Creation (31 page)

To the west of the republics was Koshala, an incredibly rich and populous nation. Unfortunately, King Pasenadi was weak. He could not keep order. He could not collect tribute from many of his own cities because the lords were often in rebellion against him. Even so, in my day, both Aryans and Dravidians agreed that there was on earth no city to compare with Shravasti, the capital of Koshala. Thanks to the accumulated wealth of the past and to the highly civilized nature of Pasenadi, Shravasti was an enchanted place, as I was to discover. For a time, it was my home; if my sons are still alive, they are there. “Koshala is a danger to us.” All the world was a dangerous place for the dangerous Varshakara. “Naturally, it is our policy to support the kingdom against the federation. But, ultimately, statesmanship is the mastery of the concentric circle.” Even in the relations between sovereign states, the Indians have evolved intricate rules. “One’s neighbor is always the enemy. That is the nature of things. Therefore, one must seek alliances with the country just beyond the neighbor, the next concentric ring. So we look to Gandhara ...”

“And to Persia.”

“And to Persia.” I was allowed a brief, bright glimpse of red teeth. “We have agents or well-wishers everywhere. But the federation is far craftier than we. There is not a corner of Magadha that they haven’t infiltrated.”

“Spies?”

“Worse. Worse! But then, you know. You’ve been dealing with our enemies, Lord Ambassador.”

My heart beat somewhat irregularly. “I have yet to deal, knowingly, with an enemy of Magadha, Lord Chamberlain.”

“Oh, I’m sure that you weren’t aware that they were. But you’ve been with our enemies all the same. And they are much worse than spies because they mean to weaken us with alien ideas, just as they have weakened Koshala.”

I got the point. “You mean the Jains?”

“And the Buddhists. And those who follow Gosala. You must have noticed that the so-called Mahavira and the so-called Buddha are not Aryans. Worst of all, both come from the republics.”

“But I thought your king was a patron of the Buddha ...”

Between thumb and forefinger, Varshakara blew his nose. Generally speaking, Indian manners are almost as delicate as ours; yet they blow their noses and void in public. “Oh, it has been our policy to let these people come and go as they please. But we keep a close watch on them and I suspect that, very soon, our king will see them for what they are—enemies of Magadha.”

I thought of Gosala and his string, of Mahavira and his perfect remoteness from the world about him. “I cannot think that these ... ascetics have the slightest interest in the rise or fall of kingdoms.”

“So they pretend. But had it not been for the Jains, Varanasi would be our city tonight.”

The chewing of betel quid ultimately deranges the senses in much the same way that haoma does. Taken too frequently, haoma destroys the barrier between dreaming and waking. This is why Zoroaster laid down such precise rules for haoma’s use. Betel-chewing has the same long-range effect, and that evening I decided that Varshakara’s mind had been disordered in a most dangerous way. I say dangerous because no matter how distorted his vision of actual things, he was always able to express himself in the most plausible way.

“When the horse entered the deer park, it walked—quite deliberately—to the gate that leads into the city. I know. My agents were there. Suddenly two sky-clad Jains darted through the gate. The horse shied. And ran off in the other direction.”

“You don’t think that their appearance was just coincidence?”

“Coincidence? No! The federation does not want Varanasi in our hands. And Mahavira was born in the capital of the Licchavi republic. Well, there will be other occasions. Particularly now that we have a new and treasured ally in Persia.”

We drank to the alliance.

I hoped that Varshakara’s agents had not told him how meticulously the geographers in my retinue were mapping the Gangetic plain. I dreamed of nothing but the conquest of India. I dreamed of cows! The Persian army would occupy Taxila. With that northern base, our armies would sweep down the plain. Although Koshala would put up no resistance, Magadha would fight. We would be faced with formidably armored elephants. Would the Persian cavalry panic? No matter. I was certain that, somehow, Darius would prevail. He always did.

As we talked of those spies and enemies that threatened Magadha, I wondered if Varshakara realized that I was the principal spy of the ultimate enemy. I suppose he did. He was by no means a fool.

