Beloved of the Gods: A Novel of Ancient India

By Jo Ford

As King Ashoka leads his army and elephant cavalry to war, he leaves behind a gilded Palace on Indias Ganges River, a beleaguered Prime Minister to cope with monsoons and a devious princess in the harem plotting to become queen. Instead of being awakened each morning by the High Priest and twenty beautiful women with trumpets, he will be greeted by savage tribesmen in surprise attacks.
The young scribe assigned to record glorious victories observes in dismay the Kings excessive wrath in battle. Unexpectedly, however, the Kings love for the tall, blonde leader of the Royal Women Guards and regrets over a village chieftain cause him to question his war of conquest.
Back at the Palace, intrigue at court and illicit trysts in the harem threaten the Kings power. The Dwarf, a Palace spy, watches allfrom a concubines erotic seduction of the Prince to violence on the Kings sacred white elephant. Alarmed citizens of Pataliputra from highest to lowest castes wonder when their warrior King will return. Has Ashoka fallen under the influence of a Buddhist holy man in the forest? Will the gods that favored him with two rare, white elephants bless his empire with peace and prosperity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462039654

Jo Ford

author’s bio Jo Ford is a widely traveled author of four previous historical novels, Colophon, The Land Between Two Rivers, Sayyida, and Beloved of the Gods. As a modern traveler she has been to the places Prince Pedro plausibly journeyed five centuries ago. Born and bred in a hemisphere Pedro never knew existed, she has also traveled there extensively. She is retired from teaching English and Humanities at Mission Community College and lives in Silicon Valley.

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Major Characters

Glossary

Prologue

Morning Races And Trumpets

The War Procession

Ambush Of The Forest Dwellers

Tissara’s Temper

Kalingan Strategy

The Beach Encampment

An Audience Is Interrupted

Meeting The Enemy

Nagas And Elephants

Entertainment At Court

A Monsoon Victory

Raj Kumari

The Admiral’s Ambition

The Village Chieftain And Yaksi

Trotting Oxen Games

The Stonecutter’s Tiger

To The Black Water And Dhauli

The Battle Of Dhauli Hill

Villagers, Warriors, Captives

The Wanderer And The Nomads

Precedents In The Palace

The Temple And Trader’s Market

A Flower, A Fruit, And A Fish

Celebrating Kalinga

The Concubine’s Plea

The Sangha

The Spies Report

Walking A Tightrope

The Dwarf Becomes A Giant

The Guards’ Last Hunt

A Mother’s Remorse

Rats, Snakes, Heaps, And Lumps

The Solstice Festival

Monsoon Afternoons

Karma

The Path Of The Mongoose

A Riverside Confession

The Palace Peacocks

The Buddha’s Footprint

Devanampiya Piyadassi

Historical Afterword

About The Author

For my daughter Peggy, remembering our travels in India as well as in less exotic places around the world.

Amidst the tens of thousands of names of monarchs that crowd the columns of history, their Majesties and Graciousnesses and Serenities and Royal Highnesses and the like, the name of Ashoka shines, and shines almost alone, a star. From the Volga to Japan his name is still honoured. China, Tibet, and even India, though it has left his doctrine, preserve the tradition of his greatness. More living men cherish his memory today than have ever heard the names of Constantine or Charlemagne. H. G. Wells

The Outline of History

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful for the information and hospitality of my friends, Sally and Thayil Mathew, who generously shared their home, friends, and culture during my travels in India. Lectures by and discussions with Dr. Karel Werner as well as his The Heritage of the Vedas, published by the British Wheel of Yoga were helpful in understanding religion and philosophy in ancient India. And, once again, my friend Betsy Koester ably assisted in my Mauryan Empire research at Stanford University. I am also grateful for the encouragement of Ashoka fans Kokila Shah and Manisha Shah Ryan. David Arnold has again proved himself interested in geography and adept at cartography. He is graciously precise, patient, and resourceful. I greatly appreciate photographer Carol Baxter’s selections and arrangement for cover design.

