“I don’t know. I guess she couldn’t help herself.” Channa laughed and gave Siddhartha a hit on the shoulder. “You’ve still got a little time. Go on.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Go ahead.” Channa was smirking now, and as happens between two young males who talk about everything except that, his look said, You don’t know all about women yet? You’d better believe I do. They were both fairly sure that the other was still a virgin, but Siddhartha nursed a suspicion that Channa had more opportunities than he did belowstairs in the kitchen and scullery, while Channa suspected that Siddhartha had more chances than he did in the pleasure pavilion by the lotus pond. This unspoken doubt created a secret between them when there was no secret to begin with. Neither one dared to find out that the other knew almost nothing about women.
“Let her come to me if she wants to,” Siddhartha declared. He hoped he could save face and at the same time not risk approaching Sujata—not now, with someone watching. Luckily, he didn’t have to. She took a deep breath and came to him. Throwing aside the daintiness of court women who acted as if a stable was unholy ground, Sujata walked up to them with her eyes fixed on Siddhartha.
“I came to wish you well. Please be safe today,” she said, her words coming out a bit too fast and too loud, as words do when they are practiced in advance.
Siddhartha cursed himself inside, knowing that Channa could see him blush. All he needed to say was “Thank you,” but confusion made him stammer, “Why would you think I’m not safe?” His tone was brusque, and Sujata turned a deep scarlet. Humiliation took her breath away, and Siddhartha died inside that he was the cause. “I mean—” he said, and stopped. Nobody knew what he meant, least of all himself.
It’s unclear whether Channa chose that moment for his first attack of chivalry, but he coughed and muttered, “I have to find a new bridle. This one’s too loose.” Then he was gone, and the two were left alone together. Embarrassment momentarily blinded Siddhartha, but as his sight cleared the first thing he became aware of was Sujata’s beauty. It had been enough to make him notice her, then to chase her through the maze. A cloud passed over him with that memory. He took a step back.
Sujata had been looking for the slightest sign of approval, and this step crushed her hopes. “I shouldn’t have come. If you can forgive me—”
“There’s nothing to forgive. There could never be anything to forgive.” Siddhartha had no idea why he blurted out those last words. But now that they were out, he took the plunge. “I’ve wanted to see you for a long time. I didn’t know if it was right or not. But I’m glad you came today, very glad.”
Although Sujata maintained her shy posture, head ducked down between fallen shoulders, she was thrilled. Something had kept her awake at night. She had decided to trust this something, and now Siddhartha was smiling at her. She became painfully aware of his lean, muscular body, disguised though it was under his armor. There are dams that crack and dams that break open without warning. Hers was the second kind. “I think about you all the time. I’ve come to your room at night, but then I run away. What can I do? This is too impossible. We can’t be together, but I think about you all the time. Oh, I already said that. You must think I’m stupid.”
“No, not at all.” Siddhartha in fact was delighted with everything Sujata blurted out. When babble is like music, love can’t be far away. He wanted to throw off his armor and embrace her, because he was as aware of her pale breasts and the soft flow of her hips as she was of him. Siddhartha had never heard of skin hunger, but he felt it now as strongly as he had ever felt anything. Instinctively his hand moved around to the side of his chest plate, fumbling for the leather ties. “Why can’t we be together? My father doesn’t have to know.”
“Oh.” A shadow suddenly darkened Sujata’s face. Siddhartha seemed so eager, yet he was thinking about his father and the disapproval that would fall on them if anyone thought she loved a prince. Which meant that Siddhartha was aware, even at that moment, of the huge difference between them. “I can’t stay,” she murmured. She could already feel the sting of contempt that the court would direct at her. And then there was her secret, the thing nobody suspected.
Siddhartha grabbed Sujata’s arm before she could turn away. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re going to faint. What did I say?”
“The king.” With that, Sujata burst into tears and ran away. Siddhartha was confused and hurt, but at that moment Channa returned holding a new bridle. “Do you want this?” he asked.
