Creation (79 page)

“But all these ceremonies, Master! I mean, what did you think of Tzu-lu’s performance when you were so ill?” Confucius scowled. “The robes were positively blasphemous.”

“I meant the prayers to heaven and earth for your spirit when you yourself don’t believe in spirits.”

“That,” said the master, “is an exquisite point. I favor the ritual because it comforts the living, shows respect for the dead, reminds us of our continuity with all those who have gone before. After all, they outnumber us by the millions, which is why I cannot believe in ghosts. If these spirits were all about us, there’d be no room for the living. We’d see a ghost at every step.”

“But what about all those people who say that they have seen the spirits of the dead?”

Confucius gave me a quick side-long look, as if not quite certain how far he might dare go with me. “Well,” he said, “I’ve talked to many people who think that they’ve seen the spirits of the dead, and I always ask them one question, which shocks them. Was the ghost naked? Invariably, they tell me, the spirit is wearing the clothes that he was buried in. Now, we know that silk and linen and lamb’s wool are inanimate and soulless. We also know that when a man dies, his clothes rot just as he does. So how can his spirit put them on again?”

I was not certain how to take this. “Perhaps the spirit only seems to be dressed,” I said feebly.

“Perhaps the spirit only
seems
.
Perhaps the spirit does not exist at all except in the mind of a frightened man. Before you were born, you were a part of the primal force.”

“That is close to what Zoroaster tells us.”

“Yes, I remember.” Confucius was perfunctory. I could never interest him in the Truth. “When you die, you rejoin the primal force. Since you had no memory or consciousness of the primal force before you were born, how can you retain any of this brief human consciousness once you have died and returned to the primal force?”

“In India it is believed that you will be reincarnated on earth, as someone else, or something else.”

“Forever?”

“No. You keep on returning until the present cycle of creation comes to an end. The only exception is the one who has attained enlightenment. He snuffs himself out
before
the cycle of creation ends.”

“Once he is ... snuffed out, where does he go?”

“It is hard to describe.”

Confucius smiled. “I should think so. It has always seemed to me clear that the spirit which animates the human body is bound to return at death to the primal unity from which it came.”

“To be reborn? Or judged?”

Confucius shrugged. “Whatever. But one thing is certain. You cannot rekindle a fire that has burned out While you burn with life, your seed can make a new human being but when your fire is out, no one can bring you to life again. The dead, dear friend, are cold ashes. They have no consciousness. But that is no reason not to honor their memory, and ourselves, and our descendants.”

We spoke of divination. Although he was not a believer, he thought that the forms and rituals were useful to men. In matters that had to do with improving men in their relations with one another, Confucius reminded me of a gardener who is forever shaping and pruning his trees so that they will bear better fruit.

We spoke of the state. “I am resigned,” he said. “I am like the vase of Duke Tan in the ancestral temple. Have you seen it?” When I said that I had not, he told me how the vase had been put in the temple by the duke himself at the time of the founding of Lu. “When the vase is empty, it stands upright, and is very beautiful. But when it is filled, the vase rolls to one side and everything that was in it spills onto the ground, which is not beautiful. Well, I am that empty vase. I may not be filled with power and glory, but I am upright.”

At the end, in the shadow of the ancient rain altars, Confucius gave me the ritual—what else?—embrace of a father saying farewell to a son that he will never see again. As I left the old man, my eyes were blinded with tears. I cannot think why. I do not believe what he believed. Yet I found him altogether good. Certainly, I have not encountered anyone else in my travels who could compare with him.

THE JOURNEY FROM LU TO MAQADHA over the silk road took nearly one year. Much of the time, I was ill. But so was everyone else—sick with that fever which is so prevalent in those hideous southern jungles. Although a third of the expedition died on the road, the Key marquis regarded our losses as, comparatively, slight.

I no longer remember, in any detail, the exact route that we took. If I did, I would not tell it to any Greek. In due course I wrote an account of the journey, and I assume that my notes are locked away in the house of books at Persepolis.

