The Mauryas 3

THE CONVOLUTED HISTORIES OF BIMBISARA AND AJATASHATRU

Amongst the sixteen entities of the sixth century BCE at the beginning of the early historical period in north India, there was a tussle for power; some main contenders emerged and were, basically, the ones that had to be taken seriously. These were the kingdoms of Kashi (the region of Benares), Kosala (on Kashi’s east), Avanti (the region of Malwa) and Magadha (modern-day southern Bihar), and the republic of the Vrijjis (parts of Bihar and Nepal). Their mutual relations spanned wars and alliances, and skyrocketed or plummeted depending on the political exigencies of the moment.

Let us cite the case of the Sakyas of Kapilavastu, a sangha, and the rajya of the Kosalans, narrated by Buddhist tradition. Prasenajit, the ruler of Kosala, admired the Buddha and thought he would marry into the Sakya clan to which the latter belonged. The lineage-proud Sakyas dragged their feet over this, loath to hand over one of their princesses to Prasenajit but too afraid of his power to refuse. So they cleverly presented a slave girl, Vasabhakkhattiya, daughter of a Sakya chief and a slave woman, to Prasenajit as the ideal candidate. Marital bliss followed, along with two children, Vidudabha, a boy, and Vajira, a girl. Inexplicably, everyone remained in this happy delusional haze for ages until Vidudabha decided to visit his maternal grandfather and got to know his mother’s antecedents. Prasenajit’s knee-jerk reaction on learning the awful news was to shoot the messenger, so to speak, and disown his son. He also disowned his hapless wife.

The Buddha entered the scene, at this point, and convinced the highly-excitable (and, clearly, highly-impressionable) Prasenajit that the father’s social status was all that really mattered. So the latter called back the banished duo. When the darkly-brooding Vidudabha became king, however, he massacred the Sakyas in belated revenge. Now whether or not this tale is true is a matter for conjecture. It should be noted, though, that the massacre is sculpturally depicted in many stupa sites and is recalled in later Buddhist tradition, so there could very well be an element of truth in it. There are several other enchanting stories of the weird clashes between the rajyas, and between them and the gana-sanghas, all embellished with fascinating (and probably embroidered) detail in the texts.

Incidentally, some nationalist histories tended to compare the ganas of the sixth/fifth century BCE with the republics of Greece and Rome, and draw parallels between them and modern democratic systems. However, the former were not democracies in the strict sense of the term. Instead, they were ruled by an aristocracy, comprising the heads of the leading Kshatriya families, and headed by the chief of the aristocratic council. The best-known example, in this regard, is that of the Lichchhavis of Vaishali who apparently had 7,707 rajas (kings) to govern the realm, and a similar number of subordinate kings, military heads and treasurers. Given that their tendency to argue among themselves is also documented by Buddhist texts, one can only imagine the terrible chaos and sheer noise that must, inevitably, have ensued in the process. Admittedly, the numbers provided by the texts are exaggerations but they definitely indicate that the Lichchhavis had a large assembly and that their heads called themselves raja.

That Brahmanical texts are comparatively stingy on details regarding the ganas is not surprising. Kingship was the pivot of the Brahmanical social and political system, and kinglessness was a state to be avoided at all costs. There were other fundamental differences between the two rival political entities. For instance, some of the more powerful monarchies developed a standing army that was recruited and maintained by the state, and which was to be in perpetual readiness to fight battles if the need arose. On the other hand, ganas, such as the Lichchhavis, had strong armies that turned to other professions when not engaged in warfare.

Additionally, the egalitarian concept of governing through debate and discussion exposed the ganas to a considerable degree of internal dissension, a strength-turned-weakness that was fully exploited by the aggressive and more cohesive monarchies. There is an interesting account in a Buddhist text, the Lalitavistara, that encapsulates this point. While the Buddha contemplates his next birth, the appropriateness of his future family is discussed by the other divine beings who summarily dismiss the Lichchhavis of Vaishali as a probable option. One of the reasons proferred is that everyone in this place thinks of himself as a king. The Buddha could obviously not be born into a family of such swollen egos and general disorder!

