Buddha: A Story of Enlightenment

7

You just might do. In a pinch.”

“Just? Thank you very much.” The youth in the mirror smiled at being teased. At least Kumbira still thought of him as a child, if no one else did.

“From me, that’s saying a lot,” she replied.

Kumbira regarded Siddhartha with an appraising eye. His ceremonial dress fit perfectly. He stood in front of his reflection with a flutter of young ladies-in-waiting around him. On this day, when he turned eighteen, he would be acknowledged as the heir to old Suddhodana. He had begun the robing ritual bare-chested and bare-legged before all the layers of cloth, oils, and perfumes were piled on. Each of the women, Kumbira imagined, would have looked upon him with lust-filled eyes if they dared.

And why not? she asked herself. There must be taller and richer princes in the world, but not in their world. Still, she could see the boy in him. Much of Siddhartha’s innocence was yet his. Kumbira cherished that about him without being able to point it out to anyone. What his father wanted to instill was the opposite of innocence.

“Let me ask you something, Kumbira. How happy should I be right now? If anyone knows, it must be you.”

“Don’t talk nonsense!” Kumbira’s eyes narrowed, and she sniffed at him. “What am I smelling? He doesn’t smell right. More sandalwood!” Immediately one of the young attendants raced away to the royal store of unguents and spices.

“It doesn’t matter how I smell, Kumbira. I’m not dessert.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

The girls tittered, and she saw his brief smile fade as he regarded himself in the glass. The approaching day had seemed to dim any joy Siddhartha once found in it. Kumbira had caught him off guard at moments when sadness darkened his eyes and held his mouth tight and narrow. It nearly broke her heart to see him so withdrawn.

She approached from behind and laid a rich silk sash across his chest. “What’s the matter? Whisper in Kumbira’s ear. I’ll send your troubles to the gods, and they’ll never dare return.” Siddhartha shook his head. Kumbira sighed. “Are you determined to spoil everything? The rest of the palace and the people have been looking forward to this for a long time.” He didn’t answer.

“Young men, that’s what it is!” Kumbira snapped her fingers at the girl sitting at the toiletry table, her momentum stopped by the prince’s mood. “Rose water to sweeten the temper.” The girl grabbed the proper vial and hurried over to anoint Siddhartha’s flowing black hair, which curled at his neck. Kumbira tucked in a stray lock. Every detail had to be managed precisely. The king was introducing his heir to the world. As much as Kumbira feared royal wrath, she wanted this day for the prince as fervently as she would have wanted it for her own son.

Siddhartha pulled on the jewel-encrusted coat held out for him. He groaned and shifted under its weight. “Somebody must have made a mistake. This is meant for one of the elephants.”

A girl giggled, and Kumbira shot her a look. Even though he had been surrounded by women for two hours, something made Siddhartha’s head turn. He saw one of the youngest attendants try to cover her amusement by coughing and waving a hand in front of her face as if she were choking. Kumbira was poised to drive the girl from the room when she noticed something more unsettling than a breach of decorum: Siddhartha had evidently chosen that moment to discover how beautiful the young girl was. His eyes widened, and he unconsciously assumed a bolder stance, like a peacock preening before a hen.

Kumbira was wise in such ways. She had witnessed the behavior of men for many years, and this reaction was unmistakable. She held her tongue and waited to see what would happen. Although aging, Prajapati kept a close eye on her charge, and everyone remarked, not with complete approval, on how chaste Siddhartha remained. Now Siddhartha’s eyes were still caught by the young girl who had laughed at him. Sujata was young and soft, rounded in all the right places, with flowing hair and smooth skin. Even more attractive, though, was her discomfiture: she was blushing now at the prince’s interest in her. That, Kumbira knew from experience, was a challenge no warrior could resist.

But instead of confronting the girl’s behavior with the arrogance that highborn men often exhibited before a potential conquest, Siddhartha blushed as well. For an uneasy moment the silence between the two young people held sway in the dressing room. Hastily Kumbira stepped forward between them, breaking the eye contact. She started to wind a red turban around Siddhartha’s head.

“Here,” he said, taking the cloth from her hands. “You have to leave me something to do for myself.” Expertly he wound the turban, but his eyes stayed on Sujata.