There were times in the course of that terrible year when I very much doubted if I would ever again see Susa. There were also times when I ceased to care. The fever has that effect. One would rather die than be hounded day and night by fever-demons. Confucius thinks that the spirit world does not exist. If it does not, then who and what are those nightmare creatures that haunt us during the fever? They are real at the time; therefore, demonstrably, they
are
real. Democritus questions my logic. But you have never been ill, much less ghost-haunted.

My role in the expedition was never entirely clear. Although I was an honored guest of Lu and a son-in-law of the king of Magadha, I was also a sort of slave. The Key marquis treated me well enough; even so, I felt that he regarded me as nothing more than a convenience; and, if necessary, a highly disposable convenience.

When we arrived at the Ganges river port of Champa, I asked the marquis to let me go on ahead to the capital. At first he refused. But I was in luck. Since the viceroy at Champa had once met me at court, he did me such honor that the marquis could hardly keep me captive in what was, after all, my own country. I agreed to meet the marquis in Rajagriha. Then I left Champa with a contingent of Magadhan troops. Needless to say, I had no intention of going to Rajagriha. For one thing, I was not eager to meet my father-in-law again. For another, I wanted to see my wife and sons at Shravasti.

Twenty miles east of Champa, I parted company with my military escort. They went on to Rajagriha while I joined a second detachment of Magadhan troops. These men had been posted to the republican border, and their commanding officer was more than pleased to accompany the king’s son-in-law; in fact, he was terrified of me. I soon realized why.

Although even in Cathay we had heard stories of Ajatashatru’s cruelty, I had tended to discount them. I knew, of course, that he was ruthless. Crablike, he had devoured his own father. But that was more the rule than the exception in the Gangetic plain. Certainly, I had never thought him wantonly cruel. But I was wrong.

For one thing, I was astonished by the extent of the devastation that I saw in what had once been the proud and prosperous republican federation. As we traveled north through those conquered realms, it was as if the earth itself had been put to death. Nothing grew where once there had been fields of millet, orchards, grazing land.

When we came to a field strewn with fire-darkened bricks, the commander said, “This was the city of Vaishali.” The destruction had been total. Dogs and cats and birds of prey, snakes and scorpions and lizards now occupied the ruins of what had been, only a decade before, a prosperous city where I had been shown the congress hall and the shrine to Mahavira.

“Naturally, the king plans to rebuild the city.” The commander kicked at a pile of bones.

“When he does, I am sure that it will rival Rajagriha itself,” I said loyally. Although I was careful not to allow myself to seem anything but a loyal son-in-law of what the Indians took to be the greatest monarch that ever lived, curiosity occasionally got the better of me. “Was there much resistance here? Was it really necessary to raze the entire city?”

“Oh, yes, Lord Prince! I was here. I took part in the battle, which lasted eight days. Most of the fighting was over there.” He pointed to the west where a row of palm trees marked the shrunken river. “We drove them back from the river’s edge. When they tried to take refuge in the city, we stopped them at the walls. The king himself led the charge through the main gate. The king himself fired the first building. The king himself cut the throat of the republican general. The king himself turned to red the waters of the Ganges River.” The captain was now chanting rather than speaking. Already Ajatashatru’s victories were being rendered into verse so that future generations would be able to sing of his glory, and bloodiness.

Twelve thousand republican soldiers had been impaled on either side of the road that goes from Vaishali to Shravasti. Because the final battle had taken place in the dry season, the corpses had mummified in the hot sun. As a result, the dead soldiers still looked to be alive, their mouths wide open, as if gasping for air or screaming: death must have come slowly high on those wooden stakes. I was somewhat surprised to see that each man had been carefully emasculated: Indians frown on this practice. Later, in Shravasti, I saw on sale many exquisitely cured scrotal sacs and, for at least a season, they were very much the fashion as money purses. Ladies wore them tied to their belts, as a sign of patriotism.

We skirted the border of what was left of the Licchavi republic. Although the capital city had been destroyed, the rest of the republic still fought on. “They are a very wicked people,” said my escort. “The king is very angry with them for not surrendering.”