“Of course not. You know as well as I do.” Instead of thanking Channa for his discretion, Siddhartha sounded angry. He had made some kind of unwitting, disastrous blunder with Sujata, but there was no time to run after her. “Help me up,” he said curtly.
Without a word Channa bent down and made a step with his two hands so that Siddhartha could mount Kanthaka with his full weight of armor. The layers of ox-hide padding creaked as he settled into the saddle. Siddhartha galloped off toward the field, not waiting for the equerries who were supposed to surround him in procession. His mind was preoccupied with the image of Sujata’s pained expression and the guilt of knowing that he had caused it. However long he was lost in this mood, he suddenly became aware of his surroundings. People were gathered on either side of the tournament field, the nobles seated in a grandstand, the common people standing or sitting on the ground on the opposite side, unprotected from the sun. A cheer went up when the crowd caught sight of the prince; he automatically went through the motions of a well-rehearsed scenario.
The king was waiting impatiently for his son’s arrival. The day had turned hot, the sun a fierce white disc burning in the sky. He rose to his feet as Siddhartha approached, and he had to admit to himself that the crown prince made a fine show on the white stallion. If only he kept his nerve and did what was necessary.
Siddhartha bowed. “I dedicate my victories to Your Highness and pledge that every glory in war, however many battles I am privileged to fight, will be for you and your kingdom.”
Suddhodana returned a gracious smile and waved Siddhartha off toward the field of combat. He had written the speech himself, but the boy could have spoken it louder, and he had forgotten to rise up in his stirrups and swivel around to catch the eye of every noble spectator. No matter, Suddhodana thought, driving from his mind the fear that Siddhartha might fail him.
To his relief, everything went as planned. Blood was soon drawn in the hand-to-hand combats, just enough to whet the spectators’ appetites. He had ordered that dangerous weapons could be used, the kind rarely used in mock battle. There was a knife-edged discus that could be thrown hard enough to decapitate an enemy, a lash with multiple barbs at the end that tore off any flesh it made contact with, a heavy two-sided ax capable of piercing any armor, even bronze, a nailed mace, and a rippled dagger that ripped muscles apart both as it went in and as it was pulled out. His soldiers wouldn’t have thrown themselves into using these weapons of horror, but Suddhodana had made sure they were tempted with huge rewards, and in addition their food supply was allowed to dwindle so that every rice larder and meat chest was empty that morning, just in case they forgot who sustained them.
With these incentives, his men fought hard, and it was lucky, despite many gruesome wounds, that nobody was killed. Nobody, that is, until the time came for mounted archery. This was the most spectacular of the combats. Siddhartha had participated vigorously in sword fighting but had otherwise remained on the periphery. Now it was his turn to show his true mettle. On one side of the field nine archers were lined up on horseback. Siddhartha faced them alone on Kanthaka. One by one the archers would peel off and charge at Siddhartha, firing arrows as rapidly as they could. Siddhartha’s goal was to knock each opponent off his horse while escaping the arrows.
The crowd grew hushed. This was a test of skill no pampered son of a king could pass unless he was born to fight, and although the arrows had been blunted enough not to pierce
the prince’s armor, he couldn’t be totally protected. The spectators gasped when Siddhartha, in a show of bravado, took off his helmet and threw it to the ground. The crowd applauded, but then he went further and unstrapped his broad chest plate, letting it fall away. Everyone went into shock, including the king. Suddhodana leaped to his feet, ready to call a halt to the games, but he knew he couldn’t. The humiliation would wipe out everything he had tried to achieve for the past week. Was Siddhartha desperate to show his worthiness? Whatever his motive, Suddhodana recognized the necessity of what his son had done: mock battles could only frighten people so far and no farther unless lethal danger was involved.
The first archer peeled off and rode at a hard gallop toward Siddhartha, who kicked Kanthaka in the side and charged to meet him. Both men shot their first arrow at the same time. The one aimed at Siddhartha grazed his leggings, while his arrow flew true—the horseman was hit in the middle of his chest and fell from the saddle. At that moment the second archer peeled off, raising his bow. Siddhartha quickly found a new arrow from the quiver over his shoulder and prepared to fire again.
