2.1 Motivated questionnaire

[date:-334|magadha,x]

Pabbata studied his opponent’s stance carefully, his eyes narrowed and his body ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.

Cāṇakya hardly held any interest in teaching duelling for its own sake, of course – duelling was for the weak and the foolish, he’d probably say, for a man possessed of intelligence and strength would employ strategy rather than leave his victory up to a game of chance. Rather, Cāṇakya’s intention was to use these matches as an analogy for real battles: each player had a fortress to defend, represented by a stick in the ground, and was equipped with swords that represented each side’s army, and victory was achieved by either grabbing the opponent’s stick (capturing the enemy fortress) or by laying a single touch on the opponent’s body with one’s sword (destroying the enemy army).

A conqueror who simply sprinted to capture the enemy fortress would immediately be cut down by the enemy with his army, as most army formations were easier to attack from the back and the sides than from the front (except the Cakravyūha, which could not be maintained in a mobile state); a force that fled the battlefield would see its fortress be captured by the enemy army.

Pabbata dashed forward, sword blazing, determined to pass through Cāṇakya’s defences and cut him down—Cāṇakya blocked, using the point of impact as a pivot to reposition himself to Pabbata’s side—his signature move, that Pabbata had been expecting, and he spun on his heel to face Cāṇakya again—Cāṇakya tried the same move again, and they circled each other.

Apparently surprised by the failure of his manoeuvre, Cāṇakya stumbled – and Pabbata’s eyes lit up, for this would be his first victory against Cāṇakya, the student would surpass the Professor – he took advantage of the confusion, and with the intention of attacking too quickly for Cāṇakya to react, swooped in for the kill. Cāṇakya quickly took a defensive stance, blocking Pabbata’s blows, allowing Pabbata to push the line of control with his sheer strength—

And when he realized it, it was too late; Cāṇakya had seized his fortress and taken it in his hands, holding it high and showing it off like a spoil of war. For in his mad passions and in the spirit of securing a victory against Cāṇakya for the first time, Pabbata had neglected the entire purpose of an army in a battle: to block the enemy’s movement into his own territory, and he had failed to recognize that he had been pushing the line of control into his own territory.

Humbled and embarrassed, Pabbata conceded.

Cāṇakya’s prideful smirk was barely noticeable; he did not take a sarcastic parting shot or make a heroic gesture as he often did after his victories in debate.

“That manoeuvre is possible in real battle,” he taught, “Only if the size of your cavalry and chariotry is much larger than your enemy’s, if the article you wish to lay siege to is sufficiently distant in its location from the site of the battlefield, and if it is poorly defended.”

“Or if you employ tactics of deception to compel the enemy fortress to surrender to you quickly, or to trap or harass the enemy’s pursuing army in its own country,” Candragupta said, considering.

It was an intelligent idea, Pabbata thought, but Cāṇakya’s expression was unrewarding as ever, and he only expressed his approval verbally.

(The disappeared Greek girl Thera had once asked Cāṇakya why he was so inexpressive in his manner, to which he had replied that there was a beautiful technology created by man eons ago for expression, and it was known as language. To obsess over the interpretation of inferior modes of communication, to promote art as a means of expression while language still lived, was a betrayal of the very spirit of man, and was analogous to having intercourse with a cheap prostitute when one’s righteously-wedded wife still lived.)

“That concludes the lesson for today,” Cāṇakya said. “But Pabbata, there is a matter of crucial importance that we must discuss.”

Pabbata quite enjoyed these sparring sessions, independent of any lesson there – for even as Cāṇakya was his Professor, and Candragupta his servant, it felt good to be able to just bond, free from the binds of such hierarchies, merely as thirteen-year old boys did.

“There is a task I require from you, Pabbata,” said Cāṇakya, straightening the green lining on his dhoti as they prepared for sleep. “It is no trivial task, and is one that may impose a significant cost to you. You may not ask me for my causes or motives for seeking this from you. Do you understand?”

Pabbata frowned. “What is the task?”

“It is good to ask that question before agreeing to perform an unstated favour,” said Cāṇakya approvingly. “But you should understand the confidentiality of this entire endeavour, and you may not repeat my words to anybody even if you refuse to obey my command. To do so would be a great breach of our trust and would sabotage our friendship and all that you have to gain from it in future. The same applies to Candragupta. Do I have your word?”

