1.7 The art of double crossing

“Well?”

Pabbata smirked internally, proud at the cleverness of his dealings. By telling has father openly that he would ask for Cāṇakya’s support in a fratricidal war, he was able to frankly deal with Cāṇakya while maintaining plausible deniability for any report that might reach his father.

Ha, fool! You may have fooled your father – well, even your mother probably fooled your father – but you cannot fool me – I am fully familiar with the art of double-crossing. You have previously spoken to your father on this proposition that you will bring to me, giving some sort of excuse, such as “I will portray myself as an enemy of Magadha, and spy for you and for my brothers” while privately leaving open to yourself both options of alliance and treachery.

That is what Cāṇakya would have said, if instead of truly desirous to exercise cunning, Cāṇakya had only cared to appear cunning, as ordinary people did. But it was far more advantageous to continue to appear naïve, to make Pabbata complacent, and to respond in a manner that was consistent with his expectations.

He placed his foot on a protruding boulder, and spoke slowly.

“I have always said, Pabbata, that a fool is not one who does not know the truth; a fool is one who fails to recognize the truth even after it is shown to him most explicitly in its most glorious form. By recognizing my capacities as Dhanānanda did not, you have proven yourself to be in possession of the quality that I seek in my dearest friends. Thus, I shall agree to associate with you.”

Pabbata smiled, but seemed expectant.

You desire not only my intellect as an ally, but also my instruction in the sciences, seeking to use only that instruction that will grant your political victory and subsequent security while neglecting my moral instruction. You have not expressed this desire in these words, so as to deceive me into believing I have imposed a condition on you, when I demand it from you for my own purposes. Well, let me accept this unspoken request – for there is no means by which you could defeat me in the game we are about to play.

“But you have had a Magadhi upbringing, and this cannot be neglected,” Cāṇakya continued, carefully observing the prince’s reaction and smiling internally at his observations. “Thus, I will require that you enroll at the University of Takṣaśilā – there, over the course of the next several years leading up to the war you intend to wage, I will teach you the sciences and the Vedas, and we shall form a detailed plan to plot your rise to power.”

Cāṇakya was aware that playing the game against Pabbata would be risky.

The dignified persona that Pabbata wore in Cāṇakya’s presence was not representative of his true character – that much was certain. Cāṇakya was sure that when the time came, Pabbata wouldn’t hesitate to capture him and take him to Pāṭaliputra if he decided treachery to be more profitable than alliance at that time.

There was also the distinct possibility that Dhanānanda’s irrational anger and sentencing was itself a conspiracy by Pabbata to manipulate Cāṇakya to join his side. No honourable standards could be expected of a man who had a barbarian upbringing, no depth could be assumed lower than which he wouldn’t stoop – and conversely, no such standards ought to be respected by civilized men in a fight against barbarians, for to abide by rules that your opponents didn’t was equal to accepting defeat.

But Cāṇakya would hardly reject Pabbata’s offer – there was much benefit to be had in securing a powerful ally, even an unreliable one, and Cāṇakya had to first enter the game that he wished to play.

“I accept your conditions,” said Pabbata.

And thus the game had begun.

It took them half a fortnight to reach the country of the Pañcālas, which lied on the Western-most border of Magadha’s imperial extent.

Half the journey still remained.

Having had spent some time with both Pabbata and Candragupta, Cāṇakya had obtained a sense of both their personalities, and had observed a considerable intellect and curiosity in Candragupta that he had not expected in a minion whose life had been sworn to loyalty. It was a far stretch, and by no means a certainty, but it was worth exploring multiple plans in case one didn’t come to fruition as expected.

Of course, Cāṇakya could hardly be seen dealing directly with Candragupta, nor could he risk Candragupta reporting such a conversation directly to Pabbata.

Thus the adoption of the posture of a double-crosser: the art of betraying a friend in plain sight.

Cāṇakya drank the last drop of water from his vessel, claiming to be parched. When Candragupta had left to find water, Cāṇakya spoke to Pabbata.

“There are many reasons why a typical prince prefers to have multiple allies flanking them at university, one such reason being that it is harder for a group to maintain a conspiracy than for a single person. Are you so sure of Candragupta’s loyalty to you?”

Pabbata smirked. “I assure you, Cāṇakya, that there is no tactic known to man that could sway Candragupta on the quality of loyalty.”

“I will bet you one paṇa that I could.”

“Oh?” Pabbata raised an eyebrow. “Well, Cāṇakya, if you are successful in eliciting from Candragupta’s mouth a single sentence about me that is anything short of unqualified praise, I shall give you a hundred paṇas.” Then he added: “In addition, of course, to Candragupta’s severed head.”

After Pabbata excused himself with some effortlessly produced excuse, Cāṇakya spoke to Candragupta. As the standard initiation of conversation, he asked:

“What caste and country are you of?”

Candragupta looked surprised. “I am of Ayodhya, and of Vaiṣya caste,” he said.

“Oh? How did you come to befriend Pabbata?”

“It was out of his kindness that the prince offered me his friendship when we met,” said Candragupta.