Fast-forwarding a little, we can see how this glorious political experiment of the ganas met its end. In the fourth century CE, Chandragupta I, the first prominent ruler of the Gupta dynasty, married a Lichchhavi princess, Kumaradevi, and this was duly memorialised on gold coins issued for the occasion. Obviously, therefore, the Lichchhavis were still a force to reckon with all those centuries later if the mighty Guptas were seeking an alliance with them. The product of this marriage, Samudragupta, is even known as Lichchhavi-dauhitra (grandson of the Lichchhavis) in inscriptions. Ironically, though, Samudragupta’s hugely successful military campaigns probably finished the ganas or consigned them to a subordinate role. So while the monarchies were quietly and persistently expanding their ambitions and aspiring to universal rule, the ganas, whose history covers around a thousand years, could not match this fervour with their typical system of governance and military organisation, and succumbed to several military defeats at the hands of the former. And the monarchies—or, particularly, one—reigned supreme.

So now we come to Magadha, the kingdom that ended the nearly hundred-year-old rivalry between the sixteen states by triumphing over them all and becoming the centre of political activity in northern India—a position that it maintained for several centuries. This state would roughly correspond to the Patna and Gaya districts of Bihar today. On the north, west and east, it was bound by the Ganga, Son and Champa rivers, respectively, and it had the Vindhyan range to its south. The Puranas, as well as the Buddhist and Jaina texts, provide information on Magadha’s rise to power but, of course, they contradict each other and offer differing dynastic sequences, among other things. The story is one of blood and gore, though, in all three traditions, involving a ruthless quelling of internal and external rivals.

Magadha’s meteoric rise to political glory began with Bimbisara. He is said to have belonged to the Haryanka dynasty, although a Buddhist text, the Mahavamsa, notes that he was made king by his father at the tender age of fifteen, which probably indicates that he was not the founder of the dynasty. Some other texts indicate that he was, initially, a senapati (commander-in-chief) of another political line, the Vajjis. His origins are shrouded in fog, therefore, but all sources agree that he was Magadha’s first important king. It is difficult to assign precise dates to him but a more or less acceptable time bracket, involving complex calculations of varied regnal years with reference to the date of the Buddha’s death, is 545–493 BCE.

All through history, when rulers sought to enhance their power, they made clever marriage alliances. The idea behind this was that if you married the daughter of your enemy, the latter had no choice but to become your friend. If this was done several times over, your resources and allies could be multiplied. Then you could cast your net wider, and find more people to conquer and more marriage alliances to fix. So while these bonds might not always have been personally enjoyable for the two persons involved, it made perfect political sense—and Bimbisara was not immune to its charms. The Mahavagga, a Buddhist text, talks of his five hundred wives—a highly unlikely number! What we do know is that he married Mahakosala, the sister of Prasenajit, the king of Kosala, which brought him a village in Kashi as dowry. Bimbisara also married a princess of Videha; Khema, the daughter of the Madra ruler of central Punjab; and a Lichchhavi princess from Vaishali. These politically strategic alliances gave him the means to expand his kingdom and elevate its status.

Accordingly, after strengthening his northern and western boundaries, he waged war on the kingdom of Anga to the south-east and annexed it. This was a smart decision because Anga controlled the trade and the routes to the ports in the Ganga delta. These ports, in turn, had commercial links with ports on the coast of Burma and the east coast of India, leading to an economic windfall for Magadha. Prince Kunika, Bimbisara’s son, was appointed governor at Champa, the capital of Anga. Yet, it wasn’t as if Bimbisara’s relations with all the contemporary states were antagonistic. There is an account of him sending his personal physician, Jivaka, to King Pradyota of Avanti (in the Malwa region of central India) when the latter was ill, which implies that the two were on reasonably friendly terms with each other.

More than anything, it helped that Bimbisara’s capital at Girivraja (identified with Rajagriha)—a beautiful city in itself—was surrounded by five hills that formed a natural defence barrier, an effective deterrent to those aggrieved by Magadha’s aggression and who might have wanted to give it a taste of its own medicine. The kingdom itself was very large with thousands of prosperous villages, if one goes by the Mahavagga. Buddhist texts refer to these villages being governed by assemblies under village headmen. They also mention high-ranking officials who probably had executive, military and judicial functions in the overall administration.

