Kritavarman could only nod in awe, but the sound of grunting pigs distracted him. All the soldiers on the ramparts turned in surprise as a squad of Silver Wolves marched to take position before the catapults, holding the ropes that noosed the filthy oinking beasts. The pigs shone with oil and resin, the same substances Krishna had once smuggled to Yudhistir to coat the Mansion of Lac at Varnavrat. The Wolves positioned themselves in a line and began hauling the pigs onto the spoons of the catapults. The pigs struggled, squealing in alarm, as if sensing danger but unable to do anything for their legs were tied. Kalyavan has his pets. I have mine.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Akrur asked.

Krishna merely smiled. As the airavats came within shooting range of the catapults, he yelled, ‘Release!’

The resin was lit. The pigs were set on fire. If the squealing had been loud before, it now reached a desperate crescendo. He could barely hear the slam of the catapult arm against the frame over their cries.

The airavats might as well have seen Yama swooping down on them. Their entire frontline was in disarray as flaming, squealing pigs descended from the sky. The airavats ran helter-skelter, trampling their own men. Their bladed-tusks gored each other in their panic. Beasts bellowed; men screamed. The orderly march vanished in moments, replaced by a righteous run for survival.

Two Greek Generals in the rear marshalled their men and the airavats of the second line and managed to charge towards the Iron Curfew amidst the rain of flying pigs. But once the discipline of an army falters, it takes a miracle to steady it again. The airavats, losing all sense of direction, rushed at the great walls of the Iron Curfew instead of its gates. One fell into the deep moat and others followed, one after the other, in some macabre brotherhood of death.

‘Ready your bows!’ roared Krishna.

All around bows creaked as they were drawn, aims taken, jaws clenched. The airavats struggled in the moat, tusks shining, tongues lolling, eyes filled with murderous hate.

‘Now!’

Bowstrings twanged and arrows hissed down, followed by stones, javelins, sling shots and even nails. The archers took easy aim, picking off the Greeks below one by one. Krishna reckoned it took ten to fifteen arrows to bring an airavat down. The boilers dropped hot oil over the ones that still stood, enraging them. And it worked splendidly, for they turned on their own mahouts, spearing and trampling them with an ivory fury.