Cāṇakya paused for a moment to calculate the most acceptable way to prod further. “Does the prince leave Pāṭaliputra so often? That must be quite dangerous, especially with assassinations having become a children’s sport.”

“No,” Candragupta answered. “We met in Pāṭaliputra.”

Cāṇakya paused again to think. “Well, you must be quite thankful for that visit.”

Candragupta didn’t answer.

I see.

“I noticed you haven’t yet written or sent a message to your parents about your move to Takṣaśilā. Surely Pabbata would be willing to sponsor a messenger; what’s of them?”

Candragupta looked hesitant to answer again, but eventually admitted:

“They’re dead.”

That’s what Cāṇakya had guessed. And if the remainder of his guess was true as well …

He nodded sympathetically. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did your parents die?”

“They were executed.”

“ … by the vassal king of Kosala?”

Candragupta shook his head.

“ … ”

“ … ”

“ … ”

(Cāṇakya took this time to decide exactly how much time he ought to wait for before initiating the truly important conversation. When he judged that enough time had passed, he spoke.)

“Do not take this as any form of instigation, Candragupta,” he said, “Nor of ill-will against anyone. But if Dhanānanda killed your parents, why do you work for his son?”

Candragupta shot him an offended look, then spoke the longest sentence that Cāṇakya had heard from the kid’s mouth yet. “Is it equally immoral, then, for you to associate with Pabbata for his father’s sin of killing my parents? Or is it only I who ought to care about my parents, so that each man merely makes an enemy out of those whose associates have personally harmed him?”

“Indeed,” Cāṇakya agreed, “That would make it quite easy to be wicked, by simply committing wicked acts, then dividing them among a number of messengers.”

“Furthermore, I have no intention to avenge my parents’ deaths as such; and Pabbata is not responsible for my parents’ deaths. Pabbata offered me shelter and employment in a time of grief and chaos, and for this I shall always be thankful.”

“If it is his provision of shelter and employment to you that is the basis of your loyalty to him, would you switch your loyalties to someone who provides you with superior of the same, or who provides you with other forms of material wealth that you desire more?”

“It would be most senseless to confess to such an outlook,” said Candragupta, “And most disloyal to possess one.”

“And you possess this quality of loyalty?”

“I have always been loyal to my master as long as I have had one, and desire to maintain this habit for as long as I will have one.”

It was subtle, but every one of Candragupta’s words had been precisely what Cāṇakya had wished to hear. He had not spoken a word in foolish emotionality, whether against his master or in his defence, instead maintaining dignified restraint. He had shown himself to be motivated by goals higher than mere revenge, and to possess a notion of kinship that extended beyond his mere family and tribe.

Cāṇakya had not yet truly articulated, even mentally, that he was testing both Pabbata and Candragupta as prospective future emperors of Magadha. His ambitions – and relief to the troubles that ailed the country – did not strictly require preserving an imperial Magadha as such; there was the desire of many scholars at Takṣaśilā to return to the period of Mahājanapadas, to the state of affairs that had persisted before Ajātaśatru’s conquests.

Yet Cāṇakya noted subconsciously that Candragupta, in short conversation, had demonstrated numerous qualities that were desirable in a king, and none of such vices. He also noted that being of Ayodhya, Candragupta would likely be acceptable as a king to the people of Magadha, who viewed Ayodhya as being of their own country even if the people of Ayodhya did not return that view.

There was just one question to confirm or deny Cāṇakya’s impression of the boy.

“And do you believe Pabbata returns your loyalty? He and his family live in a magnificent palace – he does not see you as deserving of any such amenities; indeed, he sees you as one of these amenities yourself.”

“Would my life be substantially improved if Pabbata were deprived of these amenities? Regardless of the differences between my view of him and his of me, the truth remains that my life would be substantially worse if I were to disassociate from Pabbata on count of either envy or vengefulness.”

Indeed, thought Cāṇakya, It is a fallacy to expect any associate – whether an ally, a friend, or a lover – to provide you with precisely the same as what you provided them with. As usual, an economic perspective helps shed light on this: an “equal” relationship is akin to paying a grocer in precisely the same goods that you receive from him – this benefits neither you nor the seller, it is entirely fruitless, and merely a waste of time and effort. If you desire the same provision from your associate as you provide them, then you could as well provide it to yourself.

However, even if the precise provisions of each party differ, it is just for the total value, as measured in gold, of the gain to each party to be equal – when they are unequal, a friendship transcends into a game of victory and defeat. Thus, just as one desires to purchase goods at the lowest price possible and to sell goods at the highest, one must seek to increase the benefits that he receives from his friends.

This was the quality of “ambition”, which was perhaps the most essential quality in a king. Candragupta had not demonstrated this quality; yet if he was truly of Vaiṣya blood, the desire to acquire wealth had to be innate to him, and merely suppressed by his slavery to Pabbata.

Candragupta noticed Cāṇakya deep in thought, and raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” he asked, “What will you tell Pabbata?”

Cāṇakya smiled very widely.

“I must applaud your sensibility in making and securing friends,” Cāṇakya said to Pabbata’s smirk. “I’ll pay up once we reach Takṣaśilā.”