Creation (37 page)

Flanked by Bimbisara and Ajatashatru, I entered the tent. Silver lamps blazed. Flowers had been made into a thousand thousand—Note, Democritus, that I am now actually thinking in that flowery Indian dialect and then translating my thoughts, such as they are, into stony Greek. The styles of the two languages are entirely unlike, even though many words are similar. Anyway, there were a lot of floral wreaths, and the close
air smelled of jasmine and sandalwood.

The ground was covered with Cathayan rugs. One was remarkably beautiful—a blue dragon against a white sky. Later, when Ajatashatru asked his daughter what she most desired, she said the rug. He wept with joy. Nothing, he declared, would make him happier than to see the Cathay dragon rug in the house of his favorite daughter. But we never got the rug. This was the sort of happiness that he tended to deny himself.

The tent was divided in two by a rose-colored curtain. On our side of the curtain, Brahmans chanted passages from the Vedic texts. At enormous length, the perfect love that existed between Rama and Sita was recalled. I was amused to note that the nobles did not even pretend to listen. They were too busy examining one another’s costumes and painted skin.

Finally the high priest of Magadha lit a fire in a brazier. Then he was joined by three Brahmans. One held a basin of rice; one held a basin of ghee; one held a basin of water.

The tent was now so hot that I could feel the tree on my chest losing its leaves. I was sweating the way that Cyrus insisted that each Persian soldier must sweat before he is allowed to eat his one and only meal of the day.

From the other side of the rose-colored curtain, we could hear the voices of the ladies as they chanted mantras. Then King Bimbisara whispered something to the high priest. A moment later the curtain was raised, and the ladies of the royal family now faced the men.

My first impression was that the headdresses were almost as tall as the ladies themselves. My wife later told me that since some of the headdresses take a day and a night to arrange, the lady who has been so adorned is obliged to sleep on an inclined board in order not to disturb the marvel that has been created for her.

Between the old queen and the chief wife of Ajatashatru stood a small pretty girl. She might have been six years old—or twenty-six. The red circle that Indian ladies so delight in had been painted between her brows. She was dressed simply, as a virgin.

For a moment the men stared at the women, and the women pretended not to look at the men. I was pleased to see that the breasts of both sexes were covered, a tribute to that original Aryan modesty which has been so effectively undone by the languorous climate of the Gangetic plain.

Finally, the high priest bestirred himself. He took a basket of uncooked rice from a servant woman and made seven small piles on a rug. While this was being done, Ajatashatru crossed the dividing line between the men and the women. As he took his daughter by the hand, Varshakara nudged me. “Go to them,” he whispered.

I joined father and daughter at the sacred fire. I had already learned my responses; fortunately, these were few.

“Cyrus Spitama,” said Ajatashatru, “Aryan warrior, lord ambassador of the Persian king, take my daughter, Ambalika, and promise that you will observe the Aryan vows, that you will bring her wealth, that you will give her pleasure.”

I said that I would do these things as best I could. Then Ajatashatru tied the end of my upper garment to the end of hers. Together Ambalika and I fed the fire with rice and ghee. I found this part of the ceremony comfortable, since we were with the son of the Wise Lord in a sunless place. Then I took the girl by the hand and led her around and around the fire until someone placed a small millstone in front of Ambalika. She stood on the stone for a moment. I still have no idea what the millstone signified.

Uncomfortably knotted together, we took seven steps, making sure that both her foot and mine would rest for an instant on each of the seven heaps of rice. I know what
they
represented: the seven mother-goddesses of pre-Aryan India. Those ladies are eternal, and everywhere.

When we had finished hopping across the dragon rug, the high priest sprinkled us with water which was sufficiently cooling to remind me how hot I was; and that was that. We were married.

But the consummation of our marriage could not take place until we had slept side by side for three nights. The origin of this strict abstinence was explained to me at the time but I have forgotten it. We were also obliged, on the first night in our house, to watch together the north star, a reminder to the newlywed Aryan couple that it is from the north that the tribes originally came ... and to which one day they will return?

I liked Ambalika. I was prepared not to. After all, I have made it a point to expect the worst in life, and the fact that I am occasionally disappointed in my expectations is a source of dark solace.

