“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.
9
The sky was divided between sun and clouds as the fighters circled each other. They had stripped down to cotton pants, their chest and feet bare. Siddhartha kept his eyes fixed on Devadatta’s, because as tempting as it was to watch his opponent’s hands, he knew that Devadatta’s glance would give away his intentions.
Siddhartha felt he was moving in a dream. A part of his mind floated high above, looking down in wonder that a fight to the death ensued. But Siddhartha’s instincts for survival were strong. He shook himself and made the opening lunge, his sword hand ahead of his dagger so that by warding off the first blade, Devadatta might open himself to the second one. Devadatta was agile and ready-he jumped to the side with a shouted “Ha!” and slashed with his own sword. Siddhartha went by too fast and wasn’t hit.
Devadatta began a relentless round of parry and thrust, making Siddhartha counter blow after blow with his sword. Each time metal clanged on metal, a shock wave went up his arm. Siddhartha’s muscles ached, and he knew that Devadatta had an advantage over him. This was his cousin’s first combat of the day, while Siddhartha had been fighting for hours. He had to win quickly or his energy would fail. Knowing that Devadatta was following his eyes as well, he made a feint, glancing right, taking a half step in that direction. When Devadatta’s dagger followed him, the move opened up his body, and Siddhartha stuck his sword into the exposed midriff. It was incredible luck. If the blow had struck home, it would have been fatal.
But in the instant before the blade entered Devadatta’s body, Siddhartha heard his heartbeat thud in his ears with long stretches in between the strokes. He felt the breeze blow the hairs on his forearm slowly, delicately, back and forth, and each blink of an eye was like a door closing, leading to blackness, before it opened again and the world reappeared.
He felt very different from before-calm, free of anger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the mood of the king had shifted. Suddhodana was returning to reason, and as he did, the thought of loss of his only son was intolerable. Suddhodana was within half a breath of stopping the fight. He had yet to register that Siddhartha was about to win. The last thing Siddhartha’s eye caught was his sword inching closer to its perfect target.
Suddhodana shouted, “Stand back, a fighter is down!” He wanted to run forward and embrace his son. The prince stood over Devadatta’s fallen body, panting hard.
“Get up,” he said. Devadatta was shaking his head. Instead of delivering a fatal wound, Siddhartha’s sword tip had been deflected, slicing the skin over his heart. He spat out the dust he’d swallowed going down, aiming deliberately at Siddhartha’s feet. Siddhartha’s eyes fixed on the slimy spot it made.
He held out his hand to Devadatta. “You win, if it pleases you.”
Devadatta refused the hand with contempt. “It’s not going to be that easy, boy,” he hissed. Siddhartha ignored the jibe and turned around.
“I quit this fight,” he said in a loud voice, keeping his eyes away from the king’s. “I can’t prevail over a better man. Give the honor to my cousin.”
Suddhodana shook his head. “You have prevailed. The contest is over,” he shouted, but few heard him. Screams rent the air because, at the moment when Siddhartha turned away from him, Devadatta lifted his dagger and raked its rippled blade across the small of his opponent’s back. Siddhartha staggered. Devadatta brought back his arm to strike straight up into his enemy’s stomach as he doubled over.
Siddhartha never gave him the chance. He reached out and grabbed Devadatta’s hair with one hand while batting the threatening dagger away with the other. The gash it made across his palm was insignificant; rage canceled out the pain. He banged Devadatta’s skull into the packed dirt. The first time was enough to make his opponent half senseless, but Siddhartha repeated the action twice more. Devadatta’s eyes betrayed panic when he realized that he was alone and defenseless. The second time his head smashed against the ground, his eyes glazed over; the third smash, and they rolled up into his head.
Siddhartha paid no attention. He lifted Devadatta’s limp body off the ground in a wrestler’s hold around the chest, squeezing the breath out of him. It was remarkably easy to do, as if he were shaking a rag doll. Siddhartha locked his arms into a vice and leaned back, his face to the sky. Inside a voice said, “This is freedom. This is what the gods feel like when they mete out death.” Siddhartha believed the voice and waited for the moment when he would let Devadatta’s body fall.
As his face turned up to the sky, which was still divided between sun and clouds, his arms felt Devadatta’s body grow more and more still.
Surrender, and be free.
For the first time since he could remember, a voice came to him from another place. Siddhartha’s grip weakened just a fraction.
Surrender, and be free.
When the voice came back again, Siddhartha could hardly keep from shouting back, Haven’t I already surrendered? He had conceded the fight to his enemy, yet instead of freeing him, it had opened him to treachery. What was this new surrender? Where would it take him? Siddhartha felt seized with fear. If he let go of Devadatta, their old enmity would be twice as strong; he would have failed his father and turned victory into humiliation. None of that mattered now. Deep down he knew what he had to surrender. The voice wanted him to jump into the abyss, a place deep inside and completely unknown to him. It was the only way out.
Devadatta quivered and softly moaned. Siddhartha dropped him without being aware of his action. He walked to the edge of a cliff-the image in his mind was as real to him as anything he’d ever seen-and leaped. He saw his arms fly up and the yawning gulf, like a monstrous mouth, below him. His first impulse was to shriek, so dizzying was the sensation of plummeting into emptiness. This must be like dying, he thought. He couldn’t feel his body anymore; no sights or sounds reached him from the outside world. But his worst fears were unfounded. The void was not a place of destruction and chaos. No, it was very different.
He saw his mother holding a baby in her arms, and her face was the sun. He saw Mara sitting on his throne surrounded by swarming, buzzing entities, and his face was the night. He saw his father, an infant swaddled in a suit of armor, crying to be let out because he was suffocating. He saw Sujata, the stars, Channa riding the white stallion Kanthaka. The spectacle whirled and slipped past him like painted gossamer, and Siddhartha laughed, feeling exhilarated. The things that had meant so much were as thin and fragile as tissue.
He kept on falling. The tissuelike images flew apart. It was like watching the wind scatter leaves, and the leaves were his life. As this life evaporated before his eyes, Siddhartha felt a shiver, as if someone had ripped off his winter coat and left him naked in the cold. But he wasn’t naked, and far from dead. Instead of the mask of images and memories, surrounding him on every side was something pure and free: life itself. He couldn’t remember who he was. There was nothing left of his fears and dreams, nothing to do, nothing to want. He was simply alive, the breath of the breath, the eye of the eye.