1.3 The enemy of my enemy

[date:-336|magadha,x]

Today was the day.

For centuries forth, the people of all Āryāvarta would look back upon this iconic day as the day that the wicked Dhanānanda was shown the light; as the day that the eleven-year-old boy from Takṣaśilā would become the most powerful man in Āryāvarta and use that power to introduce the masses to unprecedented levels of wealth; as the day that Mathura would conquer her conquerors, spreading far and wide the light of the Vedas and of the Arthaśāstra.

Cāṇakya was sure of it.

(But no one has ever meaningfully advised the throne of Magadha and come out of it alive! one girl, the youngling of a chief of mercenary corporations, had cried at him—to which he had said:

No one had ventured beyond the Northern mountains! – until the Uttara-Kurus did it. And now every merchant does it.

No one had discovered the knowledge of the science of polity! – until Bṛhaspati did it. And now every student does it.

No one had run a yojana in under a ghaṭi – and now every athlete does it.)

It had been four years since Cāṇakya had first been admitted to Takṣaśilā, and in those four years Cāṇakya had unified Bārhaspatya philosophy with Vedic ethics, discovered and formulated the field of economics, composed the first draft of what would be his magnus opus, the Arthaśāstra (lit. Science of Wealth; Economics), and formulated the master plan for his revolution.

That was more than most students would achieve in a lifetime or seven.

Cāṇakya thought he ought to be allowed his own gurukula at this point. The only hindrance against getting one at the age of eleven was that the traditional ceremony to graduate from studenthood was called “marriage”.

As the first part of his master plan, he had requested an audience with the Magadhi Emperor Dhanānanda. Prime Minister Sakadala, apparently intrigued by the young Cāṇakya, had approved this meeting; his head held high and proud, Cāṇakya had arrived in Pāṭaliputra, the capital city of Magadha.

He had to admit: Pāṭaliputra was a great city. Cāṇakya had stopped at several metropolises on the crumbling Northern Highway on his fortnight-long journey, and Indraprastha, the stronghold of the Ārjunāyanas, was the last worthy city he’d seen. Mathura, more than half-empty due to massacre and abandonment – Kauśāmbi, which the armies of Magadha had turned into an article for their enjoyment for as long as they had camped in that kingdom – Kāśī, which had once been completely wiped out by Ajātaśatru over a dowry dispute, and whose recovery remained weak as a result of Magadha’s excessive taxation.

But the Magadha capital itself was well-planned, well-fortified and not too dissimilar from Takṣaśilā in order – and more enormous than the mind could imagine.

“The Emperor and Prime Minister are currently occupied in the audience of a wrestling match in the arena,” said the female attendant. The boy was certainly too young to be offered the traditional pleasures of hospitality, so she just said: “You may rest in the royal courtroom while you await them.”

Cāṇakya strode into the courtroom without stopping by any of the surrounding chairs, headed straight towards the currently unoccupied throne—

—and without so much ceremony, placed himself down on the throne.

Never in her life, nor in any real or fictional story of gossip had Rohiṇī ever observed such a startling display of insolence – had she been of slightly weaker stead, she would have likely fainted in shock. Instead, she composed herself and in a scramble of urgency took another chair from the front row and brought it before Cāṇakya.

Cāṇakya placed his bag on that chair without another look, then added: “Ask the king to abandon his current shenanigans; this is a matter of far greater importance.”

This time Rohiṇī did feel a little light-headed.

When Cāṇakya merely placed his water pitcher on the next chair, Rohiṇī pointed weakly at the seat that Cāṇakya had taken, finding her voice at last: “That’s the Emperor’s throne … most venerable guest.”

Cāṇakya simply nodded. It was kind of her, he thought, to be so concerned, but Cāṇakya knew of the emperor’s low birth already, and did not find that bothersome at all. “I’m not too concerned with rituals of caste and purity,” he said with a smile, “And in any case I’m sure your emperor is also venerable in his own right.”

“ … ”

“ … ”

“ … ”

“Maidservant,” said a most well-mannered voice, “What is happening?”

It was a young boy to whom the voice belonged, at most a year older than Cāṇakya. Flanked by his two minions and dressed in colourful royal robes, the kid was most obviously a prince. His face seemed more bemused than offended.

Rohiṇī, on the other hand, had turned completely pale in horror.

“Forgive me, prince Pabbata!” she cried, willing herself not to stutter. “I tried to ask him, he doesn’t seem to understand—”

Pabbata silenced her with a curt gesture, then walked up to Cāṇakya. “If you sit on his throne, Father will consider that a declaration of war against him and have you beheaded—”

Cāṇakya promptly raised himself off the throne and walked down the steps of the elevated platform that held it.

“—that is why this kind young lady was asking you to vacate it; she did not wish for you to be misunderstood so.”

Suppressing his shock and terror, Cāṇakya asked: “If I wished to declare war against your father, why wouldn’t I just say that? Why would I come to Pāṭaliputra and sit on his chair?” For that matter, why couldn’t the servant just express her wish in words? He had heard that many Magadhas were illiterate, but apparently they were also unfamiliar with language, preferring to express themselves using some rituals with chairs.