It was about midnight when the last of the wedding party left the house. My father-in-law was quite drunk. “My dear,” he sobbed, “these tears are the tears of that unique sorrow which comes from knowing that never, never again in this life will I know such perfect joy!” As he blinked his eyes at me the paint from the eyelashes stung him, producing real tears of pain. Frowning, he rubbed his eyes with the back of a diamond-sparkling hand. “Oh, my dearest dear, treat well the lotus of my heart, the favorite of my children!” In a swirl of perfumed robes and bright jewels, the royal family departed, and I was left alone with my first wife.

I looked at her, wondering what to say. But I need not have worried. Ambalika had been exquisitely trained in the women’s quarters. She was like a worldly lady who had spent a half-century at court.

“I think,” she said, “that after you light the sacred fire, we had better go up to the roof and look at the north star.”

“Of course. Fire is sacred to us, too,” I added.

“Naturally.” Ambalika was never to show the slightest interest in the Wise Lord or Zoroaster. But tales of life at the Persian court intrigued her enormously.

I lit the fire in a brazier. Everything had been prepared for us by the half-dozen servants who had reported for duty earlier that day. Ostensibly, they were a gift from the old queen. Actually, they were all members of the secret service. How can one tell? If a Magadhan servant is efficient and obedient, he is a secret agent. Ordinary servants are lazy, dishonest and cheerful.

Together we climbed the rickety stairs to the roof. “Termites,” said Ambalika softly. “My lord and master, we’ll have to try to smoke them out.”

“How can you tell that there are termites?”

“It’s just one of the things that we are obliged to know,” she said, rather proudly. “Like the sixty-four arts, which I was taught by the old queen, who really does know them. She’s from Koshala, where they still believe that ladies should learn such things. Magadha’s different. Only the whores are taught the arts here, which is such a pity because, sooner or later, the husbands of ladies find their wives boring and so they lock them up and spend all their days and nights at the halls or in the houses of the whores who are supposed to be perfectly lovely. One of my maids worked for a whore and she told me, ‘You think your palace quarters are beautiful—well, wait until you’ve seen So-and-so’s house.’ Of course, I’d have to wait forever because I could never visit such a person. But men can. Anyway, I hope that you’ll wait until I’m quite old before you start visiting such places.”

A tent had been pitched on the roof of the house. By the light of a half-moon, we could see the five smooth hills of the old town.

“There’s the north star.” Ambalika took my hand and together we stared at what Anaxagoras thinks is a rock, and I wondered, as I often do, just where it was that we all came from. Where had the Aryans first assembled? From the forests north of the Volga? Or from the great plains of Scythia? And why did we come south to Greece, to Persia, to India? And who were the dark-haired people whom we found in the Sumerian and Harappan cities and where did
they
come from? Or did they simply spring from the earth, like so many flowers on a lotus whose time it is to bloom?

Democritus wants to know why the lotus is sacred to eastern peoples. This is why. As the lotus makes its way from the mud to the surface of the water, it forms a chain of buds. Once the lotus bud leaves the water for the air, it opens, flowers, dies; it is then replaced by the next bud of an endless chain. I suspect that if one were to meditate long enough on the lotus, the idea of simultaneous death and rebirth would occur to one. Of course, it may well have been the other way around: a believer in reincarnation decided that the image of the lotus reflected the chain of being.

The north star duly observed, we went inside our roof top tent. I removed my shawl. The tree on my chest had barely survived the rain of my sweat.

But Ambalika was fascinated. “That must’ve been a lovely tree.”

“So it was. Have you a tree?”

“No.” She removed her shawl. Since I did not share her father’s passion for children, I was relieved to find that she was a fully developed woman. Around each small breast, leaves and flowers had been drawn. At her navel, a white-faced bird stretched its red wings beneath the flowering breasts. “This is Garuda,” she said, patting herself. “The sun bird. Vishnu rides him. He brings very good luck, except to serpents. He is the enemy of all serpents.”

“Look,” I said, and showed her my serpent-ed legs.