“I don’t blame him. Let us pray that he punishes them—and soon!”

On a beautiful cool, cloudless day in autumn, I entered there was no hatred in the young man’s voice. He was as much a victim of Ajatashatru’s bloodiness as the endless rows of brown, twisted corpses to our left and right.

As we proceeded along the north road, a vulture came to rest on the shoulder of a mummified soldier. With almost human curiosity, even delicacy, the vulture peered into the socket where the eye had been and gave an exploratory peck; finding nothing, the bird flew away. He had arrived too late for the banquet.

On a beautify! cool, cloudless day in autumn, I entered Shravasti. Fortunately, Ajatashatru had spared the capital of Koshala. When I left Shravasti, I was twenty-seven or -eight years of age. I was now forty years old, and my face had been so burned by sun and wind that it looked like a teakwood mask. Worse, the hair that framed the mask was entirely white. Worst of all, the owner of the mask was no longer young.

Prince Jeta’s river house appeared unchanged. I knocked on the main door. A servant peered suspiciously at me through a small window in the door. When I told him who I was, he laughed. When I threatened him, in the name of Ajatashatru, he disappeared. A few moments later the door opened, and a respectful steward received me. Although I was a stranger to him, he told me that he knew all about the man from the west who had fathered the two sons of Ambalika. Thus, I learned that my wife and sons were alive. As for Prince Jeta ...

My old friend was seated in the inner garden. He was indeed my
old
friend. I would not have recognized this emaciated creature as the vigorous man that I had known and admired.

“Come close,” he said. Since he did not move to greet me, I crossed to where he lay on a couch. It was not until I embraced him that I discovered that he was entirely paralyzed from the head down.

“It happened last year.” He sounded apologetic. “I would have preferred a swift departure, but it has been decided that I am to die in slow stages. Obviously, my last incarnation was happy. But I must not complain. After all, I’ve lived long enough to see you again.”

Before I could answer, we were joined by a stout middle-aged woman and two solemn blue-eyed boys. I did not recognize Ambalika until she spoke. “Look at you!” She went immediately on the attack. “You’re
old
! Oh, my poor husband—and lord.” We embraced. I would not say that our reunion much resembled that of Odysseus and Penelope. But then, I had no suitors to kill off—that I knew of.

My elder son was already a man; the younger was on the verge of maturity. The hot sun of the Gangetic plain ripens all things quickly, as if fearful that there will be insufficient time for reproduction.

The boys stared at me with wonder. I stared at them. The combination of northern blue eyes with dark southern skin was most striking: they were very handsome.

“I think they’re lovely too,” said Ambalika after the boys had been sent away. “But, of course, everyone here regards them as demons because of those blue eyes. They have endless problems. But once they’re grown. ...” Ambalika stopped. We stared at each other across the fragile body of Prince Jeta. I was beguiled, as always, by Ambalika’s charm. I have never known a woman so delightful to be with. She was like a man to talk to, but not a
statesman
,
like Queen Atossa. As for her appearance ... well, the Indian sun had done its work. She was definitely overripe. The body was shapeless and the chins were numerous. Only the eyes were the same; they shone exactly the way they had that night when we watched together the north star.

“Begin,” said Prince Jeta, “at the beginning.”

I did. I told them whatever I thought would interest them. I was surprised that neither wanted to hear of Persia. When I was first married, Ambalika had talked of nothing else. But then she had expected to go with me to Susa. Now she had lost all interest in the west—and me.

On the other hand, Cathay fascinated both of them. As it turned out, Prince Jeta was part of a consortium that was involved in the reopening of the silk road.

“Now,” I said, throat dry from so much talk, “you tell me what has happened here.”

Ambalika made the delicate warning gesture which meant that we were being spied upon. Then, in a rapturous voice, she said, “My father is now the universal monarch. We delight in his victories. In his wisdom. In his kindness.” There was a good deal more in that uninformative vein.