by Ryu Mitsuse
“That is the suzerain’s tower.”
“Whose tower?”
“Are you quite all right? We met him just the other day.”
I fear you are the one who is not all right, Master, Gladius thought as he chuckled bitterly to himself.
Plato, his thick beard trembling in the desert breeze, stared at the strange bowl looming over the village. It was not the first time he’d seen it, of that he was sure. It was familiar to him, even—yes—surely it was something he had seen dozens upon dozens of times before.
But where?
Plato wracked his brains for some memory of the thing, but every time he felt as if he were about to succeed in dredging it out of the depths, it would slip away, back down to the bottom. With a sigh, the philosopher abandoned his fruitless mental efforts and turned to Gladius.
“Let us go.”
Lost to Plato was the memory that he had seen a bowl-shaped dish tens of times the size of this one over the royal palace of Atlantis—and that he was Orionae, the Atlantean.
Prajñāpāramitā
The weather was unbearably hot from the moment the sun rose that morning. A steamy wind blew through the vast fruit orchards down from the Buddṣāli Hills to the west of the city of Kapilavastu, clinging to the skin like hot syrup. The cicadas chirped in a cacophonous drone so omnipresent it seemed as if the sky itself chirped on a regular cycle, now high, now low—a relentless background noise that usually went unnoticed but that every now and then could rise suddenly in the awareness and swiftly grow overwhelming, like the roar of the sea in the ears. Once this happened, it was very difficult to cease being aware of it.
That was how it was now for King Śuddhodana. He wrinkled his persimmon-colored brow and turned to the captain of the guard, old Uddaka, standing behind him.
“What a racket those insects make!”
Old Uddaka nodded silently. Several beads of clear sweat trickled down the violet-tanned skin of his broad, bare chest. He was the most loyal, trusted captain of the king’s honor guard, and it pained him that he lacked the words to soothe his monarch.
I should have cut down those Brahmin monks when I had the chance.
That was all Uddaka could think. With fingers like gnarled branches, he toyed with the tassel upon the hilt of the crescent-bladed kora that hung on the leather belt at his waist.
I should have cut them. All four of them.
He’d had the chance many times. Yet he knew of the king’s deep-felt love for the prince, and it was this that had stayed his hand. The four Brahmin monks the prince had welcomed as teachers had given several sermons in Kapilavastu at the prince’s request. Uddaka had himself sometimes gone to listen. Yet the abstruse philosophies the monks purveyed held no meaning for him. To the simple, loyal captain of the honor guard, these monks’ plan to take Prince Siddhārtha—heir to the rule of Śākya—away and show him the “path to salvation” or some other fanciful thing made them the enemies of Śākya and a danger to Kapilavastu.
“Where could they be?” King Śuddhodana said, his voice betraying a mounting agitation as he gazed down on the thoroughfare that passed beneath the palace gates.
On either side of the white stone road, a great throng of onlookers had gathered to see off their young prince as he left Kapilavastu to live in the wilderness—together with the four vaunted Brahmin monks he had taken as his teachers.
“My king,” whispered Kabahla, Exchequer for the south of the kingdom.
“What is it, Kabahla?”
The king frowned as the minister leaned in. Kabahla’s stern features looked strained; he was wearing a cloth on his head against the heat, and his cheeks glistened with sweat.
“A Kosala elephant regiment has entered the eastern part of Bashi Valley, Your Majesty.” Kabahla spoke softly so that the other ministers standing nearby would not overhear his report.
“What?” King Śuddhodana gripped the armrest of his chair and stood halfway. “Uddaka! Why have you said nothing of this?”
The captain of the honor guard made a sour face. “Perhaps the Minister of Markets would care to explain why I have not received this report and he has?”
“Indeed,” the minister said with a hasty bow. “I sent an inspector to the valley not ten days ago so that he might properly estimate this year’s cane harvest from Zamba Village and surrounding fields. My inspector returned this morning quite early. He rode his horse fast some eighty li to bring me the news.”