In addition, the king’s standing army was maintained through state revenues and was composed of carefully-recruited Magadhan loyalists rather than mercenaries, definitely a huge factor in their high rate of military successes. Bimbisara, therefore, was clearly a visionary of sorts, and a highly-intelligent and pragmatic ruler besides. He is also supposed to have handpicked his ministers and to have never ignored their advice. Some of his close friends and followers are mentioned in the sources—a flower-gatherer named Sumana who provided the king with a daily heap of jasmine flowers; a minister called Koliya; a treasurer, Kumbhaghoshaka; and the physician, Jivaka, mentioned earlier—a very eclectic mix of companions, indeed.

And where did Bimbisara’s religious loyalties lie? Both Buddhist and Jaina texts squabble over him but their sparring in prose does not leave us any the wiser. A Jaina text, the Uttaradhyayana Sutra, claims that Bimbisara was an ardent follower of Mahavira whom he apparently visited along with his wives, kinspeople and staff. Buddhist texts, on the other hand, note that he was devoted to the Buddha and that they met, for the first time, a few years after the latter’s enlightenment. The Buddha is also supposed to have visited Rajagriha with his disciples whereupon Bimbisara went into some kind of hospitality overdrive, hosting lavish meals for the retinue and showering them with gifts, while also, presumably, listening to their teachings. The physician, Jivaka—who seems to have been dispatched all over the place during his service—was sent to attend to the Buddha and his monks, at one point.

Interestingly, some of the rules that the Buddha laid down with regard to monks eating fruit and the observance of the monsoon retreat (vassavasa) were apparently in response to issues and queries raised by Bimbisara. The king is also supposed to have lessened the ferry charges for all ascetics after an incident when the Buddha did not have the money to pay the ferryman who took him across the Ganga. All these are riveting stories with or without any historical basis but they do, collectively, reiterate one important fact: Bimbisara was a formidable political figure who wielded a great deal of influence. Why else would both religious traditions scramble to claim him as their own?

History has repeatedly shown (and been repeatedly ignored, in this regard!) that the more powerful and influential you are, the more likely you are to have enemies. And these enemies can be closer home than you realise—the classic viper in the bosom syndrome. In Bimbisara’s case, it was his son, Ajatashatru, who turned his last days into a sort of Shakespearean tragedy. Ajatashatru’s tale has all the ingredients of a racy modern thriller—rivalry, murder, suspense, treachery and gory revenge—and is a classic case of how truth is often stranger than fiction. Although the tale might have been expanded and embroidered in varied ways over time, the main facts are startling. Ajatashatru’s is also a cautionary tale of what happens if power goes to one’s head.

We have already come across this saturnine personality under his other name of Kunika, who was made governor of Champa on his father’s conquest of Anga. Having had a tantalising taste of power during this stint, therefore, he began to chafe at the prospect of waiting in the wings until he could ascend the Magadhan throne in the fullness of time. And so, he decided to script his father’s death. Here, again, there are several intriguing discrepancies between the versions of the Buddhists and the Jainas. According to the Buddhist tradition, Ajatashatru was egged on in his evil endeavour by the Buddha’s wicked cousin, Devadatta. (The former is supposed to have made a clean breast of his crime to the Buddha, at some point, when belatedly seized by remorse.)

Meanwhile, the Jaina tale is of a hair-raising and rather ludicrous set of events. According to it, Ajatashatru imprisoned his father so that he could become the king. After his initial shock and disbelief, Bimbisara apparently resigned himself to his fate, preparing for a life in fettered captivity. At this point, a twist in the tale emerged. One of Bimbisara’s wives, Chellana, displayed so much devotion to her husband in prison that Ajatashatru was filled with regret at his deed. Accordingly, he raced towards his father with an iron club in his hand with the intention of breaking his chains and releasing him. The sight of his son rushing towards him with a weapon made Bimbisara blanch. Fearing the worst, he promptly consumed some conveniently handy poison to end his life. Which version contains the truth is anybody’s guess but both of them highlight an important fact: Ajatashatru was definitely involved in his father’s death, which happened around 493 BCE.

