“You call it vicious, I call it being strong,” Suddhodana said.
Canki and the king bent their heads together, rethinking every aspect of the new plan, mulling over every possible point where it might go wrong. Conspiracy was their only bond, and now that new blood flowed into it, the king felt alive as he hadn’t for a long time.
SUDDHODANA WOULD NEVER KNOW if a demon or a god had sent him his prophetic dream. But a demon wanted Devadatta to be king. Of that there was no doubt. For almost ten years Mara had been bored by mortal affairs. He had watched Devadatta and Siddhartha like twin horses trying to break the yoke that bound them. He hated the way humans clung to indecision.
Devadatta had grown more violent over the years. His night excursions into the poor parts of the city ended as often in murder now as in rape. Since he was protected by caste, no one dared assassinate him for fear that they would be damned in the afterlife. So the common people set up watch, and when Devadatta’s horse was spied, or if he showed his face in a tavern, word spread quickly and doors were locked. He found himself lurking deserted streets, and in time his great problem wasn’t his obsessive urge to hurt-it was loneliness.
His only escape these days was to go out riding, either to hunt deer or race his mount mile after mile until both rider and horse were totally spent. This reckless sport injured and crippled several fine horses, but it was the only way Devadatta had found to forget himself. One day soon after Siddhartha left to become a sannyasi-a decision Devadatta considered criminal for a prince of the blood but one that he rejoiced in as well, for now he had an opening, an opportunity to seize control of the kingdom-Devadatta had left the main road in order to force his horse to gallop where the trees were thick, adding to the thrill of his excursion.
Suddenly he smelled smoke in the air. He stopped and rose in the stirrups, casting his eyes over the trees until he saw the thin wisp of a campfire. Normally he wouldn’t have cared. Fires were set by woodcutters and other workers, never women. But Devadatta heard a faint whisper in his ear, and on impulse he rode toward the fire.
Sitting by the fire with his back turned to him was Siddhartha, and he hadn’t become a monk at all. He was still wearing his princely robe and embroidered skirt. His cousin had simply run off for some secret reason. In the next instant, however, Devadatta’s horse stepped on a twig with a loud crack. The man by the fire turned his head, and Devadatta saw that he was mistaken. The man smiled nervously, and his cracked teeth and stubbled beard betrayed that he was a beggar. Devadatta could see that he was roasting a dead parrot he must have scavenged on the forest floor.
“Friend, can I help you?” The man stood up, smiling anxiously.
“Don’t call me friend,” said Devadatta coldly. “Where did you steal those clothes? Did you kill someone for them, or are you with the dacoits?”
“Kill?” The man looked alarmed now as Devadatta slowly rode toward him. “I couldn’t be no killer, or no dacoit, sir. As Your Worship can see, I’m all alone.”
It was true that forest thieves always traveled in packs. “What if I believe you? You still have on royal clothes, anyone can see, filthy as they’ve gotten,” said Devadatta, making his voice as menacing as he could.
The man started to strip Siddhartha’s robes off. “You can have ’em, sir. I never been to court. I knew they was fine clothes, but I never suspected them of being royal. Not for a minute, I swear.”
The poor man was too frightened to run and had no chance of escape if he did. Devadatta had already seen what must have happened in his mind’s eye. A wretched beggar lying in a ditch. His fool of a cousin taking pity-hadn’t he already wasted years ministering to the poor? No doubt he lifted the beggar up and gave him the clothes off his back. Devadatta shook his head.
“Stop trembling,” he said. “And put your clothes back on. You think I’d touch them?”
“Thank you, sir.” The beggar mumbled his gratitude and with one eye glanced over at the fire, where he had dropped the parrot. His meal had roasted to a crisp, and he looked pained.
“It’s ruined,” said Devadatta, nodding toward the fire. “Forget it. I’ll make sure you don’t need to beg anymore.”
The beggar’s smile would have turned to a look of puzzlement, but he had no time for that. It took a matter of seconds for Devadatta to draw his sword and even less, given his years of practice with the weapon, to chop off the beggar’s head with one swipe.
That evening Suddhodana heard women wailing outside his rooms. Something in their cries was heartrending. This wasn’t another funeral formality for an aged courtier. He opened the door to see every lady at court kneeling along the entire length of the main corridor.
“Out of my way!”
He strode through the mass of female bodies, bent as low as hummocks in a meadow, with little care that he was stepping on them. In the main courtyard of the palace the court men formed a dense crowd, some murmuring in low, grim tones, others shouting oaths and imprecations. The crowd was a thick, angry mass like a single creature. By now Suddhodana’s blood was cold. It could only be one thing. The crowd parted when he was spotted, and all but the most senior advisers and generals prostrated themselves on the cobblestones, which were still hot as cooking stones so soon after sunset.
“Where is he? Where is my son?”
Suddhodana followed the eyes of the men around him. Their gaze formed a path, and at the end stood Devadatta. He had dismounted. Over his tall horse, whose sides were panting from a hard ride, a body was draped. It took a second before the king recognized his son’s clothes hanging off the corpse. The head had been cut off, leaving a grisly stem.
Suddhodana recoiled in revulsion. He had no desire to come closer or to take a second look. He turned and put one foot ahead of the other until he had reached the security of his darkened rooms. The heat of the cobblestones seeped through his sandals. The old king felt it, and somehow his hot shoes stuck in his mind, the way trivial things often do, as the first thing he remembered on the long road of suffering that stretched ahead forever.
13
The moment Gautama stepped into the small clearing, he knew that he’d found what he was looking for. A crude thatched lean-to faced him from under the shade of an old tree. The shadows were deep, but he could see a hermit sitting in lotus position. There was no trail of footprints or telltale smoke in the air to lead Gautama to this place. He had been away from home for three months now, and he was an adept forest dweller himself. No longer did he wake up with a start in the middle of the night fearing danger from the snap of a twig. He could let his footsteps wander where they wanted to, and now here he was.
He crossed the small clearing and stood over the hermit, who could have been Asita-slender, wiry build, nut brown skin, thinning hair with a long beard. Gautama moved as silently as he could, and he didn’t speak in greeting to the old ascetic, who made no motion, not even the flutter of an eyelid, to acknowledge his visitor. Finding the shade of a nearby tree, Gautama sat under it and folded his legs. For ten years now he had been meditating, and just as Asita promised, it had become his refuge from the outside world.
At first he had found it hard to settle down completely. As the scriptures say, the mind is like a runaway coach, and the driver never stops whipping the horses. But from inside the coach a voice whispers, “Please stop.” At first the team and driver ignore the voice. It is very soft; it never insists. Over time, however, the voice wins obedience, and the driver and horses stop wildly galloping. Bit by bit they slow down until the mind is at rest. Thus Siddhartha learned a basic lesson: whatever can run can also stand still.
Gradually the tree shade moved away, and he began to sweat. He could see an orange glow in his eyelids and knew, if it was this near sunset, that hours must have passed. Gautama took a peek, but the hermit was still motionless under his lean-to. There was no guarantee that he possessed any wisdom or could be a useful teacher. But Gautama had promised himself that he would seek out someone like Asita. How can freedom be taught except by someone who is free?