2.5 Cutting the Gordian knot

[date:-329|magadha,x]

Pabbata was worried.

Seven years ago, when he had first met Cāṇakya, he had regarded the latter as an intelligent fool – a boy genius, no doubt, but painfully naïve and oblivious to the ways of manipulation. He had been so confident that he would effortlessly beat Cāṇakya in his own game, one way or another, that he had made no precautions against whatever plots Cāṇakya himself may have been making against him.

He should have corrected this belief when the boy had broken out of the most secure prisons, designed by Emperor Ajātaśatru himself, by manipulating his prison guards.

He should have corrected this belief upon witnessing the degree of admiration and worship that the Gandhāras possessed for the Brāhmaṇa boy.

He should have corrected this belief when he heard Cāṇakya’s lecture on the ways of manipulation, and his extensive descriptions of such techniques in various contexts in his other lectures; when he had displayed his knowledge of precisely those postures of manipulation that Pabbata had been trying against Cāṇakya.

But he had told himself, repeatedly, that Cāṇakya’s knowledge was only theoretical, that he would be utterly ineffectual in implementing it without Pabbata’s support. But upon observing Cāṇakya’s odd request unfold into a beautifully-executed heist that liberated the entirety of Punjab from Persian rule while also ensuring – at least for the time being – their freedom from Magadha, Pabbata had to reconsider all that he had believed about his Professor.

Now in the cosy confines of Cāṇakya’s residence, as Pabbata played Rājamaṇḍala huddled around a fire with the rest of the gurukula, he felt more dread than fondness or nostalgia.

“I believe you are the spy, Professor,” he said, “I must execute you.”

Cāṇakya sighed. “Emperor … ” he said softly, “Why do you distrust me so?”

The said Professor was eighteen this year. They had last seen each other five years ago, and had been apart for a rather formative period – even if Pabbata had ever been right in his assessment of Cāṇakya, the boy had quite likely lost any such innocence that had been true of him in the past.

(Pabbata found himself assassinated by Apratimaujas upon the next waking as a result of his unfounded suspicion of Cāṇakya.)

But most dreadful of all were Pabbata’s newfound worries about Candragupta’s loyalties.

Sweet, loyal, upright Candragupta.

Five years ago, Pabbata would never have suspected a blemish in his sidekick’s character – nor would he have distrusted Candragupta to ever change when not under his influence. But whether as a consequence of Candragupta’s loss of innocence, or Pabbata’s own – Pabbata found himself fearing that even Candragupta may have been turned by Cāṇakya, that his blind trust in Candragupta was irrationally wishful, that naked, Pabbata truly had no allies.

Candragupta collected the seals and props and placed them in a bag, while Śrībhānu collected the fuel to prepare for bedtime.

Cāṇakya stood up, and Pabbata noticed that the Professor’s relaxed expression had given away to a far more serious one.

“Pabbata and Candragupta, there is something that we must talk about. The rest of you will go to sleep.”

The two students set cross-legged apart from their Professor, who held them with a stern gaze.

Pabbata was nervous. Candragupta appeared relatively calm.

“One who does not know his goals cannot win,” said Cāṇakya. “And yet in all our deliberations so far, Pabbata, we have acted coy about our this, about what benefits we seek from each other. There are many reasons we have adopted this posture, without speaking of our goals explicitly, but now you are old enough, as is Candragupta, and possess sufficient wit that there is no longer any advantage to be held in keeping this from you.”

Pabbata held his breath.

“I am testing you both as prospective future kings of Magadha,” Cāṇakya announced, making his worst fears come true, “On the basis of that qualities that you possess, as they are true and as they are perceived by the elements of Magadha’s sovereignty. I have not made my decision yet, for it is a difficult one, and I might not make it for a very long time.”

This time it was Candragupta who cast a nervous glance in Pabbata’s direction, as if he wished to say that he had no idea about any of these plans of the Professor; Pabbata held Cāṇakya’s gaze.

