Creation (81 page)

I had not counted on his remembering what I had said about the Wise Lord so many years before. This was foolish of me. When it comes to memory, the professional priest is worse—or better—than the poet.

“I have not changed,” I said. “I still believe in the Wise Lord. I only mention the teachings of Confucius to demonstrate—” I stopped, unable to recall just what it was that I
had
meant to reveal by quoting the worldly Confucius.

“To demonstrate the similarities between his way and the way of the Buddha. Of course, I understand.” Ananda smiled, infuriatingly. “Certainly,” he went on, “your Cathayan, by rejecting the idea of a creator-god like Brahma or the Wise Lord, shows the beginnings of true intelligence.”

I took this blasphemy with, I hope, the same imperturbability that he had used to deflect my earlier challenge. “It is true intelligence,” I said, “to realize that nothing can start from nothing. Therefore, the world had to start from something. The world had to be created, which it was—by the Wise Lord.”

“But who created him?”

“He did.”

“Out of what?”

“Out of nothing.”

“But you just said that nothing can start from nothing.”

Yes, Democritus, I had fallen into the oldest trap of all. I shifted ground, swiftly. “Nothing is not the word I meant. Let us say that what there was then and is now and will be is the always-so.” Without thinking, I had appropriated Master Li’s concept. “It was from the always-so that the Wise Lord created the earth, sky, man. Created the Truth and the Lie ...”

“Oh, dear.” Ananda sighed. “This is very primitive. Do forgive me. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I respect your deep faith in what your grandfather thought was true. But even your Cathayan friend has gone beyond the notion of an all-powerful sky god like the Wise Lord or Brahma or heaven or whatever you want to call him or it. You know, there was once a Brahman who used to get very angry with the Buddha. Finally he said, ‘How can you reject Brahma the creator? Don’t you realize that whatever happiness or sorrow, whatever feeling a man has comes to him from a supreme deity?’ ”

“What did the Buddha say to that?” Obviously Prince Jeta had not heard this part of the doctrine before—because it was a recent revelation?

“I quote the Buddha’s answer,” said Ananda. He shut his eyes and started to chant, “ ‘So, then, owing to the creation of a supreme deity, men will become murderers, thieves, unchaste, liars, slanderers, abusive, babblers, covetous, malicious, and perverse in views. And so, for those who choose to fall back on the creation of a god as the essential reason, there is neither the desire to do, nor the effort to do, nor necessity to do or not to do this or that deed.’ ”

“Good,” whispered Prince Jeta.

“Nonsense!” I was furious. “That is only a part of it. After the Wise Lord created himself, and his shadow evil, he created man and he gave man a choice: serve the Truth or serve the Lie. Those who serve the Lie will suffer at the final judgment, while—”

“How very, very complicated,” said Ananda. “And so typical of one of those supreme deities. All that malice. All that silliness. After all, if he is supreme, why does he allow evil to exist?”

“So that each man can make his choice.”

“If I were a supreme deity, I wouldn’t go to the trouble of creating either evil or man or anything at all that was not entirely pleasing to me. I’m afraid that when it comes to explaining your supreme deity, you’re obliged to work backwards. Evil exists. You cannot explain why. So you turn your creator into a sort of cruel sportsman who plays games with human life. Will they or won’t they be obedient? Shall I or shall I not torture them? Dear child, it’s all too primitive. That’s why we’ve long since abandoned the very notion of a supreme deity. And so, I gather, has your friend Confucius. He realizes, as do we, that to accept such a monster means an endorsement of evil, since evil is his creation, too. Happily, we look past Brahma, past the Wise Lord. We look to the nature of the universe and we see that it is a circle without beginning or end, and for the one who follows the middle way, it is possible to look straight through the circle and to realize that the entire thing is an illusion—like eternity. Finally, for practical reasons, we think that men behave better in a world where there is no supreme deity endorsing mischief and confusing the simple. As your Confucius so wisely said, ‘Heaven is far. Man is near.’ ”

I did not pursue the subject. Atheists can always get the better of those who believe in the Wise Lord. We know what is true. They do not. I found Confucius sympathetic because he did not attempt to remove heaven from atop the earth. He accepted what he could not understand. But the Buddha defied heaven with indifference. I do not think that there has ever been on this earth a man so arrogant. In effect, he said, “I exist. But when I cease to exist, I shall exist no longer, and there will be no existence at all anywhere. What others take to be existence is illusion.” This is breath-taking.

