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.