“What are these qualities, Professor?” he asked steadily.

But Cāṇakya ignored him. “I will say this much, however – if either of you ends up dead, then the entire project will be discarded, and I will start afresh with a new crop of candidates. And if I end up dead … well, let us say the world will have to wait for another candidate for my place in all this. So it is in your best interests to ensure that neither of you comes to any harm.”

Pabbata did not quite believe that Cāṇakya would simply discard all the efforts he had invested into Pabbata – who else could he even find? – but did know that Cāṇakya could be rather unpredictable in many ways, and might justify such an act with an argument like “As one should not cry over spilt milk, it is not the sunk cost that is worth considering while deciding to discard a project, but the future benefit and loss; the same applies to identifying when one has to surrender, for the fact that one is making great losses of men and wealth is an indicator of future defeat, and not an argument to make further losses”, or “There is logical cause to have oneself be known as a man who adheres to his word, so that one can effectively use the means of dāma and daṇḍa to influence behavior, and for this purpose one should abide by oaths even when it seems irrational, and it is for this purpose that scholarly institutions, noble lines and mercantile guilds and families bother so much about their reputation” – so Pabbata did not wish to take the risk of angering his Professor. After all, if it came to be that Cāṇakya preferred Candragupta to him, Pabbata could always have his rival killed after.

It was much easier, he realized, to make Candragupta look bad.

And so Pabbata came up with a diabolical plan of his own.

Half a fortnight later, Pabbata was found missing.

The university watched as Candragupta appeared before a solemn Cāṇakya, fell to his knees, hands folded, and begged for mercy.

Cāṇakya simply shook his head, and told his student that he was forever expelled from the university.

Cāṇakya received the pigeon on his rooftop and unfurled the cotton-paper letter received from his spy.

“What does it say?” asked Pāṇini.

“Exactly as I suspected,” said Cāṇakya. “Pabbata considers this to be the best opportunity to present himself as an almost-martyred hero in Magadha. He intends to decide, based on the fruits of his actions, whether to gain power from the inside, by executing me, or from the outside, by having me pardoned and taking my support as I had offered it. That is why he wishes me alive, and why he asked the king for the imperial seal.”

“And so what do you plan? Will you go into hiding?”

“ … ”

“ … ”

“ … ”

Cāṇakya descended the staircase and at the central shrine for Yājñavalkya, struck the temple bell, attracting the attention of those of the university, as well as of every other human soul in Gandhāra, who stopped whatever they were doing to listen to Cāṇakya’s words.

“Hear, hear! Professors and students of Takṣaśilā, I wish for this to be known to you: I believe Prince Pabbata to be alive—”

Gasps.

“—however, after Candragupta’s betrayal of my explicit word, I also possess equal cynicism for Pabbata’s goals, and paranoia that he will simply betray me to the Magadhi emperor. Thus, I am forced to go into hiding myself, and must promise to see you all again.”

It was with a small army that Pabbata returned to Takṣaśilā.

For even though Gandhāra did not share a border with Magadha, it was afraid of directly engaging against a Magadhi force in fear of a retaliatory trade war or covert war. Thus, the king’s officials attempted to negotiate with Pabbata as the guards stormed the courtyards at the break of dawn, questioning the target’s associates on his whereabouts.

It was to the threat of torture that Pāṇini revealed Cāṇakya to be taking shelter with the Aśvakāyanas – the tribe of Queen Kṛpā with whom Cāṇakya had earlier formed an alliance in his plot against the Persians. At this, Pabbata ordered his guards to stop the grilling.

“This is very well, then, prince!” said a young soldier enthusiastically, “We shall go to Kamboja, interrogate the Aśvakāyanas, locate Cāṇakya in their country and capture him!”

“Is that truly necessary?” asked another idiot, “Cāṇakya said he will return to Takṣaśilā, we could simply lay here stealthily in wait.”

