Vappa, who had been listening close by, said, “No one will ever see me this way.”
“Why not?” said Buddha. “I do already.”
He remained silent as they made their way through the heart of battle. On the fringes one could still hear the clash of war, but as far as the eye could see, every soldier had laid down his weapons. It took half an hour to cross the entire field. The tents of the generals came into view. Buddha pointed to the highest tent pole, which flew a brilliant red and yellow ensign. “My father.” The older generals shivered when they saw the return of the prince from the dead; all the officers bowed low, then they followed in Buddha’s wake as he approached the royal tent.
Buddha parted the tent flap and went inside. In the dim, hot interior, the old king lay on a cot. He had fallen asleep while putting on his armor. He was groaning and turning over restlessly, his arms thrashing. Buddha made a gesture, and Assaji came inside.
“I want you to see everything,” Buddha said. “But keep in a corner for now. We don’t want to overwhelm him.”
Assaji backed away into the shadows. Then Buddha approached the cot and touched his father on the shoulder. Suddhodana didn’t start but woke up slowly, rubbing his eyes. It took a moment for his mind to grasp what he was seeing, and three words escaped his mouth separated by long pauses. “Who? No. You!” The old king began to weep.
“Don’t be afraid, father.” Buddha embraced the old man, and they stood together like that, while to Assaji’s surprise Buddha himself was silently weeping. Suddhodana recovered his speech in broken expressions. Where did Siddhartha come from? Who had been beheaded? But more frequently he recriminated himself for being such a fool.
A surge of anger hardened the old king and brought a sudden burst of energy. “Devadatta will pay for this.” he said crisply. “I have to fight. This is no place for you. Have some men escort you back to the palace.” Suddhodana reached for the chest plate and helmet he was putting on before he fell asleep. He averted his eyes from his son. “I know you are a monk now, Siddhartha, but unless we win this battle, your father will be a beggar.” Suddhodana had never reconciled himself to his son’s choice, and now his only thought was that the kingdom needed a defender. Instead of stopping him, Buddha stood aside and let the old king armor himself, pick up his sword, and rush from the tent.
“You’re going to let him fight?” asked Assaji, disbelieving.
“He’s a warrior; his nature is conflict,” said Buddha.
“But two seconds ago he was weeping over you. And you were weeping too,” said Assaji awkwardly.
“That was love,” said Buddha. “Love sometimes weeps; don’t be ashamed of it. With some people, an appeal to love prevails.”
“Love didn’t stop him from running back to fight,” said Assaji.
Buddha opened the tent flap. They saw the generals trailing after Suddhodana, who was shouting exhortations the way he used to when he was young. Some of his staff tried to calm him down, but he ferociously threw them off. After a moment the officers mounted their horses or jumped into chariots. Buddha watched them rush off toward the left flank, where some fighting was still raging.
“What if he’s killed?” asked Assaji anxiously. “Aren’t you here to save your father?”
“This is the moment of faith, when nothing seems to work,” said Buddha, beginning to walk after the departing fighters. “Don’t preach faith the way it’s usually preached, to keep people quiet and forbid them to think on their own. That kind of faith is blind, and being blind, it is useless. Call on faith only when the mind has given up.”
“But sometimes it’s right to give up,” Assaji protested.
“No, dear friend, that’s not true. Never forget that all this is a dream.” Buddha passed his gaze over the dead bodies fallen on either side, the carrion birds picking at their remains, the fleeing horses without a rider. “Winning and losing are the same thing. Both are nothing.”
Buddha quickened his pace. Assaji summoned the other monks to catch up. He said, “This is a profound day for us, master. We will never forget it.”
“Every day is like this,” Buddha replied. “You’ll see.”
Now they arrived at the thick of the fray where Suddhodana, against the earnest entreaties of his officers, was standing in his stirrups and screaming. “Come face me, coward! I am one old man, but you won’t walk away alive.”
From the opposing ranks came a stir, then a single horseman rode out into the space between the two armies. It was Devadatta, fully armored with upraised sword. “I would gladly kill you, old fool,” he shouted. “But half your army follows me already. Surrender or watch your men be killed before sunset.”
“Who is he?” asked Assaji.
“I could give you many answers. My cousin. A lost soul. A man trapped in a nightmare,” said Buddha. “But the truth is that he is an aspect of me.”
Raising his voice, Buddha called, “Devadatta!”
His cousin looked his way, but instead of registering surprise he laughed harshly. “Come to see your last hope die?” he cried. “Tell your father to lay down his arms or I’ll take the throne by force.”
Since convincing Suddhodana that his son was dead, Devadatta had spent his time well. He raised dissent among some garrisons of the king’s army, offering them more fighting and gold once Suddhodana was deposed. He plotted with a neighboring king, Bimbisara, to invade the country so that Devadatta would have overwhelming numbers on his side.
“Stop, cousin, for your own sake,” Buddha said, coming nearer. “This is a mistake.”
“Only for your family,” said Devadatta bitterly. “You’ve held me like a prisoner all my life.”
“Revenge isn’t yours,” said Buddha. “Surrender, and I promise you freedom from your pain.”
Devadatta became enraged. “Surrender to you?” he screamed. “You weak, pious fraud!” He swung his sword in a circle overhead and kicked his horse with his spurs to make it charge. On the other side Suddhodana had lost the will to fight. Without warning, he felt his body drained of energy, and he slumped in the saddle like the old man he was.
Prepared to die, Suddhodana closed his eyes and prayed. He had done that only in the Shiva temple before a battle. But he worried about his soul, so he asked Maya to forgive him for letting her die. He thanked the gods for allowing him to live long enough to see his lost son once again. And finally, since he was what he was, the king prayed fervently that Devadatta would die by violence and go directly to hell. When he opened his eyes again, Suddhodana thought that his last prayer had come true because Devadatta was not hard upon him with his sword. Instead, the traitor was rolling in the dust, and his mount had bolted. Confusion broke out in the ranks.
The next instant made matters clear. A lone soldier had run up at the last moment and cut the cinch to Devadatta’s saddle, unhorsing him. That soldier was standing over him now, ripping off his helmet. It was Channa, who shouted at Suddhodana, “Get out of here! I can’t kill a whole army for one old fool.”
Suddhodana backed up until he was safe among the ranks of his men. He watched as Devadatta leaped to his feet. The two fighters circled each other, swords held forward.
“So you still pick fights you can’t lose,” Channa snarled. “Not today. Today, nobody becomes king without going through me.”
Devadatta lunged with his weapon, hoping for a clean kill with his first strike. Channa stepped aside quickly, and his enemy rushed by, almost losing his balance. With an arrogant smile, Channa waved for Devadatta to come at him again.
“Why waste time?” he taunted. “This low-caste scum was always the one who would kill you. I’ll rub a little of my blood in your wounds to make sure you get to hell.”