“So their elephants are in Bashi already.” Śuddhodana’s face flushed, and he turned to Uddaka and whispered, “We won’t be able to fight the Kosala troops there . . . How many elephants can you field?”
The captain of the honor guard shook his head. “Eight at most.—No, seven. And about forty foot soldiers.”
It wasn’t enough. Kosala was Śākya’s neighbor to the southwest, and the skill of their elephantry and armed retinues was without equal amongst the sixteen mahajanapadas of the Indus Plain. The invasion was certainly more than the tiny and poorly armed Śākya could hope to face. Never had the armies of Kosala moved into their territory so boldly.
“And on this day of all days!”
Uddaka gritted his teeth and ran his large hand down his face as though weeping with regret. Something—a bead of sweat, or a tear—shone as it traveled down the ridge of his nose. Nothing troubled the old soldier more than to see his own kingdom’s frailty revealed.
“If Kosala is truly invading—” Uddaka began calculating in his head the troops he could muster. Whichever way he counted, the numbers fell short. He couldn’t afford to levy soldiers from the villages either. It was far too close to harvest time to empty the fields.
“My king, we should meet them near the second confluence of the Sawa River.”
The king did not respond. His gaze was fixed upon the five palanquins now entering the palace gates.
Uddaka swallowed his words.
On this day of all days . . .
The old captain felt then that he had lived just a little too long.
Even though the kingdom was poor and her warriors largely untrained, Śākya’s four thousand two hundred troops had a chance of driving back the armies of Kosala if a great general would lead them—and that general was none other than the young Prince Siddhārtha who was, on that very day, to leave Kapilavastu forever.
“My king!”
Uddaka would have sat down on the spot to draw up plans for attacking the armies of Kosala, but all the king’s attention was taken at that moment by the imminent departure of his son. So the guard captain stood as still as stone, his hand gripping the hilt of his beloved sword.
The procession of palanquins, guarded before and behind by several dozen śramaña, moved slowly across the stone-tiled courtyard. On each palanquin, symbols resembling a feathered golden sun sparkled in the light, dazzling the eyes of the onlookers.
From the balcony where the king stood, it was impossible for him to see the prince standing directly below; he could only watch the palanquins approaching for him. The javelins of the honor guard in the courtyard shone like a field of tall rushes in the sun.
One by one, the palanquins stopped. Then their hanging mats of woven wisteria lifted, and the four Brahmin monks stepped out onto the courtyard, casting pools of shadow on the sun-drenched stones.
King Śuddhodana sighed deeply, struggling to maintain his royal demeanor.
From beneath the balcony, the prince appeared, clothed in simple robes. He faced the monks, bowed deeply, and then began to walk in silence toward the resting palanquins.
“My prince!” Uddaka leaned out over the balcony railing and shouted. “Do not go!”
The prince lifted his thickly bearded face to look up at the guard captain and said something. Uddaka could not hear his words, but having known the prince since he was a young boy, he could tell from his posture and the way he moved his arms that they were words of parting.
“My prince! Kosala’s elephants are in Bashi! It is an
invasion!” Uddaka exclaimed, though he was painfully aware that nothing he could say would stop the young warrior.
From the high balcony, Uddaka couldn’t see if the prince’s expression changed at all. The prince moved across the courtyard, getting into the centermost of the five waiting palanquins.
For the first time, a burning rage pierced Uddaka’s chest. The kingdom faced threats from without and within, Kosala was invading this very moment, and their own prince was leaving them with no means of defense. If he wants to save people from their unhappiness, he should start by dealing with the realities of the day! How can there be salvation otherwise? Uddaka scowled. Damn your enlightenment!
Then he knew with great clarity what he had to do. Bowing to King Śuddhodana, he quietly left the observation area. Walking slowly across the luxurious carpet of woven peacock tail feathers, Uddaka made his way down to the hall on the first floor. The scene outside beneath the blazing sun was painfully vivid when viewed from the shade of the dark stone hall.
