Creation (41 page)

“What kingdom has not, Lord Prince.”

“Some less than others. Bimbisara now claims to be the universal monarch. You were at the horse sacrifice. So you saw. You heard.”

“But I can’t say that I understand it. After all, Bimbisara’s entire country is not as large or as rich as the Great King’s satrapy of Lydia.” From the beginning, it was my policy to awe but not to alarm the Indians. I doubt if I was particularly successful. “And Lydia is only one of twenty satrapies.”

“That may be,” said Virudhaka. “But in this part of the world, only the Indus valley is subject to Persia, and that ... satrapy is a long way from Koshala. Also, your king must know that we have never been defeated in war. What concerns us is this: Bimbisara claims to be universal monarch. Yet the horse sacrifice went badly. He had hoped to acquire Varanasi. He failed. Now my cousin Ajatashatru is raising an army. This means that when the rainy season ends, he will cross the Ganges and we shall be at war.”

“It is my understanding”—I proceeded rather like a swimmer beneath the water—“that Prince Ajatashatru fears only the republics.”

“He fears them as much as we do, which is not at all.” Virudhaka was sharp. “No, the war will be directed not against the republics but against us. We will win, of course.”

“Of course, Lord Prince.” I waited for the inevitable request.

“Persia controls the Indus valley.”

“But, as you’ve just said, the satrapy of India is a long way from Koshala.”

I let Virudhaka’s own words mock him. But he was unabashed. “In the dry season,” he said, “five hundred miles need not be a world away.”

As we talked we vanished into the moonless night, our disembodied voices mingling with the voices from the riverbank far below. At one point there was a lull in the conversation, and suddenly I felt that we had become extinct. Is this nirvana? I wondered.

But then Virudhaka recalled us to the real world. He was direct, for an Indian prince. He told me that he wanted an alliance with Persia against Magadha. When I asked him what Persia would gain by such an arrangement, the prince proceeded to overwhelm me with good things. “We control the overland route to Cathay. We have a monopoly on the silk trade. We are the center for every important route to and from the farthest east. From Burma we import rubies and jade. Through us you can reach the south of India not only by land but also by water, once the port of Champa reverts to us.” There was a good deal more in this vein. Then he told me exactly how many troops would be needed and when they would be needed, and where. Virudhaka’s speech to me had been carefully prepared.

As the prince spoke, I could imagine the expression on Darius’ face when I told him of all the wealth that I had seen assembled in Shravasti’s caravan square. I could also imagine what would be going on in his head when he learned that the prince wanted to make an alliance with Persia. Here, at last, was the perfect pretext for the conquest of all India. The Persian army would be welcomed by Koshala. Magadha would then be crushed and Koshala would be absorbed, painlessly.

Darius was a master of the delicate art of attaching to himself someone else’s kingdom. But then, every Persian schoolboy knows by heart Cyrus’ famous speech to the Medes: “Through your present submission you have preserved your lives. As for the future, if you behave in the same manner, no ill will befall you, unless it be that the same person will not govern you that governed you before. But you shall live in the same houses and you shall cultivate the same land ...”

This speech defines the perennial policy of the Achaemenid. Nothing changes for a conquered people but the sovereign; and since the Achaemenid is always a just sovereign, he is usually received with joy, as Cyrus was by the Medes. Also, whenever possible, the Achaemenid tries to leave at least the semblance of power to the old ruling houses. There was no reason why Ajatashatru and Virudhaka could not remain as satraps ... no reason except that any Achaemenid who trusted either of those subtle princes would be a fool.

“I will do what I can, Lord Prince.” I was both enigmatic and encouraging—in the best Susan style.

“There is not much time. The rains are about to begin. When they do, the sea route will be impossible, while the overland trail will be—Where does your caravan stop during the monsoon?”

“At Taxila. I’ve allowed three months to complete the final negotiations.”

“But you could return to Persia when the rains stop?”

“Yes. But since you feel ... pressed for time, I could send a draft of a treaty between us to the satrap of India. He would then send it up to Susa and we could have an answer before the start of the dry season.” Needless to say, I meant none of this. I was playing for time. First the caravan must get through. Then I must report to Darius. Then ... Who knows?