MAJOR CHARACTERS

Admiral-head of Navy and maritime affairs

Amila-Royal Guard from Mysore, in the south

*Ashoka-(Ah-shok’a) third ruler of Mauryan dynasty

Chamun’s wife-mother of Rupna

Dwarf-Palace entertainer and informer

Garika-(Ga-ree’ka) Prime Minister

High Priest-head of Brahmin monastery

Janta-stonecutter, sculptor

*Kunala-(Koo-nah’ lah)-elder son of Ashoka, Heir Apparent

*Mahendra-younger son of Ashoka

Nyagroda-(Ni’-yah-grod’ ah) wanderer, Buddha follower

Pada-(Pah’da)-scribe

Rajuka-(Rah-jook’kah) Commander-in-Chief of Army

Rupna-(Roop’-na) son of Minister Chamun

Satya-concubine

*Tissara-(Tee-sah’ra)princess, gift to Ashoka from Nepal

Vitasyi-(Vee-tash’ ee) leader of Royal Women Guards*

Yakub-(Yah’koob) a slave, healer, and trader

LESSER CHARACTERS

*Moggali-Buddhist teacher

*Asamittra (older queen) a gift from a ruler

*Devi-deceased first Queen of Ashoka, mother of Kunala

*Chandragupta-first Mauryan ruler, grandfather of Ashoka

*Bindusara-second Mauryan ruler, father of Ashoka

* Denotes historical personage

GLOSSARY

Adamas—hard, gray stone used for cutting gems; also, when polished and cut, it is diamond

Avatar—a manifestation of a god reborn as a mortal

Dhamma—a pattern of right living, goes beyond rituals, adds a concern for moral behavior; The Way of Buddhism

Brahmanism—older religion, a transition from Vedism (800 b.c.e. onwards) foundations of Hinduism (100 b.c.e. onwards)

Brahma—Lord of the Universe

Castes:

Brahmin—priesthood to perform rituals of the Vedas, to memorize and teach

Kshatriya—nobles warriors, scribes, and aristocrats responsible for government

Vaishya—merchants, traders, artisans, stock breeders, and farmers

Shudra—caste of manual laborers such as florists, barbers, brick makers, herdsmen, carpenters; handlers of waste such as blood, manure, dirt

Ghee—butter

Jain—religion of austerity (500 b.c.e. onwards)

Karma—moral quality of accumulated deeds, good or bad, which determines fortune in future lives

Lingam—phallic pillar, symbol of god Shiva

Mahout—elephant trainer and rider

Nagas—serpent gods living in river waters; rain producing

Neem—tree, originally considered habitat of protective gods

Ola palm—palm trees with leaves which last fifty years; used for writing material, along with wood, cloth, and copper. The leaves were dried and bound together by threads (sutra—that which is bound together) This was put within two wooden slats and stored in monasteries, temples, or libraries.

Palankeen—a boxy, enclosed litter borne on men’s shoulders by means of projecting poles

Pippali/ Peepul—pepper tree

Rasas—the emotions or sentiments expressed in dramatic performances. The eight were love, laughter, anger, pride, sadness, wonder, fear and loathing.

Sangha—the communal assembly for Buddhists; also a place for such a gathering

Soma—plant producing a liquid with hallucinogenic, intoxicating properties; sacred drink used by priests performing sacrificial rituals

Stupa—a hemispherical brick structure with inner chamber housing Buddha relics

Sutra—a verse from the Buddhist scriptures; a religious discourse

Yakshi—ancient nature god inhabiting trees

India-01.pngTaxila-02.png

PROLOGUE

Kashmir 275 b.c.e.

Swarthy, bearded mountain men emerged from the early morning mist that hung about the base of the foothills like the thin, errant smoke of smoldering campfires. Edging their shaggy ponies out onto the open grassland, more than a hundred rebel fighters armed with javelins and battleaxes accelerated to a gallop, confident of surprising the Taxila Viceroy’s encampment. Too late, they saw they had underestimated their enemy.

Pada, son of a warrior of high caste, gripped the reins of his war horse and dug his heels into its flanks as shrill rams’ horns blared the signal to charge the approaching fighters. The war elephants, massed ahead of the cavalry, led the Taxila army. Deceptively slow to overcome inertia, they bore down swiftly on the stunned mountain horsemen. The ground hadn’t been softened by rain during the night, so when the elephants charged, the ground shook. Their pounding hooves drummed a background for the fierce yells of the rebels and horns sounding the charge. As the cavalry, led by the Prince himself, spread through the wide meadow overrunning everything in front of them, archers on the elephants’ backs aimed at the riders below. When elephants and horse soldiers got close enough for the archers to shoot, Pada saw the bearded enemy faces contorted in a mixture of rage and fright. Lumbering among the enemy horsemen, the elephants trumpeted, while their drivers maneuvered into position for the archers to aim. Although javelins flew they fell away from the thick leather armor protecting the elephants.

The excitement of battle struggled with fear in Pada’s heart, beating wildly beneath his breastplate. Along with five other fourteen year olds of high caste, he rode for the first time into a life or death test of his fitness to become a warrior.

The line of rebel horse soldiers dashed into the melee swinging their heavy swords with both hands. Pada’s archery training flowed from memory to muscles without prompting. His horse twisted and reared with little direction from his rider. With his knees and thighs, he hugged the horse, loosing arrows when he found himself in range of a mountain man. Fear slipped away as he saw the shaggy hides worn by the enemy for protection turn red with their blood where his arrows struck. He shouted exultantly, blending his own hoarse war cries with others’, with the screams of the wounded, and the neighing of horses. Reaching over his shoulder to grab a fresh arrow from his quiver, he threw his head back to keep balanced on the horse and was momentarily blinded by the blaze of sun just rising above the rim of the foothills. He blinked, quickly fitting the bulbous notch of the arrow into the bowstring as the horse settled in a position for his shot.