And so, this is how Ajatashatru became the king of Magadha. Although the kingdom continued to prosper under him, this did not mean that his horrific deed was forgotten. On the contrary, it was to cast a very long shadow and one of the initial repercussions was Ajatashatru’s dramatic embroilment with Prasenajit, the king of Kosala, whose sister, Mahakosala, had—as mentioned earlier—married Bimbisara. Prasenajit was appalled at Bimbisara’s murder and his trauma was aggravated by the fact that Mahakosala died of grief soon after. A pastmaster at kneejerk reactions, he decided to take back the village in Kashi that had been given as part of his sister’s dowry. This resulted in a war between Kosala and Magadha that spooled out in an utterly tragi-comic manner. Both rulers were locked for a very long time in a sort of back-and forth combat with no clear victor.

At one point in this long-winded tussle, Prasenajit was defeated and had to race back to his capital for safety. At another, Ajatashatru was captured but his life spared. Peace was eventually restored through a treaty, according to which the disputed village in Kashi was returned to Ajatashatru, who also received a princess of Kosala, Vajira, in marriage. Soon afterwards, Prasenajit was deposed in a palace coup and set out towards Rajagriha to seek his enemy-turned-friend’s help. However, he died outside the city gates before help could get to him. And that was the end of this very strange bond.

Ajatashatru, on the other hand, shrugged off this minor roadblock and set out to expand Magadha in every possible manner. There is no better way to demonstrate his political prescience and cunning than his conflict with and eventual victory over the Lichchhavis of Vaishali. The latter had become an extremely powerful confederacy at this time but Ajatashatru had it in his sights and was determined to break its back using any means possible. The fact that he was related to the Lichchhavis was, of course, no deterrent to him whatsoever as he set about finding excuses to quarrel with them and, eventually, wage war. It should be noted here that the identity of Ajatashatru’s mother is unclear with both the Kosalan and Lichchhavi queens often cited as probable options. He was related to both of them, though, by virtue of their being Bimbisara’s wives.

The reasons for the conflict between Ajatashatru and the Lichchhavis, as revealed by the sources, were varied but that he actively fostered it is undeniable. However, the Buddhist texts tell us that it was the Lichchhavis who actually commenced the hostilities because they broke their promise to share the contents of a jewel mine equally with Ajatashatru. The mine in question had been discovered at the foot of a hill at a port on the Ganga. The Jaina texts, on the other hand, insist that the entire problem started when Ajatashatru’s stepbrothers, princes Halla and Vehalla, refused to hand over to him a remarkable elephant called Seyanaga who regularly sprinkled water on the women of the court with his trunk, and a valuable necklace of eighteen pearl strings that their father, Bimbisara, had given them. Apparently, the princes ran off with these two coveted items to their maternal grandfather in Vaishali and this precipitated the entire fight. (It must have been an onerous task—racing down the roads to Vaishali with a lumbering, water-sprinkling elephant in tow—but the princes were clearly a spirited duo and managed to reach safety unscathed.)

The main point of conflict, though—if we are to discard the other enchanting but eminently silly reasons—was something else altogether. Control over the river trade, as also a clash between two entirely different political systems—one a kingdom and one an oligarchy—was at the heart of the issue. Buttress this with Ajatashatru’s single-minded desire to establish Magadhan supremacy and you have all the central causes of this clash. Yet Ajatashatru now came up against a reality check. The Lichchhavis, as noted earlier, were militarily powerful and actively supported by various other rulers, principally Kosala, which was—for obvious reasons—no longer Magadha’s ally. It was clear, therefore, that he could not defeat them in straightforward combat. Other, more insidious means were the need of the hour. These might take time but he could be a patient man if he wanted.

And so, Ajatashatru embarked upon one of the most prolonged and ruthless campaigns of treachery that early India had ever witnessed. His diabolic plan was to destroy the Lichchhavis from within so that they would eventually turn upon themselves, and he could then sweep in and vanquish them. Accordingly, he sent his minister, Vassakara, to Vaishali on a mission of subterfuge to gradually create dissension within the Lichchhavi confederacy. Even the meaning of his name was appropriate: ‘rainmaker’! The undercover assignment took from around 484 to 468 BCE but, to Ajatashatru, these sixteen years were time well-spent. When he finally attacked Vaishali, the once firmly-united Lichchhavis were so busy fighting among themselves about how they should respond that it was child’s play to defeat them.