In his mind he was clear why he had removed his helmet and chest plate. Only by exposing himself to real threat could Siddhartha feel he wasn’t participating in a charade. If he was ever to be a real warrior, it must begin today. He fired, and again his arrow found its mark; the second archer toppled to the ground with a blow to the chest. Siddhartha wheeled Kanthaka around. The stallion wasn’t panting yet, but there were seven more to go.
“Come at me harder!” he shouted across the field. “Anyone who draws my blood will be forgiven by the king, if he fights fair.” This was a lie, but Siddhartha had seen the nervous glances being exchanged by the archers when he threw off his armor. Goaded on now, his adversaries wanted to prove to the king that they were the best. The next two men charged faster and aimed better. But Siddhartha had taken his training seriously, and he had talent on horseback. When his next arrow missed, he kept his cool and fired again, unhorsing his opponent when they were within a few yards of each other. The crowd grew more impressed, and by the time Siddhartha was down to the last two archers, they were on their feet cheering in earnest.
Kanthaka’s sides were heaving now, and Siddhartha felt a little giddy. He had eaten nothing that morning, and the constant wheeling and maneuvering were making his surroundings whirl. He braced himself because the end of the combat was the toughest part. The last two archers charged him together. Siddhartha had an arrow ready, but his nerves got the better of him and it flew well right of the man he aimed at. His hand fumbled for another arrow.
The bolder of the archers had already gotten off two shots, and the second one was lucky—it found a gap in the padded blankets that protected Kanthaka’s front, deeply piercing the horse’s skin. Siddhartha felt the animal rear and barely kept his seat. He pulled tight on the reins and closed his thighs around the animal, willing it to calm down and forget its fear. Kanthaka held on, galloping straight for the double enemy, who now closed in, one on each side.
They were too close for Siddhartha to get any arrows off. He heard a cacophony of hoofbeats against the packed earth, and his eyes blurred. He shook his head, and he saw Mara riding behind one of the archers, clutching his arms around the rider’s waist. The demon was laughing, and then he suddenly disappeared. Siddhartha didn’t have much time to refocus his sight. He ducked down close to his saddle as the two enemies whipped past him on either side. They fired, and Siddhartha was fortunate. The arrows flew over his body with a swish of air, missing him.
He wheeled around, and regaining his self-possession, he fired rapidly, first at the back of one horseman, then at the other. His timing was perfect. They were still struggling to turn their mounts around when his arrows hit them, and both men fell. Siddhartha had fired so rapidly that they seemed to go down simultaneously. The crowd roared. For the first time in his life Siddhartha felt exulted by battle; he rose in his stirrups and acknowledged the accolades. This was something, the first thing, he had earned for himself.
But despite his triumph, Mara’s laughter rang in his ears. Siddhartha was disoriented, and he scanned the tournament field. Only one of the archers had gotten to his feet. The other lay on the ground writhing in agony. Siddhartha jumped down and ran over to him. He saw with horror that the man had been hit in the throat, the arrow’s point coming out the back of his neck.
Arms lifted the wounded man to a sitting position, hands tried to dislodge the arrow. He groaned and almost passed out. Siddhartha’s head swam in the confusion. He was dimly aware that someone broke off the arrow’s tip so that the shaft could be pulled through the man’s neck, but this caused a tremendous gush of blood, which shot so far that it hit Siddhartha in the chest.
“Do something,” he pleaded, aware in the midst of everything that his voice sounded high and panicky, more a boy’s voice than a man’s. He looked up to see that the king had arrived. The soldiers parted for him. His father barked for someone to fetch a physician, but by that time the wounded man had lost consciousness, his head limply tilted to one side like a broken doll’s. From the fountain of blood still erupting, but with weaker and weaker force, it was obvious he was lost. Suddhodana pulled out a silk kerchief and pressed it to the man’s wound.
“Did you know him?” asked Siddhartha, although he had no idea why that would matter. His father grimly shook his head. The presence of death quieted the bystanders, until a new voice broke the silence.