Then, a javelin crudely tipped with metal thudded into his shoulder, missing his breastplate. He gasped, feeling the bone break as he hunched over pulled by the weight of the heavy missile. The rider who had hurled it galloped in with battleaxe upraised to crush his skull. Pada, paralyzed with shock, his fear returning in a rush, clung to his horse’s neck, amazed as a war elephant intervened, tearing into the chest of the charging horse with barbed tusks, then trampling the fallen fighter. On the command of the elephant driver, the sinuous trunk reached out and coiled about the man even as his wounded horse crumpled. Pada, his cheek pressed into sweaty horsehair, saw the body flung to the ground. The wrinkled, gray leg of the beast, as thick as a tree trunk, smashed the man’s chest before moving on. The giant foot rimmed with hornlike nails dropped crushing the rib cage as if it were no more than a reed basket. A command from above stayed the thick hoof from falling next on the victim’s terrified face. The last thing Pada saw before blacking out was the blood gushing splintered bone in a red, pulpy mass onto the stubby grassland. He clung to the mane with his right hand, his left arm swinging, almost disconnected, spattering the blood now pouring from somewhere deep.

He never knew who found him still draped over his horse when the brief skirmish was finished. Someone loosened the spiked leather bit from the horse’s mouth and led them to hospital wagons in the rear. He woke, half way back to the camp, jarred painfully by the rough bumping of the wagon carrying him along with other injured. Strapped into immobility, he looked up into the plangent blue sky and mumbled a prayer, partly relief to be alive, partly a plea that a village was near.

Herbs of oblivion grew in these high mountains, the surgeon told him. Brought from Kabul. With a grimace at the bitterness of the thin potion he swallowed, Pada handed the cup back. He guessed that meant he was lucky to have the numbing drink. Nevertheless, the journey back to Taxila was excruciating.

Never had he seen such carnage. Yes, he watched with others the elephant fights in the arena, rhinos fighting to the death, goring viciously with their horns, clamping their powerful jaws. The humped bulls of Brahma, goaded by spears to an unquenchable lust to kill, drew the shouts of spectators encouraging the animals they placed their bets on. The victors were led around the ring if they were subdued enough. The losers, roped and dragged away to be properly slaughtered, offered as a sacrifice to the gods. Afterward, the priests passed on tough, stringy meat to the lowest caste. But those fights were for sport, no people pitted against each other, as Pada had witnessed.

Now, jarred by the lurching wagon, in order to displace the gory images flowing through his brain as a backdrop to pain, Pada used a trick that had worked since he was a child. Calling on his last reserves of will, he pushed the images of yesterday back as far as possible and shifted to recollecting every detail of the day before that, a day filled with heady anticipation. Fifty horsemen, including six on their first expedition, led by Prince Ashoka himself, had ridden fearlessly into a deep mountain pass leaving behind the rest of the army and supply wagons.

If the insurgents see us, they won’t attack, said the Prince confidently. They’ll think they outnumber us and plan a surprise attack tomorrow.

Pada was deeply impressed at both his courage and his strategy. The riders halted beside the churning glacier-fed river, a milky jade green color, edged with giant boulders, swollen with spring melt-off and small ice floes. Pada shaded his eyes from the afternoon sun, a blinding whiteness streaming from the heights of the Hindu Kush. The snow-burdened mountain peaks extending row beyond row were the home of the eagle god Garuda. At any moment, thought Pada grandly, the god might descend from his Himalayan home, plummeting or gliding. Brown swatches of rubble emerged from the ice-glazed snow where the sun had melted patches, releasing eager, narrow waterfalls to race toward the valley below. Ice deep inside the glaciers cracked loudly as the weight of melting within tore off chunks of dense crystal, white and glowing blue.

When the wind blew clouds away from the looming crags and pinnacles, they could make out a narrow pass winding through the abraded rock where a few visible travelers dotted precipitous ledges above the river. With laden oxen or mules, they moved carefully down a trail, rejecting the treacherous switchbacks which invited them to hurry toward warm meadows below. No fighters appeared to challenge the Taxila cavalry. After they rode away from the river’s roar, Prince Ashoka halted the company and sent scouts into the foothills. He walked his horse among the dismounted, resting soldiers, seeking out the six initiates, clustered together apart from the rest. All jumped to their feet and stood respectfully. After a dramatic pause, he spoke.