Where is she from? Kumbira couldn’t recall. Country girls were regularly brought to court as servants, and this one was new. Kumbira had grown accustomed to such as her. The king constantly replenished the supply of fresh faces around the prince the way one would restock a trout stream.

“You’re not here to gawk, girl,” Kumbira warned, raking Sujata with a disapproving stare.

The girl dropped her gaze to the floor. “I wasn’t, milady.”

“Don’t talk back. You have a lot to learn. Perhaps you should begin somewhere else.” With a flurry of hands Kumbira shooed her away. “Go, go!” Disconcerted, Sujata bowed and left the room.

“She could have stayed,” Siddhartha murmured. Kumbira said nothing. She wasn’t angry with the girl; she had only dismissed her to save the prince from being impulsive in front of tongues that would spread rumors throughout the palace. If he was seriously interested in Sujata, or even casually inclined, he could summon her in private.

Siddhartha sank back into a moody silence as the final touches were put on his costume, in the form of a peacock feather dashingly stuck in his turban and delicate white satin slippers on his feet. With a last frown at his reflection, he made for the door, then turned back.

“What’s her name?” His voice was almost too low to catch.

“Sujata,” said Kumbira. He repeated it under his breath. “So you noticed one,” Kumbira said. “Finally.” Despite the small feeling of apprehension that niggled at her, she couldn’t help teasing him. Siddhartha frowned, but he was too unsure of himself on these grounds to put much into the effort. He reached into his robe and pressed something into Kumbira’s palm, a heavy coin.

“Silence is golden,” he said with a shy, serious expression.

Kumbira nodded, and Siddhartha left noiselessly on slippered feet. They shared a small secret now, yet Kumbira felt inexplicably that he was drawing away from her permanently. There was no reason why this should be so, but she squeezed the gold coin in her hand like the memento of a lost cause. If only she understood the boy.

A PROWLING TIGER crouching in wait or an eagle in its aerie may find it simple to be alone, but humans don’t. We have many ways of being alone, and each has its peculiar complications. On the day that Siddhartha turned eighteen, three people felt completely alone in the palace. Siddhartha was alone because he didn’t know who he was and couldn’t ask anyone. The king was alone because he feared that his project was about to fail. Devadatta was alone because he had been dragged down into private torment without hope of rescue. These three experienced very different forms of loneliness, yet they had one thing in common. They fought to make sure that no one else suspected.

Suddhodana stood on the ramparts watching the long train of litters, wagons, and carts bringing his guests and their retinues to the capital. From down below some had spotted him and waved or got down from their conveyances to bow in salutation. He stood still, not acknowledging their greetings. The weather was fine, the roads to Kapilavastu clear. He had sent out a band of troops to patrol the mountain passes where bandits lurked. In his mind this day was not a coming-of-age feast but a political event. There would be baked peacocks draped in their feathered skins as if still alive, saffron rice steamed with an equal weight of sesame seeds, whole kid goats roasted in butter, betel leaves wrapped in silver foil, honey wine to drink, rose conserve whose scent almost induced a swoon, barley beer in huge casks as the night worn on, and women’s flesh offered in dark private alcoves for dessert. But all this richness was actually a show of force. His guests knew it. Most of them appeared on Suddhodana’s orders, not by invitation. He was presented with the delicate task of transferring their fear and respect, which had been owed to him over many bloody years, to his son. The prospect filled him with gloom.

His eye shifted to the tower where Siddhartha was waiting before his official appearance. “I don’t want you mingling. Don’t greet anybody, don’t let anyone see you. We want them to feel awe when they first set eyes on you. This is your stage, and you have to master it completely.”

“I will do all you ask,” Siddhartha replied.

“Stop it, I don’t want words. What good have words ever done me? This is the first day of your future. Unless you fill them with fear, these people will one day turn into your enemies, that I promise.”

“Fear?” Siddhartha considered the word as if it came from a foreign tongue. “I’m not a threat. Why not keep it that way?”

“Because fear is policy. It’s protection. People are either at your feet or at your throat. It’s up to you which one.” Suddhodana delivered these axioms with complete conviction.