In the interim, Ajatashatru ordered fortifications to be constructed at Pataligrama on the Ganga to aid his campaign. This later became the famous city of Pataliputra. Later, when in the midst of battle, Ajatashatru employed two new weapons to deadly effect, according to the Jaina texts. One was a catapult that could throw massive pieces of stone; the other was a chariot that had an attached mace and cutting edges, as well as a concealed place for the charioteer to sit in and drive through the enemy ranks, while mowing them down. Both these wrought havoc in the ranks of the Lichchhavis. Magadha’s victory was a foregone conclusion and while the Lichchhavis sat around licking their wounds, Ajatashatru went on to defeat Chanda Pradyota of Avanti as well. So, all in all, although he might have obtained the throne through dubious means, Ajatashatru proved to be an even mightier king than his father.

Even if Ajatashatru barely troubled to hide his Machiavellian side from the world at large, he was, ironically but very clearly, a diplomat. The Buddha was an important figure at the time and it made sense for him to make a public display of his reverence, as his father did before him. This was, in all probability, the reason behind Ajatashatru’s dramatic show of regret before the Buddha for Bimbisara’s murder, documented in Buddhist texts. His visit to the Buddha was considered a pivotal event in the Buddhist tradition and this is memorialised in a second century BCE relief panel on one of the railing pillars of the western gateway that once stood at the Buddhist site of Bharhut near Rewa in central India.

The panel is made up of four scenes showing a royal procession with the king and his queens riding on elephants towards the Buddha, and, subsequently, offering their worship to him or, rather, to the footprint-bearing throne that symbolises the Buddha. A Prakrit inscription to the side reads Ajatasatu Bhagavato vandate (Ajatashatru worships the Lord [Buddha]), confirming his identity. Incidentally, this panel also provides evidence of his many wives—poor, hapless creatures tied in holy matrimony to that fearsome and definitely unpleasant character. Ajatashatru’s purported link with Buddhism seems to have continued even after the Buddha’s death when he apparently went to Kusinara to claim a portion of the latter’s relics. He is also supposed to have built many relic stupas around Rajagriha, and repaired monasteries in and around the city. Additionally, he is credited with hosting the first Buddhist council of eminent monks in Rajagriha soon after the Buddha’s death.

The Jainas, however, stood their ground in this game of appropriate-the-ruler. They stoutly present Ajatashatru as an ardent follower of Mahavira, waxing eloquent about his frequent visits to the latter, as well as their conversations at Vaishali and Champa. The king is also supposed to have strictly adhered to Mahavira’s teachings. The contradictions between the traditions continue well into the aftermath of Ajatashatru’s demise in c. 461 BCE. The Buddhist texts describe the four kings who succeeded him as patricides or those who had killed their fathers, perhaps indicating that Ajatashatru had set a certain unsavoury pattern into motion. His immediate successor was either Udayibhada or Udayin, depending on whether you favour the Buddhist or the Jaina narrative. To spice up the proceedings, the Puranas insert a ruler named Darshaka before him.

Udayin was not a patricide, the Jaina texts say. Instead, he was a devoted son who served as his father’s viceroy at Champa before becoming the king and founding the city of Pataliputra. It seems that Udayin’s piety was, literally, the death of him. Described as a devout Jaina with a penchant for frequent fasting, he was apparently killed by an assassin hired by the king of Avanti while listening to a religious discourse. The Puranas note that Udayin was succeeded by Nandivardhana and Mahanandin. The Buddhist texts, however, list Anuruddha, Munda and Nagadarshaka as Udayibhada’s successors. If your head is reeling with all these names, consider the plight of the historian who has to sift through a veritable mountain of red herrings to get at the single, elusive fact—not just now but at every single juncture of the past.

As a fascinating postscript to Ajatashatru’s murky deeds, it seems as if the Lichchhavis had their final revenge many years later when Shishunaga, who was, according to one text, the son of a Lichchhavi ruler of Vaishali and had his second capital there, replaced the Haryankas on the throne of Magadha. The people of Magadha seem to have driven out the ruling Haryanka family and elected him, an amatya (high-ranking official), as king. The whys and wherefores of this are a trifle unclear. What we do know is that he successfully vented his ire on the Pradyota dynasty of Avanti—as all Magadhan rulers did!—and probably annexed Vatsa and Kosala as well. Kalashoka was Shishunaga’s son and successor, who oversaw the shifting of the capital to Pataliputra and the second Buddhist council at Vaishali.