Alexander the Greek invaded India through this mountain pass. He shaded his eyes and pointed back to the cloud-shrouded heights. Not overly tall, his muscular chest and arms were those of a man skilled with all weapons. Pada guessed him to be about twice his own age. His dark eyes moved deliberately from one face to the next as he spoke.

He was the greatest warrior ever to cross these mountains. When he came to Taxil my grandfather met him. His voice was vibrant with pride. The sun glinted off the straight, broad sword suspended from his shoulder by a belt studded with gems. He looked pensively off into the distance before moving on, leaving his young recruits standing in awe. This was the warrior prince, a viceroy bloodied valiantly in many battles, who some day would become their warrior king. Never mind Alexander of Macedon. Pada, exhilarated on the eve of battle, vowed to follow this leader whatever the peril.

Now, with other survivors, he lay in the tent in Taxila, his black hair still stiff with dried blood and sweat. The surgeon’s hand pressed his forehead gently testing for fever, dispelling the stream of memory that was blissfully distracting. The pain returned with the memory of his wound. It was the surgeon who had jerked the javelin out of his shoulder, stuffed the wound with a wad of sheep’s wool smeared with an herbal unguent, then wrenched bones back into place. Whether Pada lived or died depended on whether the bleeding stopped or not. The poultice worked; that night the bleeding slowed, then clotted. His fever was subsiding although he was still tightly bound in muslin bandages and thin leather straps. Of his peers, two were killed, two were injured, and one was spared. The surgeon had seen this often. He guessed at the young boy’s unspoken questions and answered.

After a battle, the Prince himself rides over the battlefield with one of the surgeons. The wounded who can’t be saved, he orders executed. It’s done quickly. Mercifully. The others are taken to tents in the rear.

As he put away bandages and medicines, he looked over at Janta, another of the injured survivors, and added to his explanation. Of course, neither of you can be a warrior. A swordsman needs two strong arms. A bow also.

Janta winced involuntarily beneath his thickly bandaged head as he recalled what happened to him on the battlefield. The Prince’s appointed executioner bungled the mercy killing of a man nearby when the sword slipped in his blood-covered hands. Instant fury gripped the Prince who cursed vehemently as he leaped from his horse, drew his own sword, and beheaded the suffering man with one clean stroke. Janta, splattered with the man’s blood, helplessly watched a decision form on the Prince’s face: he must prevent this happening to the remaining wounded! As he raised his sword above Janta’s battered head, a riderless horse, out of control, crashed through the soldiers knocking the Prince to his knees. By the time the guards subdued the animal and made sure the Prince was unhurt, a surgeon interposed himself to announce that Janta’s injuries could be healed. The Prince, still seething in anger, stalked away to find and punish the executioner. Janta’s moment of terror passed and he fainted.

When he found himself safe in Taxila, seriously hurt but alive, he counted it a double miracle. He had survived the battle wound and had been spared the Prince’s outrage, as well. Briefly, he puzzled over the contradiction of the Prince becoming violent in an act of mercy. Then he dismissed the thought. No one doubted a Prince.

Ashoka, returning from Taxila, stopped at the spring fed pool on the outskirts of Pataliputra to wash away the dust before leading his troops through the city. Halfway down the King’s Road, which led to the Palace, he would stop at the shrine of Brahma and leave a barley offering for the victory. His soldiers, in a hurry to get home, didn’t even dismount or water their horses. Ashoka, before lowering himself to the water, studied his reflection in the clear shallows. The strong jaw so carefully tended daily by his barber he considered his most kingly feature. That, and his height. Standing a hand’s width taller than his brothers and his many half-brothers, he had wondered in adolescence if that was why Bindusara selected him as successor. Or did his father think his broad shoulders could carry the burdens of empire better than they? He was thick-chested with strong arms, and he knew that gave him the appearance of a strong warrior; moreover, he had proved in action that he was a redoubtable fighter and horseman. He knelt on both knees and holding back his long wind-blown hair with one hand, leaned at an angle where he could examine his face. His eyes were dark, and under thick, scowling eyebrows, as hard as polished teak. Yet, by smiling, he became almost handsome, he told himself, in spite of his oddly twisted nose, a lifelong reminder of the battle to the death with his half-brother. I am a warrior-king, he thought, closing his eyes and splashing cool water from his cupped hands onto his face. Now ready for my coronation.

Pataliputra-03.%20copy.jpg

MORNING RACES AND TRUMPETS

Pataliputra, two years later

Pada hunched against the polished stone pillar at the outer corner of the Palace, squinting under his turban to avoid the intermittent dust whorls springing up with the dawn wind. As apprentice to the Chief Recorder, Pada was the designated scribe for this morning. A slightly built figure, he was barely taller than the pubescent boys scrubbing down the royal elephants tethered near the wooden palisade looming in silhouette against a brightening sky. By the time the sun dispelled the chill swept down from the Himalayas during the night, the elephants’ thick, gray hides would be dry, ready for adornment. Raj, the King’s huge white elephant, Pada reminded himself, will take longer to paint than the rest, for this is a war procession. It would lead the army as it marched east.