“You protect me, and I’m not afraid of you,” Siddhartha reminded him. This was true. The distance between father and son had wavered over the years, sometimes reaching a pole of complete misunderstanding. But Siddhartha had never been afraid of his father or of what disobedience might bring out in him. As he had grown, the prince acquired a combination of qualities that baffled the king: mildness alongside courage, patience shored up by will, trust combined with sharpness of mind. Suddhodana could never predict which one would emerge. He was reminded every day that two different people seemed to live inside one skin.

“Hasn’t the Brahmin taught you anything?” the king burst out impatiently. “What I’m telling you is real, it’s true. Without creating fear, you can’t get respect. Without respect, you can’t have peace among potential enemies. Once it comes to bloodshed, nobody is afraid enough. Passion makes men fight to the death, and fear in battle is forgotten or despised. It’s useless once the swords are drawn. But fear will keep men from getting to bloodshed, if you manage it right.”

This wasn’t a studied speech, but it was no impulsive outburst, either. Suddhodana had planned to confront his son with the realities of a king’s existence. The time had to be ripe; the boy had to be old enough to accept the lesson but not so old that he would imagine himself wiser than his father. Suddhodana could only pray that his timing was right. He studied Siddhartha’s face for a reaction.

“How is fear managed?” asked Siddhartha. His hesitant tone wasn’t encouraging, but at least he had asked the right question.

“Fear should be applied like medicine,” his father replied. “Use just enough as a remedy but not so much that it becomes a poison. Medicine isn’t pleasant. But the pain it causes cures a greater pain.” Suddhodana had practiced this analogy until he thought it was easy to understand and forceful enough to be remembered.

“Fate has dealt us a fortunate hand,” Suddhodana went on. “We have the mountains to the north and west guarding our backs. I’ve fought on that front occasionally, but my eye keeps looking east. To the east you have strong kings, in Magadha and Kosala. Together they could overwhelm us by sheer numbers. They are almost strong enough to do it without allying. But they don’t attack because I inflicted pain on them first. I bit their throats like a small dog that can drive back a bigger one because it’s more fierce. The big dog will remember the bite and forget that its enemy is actually smaller.”

“You cast a spell,” Siddhartha said. It was a peculiar remark, and it stopped his father cold.

“More than a spell. I killed real men. One day you will too.”

There, I’ve said it. He had put before his son an inevitability, not simply a possibility. “A king has never existed who didn’t fight and kill,” he said with emphasis.

“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?

Watching Devadatta continue his enraged progress toward the royal apartments, Mara decided to precipitate a crisis. He couldn’t use brute force, but an enticing accident opened another way. Devadatta happened to pass by the room where a certain girl waited. She was unsuspecting and vulnerable. To bring forth a demon in the flesh, nothing works better than flesh itself.

It was no trick at all to turn Devadatta’s rage in the direction of lust. Mara wafted a faint perfume in his nostrils, planted an arousing image of swelling breasts, whispered in Devadatta’s ear that he could not rest tonight until he forced his will on somebody whose pain would bring him pleasure. Mara pushed the small switches needed. Devadatta barely suspected that he was being manipulated. He only knew that he had to have a woman now. The insidious mechanism, so subtle in its creation, so violent in its outcome, was set.

SUJATA STARED WITH LONGING out the high open window, placed close enough to the banquet tent that she could hear music rise and fall on the evening breeze. By the light of torches she saw Siddhartha approach in his resplendent outfit, and her fraught emotions made her believe that she saw him shudder as he entered. Catching sight of him made her shudder. She couldn’t completely understand what this meant. She was only fifteen, but that’s old enough to understand many things. For instance, she understood that she must never tell anyone her real story.

Kumbira had gathered Sujata with the other unmarried young women to watch the spectacle from a distance. This would be their sole participation until the secret hour when the men would be allowed near them.

“Here’s a cream to rub out dark spots and lime juice to tighten wrinkles,” Kumbira said, herding them around a table like an anxious madam whose girls must please if she wants to be paid. She had never seduced a man herself, but she was obsessed with the tricks of seduction. Buckets of snow bundled in straw had been fetched by runners from the mountains so the girls could dip their breasts in ice water to firm them up. “Those of you who are smart won’t eat tonight, but if you are starving, no onions and lots of sweet fennel seed.”

