“So I’ll have to decide,” Siddhartha said. His thoughtful tone angered the king.
“No, there is nothing to decide. If you can’t get that into your head-” Suddhodana stopped himself. He remembered that he had the gods on his side. However confused the prince might be, he was still young, and his birth chart explicitly promised what lay ahead. There was no need to intimidate or goad him. Suddhodana changed tack. “I shouldn’t have said that. What I meant was, if you can’t do this for me, you are not the son I know you to be.”
Siddhartha had accepted this milder rebuke calmly. He parted respectfully from his father, each of them satisfied that he had been successful in disguising how alone and abandoned he actually felt. Now, as the king gazed gloomily toward the tower where Siddhartha was waiting, there was no return gaze. His son had flung himself on the floor, throwing off his suffocating robes and that absurd feathered turban. He buried his head in a pile of pillows, trying not to think of anything at all. His misery would have been simpler to bear if he had hated his father or wanted to thwart his will.
He had followed the dictates of his upbringing to the letter, had mastered the martial arts and excelled in mock battles. He had felt the exultation of downing an opponent on the field. So why did he feel like a coward, like someone who confidently marches to the edge of a cliff, only to find that he cannot take the last step? The last step was inevitable. Every day of his life had led to it. Siddhartha felt a sick dread in the pit of his stomach.
THE FEAST HAD GONE ON two full hours, the guests growing engorged and drunk as course followed course. Suddhodana alone drank nothing, and when he sensed that the time was right, he raised his goblet. “In my son’s name I have spent half of my treasury on this day.” He paused. “I have overseen every detail of your comfort and enjoyment. I personally examined every woman at court, and the ugly ones were banished to my friend Bimbisara’s kingdom-” A burst of appreciative laughter. Suddhodana waited for it to die away.
“-where they are considered the most beautiful women in the land.”
More laughter rose, this time raucous and mixed with applause. Even Bimbisara, the powerful ruler of Magadha, smiled and clapped, though his smile was tight and unpleasant to look on. He was one of the few guests who had come of his own accord, no doubt for concealed reasons.
When he was sure that the drunken guests were quiet and the astute ones were paying close attention, Suddhodana said, “I’m here to confess a precious secret, one that I have kept for half my reign.” His voice rose dramatically. “Heed me, all of you!” He threw down his goblet with a clatter, ending the last few scattered conversations that had continued.
“After his beloved mother died, I summoned seers to Siddhartha’s cradle. And they told me the most incredible news. About one who was destined to rule the world.” Suddhodana paused and let the silence return. “This soul wasn’t destined to rule a tiny kingdom. He was going to be given the world! Do you have any idea what that means?”
Suddhodana abandoned his throne and stepped down to his audience’s level. The two chained leopards that flanked him followed behind until they reached the ends of their restraints and were jerked back. They growled, their tails twitching lazily.
“It means that it won’t matter anymore that your lands are greater than mine,” Suddhodana said, pointing to one of his peers, “or that your army is twice the size of mine,” he pointed at another, “or that your father was a damned conniving murderer who tried to seize my father’s throne.”
The last man he pointed to recoiled. His hand dropped to the sword belted at his waist. For a moment he battled with his better judgment. Finally he broke eye contact and took his hand from his weapon. Suddhodana walked away, smiling in triumph. “Hate me all you want,” he invited. “Plot all you dare.” He turned back toward his throne. “My son will swallow all your kingdoms for supper. He’ll buy and sell oceans, continents!”
The whispers of confusion and disquiet that trailed after Suddhodana subsided as his threats swept over the guests. Everyone was as superstitious of the gods as Suddhodana.
“Incredible?” he challenged. “No! I’ve seen it. I’ve seen all that will unfold.”
At that moment a movement to the side caught his eye. Siddhartha was standing in the doorway, looking resplendent in his new bejeweled coat.
“Ah,” Suddhodana cried, gesturing toward his son, “here he is.” To himself he thought, I’ve done all I can. Take the stage or pay the price.
Siddhartha stared around him. Over the years he’d seen only a few of these faces. He took a step into the gathering. No one reached for his hand or made the slightest sound. He looked to his father for a sign and received an imperceptible nod. Siddhartha forced himself to go forward, wanting nothing more than to retreat to his room. His thoughts raced; they seemed deafeningly loud in the silence of the banquet tent.
“Come!”
His father called out for him, seeing that his son this time would not fail. Siddhartha began to notice those around him. The looks on some people’s faces seemed wary, but other faces were stark; they spoke of awe and dread.
What did he say to them?
Siddhartha knew that anything was possible. His father was a man of great words when he wanted to be. Suddhodana held out his hand. “Come, great king, come!”
Feeling strangely as if he were watching someone else’s body moving forward, Siddhartha felt his knees quiver, as if they would not hold. He took another step, and then another. When he was almost to his father, the king began clapping, slowly at first, then gaining speed. One or two guests joined in hesitantly, but Suddhodana didn’t stop, and others now joined in, putting more heart into their efforts. The clamor built. Thunderous noise washed over the feast, drowning out all other sounds.
When Siddhartha reached his father’s side, Suddhodana gathered him in a fierce embrace and held him tight. The king was beaming with triumph.
“You’ve won your future,” he whispered. “No one else could do it but you.” He brushed tears from his son’s cheeks.
Father, Siddhartha thought, what have you done?
IN THE TUMULT of cheering for Siddhartha, one man felt as much hatred as the king felt joy and pride. Devadatta bolted from the tent. His hands shook with the effort it took not to attack his cousin. For the first time in his life he realized how alone he was and how hopeless his situation.
The injustice of it was suffocating him. Hadn’t he been trapped at court for ten long years, presenting a thousand opportunities for the king to compare his weakling son to someone who took ambition seriously? Unable to restrain himself, Devadatta shouted, “Fools! Bastards!” But his imprecations were drowned in the clamor of the celebration.
He collided with two servants bearing trays of honey wine, figs, and pomegranates, knocking them and their load to the ground. They cried out, and Devadatta’s feet slid on a brown smear of fig pulp. He righted himself, barely noticing the havoc he’d created.
Both of them were idiots. The king and his make-believe warrior prince who would inherit the world. The prospect would have been sickening if it weren’t so absurd.
Someone else had a stake in the evening’s outcome. Mara had long ago invaded Devadatta’s mind, had colored his jaundiced perceptions and fueled his resentment. Only one thing was missing. The captive prince had never invited him in, had never consciously allied himself with darkness. That might change now. Mara had the advantage, as all demons do, of knowing just how fragile reality actually is, built by the invisible hands of imagination and belief.
As long as Mara was merely a phantom, Siddhartha could keep him suppressed with other figments of his darker imagining. Wisps of the mind, though toxic, are not mortal threats. Mara could not drive the boy insane; Siddhartha did not harbor the necessary seeds of delusion. To destroy him, the demon needed a completely dedicated ally, a vehicle for evil who had no thought of his own soul. Such an ally would be recklessly evil, but in that he would not be unique. His uniqueness would lie in remaining unmoved by Siddhartha’s compassion; he would hate it and want it destroyed. Would Devadatta give him that precious opening?