Ambalika had a pretty, most natural laugh. “That means you will have to obey our laws or my Garuda will destroy your snakes.”

I was restive. “The days we must lie together without making love?”

Ambalika nodded. “Three days, yes. But it won’t seem long. You see, I know all the sixty-four arts. Well, most of them, anyway. I’ll keep you amused. Mind you, I’m not an expert at any of them. I mean, I’m not a whore. I play and improvise on the lute. I dance quite well. I sing—not so well. I can act in the old plays
very
well, particularly when I play one of the gods like Indra. I prefer acting the part of a man-god. I can also write down poetry that I make up in my head but I can’t make it up on the spur of the moment, the way the old queen does, and I don’t really fence with a sword or staff, though I’m a good archer. I can make artificial flowers so that you’ll think they’re real. I can make ceremonial wreaths, arrange flowers ...”

Ambalika described the varying degrees of proficiency with which she practiced each of the sixty-four arts. I’ve long since forgotten the full list. But I do recall wondering how any man, much less woman, could have been equally adept at all those things that she named, as well as being a sorcerer, a carpenter, a thinker-up of tongue twisters, and a teacher of birds—particularly the last. Every Indian lady has at least one screeching, brightly plumaged bird that she has taught to say “Rama” or “Sita.” When I think of India, I think of talking birds—of rivers and rain, of a sun like god.

Ambalika was as good as her word. She kept me amused and preoccupied for three days and three nights, and though we slept side by side in the roof pavilion, I was able to observe the Vedic law.

When I told her that Ajatashatru had called her his favorite daughter, she laughed. “I never met him until he decided that I was to marry you. Actually, it was the old queen who picked me. I’m
her
favorite granddaughter. Wasn’t the horse sacrifice wonderful? The old queen was so excited. ‘Now I can die fulfilled,’ she told us afterwards. You know, she’s going to die very soon. The last horoscope was not good. Look! There’s a shooting star. The gods are having a party. They’re throwing things at one another. Let’s make a wish.”

Since I had not yet met Anaxagoras, I could not tell her that what she took to be a handful of pure light was nothing but a chunk of fiery metal on its way to earth.

“Does your father have a favorite wife?” I asked.

“No. He likes new ones. Not wives, of course. They cost you far too much money in the long run, and he’s already got three. He might marry another one—or even two. But only after he’s king. He couldn’t afford a new wife now. Anyway, he sleeps with the elegant whores. Have you ever gone with him to one of their houses?”

“No. When you say he has no money ...”

“My sisters and I often talk about dressing up as young men and sneaking into a whore’s house when she’s having a party so that we can see her practice all the arts properly. Or, perhaps, we could go as veiled dancers but, of course, if we were ever caught ...”

“I’ll go. Then I’ll tell you what it’s like.”

“I don’t think that’s the sort of thing you should say to your very first wife
before
you’ve experienced her.”

“But wouldn’t it be much worse to tell her after?”

“True. About my father not having money ...” The child was quick. She had heard me. She had hoped to distract me. When she failed, she was candid but cautious. She touched one ear, to indicate that we were being spied on. Then she frowned and touched her compressed lips with a reddened forefinger. She was an excellent mime. I was being warned not to discuss the subject in our house, even on the roof at midnight. “He is too generous with everyone,” she said in a loud voice. “He wants people to be happy. So he gives them too many presents. That’s why he can’t afford new wives, which makes us all very happy. Because we want him for ourselves. We don’t want to share him.” This little speech was a masterpiece of the twenty-eighth art, which is acting.

The next day while we were swinging side by side in the center of the courtyard, she whispered in my ear, “All my father’s money is being used to raise an army to fight the republics. That’s supposed to be a secret but all the women know it.”

“Why doesn’t the king raise the army?”

“The old queen says that he really wants peace. After all, since the horse sacrifice he’s the universal monarch. So why should he go to war now?”

I did not tell her that Darius, not Bimbisara, was universal monarch because, from the beginning, I assumed that Ambalika’s first loyalty would be to her family and not to me. Consequently, I took for granted that whatever I told her of a political nature would be reported to her father or Varshakara. “What does the king think of your father’s plans?”