“I see that you have not been trained in court manners,” Pabbata commented, “Or perhaps such manners are different in … where are you from?”

“Takṣaśilā,” Cāṇakya said. “And yes, I would not expect the King of Gandhāra to be so offended if I were to sit on his throne. Indeed he would feel quite honored to have his seat graced by a man of such brilliant knowledge and scholarship as myself.”

Pabbata and Cāṇakya introduced themselves to each other, and Cāṇakya told the prince what he intended to speak with the emperor about – at which Pabbata announced that he wished to speak privately with his guest; once Pabbata’s minions and Rohiṇī had left the courtroom, Pabbata started to look very serious.

“In this case, Cāṇakya,” he said, “I must advise you against dealing with father at all.”

Cāṇakya raised an eyebrow, and Pabbata turned slowly, looking over each shoulder carefully to ensure that no one was listening. “What I say to you is in confidence, and you may not repeat them to anyone. Do I have your word?” And then without really waiting for Cāṇakya’s response, he continued:

“My father is hardly like his own father. My grandfather Mahāpadma enacted various changes in the administration of Magadha, changes that I believe would have been to your liking, seeing that you are a Brāhmaṇa of Gandhāra. When Mahāpadma seized the throne, it was he who appointed Sakadala as his Prime Minister, who made efforts to assimilate the conquered territories into Magadha, and who ceased the previous dynasties’ practice of burning down cities for sport. My father has only tolerated Sakadala so far because he is too used to his presence and is too lazy to remove him; he does not care the least about such changes as what you might propose.”

Cāṇakya took half a minute to absorb this.

At last he asked: “What does your father care about, then?”

Pabbata merely shrugged. “Wine? Women? Truly, I do not think my father cares about very much at all, and he certainly lacks the will to implement any changes you may suggest – once again, quite unlike his own father who had made such an elaborate effort to capture the throne for himself and then continued to dedicate himself to the administration of Pāṭaliputra.”

Cāṇakya found it laughable that Pabbata thought of Mahāpadma’s administration as some sort of bygone golden age. It was under Mahāpadma that Mathura and Ujjain had been razed, and under him that many ancient noble lines of Āryāvarta had been exterminated. His conquest of Pāṭaliputra had hardly ushered in an era of peace and stability, but was merely one in a long sequence of assassinations and coups. Cāṇakya himself could already imagine fourteen different methods by which he could assassinate Dhanānanda that very day, as Dhanānanda had assassinated Mahāpadma before him, but it would be pointless to do so without training a suitable replacement: Dhanānanda would merely be replaced by another ruinous king, and in at least nine of those fourteen methods, Cāṇakya would be caught.

So instead of saying Your father’s father was also an idiot, your entire family and all the other clans of Magadha are idiots, Cāṇakya chose to say:

“This is not to deny the significance of Emperor Mahāpadma’s many achievements, but the reforms that I propose are of a far more radical nature than simply not burning down cities for sport.”

“And that is precisely why you shouldn’t express them to Father,” Pabbata smiled sadly. “I do not know how, precisely, you will extract yourself from this situation, but I will tell you this: you ought to find a more receptive individual for your advice than Father.”

Cāṇakya considered this.

He did not quite accept what Pabbata had told him – after all, Pabbata apparently considered Mahāpadma to have been an ideal ruler, and there was clearly a lot of internal family politics that motivated Pabbata’s words. Pabbata was Dhanānanda’s youngest prince and traditional succession in Magadha was one of primogeniture; his last sentence was likely a subtle invitation for future political alliance – which also raised the question of why Pabbata would trust Cāṇakya so much, or care so much for his future political support, as to speak so freely with him about his father.

Nonetheless, Cāṇakya decided that he would be at his very politest in Dhanānanda’s presence, at least for today.

When the Emperor did arrive, it was four hours late, intoxicated and only after repeated prompting, first by his Prime Minister, then by Pabbata through his mother (for Pabbata did not wish his own name to be stained in his father’s mind by Cāṇakya’s invariable impending disappointment or by the blood of his likely subsequent execution), then finally by a brave attendant who he kicked to the ground in rage.

He walked up to his throne (at which Cāṇakya became very glad that the Emperor was late, or he may have found his seat unexpectedly warm), collapsed onto it, and said through closed eyes:

“I hope you brought something interesting for me, Brāhmaṇa child. I have only just executed a wrestler and two dancers who didn’t sufficiently capture my intrigue, and you would not wish to add your own name to that list.”

That was hardly a well-boding start, and the sermon that Cāṇakya had earlier prepared no longer seemed likely to bear fruit. Thus Cāṇakya quickly improvised.

“Great King,” the boy said, his tone formal, “I do believe I have something to offer you that will intrigue you more than even the most ferocious wrestler or the most skilful acrobat. You may have met many teachers who preach to you ideals like charity and virtuous conduct without justifying what its benefit is to you. Instead, I will only teach you of your own goals, of how you may effectively pursue and achieve them, and how I may aid you in the pursuit of these goals.”