Only Sujata had held back, bored and detached from the excited preparations. She even considered paying a lower servant to sneak radishes and onions into her room since she didn’t want to attract any men that night. Any but one. Their toilette complete, the other ladies-in-waiting sat on pillows near the balcony, dreamily feeding their fantasies. They wore gauzy sleeping gowns. Bowls of food covered the low settees in the center of the room. A few woman nibbled and gossiped lazily.

Was I ever so young? Kumbira wondered. She eyed them with envy and dislike. Scraps of conversation floated past her like eiderdown. “Did you see what she was wearing? It might have looked good on her ten years ago.” “Do you suppose she knows?” “Knows? Her lover beats her and won’t give her money for a thing.” Kumbira couldn’t remember being like that, ever, but she must have been. And now she knew as much about the empire as the king himself, although it would be her head if she ever told anyone.

Kumbira watched the young girl sitting apart from the others. She ate from a bowl of grapes, one at a time. Since she had arrived, brought to court at night in a ramshackle wagon with torches on either side, then rushed into the women’s quarters without a proper introduction to anyone, Sujata had kept her own counsel. Kumbira hoped that the girl, whoever she was, had a strong sense of self-preservation. She must realize the danger in luring the attentions of a prince like Siddhartha.

The door curtains suddenly exploded in billows of velvet, and through them burst Devadatta. It was too early, and Kumbira saw immediately that he was in a state.

“Hush!” she warned the girls, who had started squealing and drawing together like startled mice. Devadatta brought danger with him, not seduction. Kumbira strode forward, putting herself between the intruder and her charges. “You’re not allowed in here,” she snapped.

Devadatta scowled insolently. “I didn’t come for you, hag. I want one of them. That one.” He pointed to Sujata.

Kumbira’s first impulse was to let him take her. She couldn’t turn him away, not aroused and angry. If she summoned the guards, provided they weren’t too drunk to put up a fight, they couldn’t lay hands on someone protected by the king. Perhaps it would be better if Devadatta used her and Siddhartha found out about it. That course of action would nip the prince’s interest in the bud. The king wouldn’t appreciate complications.

But Sujata drew back, eyes wide with fright and her hand to her mouth. Her pulse beat rapidly in the hollow of her throat. Kumbira’s eyes weren’t so old that she couldn’t see that. She felt herself moved to protect the girl. And perhaps the prince as well.

Devadatta crossed the room. The other girls parted as if they were the wake left by his rage. He closed his fist on Sujata’s arm. Terrified, she tried to pull away. She dared not struggle because striking a member of the royal family would put her in peril. Her fear made Devadatta’s eyes glint. Even the small fight she put up brought a predator’s smile of anticipation to his lips.

“Young prince,” Kumbira said in a level tone that she hoped wouldn’t provoke him. “I appreciate your lust. But not this one.”

Devadatta glared at her. “Why not?”

Leaning close, Kumbira whispered, “It’s her day of the month.”

“You’re lying.” Devadatta studied Kumbira’s face suspiciously. It wasn’t in his nature to be blocked; there would be an outlet tonight, everything else be damned. “If she is untouchable, why is she here with clean women?”

But Kumbira had learned two generations ago to lie. She did it with a flat voice and no trace of defensiveness, maintaining eye contact. “She should be isolated, yes. But I’m old and softhearted, and this being a royal feast day-”

Devadatta cut her off. “Softhearted as a cobra, you old whore.”

Kumbira held his gaze, not giving him any indication that she disapproved of the way he treated her. She knew how to follow up a lie. Devadatta turned away and grabbed another girl. This one went willingly, even though he almost yanked her off her feet.

Sujata turned to Kumbira like someone in shock. Without warning, she fell against Kumbira’s breast, gripping her tight enough to hurt. “Thank you,” she whispered urgently. “Thank you a thousand times.”

The nakedness of the girl’s feelings moved Kumbira. In her long life of tough resilience and calculation, only Siddhartha had ever had such an effect on her. She almost wrapped the girl, who had broken down in tears, in her embrace.

Then she caught herself and realized what she was about to do-with all the others watching, girls who had no pity for Sujata and would be deriding her the moment they were alone. Grabbing Sujata by the shoulders, Kumbira pushed her away. “You think I did this for you?”