Pabbata nodded. Candragupta followed him.

“Listen to my words precisely as I speak them,” Cāṇakya commanded, and looked Pabbata dead in the eye. “And do not distort them in your mind, just as you would not distort a word of the triple Vedas.”

He nodded again.

“You must convince your father to start preparations for a military expedition to Indraprastha.”

“ … ”

“ … ”

What.

What, Cāṇakya?

“ … ”

“ … ”

What even.

“ … ”

“ … ”

Pabbata considered his response.

“Nothing would please me more than an expansion of Magadha’s borders, Professor,” he said at last, “And neither do I doubt your capacity to ensure my success in the achievement of this objective, even though all my father’s previous efforts to this end have been fruitless. But I must still object to this goal in itself: surely, the Ārjunāyanas, who rule Indraprastha, might be precisely the sort of allies I will need in my war, depending on the method of war that you will decide will be most appropriate when that time arrives. Surely, they are not a power I would seek to alienate – or much less, destroy, resulting only in the addition of territory to a kingdom ruled by my brother!”

Pabbata felt his voice rising with each word he said, and by the end of his sentence, it had truly become his belief on the matter.

Cāṇakya shook his head firmly. “The art of winning a civil war – or indeed in acquiring the power created by a war – does not lie merely in supporting one faction over another. It lies in providing covert support to both factions, through different identities or middle-men, and then committing to a side once the outcome of the war becomes clear. For a war whose outcome is known to both sides in advance should never be fought, any civil war that poses a serious threat to the reigning power will necessarily be uncertain in its outcome, and thus as one must not bet all of one’s wealth on one outcome in an uncertain horse race, one must not bet one’s entire political career on one outcome in a civil war.”

“I see … ” said Pabbata slowly. “So you wish to create dissension within Magadha by means of this war, so that I have two forces at my disposal, rather than one, and that I come out on top regardless of who wins.”

Pabbata had often assumed that Cāṇakya knew nothing about manipulating people, or about lying effectively – but it was frightening how close Cāṇakya’s plan for him was to his private plans with Cāṇakya, and he wondered if the whole character of a naïve genius was merely the image that Cāṇakya chose to present of himself.

He reminded himself to be a bit extra-wary of Cāṇakya when it came to his own plots.

“But,” Candragupta interrupted, his eyes narrowed. “You said we couldn’t ask you the cause for the favour, and yet you just explained it to us so thoroughly. Is your explanation a lie, then?”

Pabbata felt a pang of anger rise within him – if Candragupta was right, and Cāṇakya was lying to him, then that would be a betrayal, and he would have his revenge, Brahmahatya or no—

Cāṇakya turned around sharply, and cast an indignant look towards Candragupta. “Indeed. That is only a small part of the cause for this plot, and it is part of a much greater scheme of mine. I cannot reveal this scheme to you, and you will not be able to understand my motives on your own; all I can say is that it serves your interests, Pabbata, and you will have to place your complete trust in me if our friendship is to produce anything of value. All will become clear in time.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“Very well,” said Pabbata. “But I must press: you said that I could play both sides in this war. How would I obtain the support of the Ārjunāyanas if I am actively supporting my father’s campaign against them? What identity could I assume, and how can I be present in both Pāṭaliputra and Indraprastha simultaneously?”

“You will be present there through me—”

“No way,” Pabbata muttered. Cāṇakya ignored him and continued.

“—the king of the Ārjunāyanas has attended many debates that I have participated in, he is, as is everyone else, greatly impressed by me; he is a close acquaintance of mine. I will advise the Ārjunāyanas of Indraprastha in their war, just as you command the Magadhi army. And thus, the two of us, you and I, Pabbata, shall write history in whatever manner we find fit, we shall—”

“Unacceptable,” Pabbata repeated. He remembered his earlier oath to be wary of Cāṇakya’s plans, and shook his head vehemently. This reeked of manipulation, and he certainly did not intend to be written into history as the idiot puppet of Cāṇakya the great visionary, a cautionary tale for young princes against naivety.

“Forgive me, Professor, but while I honour you greatly and have nothing but respect for your intellect, I also fear it, and you cannot expect me to trust you so. You might simply install me as a pawn in Magadha to sabotage my army as per your bidding while you vanquish my people with the Ārjunāyana army.”