Virudhaka was now on his feet. We rose too. The three of us were somewhat darker than the night sky. Virudhaka gave me a ritual embrace. “The privy council will prepare a treaty,” he said. “I hope that you will work with them. I also hope that you will personally
translate the treaty into
Persian, That’s all-important.”

“The king ...” Prince Jeta said the phrase, and no more.

“The king will agree,” said Virudhaka. “He is not yet entirely detached from his kingdom.” Then he was gone.

Prince Jeta and I strolled to the parapet and looked down. A thousand small fires burned in the blackness like so many earth-trapped stars. The river people were preparing their evening meal. As we looked down, I whispered into Prince Jeta’s. ear what I had been told in Magadha.

Prince Jeta made an odd downward gesture with both hands. “They wanted you to tell me this.”

“No doubt. But is it true?”

Prince Jeta shook his head. “The son is loyal to the father. Why shouldn’t he be? The son has a free hand. Pasenadi seldom interferes. He—” Prince Jeta paused. Then he said, “We are being sent a message. But what is it? What do they really want?”

“They want a war with the republics.”

“With Koshala too. But they cannot face both the federation
and
Koshala. So if they could divide Koshala by making trouble between father and son ...” Prince Jeta did not need to finish.

“It is clever,” I said.

“Except that, if we were to tell no one”—Prince Jeta looked at me as if he could actually make out my expression in the dark—“there would be no division, would there?”

We agreed to tell no one of Ajatashatru’s warning to Pasenadi. But, of course, each of us intended to use this information to further his own ends because that is the way of courts and the world. Yet I was puzzled because Prince Jeta had seemed puzzled. Had Ajatashatru lied to me? And if he had, why?

THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE I WAS being dressed in Persian costume for my presentation to the king, the first of the monsoon rains crashed over the rooftops of Shravasti. A few moments later I was joined by the wet and disheveled Caraka.

“There’s something wrong,” he announced, ignoring the all-attentive barber. “The king has been in council all morning. The prince is on the walls, with the archers—” Caraka stopped, at last aware of the barber.

“Can it be ...” I began but did not finish a sentence whose meaning Caraka understood.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

As the barber brushed my lips with lac he smiled. Being a high-ranking member of the Koshalan secret service, he knew what we did not know.

At noon I was escorted to the crowded reception hall. Although the gifts from the Great King had been placed at the foot of the silver throne, the throne itself was empty. The usually serene and rather cold-blooded Koshalan nobles seemed anxious as their voices blended in with the sound of the rain falling on the tile roof. I stood in the doorway, my embroidered splendor unremarked.

Finally the chamberlain saw me. Hurrying forward, he dropped his wand of office. Then he picked it up the wrong way around, saluted me incorrectly and stammered, “I am sorry, Lord Ambassador. You must think us savages. But there’s been—Please. Come with me. Your suite, too.”

We were shown into a small chamber just off the anteroom. Then the door was not shut, but slammed behind us. Caraka and I exchanged a look. The rain on the roof was now so loud that we could barely hear what must have been a thousand voices cry in unison: “Long life to the king!”

Caraka whispered, “Which king?”

I spread my hands. I was as prepared to deal with Virudhaka as I was with Pasenadi. My only fear was that war might break out between Magadha and Koshala before Darius could take advantage of the situation.

Suddenly a conch shell sounded three blasts. Since this is the traditional call to battle, I was, for the first time, alarmed. Had the royal house been overthrown? Were enemy soldiers in the palace? The chamberlain appeared; he was out of breath, as if he had been running. “The king is on the throne,” he said. “This way, Lord Ambassador.”

We were hurried into the audience chamber, where a glittering figure sat upon the silver chair. In one hand, a sword; in the other, an ivory sceptre.

The chamberlain announced the arrival of the embassy from the Great King of Persia. Then, escorted by ushers, I walked toward the throne, whose absolutely gleaming occupant bore no resemblance to the wispy monk that I had met my first day in Shravasti. Not until I had saluted the sovereign did I realize that this stern, be-jeweled monarch was indeed Pasenadi. The face was as carefully painted and as empty of expression as any Vedic god. There was no trace at all of the giggling monk whom I’d met with Sariputra.

