
    He was Arjuna without the thin moustache and grey lines in his hair. He wore golden armour and a red dhoti bordered with gold, an obvious attempt to be noticed on the battlefield.
    I was interested to see how he would take on Shalya and was pleased with what I saw—a perfect throw, square into the unfortunate charioteer. The impact rattled the chariot, nearly throwing Shalya off. As soon as he was able to stop the shaking vehicle, he picked up a large iron mace and went hunting for the boy.
    Abhimanyu didn’t seem overly impressed and was ready to take him on with a broken short sword when Bhima made an entry.
    My chariots had punched through the Pandava formation. They had virtually no elephants to face us with and only a handful of chariots. But their foot soldiers fought with every possible weapon they could get their hands on and every inch on dust was hard-earned. I had never seen this degree of intensity on a battlefield. It was almost as if the last ten days had made the conflict personal to each one of them. No life was given easily, nor taken. We butchered our way slowly to the middle, stopping at places just to remove the heaps of carcasses that blocked our path. In some places, the troops spoke of walking through ankle-deep blood with carcasses floating past them like lotuses in a pond.
    When we finally reached what we believed to be the centre, I saw Abhimanyu showing Shalya his skill with the javelin. Shalya came after him with a mace when he was interrupted by a bellowing Bhima. There stood the great oaf, ruining a good fight. Bhima had a word with Abhimanyu and sent the boy back into their lines. He cracked his fingers and brought out a leather sack from his chariot and removed a thick iron mace from it. It was a beauty, with gold and hemp interweaves and an iron head as broad as a bull’s skull.
    On the face of it, they weren’t evenly matched. Bhima loomed over Shalya like an oak and was twice as wide. But Shalya had a wiry strength about him and a reputation for being the best mace fighter in the north.
    And Bhima was not going to let some glory-happy brat spoil his chance to test it.
    They began circling each other warily. Neither of them wanted to give any indication of their styles. Bhima prodded his mace into Shalya’s face and it was brutally struck down. Bhima appeared surprised by the power that went into the blow, and circled a little more cautiously. Shalya swung viciously but found his arc uninterrupted by Bhima’s bulk. Now it was his turn to be surprised. Bhima’s technique, I knew for a fact, relied more on speed than his strength. His mass was simply a decoy for his quickness.
    They continued circling, looking for an opening in the steady anticipation that only veterans possess. After some moments, Shalya struck. It was another downward swing, but this time the mace went down faster. Bhima stopped the blow and pushed back, then using his weapon like a battering ram, hit Shalya full in the chest. Shalya fell down but rolled back on his feet without wasting time. He went after Bhima with a series of attacks, striking him repeatedly on the arms and shoulders. Dazed from Shalya’s onslaught, Bhima retreated. Shalya came whirling in again, finishing with a devastating upper cut, which was sidestepped. The momentum behind the stroke made Shalya lose his balance and Bhima struck his adversary’s shoulder with all the strength he possessed. Shalya spun and fell on his face. He spent a few moments on the ground, trying to catch his wind, and got up slowly. Bhima let him take his time.
    This was no longer war. It was something more sacred, a personal test. Shalya tottered up to his feet. Bhima was waiting. The pace of the contest slowed. They took fewer shots now, waiting for the other to make a mistake. This continued for some time till both were drained of all energy.
    Then Bhima planted his feet firmly on the ground and swung at Shalya,