Pada only yesterday reached sixteen years, the age set by the Brahmins for manhood. He celebrated, shyly and awkwardly, with a temple prostitute, as was customary. Enjoyment salved his disappointment in not qualifying as a mahout for the provincial elephant corps. He had hoped to go to war again, as a handler if not a warrior.

Your bad shoulder, explained the elephant trainer, adding wryly, And I don’t see that animal training comes naturally to you. Lithe and skinny as a brown mahogany sapling, Pada’s full growth was achieved without his height catching up to his large ears, hands, and feet. With those feet, his mother said, you could balance well on the back of an elephant. And the ears are the same size, she would say, tweaking them lovingly. Ironically, it was his big hands with their long, supple fingers that gave the lie to their little joke. The elephant trainer, after a week’s trial, said, The only thing you have in common with elephants is an amazing memory.

No one had ever told him his memory was exceptional. Perhaps no one knew. Except his brothers who thrashed him soundly for correcting them. In the village tent in Kashmir, having no tablet or stylus, he had memorized every detail of his day at the mountain pass. Afterward, in Taxila, he wrote it down, took it as a gratitude gift to Prince Ashoka. Because the King’s Chief Scribe stumbled onto it, Pada found himself far from the elephant stables and the warrior arsenals. Seizing his opportunity with the Chief Scribe, he also vouched for his tent mate’s talent and saved Janta from becoming an outcaste. Pada was sent to scribal school, to write and remember all the King’s sayings, and with the other scribes, to study the three Vedas. His injured shoulder was not an obstacle. Janta became a stonecutter.

Ahhh-haaaa! came a snarling screech from somewhere behind the pillars. Caught you loitering. Pada sprang guiltily to attention a split second before he recognized the voice of Janta, his Taxila friend, now a scribe of images. Perhaps his thoughts had summoned him. Janta often met him in the mornings for a footrace around the perimeter of the grounds, an energetic prelude to a day usually sedentary for both of them.

You son of a mongoose! Pada yelled, catching a glimpse of a ragged turban behind the forest of gleaming pillars and dashing after him. They sprinted around the palace parkland twice, avoiding the peacocks, with Pada finishing a few feet ahead as they reached the well and collapsed to the ground, panting. Janta was here this morning to paint the King’s elephant. In scrolling reds and blues on the broad forehead, he would brighten the huge eyes of the great beast and weave curlicues among the wrinkles of the trunk. Then he would bedeck the ears, flapping like great water fronds, with diamond-studded gold medallions and feathers. Seeing the King’s wealth reassured the people watching the procession that all was well and prosperous.

Gifted with the patience to chisel stone, Janta also had a strong sense of grace and color. Pada wished his friend had used his gift for drawing sweeping curves and unerringly straight lines as a scribe of words. The flowing linear sprawl of the Prakriti script was beautiful with circular flourishes and hooks that his nimble fingers could give it. More than that Pada would welcome Janta’s company; their jokes and mischievous tricks would lighten the long hours that tried his own patience in the library. Both were among the elite Recorders, known for their power of remembering. Janta recalled shapes, contours, and proportions, while Pada’s talent was for words and events. Their group included the official couriers and messengers, who also remembered language well but were swifter and more agile riders than these two.

See that black patch up on the hillside? asked Janta, standing and pointing to a dark spot in the green hills above the red brick walls. Pada nodded. That’s the cave where I’m working. Cutting a beautiful stone arch over the entrance.

The King favors the cave when he’s hunting, I hear. Pada was always curious about King Ashoka, for one day his job would be to capture royal utterances for the records. I also hear, he added with a smirk, that he likes to have a favorite courtesan waiting for him when he returns from the hunt. Janta laughed.

A different one every day, he said with a wink. But, then, he has a large harem to keep busy with childbearing.

At that moment the blast of trumpets that awakened the King each morning issued from the palace, preventing bawdy speculations about what went on in the mountain cave. Everyone knew the King’s morning ritual. First the trumpets, then a greeting by his Imperial Guard, twenty tall, muscular women chosen for their skill with a bow and by the royal astrologer’s determination that each was a good omen. Already, the royal blue and gold linen robes and fur-trimmed ceremonial boots would be laid out beside his broad-blade sword with its gem-studded shoulder strap.

Simultaneously, both young men looked down at their baggy, muslin trousers and sweaty tunics, brushing away dust. Janta scratched his sparse beard. They scrambled for the well bucket and splashed each other to restore their appearance before they separated.