A confused look filled Sujata’s face. She wiped away her tears with the backs of her hands.

“What kind of ninnies are they sending to court?” Kumbira demanded. She reached into her sari and took out the gold coin Siddhartha had given her. “You’re paid for,” Kumbira said brutally. “By the prince.”

“Oh.” Sujata’s voice was flat and weak.

“He’d never forgive me if I broke our bargain,” Kumbira added. “Not without consulting him first.”

The room was silent. The others knew they were witnessing a choice humiliation, fodder for backdoor gossips. Imperceptibly gaining control, Sujata drew herself up. “In two seconds you’ve been kind and cruel to me. What am I supposed to think?”

“Think yourself lucky,” Kumbira snapped. “Try that.” She turned her attention back to the others. “Now go back to your dinner, all of you. And don’t stink up your breath,” she warned.

Sujata remained standing there, her gaze locked on Kumbira.

Impudent girl, Kumbira thought. Still, she had some backbone, and the old woman wouldn’t want that to be totally crushed. “You’ve got breasts like a suckled sow. Go to your room and take some ice water to firm them up with. It’s going to be a long night.”

There was general tittering, and Sujata gasped in embarrassed hurt. She turned and fled the room. Kumbira didn’t watch her go. She had done Sujata a secret kindness by driving her away, and none of the others suspected it. Kumbira’s role wasn’t to bring Siddhartha and the girl together, but at least she could keep the greedy hands of other men off her.

Kumbira walked toward the window and wished she were watching Siddhartha in his glory. Cheers and applause rang once more from below. It must be past midnight. She smiled and thought of how proud the old king must be. And how drunk.

THE GREAT FEAST had wound down. The bulk of the guests had already retired or collapsed in a stupor. It was only a few hours before dawn. Siddhartha stepped over them and left the tent without his father noticing. The king sat in a heavy drowse, his head lolling on his chest. Siddhartha had made a show of drinking to every raucous toast but had actually sipped very little. He needed a clear head to make good his escape.

Tonight, after all the years of being kept like a nightingale in a gilded cage, he would be free. Excitement coursed through Siddhartha. He hurried back to his apartments and didn’t bother lighting a candle. He’d lived all of his life inside these rooms and could make his way around them in the dark. Moving quickly, he packed a traveling sack, rolling a few clothes inside. He didn’t know what to take or how much. He didn’t want to be recognized as the king’s son, so he packed rough breeches and shirts that he wore in the stables.

He slid his sword through his sash and secured it at his hip. All the travelers he’d talked to had agreed that the roads were dangerous. He’d share the common risk of being robbed, but if his identity were ever discovered, there would be the added one of kidnapping for ransom. He added some bread, dried fruit, and what few coins he possessed. Inside the palace walls he had never needed money; outside them he was genuinely poor. The coins came from Channa and various young nobles in games of chance or when he sold them trinkets he knew his father wouldn’t miss.

Just as he was finishing, the ponderous closing of the main gates reverberated inside Siddhartha’s room. He ran to the window and peered out. Moonlight burned cool against his bare skin. Below in the central courtyard the guards staggered to their posts, proving that the liquor had made its way to the barracks. The new arrivals shot the bolts on the gates; the noise was as loud as an ax splitting wood. Those portals had stood against armies who had fought against his father, as witnessed by the hacked scars that decorated their exterior.

Siddhartha heaved the laden sack over his shoulder and fled, going quietly down the stairs. A throbbing drummed in his ears. Only a short distance on, he paused and heard muffled voices through the walls. It sounded like men arguing. Siddhartha shifted the sack’s weight and pressed on. He kept his hand on his sword hilt so it wouldn’t strike anything. Dark shadows filled the hallway; the torches in their sconces had long guttered out.

Then a sudden movement in the shadows sent him into hiding against the wall. Siddhartha went flat and stopped breathing. The cold stone wall leached the warmth from his body. He watched intently for a while before relaxing enough to start breathing again. But as he started forward, the shifting shape returned like a shadow puppet against a dark screen. This time he saw that it was a woman. She was slim hipped and moved quickly on light feet. Her face and glowing eyes were visible for a fleeting second in a bar of moonlight.

