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How empires are built on the backs of animals
Summary
Humanity’s fortunes have been shaped by animals to a degree we do not always recognise. While horses have played an oversized role, elephants were the other big asset in warfare
In the 15th century, there was once a battle between two brothers. Firuz Shah, the Bahmani sultan of the Deccan, feared that his sibling Ahmad was eyeing the throne. He sent, therefore, an army to seize the latter. Ahmad knew he did not have the advantage of numbers on his side. But he did possess above-average common sense. So, at the back of his rather slim cavalry unit, he placed row upon row of oxen, with soldiers mounted on them. From across the battlefield it now looked like Ahmad had a formidable cavalry, ready to devour the enemy. Firuz’s generals and troops panicked. In the end, Ahmad’s smaller, emaciated force carried the day. Soon the winner planted himself on the throne. It was studded with diamonds and gems and looked rather grand. But somewhere Ahmad knew that he owed his power to a herd of bullocks.
Willingly or otherwise, humanity’s fortunes have been shaped by animals to a degree we do not always recognise. Empires have been built and saved, quite literally, on the backs of animals. When in 1573 Gujarat rebelled against the Mughals, for example, the province would have been lost. But Emperor Akbar reached the scene with reinforcements, turning the tide swiftly. How? His men and he rode non-stop for nine days. Usually, according to his son, Jahangir, the distance took two months to cover. Akbar was able do it in record time by travelling chiefly on camels capable of covering 200 kilometres a day. His arrival in Gujarat was a twist nobody had expected, changing the course of events. Those camels helped the Mughals hold on to one of the wealthiest provinces in India, enabling subsequent conquests.
Also read: Royal marriages were a funnel to power
Elephants were the other big asset in warfare, though unlike camels they were quite expensive to maintain, requiring enormous amounts of food and water. Often assigned several attendants, in battle elephants could ram their way through enemy ranks with spectacular effect. It is no wonder then that kings in Odisha at one time advertised themselves as Gajapatis, Lords of the Elephant. But the poor creatures suffered.
Elephants dislike loud noises and fire; on battlefields, they could run wild at the sound of cannons. To keep them under control, not only were they subjected to long training, but also, according to the scholar Jos Gommans, “drugs and arrack". Over time, as gunpowder warfare increased, elephants’ value declined. Yet they were retained for carrying baggage, for ceremonial purposes, and sometimes just for glamour.
The horse, of course, had an even more over-sized role. “No animal," writes the historian David Chaffetz, “has had as profound an impact on human history as the horse." Domesticated for milk originally, the horse allowed Central Asians—with vast pasturelands—to become excellent riders. As herds grew, migrations in search of more land took people from the steppe into new parts of Asia, impacting culture, religion, and much else. Things acquired a military facet too, with horseback archery. Central Asia housed, Chaffetz further notes, only a small fraction of human population compared to India and China; but it was home to half the horses in the world, and of superior quality. Not only did its people become feared raiders and conquerors, they also supplied warhorses to faraway lands, gaining disproportionate influence.
Individual horses also gained glory on account of devoted service to their masters. The small, chestnut-coloured “Copenhagen" served Arthur Wellesley at the most glorious moment of his career. Wellesley is known in India, of course, for being among the British officers who defeated Tipu Sultan and the Marathas. But it was at Waterloo, where Napoleon fell, that Wellesley was established as a hero. This occurred with Copenhagen’s cooperation: the horse is said to have carried the future British prime minister on its back for a non-stop 18 hours of fighting. Copenhagen’s pedigree was also much discussed, and in artistic representations of Wellesley—whether in paintings or statues—the horse is a staple presence. It has a gravestone in England too, commemorating its immense service.
But it was not just the horse that could make lives and careers; less glamorous creatures are known to have saved men from disastrous ends. In 1509, when Krishnadevaraya, the famous Vijayanagara emperor, ascended the throne, it was with much drama. For his predecessor, a half-brother, wanted to bump him off to secure power for his own offspring, much like Firuz Shah of the Bahmanis. As that man lay dying, he ordered a minister to blind Krishnadevaraya, fearing he would be a threat to his children. The minister though had other plans: he found a goat, the story goes, slaughtered it, and carried the dead animal’s eyes to the palace. The king died in peace, deceived that his line was secure. Thereafter, the minister delivered the throne to Krishnadevaraya, who owed his crown in some degree to the sacrifice of a goat.
Vijayanagara’s very founding legend, in fact, features animals. Its first ruler chose Hampi as the site for his capital, it is said, on account of a strange experience in the forest. Out for a hunt one day, he saw a hare, under chase from his hounds, suddenly turn around at a certain place and bite the dogs. Convinced that something about that spot emboldened even the naturally timid, he founded here a city.
The hare-biting-dog tale is interesting, but not original: the same legend appears in the establishing of Ahmednagar (this time with a Muslim sultan as witness), Ikkeri, and even Malacca. The motif of the hare and hound was probably borrowed to signify an auspicious quality for certain places. The animal ceases to behave according to instinct, and through that, pumps into human beings a form of magical inspiration.
Animals also delivered death, of course, not just in forests and war, but also as instruments of execution. This column has already highlighted once, for instance, how criminals in India and abroad sometimes had their limbs tied to elephants or horses, which then, moving in different directions, tore them to pieces. But history also points to strange accidents. In Kerala, there was once a man called Kerala Varma. He led an interesting life—husband to a rani, a Sanskrit scholar of such towering merit as to be likened to Kalidasa, and so on. In September 1914, he was travelling in a car when suddenly a dog made its appearance on the road. One of the men standing regally on a footboard swung his leg at the animal. But in the process the car swerved off into a ditch. Kerala Varma was grievously injured, dying two days later.
The Father of Modern Malayalam Prose, in other words, was killed by a stray dog.
Manu S. Pillai is a historian and author, most recently, of False Allies: India’s Maharajahs in the Age of Ravi Varma.