And that was pretty much it. The Shishunaga dynasty’s tenure was short but definitely not sweet. It came to a gory end when the king and his sons were murdered by the ones who started the Nanda dynasty. This, in turn, means that the Mauryan tale is about to start. However, in order to better appreciate its nuances—and the sheer impossibility of the task that Chandragupta and Kautilya took on—we need to discuss the Nandas and their rule over Magadha in a little more detail.

The founder of the Nanda dynasty, according to the Puranas, was someone called Mahapadma, who was the son of a king of the Shishunaga dynasty and a shudra woman—and this, due to their strict avowal of Brahmanical prescriptive strictures, results in their branding him and his successors as adharmika or those who do not follow the norms of dharma. The Buddhist tradition, with considerably more delicacy, describe the Nanda kings as ‘of unknown lineage’. They insist, however, that the founder of the dynasty was one Ugrasena, a frontier man who fell into the clutches of a gang of robbers, became their leader and eventually led them to several military successes. The Jaina tradition, not to be outdone, adds its bit to the confusing mix by noting that the first Nanda king was the son of a barber and a courtesan. The Greek writer, Curtius, though, decides to clarify this point and claims that the first Nanda king was a barber who became the lover of one of the previous queens and killed her husband, the Shishunaga king, at her prompting.

The three traditions agree that there were nine Nanda kings in all but just as we are breathing sighs of relief at this fortuitous unanimity, they begin to confound each other—and us—all over again. So while the Puranas describe the first Nanda king as the father and his eight successors as his sons, the Buddhist texts insist that all of them were brothers. The former is stingy on information, only naming Mahapadma, who attained sole sovereignty, and one of his sons, Sukalpa. However, the Buddhist tradition, via the Mahabodhivamsha, painstakingly provides a full list: Ugrasena, Panduka, Pandugati, Bhutapala, Rashtrapala, Govishanaka, Dashasiddhaka, Kaivarta and Dhana. Of these, only the first and the last need concern us here.

That Mahapadma Nanda was a successful military ruler is possibly indicated by the Hathigumpha inscription of Kharavela (a very interesting ruler, in turn, but a story for another time and tome), which mentions a king named Nanda building a canal and either conquering a place in Kalinga or taking away a Jaina shrine or image from there. It should be noted here that whenever there is evidence of rulers of the past building structures in territories other than their own, historians always sit up in excitement because this is the time-honoured method of demonstrating superiority or influence over contemporary rulers, which might not always be documented in other original sources. By extension, a place named Nau Nand Dehra or Nanded on the Godavari has been viewed as indicating Nanda rule over the Deccan. However, this is slight evidence, at best, and we can’t really postulate the extension of Nanda rule into the Vindhyas. Incidentally, if you are wondering why a Jaina image was the bone of contention, Jaina texts strongly insist that the Nandas had several ministers with Jaina leanings.

We also know that the Nanda kings strengthened the foundations of their predecessors on the Magadhan throne, the Haryankas and the Shishunagas, and managed to create what is seen as the first great empire of north India. Magadha’s ideal geographical position—the perimeter of five hills around the old capital, Rajagriha, and the new capital, Pataliputra’s location at the junction of the Ganga and Son; the Ganga and its tributaries, the Son, Gandak and Gogra, connecting Magadha with important trade routes; the access to fertile soil, and timber and elephants in the adjoining forests; and the proximity to the Chotanagpur plateau with its minerals and raw materials—had, as noted earlier, given it an unassailable lead over all contemporary powers. Add to this the willingness of its resourceful rulers—of which Magadha clearly had no dearth!—to experiment with strategic military campaigns and marriage alliances alike and you have a win-win situation. Before you eagerly look for more details, though, a word of caution: we have barely any details of the administrative, economic or military structure of early Magadha and so we are left clutching at vague, incidental references, filling in the gaps as best as we can with supposition and surmise—as is the case with huge chronological swathes of ancient history.

We may now skip almost the entire Nanda list to arrive at Dhana Nanda, the villain of Kautilya’s story and the one against whom his ire was mainly directed. Indigenous sources refer to his enviable wealth, his greed, his exploitation of his subjects and his (unsurprising) lack of popularity thereby. He was also rumoured to have a huge and formidable army, the very thought of which would deter potential invaders. In addition, Dhana Nanda had the historical fortune—or misfortune, as matters turned out!—to be ruling Magadha at the time of the invasion of Alexander the Great.

