3.7 Synecdoche

(This alone is the most dangerous task I will ever assign you – one that could very well end your life if you are not sufficiently careful, if you do not do exactly as I tell you to–)

“Prince,” she whispered meekly, “No, King … Lord … I have a confession to make.”

Augraseniya pulled away to smile at her kindly. Rūpakośa felt sick.

I swear to you, I will end him. I swear to you, Devashravas – before I unite with you, I will end him, and every other excuse for a man I have had to lay with to avenge your murder. I swear this to you, my beloved husband, my Lord – this is the oath of a pativrata.

“Speak, my Queen,” the rot said in a gentle tone. “What is it you wish to tell me?”

“Lord … ” stuttered Rūpakośa, making her guilt obvious in her eyes, “Your father’s killer … it wasn’t a Greek spy—”

(You must take the following precautions—)

(One, there must not be any weapons within the Crocodile’s access as you perform this task – or at least, you should have enough time and available space to make your escape before he can obtain a suitable weapon.)

(Two, you must have – throughout at least the past three instances that the Crocodile saw you – signalled discomfort, guilt, as well as the impression that you were attempting to fake the reverse, as well as a complete restraint over showing any enjoyment of sensual pleasures, whether genuine or faked, as well as the impression that you had been attempting to tell him something but felt unable to.)

(Three, at the time that you perform this task, you must NOT have sexually satisfied the Crocodile. Indeed, even in the subsequent days after you perform this task, while you may show affection to him by other means as you deem fit, you may not engage in intercourse with the Crocodile until I give the signal.)

(Four, if he reacts angrily after you perform this task, and you are unable to pacify him, or you are forced to flee to save your own life, you must make the appearance of avoiding him afterward, but primarily out of guilt and distaste for yourself, not predominantly anger or distaste for him. You must avoid his gaze, only occasionally making eye contact in unspoken request for sympathy to remind him of past times.)

“ … forgive me, O Lord! I could not stand him continually intervening in matters that were yours, sabotaging you in what was truly your war against Pabbata, refusing to protect, with all his forces, what he was effectively only taking care of until you reached maturity – I could not stand seeing you so powerless over what was rightfully yours … please forgive me, O Lord—please forgive me—I could keep a secret from anyone, O Lord—but not you—”

(If you take these precautions, he will surely return to you in seven days with the appearance of offering you his forgiveness and protection, and of taking you into a conspiratorial fold about the whole matter.)

“What troubles you so, Candragupta? Speak.”

Candragupta stared at his Professor, who had not looked up at all from the letter he was writing to talk to him. He opened his mouth, then closed it again as he realized he was about to ask a stupid question about that, then opened it again, realizing that he was, in fact, well, not troubled, but at least puzzled by something.

“Professor … I find it difficult to precisely express my thoughts as a question, as it seems to me that I already know the answer to any question I might ask. But nonetheless, I see that I am confused.”

“If you are confused, Candragupta,” said the young man who was the same age as him, and yet apparently controlled all events that took place everywhere, “You should clearly express what it is that you expected, and what it is that happened contradicting your expectations.”

Candragupta considered this.

“I had always imagined, Professor,” he said slowly, “That the assassination of Emperor Dhanānanda would be … a significant event. It sounds silly and small to voice into words exactly what that means, but I had imagined it would come with grand speeches – about the triumph of good over evil, the pronouncement of a new era, the Ārya conquest of Magadha – I had imagined the event to become the subject of poetry, that would be sung for centuries forth, for such an unexpected event to seem profound to all.” (And he had imagined that he would have been the one to carry out the task, and be celebrated as a hero for it. Or at least be the man behind the operation, or at least to have some say in how it was carried out. The thought made him feel like a small-minded glory-seeker, and he hated himself for it.)

“Suppose,” said Cāṇakya, “That I – or you – went around giving such speeches now, starting celebration amongst the people, commissioning bards to write glorious poetry about you … do you think, Candragupta, that this would be a good idea?”

Of course not, but Candragupta took a moment to consider the implications of this anyway.

“Of course not,” the Professor continued, “Because you also had an almost unspoken expectation that the assassination of Dhanānanda would symbolize the end of a dark age and the beginning of your reign. But it is not. As I have taught you several times in the past, Candragupta, idealizations like Rājamaṇḍala and the game of chess do not come close to capturing the reality of war. Unlike in these games, real wars are not won simply by killing the king – for there are other powers in the kingdom, systems set in place, to take power upon loss of a king; otherwise securing power would be too easy.”