At this, Pabbata understood the value of intelligent company, and revealed the King’s seal, announcing, with no room for contradiction, walking past his allies and the royals of Gandhāra who had come to negotiate, that he will go there himself, and apprehend Cāṇakya himself.

As Pabbata thought, Cāṇakya had anticipated an attack and had set up an ambush for his safety. After demonstrating that he was alone and without any contravariances or conspiracy (and secretly fearing a possible plot by Cāṇakya that involved killing him for some reason), he was finally able to extract Cāṇakya from his hiding spot and have him extract the camouflaged archers and snake charmers from the woods.

“You had a whole ambush planned out, as I expected,” said Pabbata, exuding respect, “You had Pāṇini warn you in advance about my approach, and if I were arriving with an army, you would have interpreted that as an attempt to capture you.”

Cāṇakya nodded thoughtfully. “Out of curiosity, why didn’t you do that? You could have marched to Magadha a hero, having apprehended a dangerous enemy of the state.”

The prince feigned an expression of hurt. “I am shocked that you would insinuate such a thing of me, Professor – that you would expect such an ungrateful act of me.”

Cāṇakya raised an eyebrow. “Do you truly so value our friendship? … Out of curiosity, what happened, exactly, when you supposedly died?”

This question surprised Pabbata, who asked: “Haven’t you figured it out already, Professor?”

“I have multiple hypotheses.”

“I faked my death myself, of course.”

“Indeed, that was the hypothesis I was almost certain of.”

“Do you think less of me now, Professor?”

It was a half-minute later that Cāṇakya finally responded to this enquiry, and when he did so, his voice was soft.

“Do you know why I revealed my plans to you two so explicitly, Pabbata?”

Pabbata considered the question. “I assumed it was because you knew I was already suspicious of your intents.”

“Then what use would it have done me to confirm those suspicions? No, Pabbata. It was a test. If I tell you precisely what I wanted from you – and yet forbade you the most obvious means of achieving that goal, how are you to play? That is the nature of problems one encounters in the practical world – for if there was an easy way to achieve your goal, there would be another who would have already done so. And yet you found a solution – this requires creativity; this requires ambition.”

“Are you merely flattering me, Professor?”

“It is no secret, prince, that I do not regard you as an ideal candidate for a king. However, you are better than any alternatives I know of. Candragupta has many great qualities, but as he has demonstrated in his response to my test, he lacks ambition. He did not protest when I expelled him – did not attempt to stage a coup against me, and did not attempt to locate you so as to expose your plot and earn back my favour.”

Pabbata’s chest swelled as he heard these words. He had often been troubled by that very question – of what it was that made him and Candragupta so different, despite the latter’s admitted goodness – what it was that made Pabbata fit to be king, and Candragupta fit to be only his minion. To hear the answer to this expressed in such rational terms added a certain genuineness to Cāṇakya’s words, and Pabbata believed him.

“Between men who seek to be great, and men who seek to be good,” Cāṇakya continued, “Those who seek greatness often achieve a great deal more good than those who seek merely to do good, because the latter tend to underestimate their true capacities, lack the creativity to achieve great ambitions, and satiate their desires with small, token acts of goodwill. I say this not to flatter you, Pabbata, but to remind you to never lose that spirit of ambition. I do not regret sending Candragupta away. But he is intelligent and loyal, and I believe that he may serve you well – I will continue to tempt him with the prospect of power and betrayal, and use him to secure loyalty to you among the kingdoms of Punjab and Sindh.”

Pabbata felt himself sigh, regretting, half in jest, the day that he met Cāṇakya and decided to court his support. They were back to this game – of the art of double-crossing – and Pabbata simply had to trust that in the end it will not be him who will be betrayed. Why couldn’t things ever be simple with this man?

“Their loyalty to me, Cāṇakya?” he asked, “In what context, precisely?”

“For now, in your war for the throne of Pāṭaliputra. And later, to you as the Emperor of all the land from the Mountains beyond eagles’ reach to the Eastern Ocean – of Āryāvarta undivided.”