Democritus says that
his
breath is not taken away. He thinks that the Buddha means something else. Creation continues, says Democritus, and the only anomaly is the flawed self which observes creation. Remove the self and matter remains, as always. The always-so? I cannot follow any of this. For me what is, is.

DURING THE NEXT WEEKS I DEALT with the various merchants and guilds who wanted to do business with Persia. I was by now something of a merchant myself. I knew what could be sold at Susa; and for how much. I quite enjoyed the hours of haggling in the tents that are set up in the central market. Needless to say, whenever I found myself in the company of an important merchant or guild treasurer, the name of the Egibis would be mentioned. In a sense, that firm was a sort of universal monarch. Wherever one goes in the world, its agents have already been there, and done business.

I did not find it easy talking to my sons. At first they were wary of me. I had the sense that, in some way, they resented their own differentness and blamed me for it. Nevertheless, I did manage to gain the confidence of the elder boy. He was inordinately proud of his grandfather, the king.

“He will be the first lord of all creation.” We were crossing the central market, where my son had watched me accept a series of loans from a corporation of merchants. I must say that he had done his very best to conceal his warrior-class scorn of the merchants that I was dealing with.

“What do you mean by lord of all creation?”

“The king looks to the west. The king looks to the east.” The boy was obviously quoting from some palace text.

“You think that he has designs on your father’s country?” I asked.

The boy nodded. “One day the whole world will be his because there’s never been anyone like him. After all, there’s never been a master of all India before.”

“All India? What about the Licchavis? And the kingdom of Avanti? And
our
province of India? And what about the south?”

The boy shrugged. “These are details. But when Ajatashatru rode into this square—I was a child then but I still remember the way he looked—he was like the sun. And the people welcomed him just as if he were the sun after the long rains.”

I did not suggest that they might have been terrified of their new ruler who did resemble that relentless midsummer sun which scorches the fields and makes a perfect desert.

“Does he like you?”

“Oh, yes. I am in favor.” The boy was already the size of the warrior that he would soon be. Although he had my eyes—also, the eyes of the Thracian witch Lais—he was entirely strange to me. But I could tell that he was ambitious and energetic. He would make his way at the court of Magadha. There was no doubt of that.

“Would you like to see Persia?” I asked.

The teeth were very white; and the smile was charming. “Oh, yes! My mother has told me so much about Susa and Babylon and the Great King. And whenever old Caraka comes to see us, he tells me stories, too.”

“Would you like to go back with me?” I did not dare look at him. In the land of the dark people, there is something strange about two pairs of blue eyes looking one into the other, as if into mirrors ... only, one of the mirrors was framed by darkness.

“I must finish my studies, Father.” The answer was expected. “Then I’m to go to the university at Taxila. I don’t want to go, but my grandfather has commanded me to study languages. So I must obey.”

“Perhaps he’ll use you as an ambassador, like me.”

“That would be an honor twice over.” The boy was already a courtier.

My younger son was dreamy, and shy. When I finally got him to talk, he wanted to hear stories about dragons and mermaids. I did my best to delight him with tall tales. He was also interested in the Buddha. I suspect he may have inherited from his great-grandfather the sort of mind that looks quite naturally upon the other world. In any case, neither of my sons wanted to leave India. Although I was not surprised, I was deeply disappointed.

The day before my caravan was to start for Taxila, I sat beside Prince Jeta’s litter on the roof of the river house.

“I shall die quite soon,” he said. He turned his head toward me. “That is why I’m so pleased that I was able to see you again.”

“Why? Once you’re dead, you’ll forget me.” Since Prince Jeta enjoyed laughing at death, I made myself as amusing as possible on the subject, not the easiest task. Even now I am still not used to the idea of abandoning this admittedly decrepit body for the long walk to the far end—or so I pray to the Wise Lord—of the bridge of the redeemer.

