title: 3.9 Showing empathyIn virtue of his power to uphold the observance of the respective duties of the four castes and of the four divisions of righteous life, and in virtue of his power to guard against the violation of Dharma, the king is the fountain of justice.
Sacred law, evidence, history, and government edicts are the four legs of Law. Of these four in order, the later supersedes the previously named.
Sacred law is eternal truth holding its sway over the world; evidence is in witnesses; history is what is found in the tradition of the people; government edicts are the orders pronounced by kings.
As the duty of a king consists in protecting his subjects with justice, its observance leads him to heaven. He who does not protect his people or upsets the social order wields his sceptre in vain. It is the sceptre and the sceptre alone which, only when exercised by the king with impartiality and in proportion to guilt either over his son or his enemy, maintains both this world and the next.
The king who administers justice in accordance with sacred law, evidence, history and edicts of kings which is the fourth will be able to conquer the whole world bounded by the four quarters.
Whenever there is disagreement between history and sacred law or between evidence and sacred law, then the matter shall be settled in accordance with sacred law. But whenever sacred law is conflict with rational law, then reason shall be held authoritative; for there the original text (on which the sacred law has been based) is not available.
Self-assertion on the part of either of the parties has often been found faulty. Examination, honesty, evidence and asseveration by oath – these alone can enable a man to win his cause.
Whenever by means of the deposition of witnesses, the statements of either of the parties are found contradictory, and whenever the cause of either of the parties is found by government spies to be false, then the decree shall be passed against that party
—Kautilya, in the Arthaśāstra, 3.1:38-47
“Read it,” the Emperor ordered, his eyes bloodshot.
Emperor Augraseniya was seething.
“Prime Minister … ” whispered his sister Durdhara, her eyes wet, “This betrayal … I used to think of you as equal to my father!”
Sakadala looked more insulted than anything.
“If I had truly hypnotized her to bind her from revealing the fact,” he said very slowly, “Then how was she able to write this letter?”
“Her love,” exclaimed Augraseniya indignantly, tears brimming in his eyes – “Her love for me overcame the wicked powers you wield. You must not feel so good right now – that must have been a serious blow to your pride.”
“If her account of the events is true, I would have found her body in her room after the act – whereas I saw her commit suicide before my very eyes, which explains why I had my family sent away to safety before reporting her death, because I predicted you would react badly—”
“You truly have no understanding of human emotion, do you?” Durdhara whispered in a hushed whisper, as if he were making a profound discovery about human nature, “You calculating, stone-faced, heartless Brāhmaṇa, never dispensing with the logic—”
“Princess, my account is confirmed by witnesses—”
Augraseniya bellowed. “WITNESSES? Why, because my beloved’s word counts for nothing? And only half of your supposed witnesses even confirmed your account – the other half denied even being there!”
“Because they are afraid of you—”
His brother Kaivarta interrupted, his face lighting up in newfound realization. “He killed our grandfather,” he announced, “I’m sure he did. Then he killed our father. And then he came for you. He is … I swear, brother – as long as I am alive, I will be by your side, and so will our sister – he will have nobody to replace you with. Nobody.”
The young emperor’s face, however, showed no signs of acknowledgement – instead, it only bore a look of heavy thoughtfulness, and everyone in the courtroom knew better than to speak before him and get beheaded.
When he spoke, it was almost a hushed whisper.
“He came for me,” he repeated the words of his brother, his pace slow and filled with such bittersweet, genuine emotion, “He came for me. But my beloved Rūpakośa took the poison for me.”
Sakadala exclaimed in frustration. “Rūpakośa was a spy!”
“Rūpakośa was my friend!” Durdhara retorted – she was shaking. “She was not a spy – I know it. I feel it. Do you know what it means, to truly know a person, a friend, a family member, a lover? I knew Rūpakośa, and so did my brother. And … and if what you are saying were even – and I cannot even force myself to consider this possibility – if any of it were true, if she committed suicide before you – then when would she have written the letter?”