If the King’s leading the army off to war in Kalinga, you’ll have plenty of time to chip away at your fancy cave entrance, Pada said as he twisted his long wet hair up and wound his turban about it. You’re right. No hunting for a few months, Janta said making his own hasty ablutions, then asked, How about you? Still writing down the Rules of Chandragupta? Or do you get to be lazy while the King’s away?

Oh, while the Chief Scribe’s gone to Kalinga, some old toothless warrior will dictate his exploits to me. Just for practice, if nothing else. Maybe I’ll have more time for the pretty daughter of the armorer who lives by the Brahma temple. Pada’s brown eyes brightened with expectation. Janta grinned.

Ahhh. While her father’s away keeping the lances and javelins sharpened for battle! Janta winked. I’d warn you to be careful, but who knows the laws and penalties better than a scribe? These days, only a small part of that army, the garrison left behind, inhabited the Palace grounds. They parted in haste. Janta hurried off to mix paints and croon to elephants as he adorned them. Pada, with a sigh resigning himself to boredom, made his way to the Writing Room, never dreaming he would be riding the King’s elephant with Ashoka in one day’s time.

At the shrill trumpet blast, Ashoka rolled over and clapped his hands over his ears, grimacing. After the strident sound spluttered away, he opened one bleary eye and focused on Vitasyi, leader of the royal archers who stood tall, holding her body-high bow at arm’s length, one tip resting against her heel. Her frozen smile was the first thing he saw every morning and he hated it. That and the trumpets. Yet, Vitasyi was his best friend, a secret he couldn’t tell anyone, especially her. Putting it in words would bring the Brahmins, especially minister Garika, falling to their knees in humiliation, for she was a female of lower status, although a kshatriya. Nevertheless, she was a warrior and made her own kills riding in the hunt. Vitasyi was not permitted to speak first, so Ashoka muttered the ritual greeting before conversing.

I know. I know. Garika measured the morning shadow and wants me to get up. Her smile thawed, became genuine.

Today’s a processional day, she reminded him dutifully. Not the usual routine. And, sire, tomorrow we march to Kalinga. Now, fully awake, he remembered. He smiled back and motioned her and the rest of the royal female guards out of the room, clapping for his personal attendants. Garika, who had punctiliously planned the day, entered bowing, feigning humility. He was followed by the High Priest. Ashoka knew the Chief Minister to be manipulative but loyal, whereas the Priest served only the interests of the priesthood, guardian of the gods’ rituals. But the king’s will was supreme. He was the king, so he didn’t fear the Brahmin, especially since royal alms supported the priesthood. The High Priest had presided over the horse sacrifice at Ashoka’s coronation. A sacrifice from a very old legend said a pure white horse must be chosen, sent forth to go freely where it would for an entire year and then return. Wherever the horse had roamed could be claimed as territory for the King. Although no sightings came from Kalinga, the High Priest had reported; he knew as well as Ashoka knew, the King was expected to add a conquest to the empire just as his forebears had. The white horse had been dismembered, meaning it was time to march on wild and tribal Kalinga and conquer. This war was to expand his rulership, not to establish it, yet he was eager to be back in battle.

He swung his feet out of bed and prepared to be washed. After his morning audience with plaintiffs, he would hear reports from the spies newly returned from Kalinga. After a midday meal, Garika would read the afternoon schedule with all the self-importance of his high caste, while the barber—of the lowest caste—ceremonially washed the king’s black hair and shaved his chin before the procession.

Vitasyi slipped the bowstring over her leather breast plate and led the guardswomen, with bows slung over their backs, through the wide Palace hallway to their nearby quarters. They too donned ceremonial finery for the procession. On tomorrow’s march, however, their javelins and breastplates would be battle-ready. She stood aside at the entry to let the women file in first, then, as she stepped inside, found her way blocked by the woman likely to be the next queen, anger in her narrowed eyes and the taut line of her mouth. At her side stood her dwarf who scuttled behind his mistress, out of reach. Vitasyi bowed as low as she could, hampered by her weapon. She never knew when to expect an outburst of Tissara’s jealousy to be aimed at her. The true queen, much loved by Ashoka, had died not long ago, leaving an insignificant, older queen who came with a political treaty. Tissara, however, seemed to be the new favorite. Now, she lifted one eyebrow accusingly and aimed her hostility at the head of the Royal Guards.

A week of sporting with the king, and now you’re off to share his warrior’s bloodlust as well! She almost shrieked making sure the women of the Guard in the next room heard her. She clamped her arms over her chest as if to prevent the escape of her rage. Vitasyi replied softly, eyes properly cast down. It’s required, as you know. Just as you’re required at the King’s side on certain occasions. Tissara snapped back. But you exult in this! As if you had more power than I do. Remember your position. You’re little better than a slut, no matter how much time you spend with the King. Her coiled, black ringlets bounced on her green silken blouse. Vitasyi glanced up fleetingly and imagined nests of baby snakes. In spite of Tissara’s petite stature, she loomed threateningly when seen from Vitasyi’s deferential posture. My caste is higher than the courtesans’, Vitasyi replied evenly. But my only power is in my bow and sword. Vitasyi, more than a head taller than the would-be queen, a political gift from Nepal, reached over her shoulder and grasped her bow as if in salute. My charge is to protect the King. Her voice rang with pride and she met Tissara’s gaze frankly. The Dwarf peeked around the folds of his mistress’ skirts to size up the confrontation. He often took the beating when words didn’t provide an outlet for Tissara’s temper.