“Ah, but to have talked to you in my last days may alter my destiny in some important way. Because of you, I may be closer to the exit when I’m reborn.”

“I would have thought that you are only a step away from nirvana.”

“More than a step, I’m afraid. I am linked to sorrow. My next rebirth may well be worse than even this.” He looked down at the paralyzed body.

“We are born only once,” I said. “Or so
we
believe,” I added politely.

Prince Jeta smiled. “What you believe makes no sense, if you’ll forgive me. We can’t conceive a god who takes an immortal soul, allows it to be born once, plays a game with it, then passes a judgment on it and condemns it to pain or pleasure forever.”

“Not forever. Eventually, in eternity, all will be as one.”

“I’m not sure that I quite grasp your idea of eternity.”

“Who can?” I changed the subject; spoke of my sons. “I had hoped that they might go back with me. Ambalika, too.”

Prince Jeta shook his head. “That’s not practical. They would find themselves as out of place there as you have found yourself here. Besides ...”

Prince Jeta stopped. He had seen something across the river. I looked, too. The plain between the mountains and the river was filled with what looked to be a dust storm. Yet the day was windless.

“What on earth is it?” I asked. “A mirage?”

“No.” Prince Jeta frowned. “It is the king.” I shuddered in the warm sunlight. “I thought he was on the Licchavi border.”

“He was. Now he is here.”

“I think I should leave before he arrives.”

“Too late,” said Prince Jeta. “He will want to see you.”

“But since he doesn’t know I’m here, I could—”

“He knows that you’re here. He knows everything.” The next morning, at dawn, I was commanded to attend the king across the river. I bade farewell to Ambalika, as if for the last time. She was soothing. “You’re his son-in-law. The father of his favorite grandsons. You’ve nothing to fear.” But even as she spoke, I had the sense that she was saying farewell to me for the last time.

There is nothing on earth to compare with an Indian army. For one thing, it is not an army—it is a city. Imagine a tented city of two or three hundred thousand men, women, children, elephants, camels, horses, bullocks, all moving slowly across a dusty landscape, and you have some idea of what it is like when an Indian king goes to war. Greeks are scandalized by the fact that the Great King goes to war with his women and his furniture and his flasks of Choaspes water—by the fact that even the immortals are allowed to travel with their women and personal slaves. But when it comes time to fight, Persian attendants and baggage are kept well to the rear. Not so in India. The king’s city simply engulfs the enemy. First, the elephants charge the opposing army. Should the enemy lack elephants, the battle will end at that point. Should there be resistance, spearmen and archers go into action. Meanwhile, markets, taverns, workshops, armories so fill up the enemy’s territory that he is undone by the sheer mass of people and things that have been flung at him.

When two armies of equal size attack each other, ultimate victory goes to the army that manages to kill the other side’s leader. Should neither leader die, the result is an endless melee—two cities hopelessly mixed up. There are stories of kings’ armies that have got themselves so confused that each side was obliged to call a truce in order to sort things out.

It took my charioteer and me an hour to get from the first sentry across the river to the heart of the military encampment where Ajatashatru’s golden tent has been pitched. I had more the sense of being in a vast bazaar than in a military camp. Slowly, slowly we rode through markets, past arsenals and slaughterhouses to the inner city, where the tents of the king and his court had been pitched.

At the entrance to the royal tent, the charioteer stopped, and I got down. A chamberlain led me into a nearby tent where a slave presented me with a silver basin full of rosewater. Ritually, I washed my hands and face in the rosewater; then a second slave dried me with a linen cloth. I was treated respectfully, but in silence. Once I was cleaned I was left alone. Although time passed slowly, imagination worked quickly. Since I assumed I would be put to death, there was no form of execution that I did not vividly imagine in every sickening detail. I was contemplating slow suffocation—of which I have a horror—when Varshakara appeared at the tent opening. I reacted rather the way a swimmer does when he realizes that what he took to be a floating tree is actually a crocodile.