Cāṇakya was quiet for a while.

“It pains me that you distrust me so, Pabbata,” he sighed. “Have I truly given you a cause to be so suspicious of me?”

“No, but you also have not given me a cause to not be so suspicious of you. I am no fool, Professor – I know that you have an agenda of your own, goals of your own, and these may not be the same as mine in every manner. It is a great degree of trust you demand from me, and I cannot promise this to you yet.”

“Victory depends on trust between entire armies, entire countries of people. To establish such trust is difficult, but we could achieve great things much more easily if you simply just trusted me without cause. You must find allies whom you can trust, if you wish to succeed in war.”

Then Pabbata had an idea. He remembered the intelligence, the potential that Candragupta had showed over these years that they had spent at Takṣaśilā; the loyalty he had demonstrated that very day in pointing out – out of concern for Pabbata’s interests – the contradiction in Cāṇakya’s narrative and said:

“There is one other person, apart from myself, whom I trust, for he has been by my side since infancy, attending to every want of mine since the age that he became capable of doing so. Him I trust. If you are truly desirous of my interests, then you will allow Candragupta to take your place as the advisor of the Ārjunāyanas.”

Cāṇakya and Pabbata had an unspoken stare-off.

“And you believe,” Cāṇakya asked at last, “That I would not be able to turn Candragupta, in your absence?”

“Impossible,” said Pabbata, and Candragupta smiled gratefully.

“Very well, then,” Cāṇakya conceded, “Candragupta shall be appointed as advisor to the Ārjunāyanas, on my recommendation. All my influence over the Ārjunāyanas will be through him, and he will covertly keep you updated of every detail of our conversation via the cipher that I have taught you. It need not be said that you will not share this cipher with anybody, and shall discard his messages as soon as you receive them in Pāṭaliputra.

“And,” he continued, turning to Candragupta in a very Professorial gait, “I believe it may be beneficial for you to maintain some degree of opacity in your affairs at Indraprastha – but it will also not do to have the Ārjunāyanas believe that you have deceived them. Thus, you shall adopt a synonymous alias: Śaśigupta.”

Candragupta silently marvelled at Professor Cāṇakya’s skilful manipulation of Pabbata into doing his bidding – so cunning had been his line of questioning and negotiation that the prince apparently felt that he himself had proposed the idea, that it was a settlement favourable to himself, rather than having been the precise exercise of Cāṇakya’s will.

He himself was only able to tell that this was his Professor’s intention, because he knew that Cāṇakya had been courting him for some time, and that he possessed an intention to bestow upon Candragupta similar favours and glory as he had promised the prince. Cāṇakya had praised various kingly qualities that were found in him but not in Pabbata, and even made an effort to inculcate those qualities that were missing in Candragupta. His manner of discipline with Candragupta was stricter than with Pabbata, and while Pabbata interpreted this as a sign of respect for himself as a prince, it was clear to Candragupta that Cāṇakya regarded such discipline as of special necessity to his training.

Yet the Professor had been sufficiently vague in his private conversations with Candragupta, adopting the stance of a double-crosser, so as to maintain plausible deniability were his treachery to be reported to the prince by Candragupta, and to make such a report sound too absurd and frivolous to be entertained. And in Pabbata’s presence, the Professor was always furtive with his words to Candragupta, maintaining a certain dual meaning so that the prince could only find offense to his statements by admitting to the flaws of his own character, which he was too conceited to do. The Professor had often spoken of the strategy of doing and receiving favours from an enemy to gain their trust and gather power in this way – Candragupta had to observe that this was what he had himself unintentionally achieved with Pabbata; the prince trusted his loyalty so fully that he was blind to the risks of this trust in his own plans, that the thought of this trust being false was so painful he refused to so much as consider it.

Candragupta himself was unsure what his own intentions would be.

He was certain that he was a loyal companion to Pabbata, yet it was likely this very quality that caused Professor Cāṇakya to seek him out and attempt to train him. In his actions so far, he had only sought to gain an education from Professor Cāṇakya, and to honour him as was expected from a student, and to do Pabbata’s bidding when it was required of him. Yet he did not know what he might do if these duties came to conflict, and he suspected that this dilemma might soon be more than hypothetical.