Don’t forget. I’ll command the power of the throne soon. Don’t fool yourself about influence. You’re not in the royal family. As if to reinforce her pronouncements, Tissara flung her gold-bangled arm outward, toward the room where the other women pulled on studded silver collars and revealing gauzy blouses. Now go dress for the procession. The order was gratuitous, but Vitasyi nodded obediently and hurried away. A warrior outranked a courtesan, but not if the courtesan might become the queen. Rumor said she had been promised a crown.

Do as I say, Tissara called after her, as if in summation.

You sound pretty sure of yourself! Tissara whirled in surprise at the deep baritone voice, filled with amusement. She was used to hearing such impudence from the Dwarf when no one was around, but instead saw a handsomely dressed man, younger than herself, leaning with one strong shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, his red lips curled in a grin. A well-trimmed black beard followed the line of his jaw, and an aquiline nose added to his patrician air.

And who in the name of Durga are you? Tissara demanded, enraged as much by his insouciance as by his eavesdropping. Her voice gave him the snarl she had prepared for the Dwarf.

"In this part of the Palace, I hope you’d expect someone of noble birth not simply a shudra loitering about," he answered. Seeing her place hands on hips belligerently, he removed the fine-booted foot he had crossed at his ankle in a posture of mock patience, placed his hands together in front of his wide military belt, and bowed with a sardonic pretense of formality.

I’m Rupna, eldest and only son of Minister Chamun. I merely wanted to ask if you’d seen my father hereabouts. His self-possession gave Tissara pause, stayed her anger. That and his claim to be a Minister’s son. Deciding to try charm, she approached him with a dazzling smile, placing her palms together in the same greeting.

No, I haven’t, she answered, advancing until she stood an arms length away. Keeping her eyes locked on his, she reached out with a forefinger and hooked it under his belt, then with a yank pulled him close. But next time, Rupna, ask a servant for directions. And stay out of my territory when I’m having a conversation. Her smile had turned into a sneer. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rupna slid an arm around her back, locked his other hand in her black ringlets and kissed her deeply. He held her tightly against him until she was subdued enough to begin returning his kiss. When he released her, she clung for a moment, then backed away slowly. There was no anger on her face when she slapped him a stinging blow with the back of her hand, then turned and ran in the other direction. Tissara hadn’t noticed this upstart before. She doubted he was the scion of that tedious bureaucrat Chamun and his garrulous, fat wife, but she liked his rudeness. And his kiss.

THE WAR PROCESSION

The irascible Chief Scribe dispatched Pada to count the groups of warriors assembling for the parade. They would number exactly one-twentieth part of the militia going to Kalinga.

Memorize the number in each group, said the Chief Scribe, adding facetiously, then hurry back here to record them. Before you forget. Pada was flattered by the Chief Scribe’s sarcasm. Such chores were an elementary exercise in scribal training, so the gruffness signified recognition of his reliability.

Foot, Horse, Chariot, and Elephant soldiers, making up the four arms of Ashoka’s army, milled about in the valley below the Palace. The chaos of neighing, trumpeting, and shouting came from the wide plains at the confluence of two rivers. The elephants had completed their comical baths, were led off to the opposite side of the river to root for minerals in the rich silt. The horses were watered in bunches of ten and could be counted at a glance. Pada, from the tower above the eastern city gate looked down, distinguishing an array of squads, companies, and battalions, for the army of India was carefully organized. Already lined up at one edge were war-chariots, with mules and oxen pulling supply wagons at the other end. Squinting, he could see the wagon carrying the long ropes, like twisted sinews, to be used for a catapult wherever a battleground offered abundant rocks for missiles.