Sujata?

She paused as if she could hear him thinking her name. What was she doing here? Siddhartha started to softly call out, but before he could, she turned and ran down the hallway as if in a panic. Siddhartha’s escape plan vanished from his thoughts. He let his sack slide from his shoulder to the floor and ran after her.

As he rounded the next corner he saw the figure-he was certain now it must be Sujata-disappear through a doorway. He followed her into the royal gardens, not daring to call out, knowing that amours were taking place in hidden nooks among the camellias and roses. The gardens had been designed by his mother. Maya had intended them to be a place of eternal fascination, and the centerpiece was an intricate knot, a maze crafted with topiary dragons and elephants, along with fabulous sea monsters like the magan and the mythical karaweik bird of hypnotic song. The sweet smell of night blossoms thickened the air. Sujata paused at the entrance to the maze and looked back over her shoulder. Her expression was inscrutable.

“Wait!” Siddhartha raised his voice, more intent on the fleeing girl than on preserving his anonymity. He tried to use the tone of command that his father had mastered. Instead, Sujata vanished into the maze.

Siddhartha was helplessly drawn; he ran toward the entrance and ducked inside. The tall walls of the maze closed in around him, and the darkness became more complete. He ran, listening for her footsteps, shifting through twists and turns to follow the sounds she made. Then they stopped. If she had been as close as he thought, Siddhartha would have tripped over her by now. Footsteps sounded to his left, on the other side of the hedge wall. He tried to slip through the tangled growth, but the greenery was packed too tight.

“It’s me, Sujata. Stay where you are. You’re safe.”

Siddhartha put his hand on the left wall of the maze. It guided him back to the last turn, and this time he took the route he’d passed up before. At that moment the moon disappeared behind a cloud, and in the darkness he ran into somebody blocking the way.

“Sujata?” he whispered.

Her voice came back, and it was very close. “How fitting. You’re lost in the maze of your mind, and now you’re lost in this maze.”

Siddhartha was startled by Sujata’s arrogant tone, but it was definitely her voice. “I saw you running away. Are you in trouble?”

“I’m never in trouble. I make trouble.”

Sujata’s voice had deepened, and despite his attraction to her, Siddhartha instinctively took a step backward. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he perceived that the figure before him was not the curved, slim-hipped girl.

“Who are you?” Siddhartha’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, though he wondered how much use a weapon would be against a magician, if that was what he was confronting. Canki had told him that such beings existed and must be countered through ritual observances that made a person immune to spells and malevolent magic.

“I can be her if that makes you more comfortable. I can be whoever you imagine.” The shadowy figure stepped closer, and there was no doubt that its voice was now a man’s.

“Have you hurt her? Where is she?”

The stranger drew himself up; he smoothed his long-nailed fingers against the sides of his robe. “How do you know I’m not her? How do we know who anyone really is?”

“I’m going back.” Siddhartha made a move to leave, but the stranger’s voice spoke again with a peculiar allure.

“You think that if I take her shape she must be in danger? You could be right. The greatest danger she faces right now, however, is from you.”

Siddhartha’s temper flared. “Deceiver! Whoever you are, either fight me or leave me in peace.”

The stranger’s voice took on an aggrieved tone. “You mistake me, young sir. I’ve come to bring you peace, only peace. How can I convince you?”

The moon had come out again, and Siddhartha saw that he was confronting a tall young man, somewhat older than himself, who could have been his cousin, Devadatta. For a moment he almost called out Devadatta’s name, but he realized that this encounter couldn’t be anything but supernatural.

“Don’t you recognize me?” the tall young man said. “I’m the son your father always wanted, the one you could become.”

Darkness couldn’t conceal the truth of what the stranger said. Siddhartha was looking at himself a few years older. “What is your purpose here? I am already the son my father wants.” Despite his attempt to sound confident, the stranger laughed at him.

“Your father wants a son who steals away in the night without a word? I’m surprised. He has worked so hard to keep you here. But I understand. Fathers don’t know everything. It’s right that they shouldn’t.” The stranger’s voice had a sinuous ability to shift between arrogance, familiarity, and cajolery. It stung and soothed at the same time. Siddhartha was feeling uncertain, and although the stranger made no threatening gestures, the mere sight of him drained Siddhartha’s body; he felt slack and weak.