And now it becomes necessary to take a few steps back and understand how this cataclysmic event came to be, why it forms a crucial background to our story and the manner in which it ties in with Dhana Nanda’s tale. A digression, therefore, but an entirely justifiable one! Alexander of Macedon, his short but remarkable life immortalised in story and song, and on screen, was one of those maverick military geniuses who appear all too infrequently on the canvas of history and who act swiftly and efficiently to achieve their grandiose goals before they disappear just as swiftly, leaving the entire world gasping in their wake.

So, in a nutshell, at the time of Alexander’s invasion (327–326 BCE), the Persians had nominal sway over their twentieth and once most prosperous satrapy or province, the Indus valley. This province itself had been acquired in the sixth century BCE when the Persian empire extended upto the north-western borders of the Indian subcontinent and the Achaemenid king, Cyrus (558–529 BCE) destroyed Kapisha that lay to the south-east of the Hindukush range. It quickly became the jewel in the Persian crown, as it were, for according to the Greek historian, Herodotus, the tribute from this province—360 talents of gold dust (and that is an enchanting description, indeed!)—amounted to more than that from all the other provinces put together.

However, as the Persian empire waned after the death of Xerxes (486–465 BCE), its hold over ‘India’ declined, although ‘Indians’ continue to be mentioned as its subjects, now under Artaxerxes II (405–359 BCE). Later, the army of Darius III (336–330 BCE) apparently included ‘Indian’ troops. Apart from the military and political consequences of being hitched to the Persian wagon, India also imbibed the Kharoshti script, derived from Aramaic, the official script of the Persian empire, which Ashoka makes clever use of at a later stage—but we are getting ahead of ourselves now, so back to the story.

There are detailed and oft-exaggerated accounts of Alexander’s India campaign through Greek accounts. According to them, Alexander managed to defeat the Persian army led by Darius, leaving this erstwhile glorious empire in shambles, and then turned his attention to its eastern provinces, establishing outposts in Afghanistan before heading further. The Greeks make much of this because Alexander had to confront a number of warring principalities in the north-west, not the least of which was Astes, the Assekenoi stronghold, whose defence was, interestingly, headed by the late king’s mother. Nothing and no one could stand for long, though, in the Macedonian conqueror’s way. Thus, his army easily crossed the Indus in 326 BCE whereupon Ambhi, the ruler of Taxila, extended his support, thereby betraying his cousin, Porus or Puru/Paurava, who ruled the region between the Jhelum and Chenab. The former clearly didn’t know that his reputation would be blackened thereon through poems and narrative hand-wringing of varied kinds.

The subsequent encounter between Porus and Alexander has passed easily into legend—the former’s defeat and the latter’s appreciation of his bravery, resulting in the reinstatement of Porus as ruler (more on this later). Ambhi apparently skulked in the shadows for ever more because of his dastardly deed while Alexander’s halo only grew brighter due to his genuine appreciation of bravery and honesty, as exemplified by the leonine Porus. His magnanimity notwithstanding, Alexander was able to move further and conquer the region between the Chenab and Ravi.

Yet here is where this golden general’s plan began to go downhill. His soldiers, initially caught up in his world-conquering enthusiasm, now began to realise that this grandiose endeavour necessarily involved discomfort and drudgery, along with the pain of homesickness—a horribly toxic brew. And so, they sulked and clamoured to go home, bewildering poor Alexander who was all set to move beyond the Beas. In a pragmatic attempt to salvage the situation, Alexander did the next best thing, under the circumstances—he began his homeward journey, entrusting the territories he had conquered to satraps or governors and Madeconian garrisons. His way back involved confrontations with ganas, such as those of the Mallas and Kshudrakas, but he managed to shake them off without much effort and finally reached the Indus delta from where he took the land route home towards Babylon. Alexander died, suddenly and inexplicably, two years later. Had he lived, it is well within the realms of possibility that he would have conquered the world! We have to settle for reams of fiction and silver screen versions of his tale instead.

And this, therefore, is when the Mauryan tale actually starts.