“She DIDN’T. It was not found on her person. It was later fabricated, by another spy. There is a conspiracy—”
“Another spy?” cried a courtier, “So I suppose we are all spies now, are we not?”
“No,” said Sakadala, his eyes narrowing, “But by that reaction, I find it likely that you are one.”
“So yes,” cried another “We are all spies, everybody, we are all spies! And fools – if we were to believe this drivel!”
The Emperor raised one hand.
The court went silent.
His eyes were closed.
They waited.
“For the assassinations of two successive reigning kings … ” (his voice was heavy, and unstable) “for the assassination attempt on a third, for conspiracy against the royal family and the state, and for the … and for the MURDER of my dear, innocent, Rūpakośa … BEHEAD HIM! BEHEAD HIM, AND THEN ALL HIS SUPPOSED WITNESSES!”
But the official executioner had taken Sakadala’s side.
So soldiers marched forward, swords drawn, but gait uncertain.
A defensive phalanx formed around the Prime Minister, and some archers began pre-emptively shooting at the others, sowing confusion.
Another defensive phalanx quickly formed around Augraseniya – and around Kaivarta, and Durdhara, as it became clear what was happening.
The Prime Minister took to his steed – as his loyal soldiers slaughtered the guards, taking them by surprise.
As the faction of the army loyal to him followed to surround him, he stopped and called out:
“And to respond to your accusations, Kaivarta,” he pronounced slowly, “The instability of the throne of Pāṭaliputra well predates my presence here, but your own dynasty does not, having been installed by me. Nonetheless, there are several different competent men I could place on the throne in place of your brother.”
It was a fallacy, Cāṇakya would say – even though the literature was often written in such terms as to say “one who does such activity will surely achieve such result” – to view any man, even himself, as an infallible genius – one who could foresee all the exact consequences of his potential decisions, and act accordingly. Even predicting the outcome of a single social interaction was infeasible – much less that of a whole chain, or several interlocking chains of such events. Thus, it was always necessary to have a large number of well-thought-out plans with a substantial chance of success, so that at least one comes to fruition – it was necessary to ensure your future plans did not depend on any particular thread – and it was important to so fully understand the social and political institutions that existed that any plot you carried out felt as natural as a motion of your body, the same advice as was taught to those learning to ride a horse for the first time.
The assassination of Dhanānanda had only two goals, intended by Cāṇakya: one, to silence him before it became known that the emergency edict demanding the states of the Central Country to send their armies Westward to fight the Greeks was forged – and he had increased the success of this plan by exerting an influence on the crown prince via Rūpakośa and by framing the Greeks for the assassination so as to portray anyone (especially Sakadala, the one sane man holding the Magadhi state together) who doubted the edict as treasonous – and two, to create an atmosphere of instability within Magadha, so as to make a future transition of power seem more acceptable.
But the plan accomplished much more than even the young professor had anticipated.
Rūpakośa’s death had provoked a tripartite civil war in Magadha – the parties to which were:
One, an emperor who had consulted with a Brāhmaṇa seer, and for whatever reason – some believed that the hypnotist had subtly implanted a thought, some believed that the influence of Rūpakośa had altered his character – did not despise Brāhmaṇas – did not even insult the caste of the man who was believed to have murdered his father!
Two, a rebel prince who had studied in Takṣaśilā and explicitly proclaimed his acceptance of a Brāhmaṇa professor and of the Vedic ways.
Three, a literal Brāhmaṇa. Who, despite having murdered the reigning Magadhi emperor, was somehow not only considered an actual contender for the throne, but even enjoyed the open support of a large number of important members of the Magadhi government – perhaps even more closeted supporters – and nobody even seemed to be bothered by this!
One thing had become very clear to the people of Magadha:
Their way of life was dying.
The Brāhmaṇas were winning.
The light of the Vedas was burning through the country—
—for the Sun had risen in the West.