“Amazing. Someone was actually hurt. Fire the stagemaster.”
Devadatta pushed his way through the packed bodies surrounding the corpse. He stared at it coldly. “It’s his own fault for missing his cue, isn’t it?” He turned to Siddhartha, whose whole body was shaking. “You couldn’t have fought for real, I can see that.”
The bystanders were shocked, waiting for the king to explode with rage, but Suddhodana kept silent. His guilt told him that Devadatta was right—nobody was meant to get hurt when the prince was involved. He gazed at his son, and Siddhartha instantly read the truth.
Siddhartha willed himself to stop shaking and got to his feet. He drew his sword, glaring at Devadatta. “You said you wanted to fight me today. I accept your challenge.”
“No!”
For a moment it sounded as if his father had shouted, but Channa stepped through the crowd. “No, I’ll fight the bastard. It’s about time.” Channa took two strides, raising his fist to take a swing at Devadatta. But in his wildness he lost his balance, and the blow only grazed Devadatta’s cheek.
Devadatta spit on his palm and wiped his cheek with a look of disgust, as if it were covered with excrement.
“I beg my rights, Your Highness.” Devadatta dropped to one knee in front of Suddhodana. “This low-caste scum touched me. You all saw it. I beg my rights.” The crowd stirred and became uneasy as the king remained immobile and silent for several seconds.
“The king acknowledges Devadatta’s rights.” Suddhodana finally spoke but not with his usual force. “He can decide the fate of any low-caste who has defiled him.”
Devadatta smiled. “Death,” he said.
Suddhodana scowled. “Think carefully. It was just a touch, young prince. Let me remind you, this is a cause for justice.”
“I’m only looking for justice. This scum intended to catch me off guard, knock me over, and then stab me. See, his weapon.”
By now two guards had grabbed Channa and wrestled the dagger from him. Pushed to his knees, Channa shouted, “If that’s what I was going to do, let me finish it!”
Devadatta shrugged and held his open hands out to the king. “My case is proved. Let me have my rights, as you promised.”
“No, let me have mine.”
Without warning Siddhartha was kneeling at the king’s feet beside his cousin, his voice on the edge of rage. “I have the right to fight in place of my brother, and Channa is my brother in everything but name. Everyone knows it, so why pretend? If any man of caste dares to de
fame Channa, I will fight that man, whoever he is.”
This was the moment that Canki shouldn’t have missed by leaving early. As high Brahmin, he had full authority, over even a king, to decide disputes of caste. These were many and complicated. Scriptures held, for example, that if the shadow of an untouchable fell across the path of a Brahmin, unclean contact had taken place and the Brahmin must return home to bathe. Food touched by someone of low caste could not be eaten by someone of high caste. This was clear enough, but what if the high-caste person was dying and the food was needed to save his life? Canki held court over these bewildering issues. But he had left the scene.
“Get up, both of you,” Suddhodana ordered. With disgust he knew that Devadatta had more right on his side than the prince. Often in the heat of battle a low-caste’s weapon had accidentally nicked a high-caste comrade’s, drawing barely a few drops of blood. But this was enough to condemn the offender to death if the high-caste soldier demanded it. Channa clearly intended to draw blood; the waters weren’t muddied until Siddhartha foolishly intruded. Suddhodana now had no choice.
“The two princes both have right on their side,” he announced. “I will betray justice if I decide against either of them, so let Nature be the judge. The two princes will fight.”
No one expected this judgment, but the first to recover from the general consternation was Devadatta, who gave a wolfish grin. Between arrogance and despair at his situation, he knew he had no future, not one befitting his worth. His fatalistic streak would be satisfied if he managed to kill this despised cousin who had led to his own imprisonment, or else got killed trying. “Sword and dagger,” he said.
Siddhartha nodded grimly. Already free of helmet and chest plate, he began to strip off the rest of his armor for better mobility. But more than that, he wanted the fight to be decisive. The truth was that each of them—Siddhartha, his father, and Devadatta—was trapped by the others. Astonishingly, all three had come to this realization at the same exact moment, a moment from which there was no turning back.
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