Uddaka steadied his breath, then stepped out into the light-filled courtyard. A number of unfamiliar, strong-looking men were in the process of hoisting the five palanquins to their shoulders.
Uddaka thought he heard the sound of women weeping.
A strange, quiet smile came to his battle-worn face—so deeply split with scars that it was hardly a face at all—and he put his hand upon his kora.
“Hold, Brahmins!”
The naked steel of his blade cut an arc through the sunlight, leaving a rainbow trail in the air.
“What’s this?”
Shouts went up from the crowd.
“Uddaka!”
Quickly, the palanquins were returned to the ground. The monks slid from their seats to stand upon the cobblestones.
“What is it, Old Uddaka?” the prince asked in a quiet voice that made the blood boil in the guard captain’s ears.
“My prince. I know you may not have the ears to hear my words now—”
“Wait.”
“No. You must hear me out, my prince. I do not understand the teachings of the Brahmins, and I do not understand how to save the people, but I understand all too well the plight that Śākya finds herself in this day.”
“Old Uddaka, please.”
“Listen. Saving the people from the hardship and pain of this world is the duty of the king, and you are the one who will become king of Śākya in time. I understand why you want to sort out your personal troubles, but what about the troubles of your own poor? It is all well and good for you to seek the path of enlightenment, but what of the many who seek safety in your strength? Your people suffer!” Uddaka said.
Siddhārtha shook his head. “That is where you and the other ministers must help them. My father the king has asked you to be his hands and feet, has he not?” The prince’s eyes were like perfectly still pools of water, while Uddaka’s eyes burned like flames. The old captain understood the workings of the prince’s heart as though its design were inscribed upon his own. Yet now was not the time for sympathy or compassion.
“My prince, if you will not remain of your own free will, then you leave me with no choice but to end this journey with steel.”
Uddaka realized then for the first time that he would, in fact, be able to cut down his own prince if it came to it. He lifted his sword, its crescent blade as slender as the branch of a willow tree. The prince smiled sadly—the smile of someone who suffers that particular kind of agonizing loneliness one feels upon losing the friend who knew them best.
Uddaka placed the point of his blade on the prince’s chest.
“Now, my prince, will you leave with these Brahmins? Will you abandon us?”
Siddhārtha laughed like a summer breeze. “Old Uddaka. If cutting me down will solve your problems, then please, end this life now. I care not.”
Uddaka felt the color of his face fade like a wilted leaf. “My prince. I have been appointed chief of the honor guard that serves you and your father. Though it is perhaps not my place to say this, I am the most loyal of your subjects. Do you say these words to me thinking that there is no way I could possibly bring harm to you?”
A sudden hardness came over the prince’s face, and a strong light shone in his eyes. “Old Uddaka,” he said, “it seems to me that life and death are as one within that kora you wield. Should you swing it down upon my body, you may end my life, but you will never cut my heart. My heart is here in this stone-tiled courtyard, and in those red flowers blossoming over there—it is everywhere within Kapilavastu, it fills this land. Tell me, Old Uddaka, how will you cut that?”
The old captain was at a loss for words, now that he was faced with the very situation he had feared might come. In silence, he steadied his grip on his sword. “My prince.” Uddaka lifted his blade.
“Wait!” called a voice from where the four Brahmin monks stood, as silent as wooden statues until now. Uddaka could not tell whether one of them had spoken, or all had spoken in unison. The sun blazed on his upraised blade, paused at its zenith, and Uddaka felt as if he himself might fade in its light.
“Great warrior,” the monk farthest to the right spoke. “Your prince does not abandon Śākya.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“Great warrior—”
Udakka took two strides toward him. “I am Uddaka, captain of the honor guard to King Śuddhodana.”
The Brahmin monk faced him directly and pressed his hands together, elbows out to the sides. “I am Maudgalyayana, Brahmin of Dowa Mintaka Temple.”
The next monk spoke. “And I am Subhuti, of the same.”
“Mahākāśyapa.”