Since the beginning of history, there has been a settlement at Rajagriha. This is because of the five protecting hills that make for a natural fortress some twenty miles south of the Ganges. But early in the reign of Bimbisara, the city began to expand onto the plain, and the king built a massive wall of crudely cut rocks in order to enclose and protect not only the new city but also farmland, gardens, parks, lakes. As a result, in case of siege, there is always enough food and water within the walls. At first this troubled me. But then Caraka pointed out that a capital city always surrenders if the rest of the country is cut away from it, like a body from a head.

As we approached Rajagriha the sun was setting, and in the half-light the walls seemed like natural cliffs studded at irregular intervals with clumsily made guard towers. Because India is so rich in timber and mud, stone is seldom used for building and there are few accomplished masons in the country. Important structures are made either of wood or of a combination of wood and mud brick.

The sky was still full of light as we rode into the city. Conch shells were blown in our honor, and the common people crowded around, as they always do when personages are to be seen—not to mention elephants.

The city that Bimbisara had built was on much the same grid pattern that I had so much admired in Babylon and in the abandoned Harappa city. Long straight avenues ran parallel to one another. Each begins at one of the city’s gates; each ends at the central square, which is dominated by a huge building, where travelers can sleep and eat for a price.

Just back of the new city are the five sentinel hills and the original town, a confusion of narrow lanes and alleys, much like Sardis or Susa.

The embassy architect and I used to argue whether or not man’s first cities had straight streets that met at right angles. He thought that the original cities were simply villages that had got too large, like Sardis or Susa or Ecbatana or Varanasi. Later, when a king actually founded or rebuilt a city, he would be inclined to use the grid pattern. I disagreed. I think that the first cities all followed the grid pattern. Eventually, when those cities deteriorated, the great avenues Were broken up and new winding lanes evolved between the new buildings which had been set haphazardly amongst the ruins of their predecessors. We shall never know the answer.

The new part of Rajagriha is impressive. Many of the houses are five stories high, and all are well made. The king had established a number of building standards that were strictly obeyed. But then, the king was strictly obeyed in all things because the secret service of Magadha—thanks to Varshakara—was a superb instrument. There was nothing that the king did not know—or if not the king, the chamberlain.

Enthroned on my elephant, I could look into second-story windows where behind exquisitely carved lattices, the women are able to watch the life of the city without being seen. Many roofs support charming airy pavilions, where the owners sleep on hot nights.

Most upper-story windows have balconies crowded with pots of flowering shrubs. As we passed, men and women threw flowers in our path. All looked to be friendly.

The air was heavy with those odors that I always associate with India: flowering jasmine, rancid ghee, sandalwood and, of course, decay—not only human but that of the city itself. Wooden buildings have short lives in countries where the rain does not fall so much as flood.

The royal palace is set at the center of a large un-paved square, where there are no monuments of any kind. I suppose that this is because the city is—or was then—so new. Curiously enough, there are no arcades at Rajagriha. In a climate where one is either drenched by the rains or scorched by the sun, the arcade should be a necessity. But it is unknown in Magadha. The natives are content to conduct their business either beneath the brightly colored awnings that edge the avenues or in the blazing sun itself. Most of the city’s inhabitants are dark-skinned; some have skin that is blue-black.

Except for a brick foundation, the four-story palace of King Bimbisara is fashioned of wood. But unlike the Median palace at Ecbatana, which is made rather oppressively of cedar wood, Bimbisara’s elegant structure contains every sort of highly polished wood, including ebony and teak and silkwood, and the walls of many of the rooms are inlaid with mother-of-pearl or plaques of carved ivory. Each section of the palace has its own characteristic smell, the result of carefully selected aromatic woods combined with incense and flowering plants. Barrel-vault ceilings made the interior of the palace tolerably cool on even the hottest days.

The palace is built around four inner courtyards. Two of these are devoted to the ladies of the harem, and one is used by the court. The king’s private courtyard is filled with trees and flowers and fountains. Because the windows that look upon the king’s courtyard have all been sealed save for those of his own quarters, no one may spy upon him when he walks in his garden. At least that is the theory. I soon learned that the secret service had made all sorts of spy holes through which they could keep a constant watch on the king whose eyes
they
were meant to be. I have never attended a court so ridden with intrigue, and I was at Susa with Xerxes to the end.