“You won’t succeed, you know,” the stranger said. “At escaping, I mean. This is your rightful place. We just have to decide how you are to occupy it.”

The stranger was taunting him and making no effort to disguise it. “Tell me your name,” Siddhartha demanded.

“Siddhartha.”

“Then you are only a mocking demon, and I mistook you for someone of power.”

The stranger’s fingers curled like a cat deciding whether to use its claws or keep them retracted. “Don’t be rash. I’m here because I know you. Don’t act surprised, either. It’s time to be frank, isn’t it? A prince who is running away from a throne must be very confused, don’t you agree?”

Mara watched Siddhartha hesitate in his reply. His bantering with the youth had not been for his own amusement. It went deeper than that. The shapes he took, the words he spoke were all part of a test. He wanted to find the best way to penetrate Siddhartha’s mind, and so he circled it like a surgeon finding the exact place for the first cut.

“I didn’t tell you my name because I was a little offended,” said Mara. “You know me very well, and yet you offered no greeting. Is that any way to behave?”

Siddhartha shuddered slightly. He had never seen this shape before, but the voice in the darkness raised faint, troubled memories of a voice he had once heard in his head. Visions of his mother’s lifeless body shrieked through his mind.

“See,” Mara hissed. “He’s starting to be convinced.”

Then the demon’s body jerked fitfully, twisting and bending in places where there were no joints. The tall young man became a floppy doll, which collapsed to the ground. Now its limbs folded into one another, turning into a crouched dwarf. Siddhartha froze in place, and the hummock became a formless mass that palpitated, waiting to take on whatever form his terror dictated. Whether from horror or a reserve of strength that he didn’t know he possessed, Siddhartha’s mind became silent, without thought.

“Nothing to say to me? Really?” Mara taunted. “After all we’ve been through.” Now Siddhartha saw a funeral pyre, a skull crumbling to ashes. His nostrils were filled with the stench of death.

Mara was confident that these reminders would create a crack, that riding the crest of terror, he could penetrate Siddhartha’s mind. It was important to Mara that he do this, because to bring down the prince by his own fear was far better than using a tool, even one as talented as Devadatta.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Siddhartha said quietly. It was a deceptive quiet because inside himself he felt a battle being fought on the edge of awareness. It wasn’t a battle of words or images; everything proceeded silently, like a creeping epidemic or like foul, noxious air seeping through a cracked windowpane.

This was no stranger. Siddhartha had known all along who he was and that his name was Mara. He felt trapped and helpless. All his life he had endured the demon’s attentions on the periphery of his mind.

“What do you want of me?”

Mara offered his hand. “I want to teach you. I want to help.” He smiled, but the taint of his intentions marred the effort. Siddhartha didn’t take the proffered hand. He sank on the ground, burying his face between his knees. If he was the special target of Mara’s intentions, there must be a reason. It could be great sin or great weakness on his part, but Siddhartha knew this wasn’t the case. It was nothing he had ever done that attracted the demon. Therefore, it had to be something he might do. The fact that he hadn’t defeated Mara in one night didn’t mean he would always fail.

Mara scowled, watching the motionless youth crouched before him. It was a delicate moment. He could feel the workings of Siddhartha’s mind; gradually the crack that Mara had found began to close up again. Siddhartha began to feel calmer. His mind had created a train of argument that he could believe in. He would vanquish the demon, not by resisting him but by finding a place that was already safe from him. Siddhartha didn’t know where that place was yet, but with an uncanny certainty he knew it existed. Siddhartha looked up, seeing the full moon overhead, and he realized that no one was looming over him anymore and no shadow appeared except the one cast by the high walls of the maze.

Mara, who had shed his mortal form, watched the prince leave without pursuing him. The demon felt that a great secret had been stripped from him, and by someone so guileless and young. Siddhartha had figured out that demons enter the mind when we resist them. The stronger our efforts to fortify ourselves against temptation, the stronger temptation has us in its grip. Mara sighed. But his confidence wasn’t shaken. He still had his allies. The coming battle would be interesting, which wasn’t often the case. He was irked, but he wouldn’t be defeated. Of that Mara could be certain.