“Pūrna.”
The four Brahmin monks looked startlingly alike. All had large angular heads, thrusting jaws, short necks, broad chests, wide noses, and deep-set eyes rich with shadows. Uddaka had always thought they looked rather countrified and dull, and he thought no better of them now.
“The prince goes to meet Brahmā.”
“What did you say?”
“Surely you know of the God of the Brahmin?”
“I know that Brahmā is Heaven.”
Subhuti stepped forward. “Warrior. Brahmā is the highest reality. Brahmā is the procession of the sun, moon, stars, and constellations; the birth, growth, destruction, and death of all things. Brahmā is the existence of all and the negation of all. Brahmā is the divine basis of everything in the universe.”
“So the prince is going to meet this Brahmā? Is he even a person? I have a hard time understanding how something could be both all of existence and a man of flesh and blood.”
“Warrior.” Pūrna made the abhaya mudrā, the gesture of no fear, with his hands and bowed to Uddaka. “Brahmā holds this vast universe in his hands and meditates upon it. That all things change form is Heaven’s will, the will of Brahmā.” A bead of sweat left a shining trail down the side of Pūrna’s wide, flat nose.
Uddaka shook his head in silence, then finally spoke again. “Monks. Let me ask you this. In Śākya last year and the year before the crops withered so badly we collected hardly anything in taxes. In Kapilavastu, the mending of the waterways has failed. The farmers abandon their fields, the merchants have left the markets, and entire families line up every morning to receive alms porridge. And a terrible illness has been affecting the poorer folk, leaving many severely crippled. Monks, if this truly is the will of Brahmā, then Heaven is not here for the sake of man, and it never was!”
Uddaka glared at Maudgalyayana with the eyes of a wounded hawk. His gaze went to Pūrna, and Subhuti, and Mahākāśyapa, finally coming to rest on Prince Siddhārtha.
The prince bowed deeply to the four Brahmin monks, then stood before Uddaka.
The sun beating down upon the courtyard felt hot enough to sear the flesh of the six men standing there. Sky and earth were filled with the resounding sound of the cicadas, and yet in the space before the palace a quieter sound held sway, a low twilight hum. The crowd surrounding the courtyard waite
d like a shadow.
“Old Uddaka.”
“My prince.”
Such tension ran across the three paces of air between the two men that they might have been joined by ribbons of steel.
“The will of Heaven does not serve man. All laws flow and change by the workings of mutual dependence, relationships, and karma. Man is the same. The changing of relationships determines the form of existence. Reality is not a fixed entity within the cycle of life and death, reality is change. Existence is impermanent, form is empty, emptiness is form.”
“My prince, tell me. Is the suffering of your people the will of Heaven?”
A look of deep pain came over Siddhārtha’s thickly bearded face. “I believe this is but another face of the world. Heaven includes all things. That is why it is called Brahmā. However, Old Uddaka, I cannot say this with utmost heartfelt conviction, for there are many questions to which I have not yet found answers.
“Hear me, Old Uddaka. The continuation and sustenance of an individual’s life is a temporary manifestation, subject to the strict laws of constant change. There can be no rigid, unchanging self. We find that if all men cling to the self and do not allow themselves and others to change, it leads to the great misfortunes of unhappiness and interminable social evils. Yet if we accept this basic truth that all is in motion, what of Heaven? Must we deny the existence of Heaven? The existence of the gods? The existence of the self? And what of love? These are the matters I wish to contemplate. No, I must contemplate.”
He spoke softly, yet long years of anguish showed in his voice.
“If that is so, my prince,” said Uddaka, “if there is no unchanging self in this cosmos and the body must perish . . . then I will be the agent of that change!”
Uddaka’s kora swept from the brilliant sun down onto the prince’s head.
For a moment, the stone-tiled courtyard, shimmering in the heat, flattened like a painting. Nothing moved across the sun-baked stones save the hot wind that blew oily thick through the railings on the serpentine stone stair, stifling the onlookers.