With cold formality the king said, “We hope for good relations with our brother in Persia.” The voice was loud, distinct, emotionless. “We shall work to that end. We send him our fraternal blessing. We—”

Pasenadi stopped. He seemed to have lost track of what he was saying. There was a long, slightly embarrassed moment as we stared at the king, who was looking past us at the door. Although I heard footsteps behind me, I did not dare turn my back on the king. Then Virudhaka passed me; he was dripping with rainwater. At the foot of the throne he made a filial salute, and in a voice that only his father and I could hear, he said, “It is true.”

Pasenadi put down the sceptre. He got to his feet. He held the hilt of the sword in both hands, as if it were a torch to light some bloody way. “We have just learned that our beloved brother King Bimbisara has been deposed by his son Prince Ajatashatru, who asks for our blessing. We do not give it. Cursed is the son who raises his hand against the one who begat him. Cursed is the land whose sovereign usurps his father’s place. Cursed is Ajatashatru.”

With remarkable agility the old man skipped down the steps to the floor, and king, prince, councilors of state swept from the room. Then the chamberlain hurried us out of the room. The formal ceremonies of the court at Shravasti were plainly in abeyance, and the Great King’s gifts remained unaccepted. Caraka was particularly glum; after all, we had carried those chests of rugs and jewels halfway across the world.

“It’s most annoying,” he said, “not to have the Great King’s gifts acknowledged.”

“War takes precedence,” I said with statesmanlike sagacity. “But since there can be no fighting until the dry season, we’re bound to see the king quite soon.”

But we saw neither king nor prince for two months. Daily, despite the rains, delegations from every corner of the kingdom arrived at court. The privy council was in constant session. Meanwhile the street of the metalworkers was shut off to everyone except spies, and it was as a spy that Caraka penetrated the quarter. “Swords, spearheads, armor,” he reported. “They work nights as well as days.” War had indeed taken precedence over all other activities.

It was Prince Jeta who told me what had happened at Rajagriha. In a council meeting Ajatashatru had asked for permission to cross the Ganges River and attack the federation of republics. Although Bimbisara had agreed that the federation could not withstand the Magadhan armies, he made the point that the subsequent task of governing those quarrelsome states was not worth the effort of a war. Besides, was he not already universal monarch? He took very seriously the horse sacrifice. Too seriously, as it turned out. A few days later, without consulting his father, Ajatashatru claimed Varanasi in his mother’s name. Bimbisara was furious; he said that Varanasi was an integral part of Koshala. With that, he dismissed the council.

The next evening, shortly after sunset, Ajatashatru’s personal guards entered the royal palace and arrested the king. Since the move had been as swift as it was unexpected, there was no resistance.

“Bimbisara is now being held prisoner at Vulture’s Peak. That’s a tower in the old town.” Prince Jeta betrayed neither surprise nor grief. He knew the world. “It is said that no one has ever escaped from Vulture’s Peak.”

“What happens now?”

“My son-in-law and your father-in-law is a fierce and determined man who appears to want war. If that is what he wants, that is what he will get.”

We were seated on the inner verandah of Prince Jeta’s house. Just opposite us a row of banana trees trembled in the rain-scented wind.

“I would not have thought it,” I said. “Ajatashatru always ... wept so easily.”

“He was playing a part. Now he will be himself.”

“No. He will simply play a new part, without—or perhaps with—all those tears. Most lives at a court,” I added, with Brahmanical certainty, “are spent putting on and taking off masks.”

Prince Jeta was amused. “You sound like one of us. Only instead of changing masks, we change existences.”

“But unlike the courtier, you have no memory of your earlier selves.”

“Except for the Buddha. He is able to remember each of his previous incarnations.”

“Like Pythagoras.”

Prince Jeta ignored this obscure reference. “But the Buddha once said that if he were actually to go to the trouble of recalling every single previous existence, he would have no time left to live out this one, which is the most important of all, since it is the last.”

There was a sudden gust of wind. Clusters of unripe bananas were torn from the branches opposite us. The rains fell.