I was lodged with Caraka on the second floor of the palace in what is called the princes’ quarters. This was a great honor, or so everyone liked to remind us. We had a suite of six rooms, with a view of the nobles’ courtyard on one side and the city square on the other. The rest of the embassy was lodged in a house nearby.

I had warned my principal agents that the country was aswarm with spies and that whatever they said to one another was apt to be overheard. They should also never assume that the listener did not know Persian. Meanwhile, they were to discover the true military resources of Magadha. I say true because I have yet to know of a state that does not so misrepresent its military strength and wealth that, in time, the state ends by deceiving itself.

Not a day passes here in Athens but that I am not told how two or three thousand—or was it hundred?—Greeks defeated a Persian army and navy of two or three million men. The Greeks have so misrepresented those wars that they have finally confused themselves. This is always a mistake. If you cannot count properly, you had better not go to market—or to war.

I SHOULD SAY THAT NEVER IN MY LIFE have I seen so much bare flesh as I did in India. But unlike the Greeks, the Indians do not reveal their bodies in order to excite one another; they reveal them simply because they live in a hot country. They wear only two garments. Both men and women wear a kind of skirt, which is tied at the waist with an elaborate belt or girdle. They also wear a shawl, which is knotted or pinned at the neck. Once they are indoors, they tend to shed the upper garment. The court costume differs from ordinary clothes only in the richness of the materials.

Court ladies think nothing of revealing to their social equals breasts with painted nipples, depilated armpits, navels set with precious stones. When the ladies are not too fat, they can be extraordinarily beautiful. They have particularly fine skin, aglow with scented pomades.

Both men and women paint their faces. Eyes are carefully outlined with kohl, a Median fashion adopted by Cyrus and since continued by all the Great Kings and most of the court. It was Cyrus’ theory that Persians must look as much like gods as possible, particularly when they show themselves to their foreign subjects. Fortunately, Persians tend to be taller and more muscular than other men, and so with painted eyes and rouged cheeks they do indeed look like splendid living effigies of warrior-gods.

Indian men and women not only outline their eyes with kohl but paint their lips a ruby red with something called lac. There is no doubt that cosmetics do improve one’s appearance, but they are a nuisance to put on and take off. While I was at the Indian courts, I was obliged to paint myself, or be painted, twice a day. As a Persian of my generation, I found such a fascination with one’s appearance both ridiculous and unmanly—and tiring. Nevertheless, there is something most languorous and appealing about being bathed and oiled by pretty girls; then while an old gentleman washes your eyes with collyrium and tints your beard, he tells you the day’s gossip. Incidentally, the Indians wear only chin whiskers—I think that this is because they cannot grow hair on their cheeks.

The day after I was established in the palace, I was sent for by King Bimbisara. Several hundred courtiers were assembled in a long high room with clerestory windows so latticed that the sunlight fell in spangles on the pale-green tiles on the floor.

Varshakara met me at the door to the throne room. He wore a scarlet turban and a translucent shawl held in place by a chain of rough rubies. Like so many plump Indian courtiers, he had breasts like a woman. Like so many Indian men, he wore high platform shoes in order to look taller than he was.

Obviously, Varshakara had gone to a good deal of trouble to impress me. But after the court of the Achaemenid, that of Magadha was provincial, to say the least. I was reminded of Sardis. The chamberlain carried an ivory staff; and he made a short speech to me and my suite of seven Persians. I replied briefly. Then Varshakara led us to the high ivory throne, where Bimbisara, king of Magadha sat cross-legged. Above his gold-turbaned head was a canopy of ostrich plumes.

The old queen sat on a stool to the king’s left. Unlike Persian or Athenian women, the ladies of India are free, within limits, to come and go as they please. For instance, an Indian lady may go to a shop with only one old woman in attendance. But she must make her visit at either dawn or dusk so that the shopkeeper will be unable to get a good look at her. Yet, paradoxically, she may show herself practically nude to men of her own class.