As he spoke these words, Dhanānanda’s expression shifted from one of mere disinterest to being positively offended.

“Ah!” he cried, smiling exaggeratedly, “I see! So you claim to be a better knower and director of my own wants than I am. How very interesting!”

Cāṇakya had to force himself to talk sweetly, to rephrase every thought of his to a form that he could realistically hope would not excessively offend the king. He would pretend to sympathize with the king’s vilest actions for now, and slowly, once he secured a position at the royal court use that position to mould the king’s thoughts and behavior until it was sufficiently righteous …

“Great King, many come to your court claiming that they seek to serve you, yet in truth they only seek to serve their own agendas, their own beliefs about what is virtuous and what is not. I swear to you, to drop all such pretenses and to speak to you honestly on the matter of the policies and decisions you make as emperor, and what their true consequences will be. If you would so permit, I would like to engage in a dialogue of questioning with you in order to offer you a taste of what my service would be as your courtier—”

Cāṇakya wasn’t sure which part it was that elicited this response, but by the end of his speaking, Dhanānanda’s eyes had turned icy, and even his fake smile was gone. When a voice was finally heard in response, it was not the emperor’s, but Prime Minister Sakadala’s.

“You dare suggest questioning the emperor, child?”

The Emperor and his Prime Minister continued to stare at the boy, their eyes offended and hateful.

And that was when Cāṇakya realized that his cause was utterly, completely, hopeless.

That was when all the idealistic daydreams of bringing about a golden age as Dhanānanda’s advisor left him.

That was when he realized what sort of a fool he had been.

Even if by some trickery Cāṇakya managed to secure a position in the Magadhi court – not only would Cāṇakya be unable to have any influence in Magadhi administration, such a life would be ruinous to Cāṇakya’s very soul. Life in service of such a ruler would be all but a physical impossibility.

No, Pabbata had been speaking the truth – the goal was now no longer a position at Dhanānanda’s court, but to safely extract himself out of the situation that he had placed himself in. Yet if he was correct in his assessment of the emperor’s character, merely asking for forgiveness and offering to go separate ways would hardly accomplish that goal. Instead, he would need to continue playing the role he had assumed until some opportunity arose … to flatter the emperor in a way that would cause the emperor to dismiss him in humour, or with some reward, or with only minor punishment.

“I request your forgiveness for the misunderstanding,” Cāṇakya said quickly. “I did not mean questioning in the sense of interrogation, nor a scholastic examination, I meant merely an intellectual exercise in which I would demonstrate the generality of the methods I propose to whatever goals and desires the emperor may have. The point I would have then demonstrated was that all goals could be achieved through wealth, and I would have described to you policies for the maximal creation of wealth.”

“And are there any kings in history who enacted such policies?” Prime Minister Sakadala asked, “Whose names you would like to quote to the Emperor?”

There was the opportunity.

“I believe that Emperor Dhanānanda has the potential to exceed all such kings of history. With the expansive territory and wealth that you rule over, O Great King, every step you take has far greater an impact on the nations of the world than the entire lifespans of any king of history.”

The emperor gave him a very pretentious smile.

“And why, again, do you wish to have a role in that impact that I have?” he questioned. “Ah, yes, because you believe your intervention in my governance will benefit me.”

Dhanānanda sat up straighter, suddenly looking as if he had never been drunk. “You know, Minister,” he said with a sneer towards Sakadala, “The arrogance of the Brāhmaṇas never ceases to amaze me – is it that you believe that my father, and indeed all the previous ruling houses of Magadha were all so incompetent that we need your advice, or do you believe that it is I who am so uniquely incompetent that I need your advice?”

Cāṇakya was truly at a loss for words.

The emperor made a clicking sound in his mouth, shaking his head rapidly. “Oh, no, it’s neither, isn’t it, sweet-talking child? You believe that I have the capacity to exceed all of them! Why? Am I not my father’s son? Do you also wish to call me a bastard child, boy?”

With one look towards the muscular guard who stood at his throne’s side, he made the universal gesture of off-with-his-head.

And that was when Cāṇakya began to panic.

That was when the true gravity of the situation into which he had placed himself began to impress itself in his mind, and he started racing through his mind in search for some solution, some method of escape or to otherwise save his life. Instead, his brain continually returned images of Professor Caṇin’s warnings and all that he had read and heard about Magadha’s barbarism, of the repeated rationalizations he had made in his wishful thinking. The best his mind could come up with was to run with his legs as fast as he could, a solution which was overridden by the rational part of his mind that reminded him that he could not outrun horses, nor arrows, nor the sound of a conch shell.

It was Pabbata who came to his rescue.

“Father,” he said with utmost politeness, “While I applaud your decisiveness in awarding an on-the-spot execution, I believe that there may be cause for further deliberation with respect to the precise punishment awarded to this particular offender, and thus a more standard scheduled execution may be more suitable. Consider it a request from your loyal son.”

Dhanānanda looked surprised, but made a conciliatory gesture.

“Two days,” he said, then stood up. “I give you two days for your deliberations, son. After that, I will no longer entertain your offensive client.”