“The assassination of Emperor Dhanānanda was a play,” Candragupta realized, “One strategic action towards a much grander goal. But how? What does it accomplish, Professor?”

“A good plot accomplishes several goals,” Cāṇakya explained, “First. Shortly before the assassination, I had, through one of my spies in Pāṭaliputra, sent a fake message to Magadha’s vassal kings, the kings of the states of the Central Country, ostensibly from Emperor Dhanānanda – declaring the Greek invasion of the North-Western states to be a national security threat to Magadha and ordering the deployment of certain large numbers of troops in a pre-emptive strike against the Greeks.”

Candragupta’s jaw dropped. “You assassinated Dhanānanda so no one would have any way to verify the authenticity of this message? Really?”

There was nothing wrong with that, of course – as far as Candragupta could reason – but it was just such a surprise, to know how easy it was to assassinate the most powerful king in the world, that it could be done to accomplish just one small goal in a long game, rather than as a goal in itself.

Cāṇakya nodded. “And I did so framing the Greeks for the assassination, so that Sakadala – or anyone else – would immediately be seen as traitorous for turning against Dhanānanda’s order for a military offensive against the Greeks. So that even though Sakadala can see through the obvious frame job, he will be unable to object, in order to maintain appearances – indeed, even if everyone can see through the obvious frame job, they will not object, out of fear of being called traitorous by political rivals and those who wish to signal their own virtuousness.

“Second. By having Rūpakośa confess her crime to Augraseniya and yet go unpunished, Augraseniya now feels, deep down, to be a part of her conspiracy. He will be obliged to lie for her, to protect her, rely on her against all others whenever his position is insecure. We have, in effect, made the Magadhi Emperor our stooge.”

Did that not mean that they had won the war? No, Candragupta imagined Professor Cāṇakya saying, For we can hardly exercise a free hand on Magadhi government policy through this set-up – a string of decisions that serve our purposes would arouse suspicions and weaken Augraseniya’s position in the government or even cause him to be ousted or assassinated if such disaffections culminate – or it might even arouse Augraseniya’s suspicions about Rūpakośa – and it is certainly an incredibly insecure position to be governing through such a narrow string as one spy; open dominance on the government was vastly preferable.

“Third. By sowing distrust between the king and the prime minister, we have dealt Magadha a great loss. Court sessions will be riddled with fights – between king and minister, and between various other factions – intentions will be questioned in the open and positions of authority will be weakened, Sakadala will be unable to clamp down on such disaffections as the king will then be made suspicious that it is an attempt to consolidate power. Public life in Pāṭaliputra will have become insufferable for all – as a consequence, disaffections will spread and those who lust for the throne will rear their heads to garner support; we will be able to pit them against each other whenever we wish, or use the undermined confidence in the stability of Magadha in our own case for the throne.”

It was a wildly different way of thinking that Cāṇakya had, compared to a regular conqueror who lusted for a throne.

A regular conqueror – even if he was not so foolish as to believe that assassinating the incumbent would grant him the throne – would perform an assassination simply on the heuristic that it was a move against the reigning government (or as Cāṇakya might have said, because it gave the appearance of fighting, rather than actually help winning). And perhaps that move would be beneficial – or perhaps it wouldn’t, or would even be harmful in some unanticipated or ignored way – but the conqueror’s victory or loss would depend on such luck.

Not so with Cāṇakya. His plays were planned – it was as if he could calculate, in advance, that he would win – with his imagination and reasoning, even in the absence of experience – so his victory would truly be the fruit of his work.

It was incredible, truly. Cāṇakya was a boy born to poverty in a distant Southern country that had till recently only ever been heard of in plays and poetry, and he had worked his way up to become the most trusted advisor in the government of the ancient and most glorious kingdom of Gandhāra – indeed, the single most powerful statesman in the North-Western realms, and his ambition was much vaster still.

Cāṇakya would probably describe his association of their victory and grand speeches and celebration to be the distinction between ambition and ambitiousness. For even though Candragupta had adopted the Professor’s ambition, he had, in that brief thought, prioritized the social proclamations of his greatness, and the comforts it would bring, over the importance of the task whose accomplishment would actually be the cause for that greatness – and in doing so, he had erred.

“There is one question you must still ask, Candragupta,” said Cāṇakya, “What is my purpose in summoning the Central Country armies to fight the Greeks?”

The Professor had told him earlier, that the goal was to have the Magadhas and Greeks be enemies now, but allies once Candragupta ascended the throne of Magadha.

Candragupta had asked how that was possible.

The Professor had smiled.

And now Candragupta smiled.

“I needn’t ask that, Professor. I know the answer.”