Of course, Pada knew that war-elephants were the most important. They could destroy fortifications, encampments, and even the tactical array of an enemy army. Shading his eyes against the morning brightness, he made out stacks of raw oxhide coats to be strapped on war-elephants before battle and baskets full of sharp barbs to be fastened to their tusks. With extra care, he estimated the animals and supplies. Minister Chamun was scrupulous about inventories. Transport would haul these in wagons along with extra javelins, swords, and lances. No parade for them. They were leaving today, ahead of the army. A commissary of women with prepared food and drink would go with them, accompanied by scouts to choose the first encampment site. The last to leave, a day after the huge army had moved out, would be the surgeons with instruments and medicines, a grim reminder to Pada of the dangers. The most exciting adventure in sixteen years had been riding into battle when Ashoka was Viceroy of Taxila. Battle was as frightening as it was exciting, bloody, and dirty, while processions were merely for glory. He intended to find a spot atop the red wall and sit with Janta and a wineskin, reckoning again to check the number of paraders he reported. Even with a moderate amount of wine, he was usually accurate with counting and remembering. It was one of the reasons he had been chosen, even though he was born kshatriya, the caste which included scribes, along with warriors. A scribe must have an exceptional memory, good handwriting, and sharpness in reading. The Law of Precedents said so.

Still, he yearned to go with them, danger being part of the attraction, but he contented himself by recalling the past processions. By mid-afternoon the sun would glint off the pointed tips of lances and arrows, blaze from reflection in the gilded breastplates and silver-studded harnesses, led by King Ashoka seated in a gilded chair atop Raj, his white elephant. The king wearing the crown, two hands high and of hammered gold, could look down on all his royal court draped in flowers and ropes of pearls. People of all castes would cluster along the streets of Pataliputra, proud of the regal splendor of their monarch, amazed at the massive elephants treading with incongruous delicacy through the city.

Sixty-four gates and nine times that many towers marked intervals in the massive ramparts and wooden walls surrounding Pataliputra. The city stretched nine miles in length, its width one-quarter of that. Pada remembered the numbers, even to the total of giant bamboo pilings driven deep into the bed of the Ganges and Son Rivers. Why? Because, asserted the Chief Scribe, It’s good exercise for your memory. Besides, the King intends to replace the wooden walls with stone when he returns from the war. Builders will ask for numbers. He hinted at secret knowledge. Of course, the sedentary Chief Scribe never raced through the streets with Janta, measuring his speed by the number of gates and towers flashing past.

When the sun’s rays reached an angle to bother the King, the yellow, seven-tiered umbrella of kingship would be raised and held in place by the elephant boy who rode behind the King, signaling direction with his feet. The gigantic white elephant must stop at the Temple shrine, allow Ashoka to dismount on its ridged, scarred trunk, painted red and blue, then both would kneel briefly before the image of the bull and the serpent. A beautiful girl with eyes as brown as dates would strew garlands and flower petals from the basket of the other elephant handler as the King once more rose on the animal’s curled trunk to salute his subjects. The white elephant would move with cumbersome grace toward the Palace as conch shells sounded a signal for the crowd to disperse and the militia to march away.

Pada’s reverie of anticipation, just on the point of including more of the girl with garlands, was broken by a noisy clamor at the gate below. He estimated one-twentieth of the total number of foot soldiers assembling, nimbly dodging chariots and horses. He shook his head, marveling at the order outside the gate emerging from confusion on the plain. No wonder this army was unconquerable. Happy that he only had to count a small part of this massive war machine, he climbed down to the starting place of the procession and began his task in the midst of the infantry juggling body-length shields, swords, and javelins. Tonight, thought Pada happily, there will be dancing, illuminated by torches and the good omen of a full moon. Before the soldiers leave at dawn.

The clamorous turmoil of martial preparations outside the Palace made loud contrast to the quiet discussions inside. The last petitioners urged their due before the King as time for the royal grooming ritual approached. The Minister of Justice drummed his fingers on the table, an irritating reminder to all that time was short. While the barber whetted his razor, the King listened to a merchant argue with a chariot mender about a debt.

The Chief Scribe waited impatiently to record the King’s verdict in the last quarrelsome audience of the morning. As he ran his thumb across his stylus, from habit, he felt the dullness of its point. Unnoticed, he edged across the room and whispered to the barber, My stylus has lost its point. Sharpen it for me. Quick! He held a yellow wax tablet, filmed on the surface with red wax. Writing out the King’s judgments this morning had blunted his teak writing instrument. He hadn’t prepared for the King’s Writ being legally complicated in the hearing. The barber, eyes narrowed, stared defiantly, knowing the scribe dare not raise his voice. At last, in a low voice, he responded, Where’s your iron stylus, eh? The Chief Scribe gasped in disbelief. The two stood a few feet apart, their stances obstinate, glaring in animosity. Although the King was seated with his back to them, the Minister of Justice, who faced them across the room, frowned furiously, particularly at the barber, who was of the lowest caste. The merchant droned on in his accusations against the chariot mender. Neither barber nor scribe gave way.

Just as the King pronounced a judgment, dismissing the plaintiffs, the Scribe could stand the tension no longer. Seizing the razor from the table, he whittled furiously at his teak stylus. When he glanced up, seeing the King rise, he slashed his thumb deeply. The flustered barber fumbled with towels. The King scowled.

Today was a day for Ashoka to revel