A traitor and a coward

Chandaka strode around the lotus pond toward the back entrance to the palace. He would go through the kitchens to his chambers, pick up the few things he needed, then flee, flee this place. I tried to seduce my best friend’s wife.

No, he didn’t need anything from his room. He would avoid it. His sash was filled with gold. He stopped in his tracks and emitted a bitter little laugh. He hadn’t paid Ratna. Odd that she hadn’t given him that look as they left her room, the one that said, “Haven’t you forgotten something?” Gods, that wasn’t even two hours ago. If only he’d gone to the grove with her.

I tried to seduce Siddhartha’s wife. He couldn’t help himself. How could that be? With his women, he was in control; he chose the course of action. Always. Except with Kirsa.

Dhara was lovely, though, so lovely.

I tried to seduce the princess. He imagined Kirsa’s disappointed look, shaking her head sorrowfully, her unspoken question: How could you?

Because Siddhartha had grown so distant. When he’d first returned to Kapilavastu, they were constant companions. Now he couldn’t remember the last time the two of them had just taken an afternoon ride together through the park or gone on foot to the old tree house with a sack of food and a jug of rice wine and spent the night.

He resumed his long-legged stride toward the kitchens. If Punna was there, she would pack some food for him. Maybe they would have time for a quick tryst. No, that was callow, disgusting. He didn’t know if he had changed into this disgusting person or if he’d always been this way.

He would head directly for the stables, get his horse, flee the kingdom. But maybe there was no reason to flee. He paused again, turned the incident over in his mind. They hadn’t finished what they started. The slight ache in his groin was proof of that. No. He should stay, face Siddhartha, tell him the truth. Nothing happened, old friend. A friendly kiss, that’s all.

Nothing had happened. He walked faster and faster, head bent, frowning down at the path. He had really wanted her. She had wanted him, too, and he would have had her, if Uttara hadn’t shown up. How had that conniving bitch known they would be there? Maybe Dhara herself had arranged it, to get rid of Chandaka. She’d always been jealous of the friendship between him and the prince. She had set things up so she could say Chandaka attacked her, and Siddhartha would send him away.

Ridiculous. He had surprised her at her practice. He had taken advantage of that. I’m the kind of man who would seduce his best friend’s wife. He clenched his jaw. Disgusting. Callow. A traitor and a coward.

The stable boy would ask where he was going. He had to tell the lad something. He could say, he could say—

Crack. He ran dead into someone rushing just as fast in the other direction. Stopped cold in mid stride, he lost his balance and went sprawling. “Ow!”

“Chandaka, for the love of the gods, are there demons chasing you?” Dhaumya stood above him, rubbing his head. Dhaumya, his old drinking and gambling companion. It took a minute to absorb this. Chandaka hadn’t seen him in months, then here he was, in a plain robe like some sage in the grove, his warrior braid replaced by a shaven head and student’s topknot, and his face, once broad and fleshy, almost gaunt.

“By Yama’s seven hells, you old drunk, why don’t you look where you’re going?”

“So sorry, my friend.” Dhaumya reached a sinewy arm down and grasped Chandaka’s hand to help him up. “My fault, I’m sure. I was hurrying to the grove, trying to catch up with Nalaka.” He gave a little smile and an apologetic shrug. “He’s my guru now, you know.”

“Nalaka is your guru?” That explained much. The once powerful warrior Dhaumya was now a skeletal ascetic. Unlikely, but there it was. Chandaka swayed, still dazed. Dhaumya’s strong grip was steadying.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dhaumya said. “I needed to change. One too many times I woke up in the morning without the faintest idea of what I’d done the night before. You helped me out of many a drunken scrape. I owe you a lot.”

Chandaka rubbed his head. Yes. Dhaumya owed him. Maybe they were meant to collide. “Listen. I need help.”

“Anything, old friend. About time I repaid those old debts.” Dhaumya’s expression was as earnest as a young acolyte’s.

Chandaka had to smile. “I need to leave Kapilavastu. As soon as I can.” He couldn’t think of how to tell the rest. He put a hand to his aching brow. A bump was growing.

“That’s easy enough. Do you want me to go to the stables while you pack, tell them to saddle your horse?” Dhaumya’s head was cocked to the side, his tanned brow wrinkled. “But you’ll want to say goodbye to Prince Siddhartha.”

“Yes. No.” There was no way to get around this. “I need to get away. Fast. I can’t say goodbye to the prince because—because—Dhaumya, do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Can I trust you with a message for the prince?”

“Of course.”

As Dhaumya waited, Chandaka searched his heart. She was beautiful, she was gifted, there had been an underlying attraction, but in truth, alluring as she was, he was not half in love with her. It was lust, pure and simple. That made it worse in a way.

His shoulders slumped. No time to say farewell to the one woman he did love and their son. In a way, there was a shameful sort of relief in that. He didn’t know if he could face Nachiketa’s hurt brown eyes and Kirsa’s disapproving golden ones. He had disappointed them so much already. His gut writhed.

He was no good to anyone here.

Ratna was right. “You could go back to your father’s court,” she’d said. “You’re wasting time here.” She said she would be there for him, just as she was here. Oh, wise Ratna. It wasn’t either Kirsa or Dhara he loved, it was his dusky goddess.

Chandaka took a deep breath. “Tell him this is what happened between me and the princess,” he began. As Dhaumya’s eyes widened, he plunged on with his story.