The King’s Last Song

‘Yes!’ said the little boy, nodding hard.

‘I will help you get strong,’ said the Prince and touched the boy’s arm. Then he saw the keepers approach again with spears.

‘No, no, no!’ he commanded them. ‘She will live. No! She can carry things!’

‘Well,’ said Jayarajadevi settling back. ‘He is certainly not one of the Oxen.’

As soon as people got wind of the potential attachment, they took sides.

Indradevi Kansru wound her way through the palace routines until she could sidle up to the Slave Prince. ‘You are a popular man, Prince.’

‘Am I?’ He had a nice open smile.

‘Oh indeed. You have found favour in the eyes of a certain lady. You are a lucky man to secure such favour. This is a high-born lady of the greatest beauty and accomplishment.’

He beamed in measured pleasure. ‘That is very pleasant to hear.’

‘May I tell the lady that?’

‘I cannot think which lady it may be, but if she is as you describe then only a fool would not be grateful.’

‘Hmmm. And I think you are not a fool. I will tell you, ah? Oh, this lady is special; she outshines all others. She is a friend of mine. No one knows her as well as I do, and she has such a good heart, such a fine mind. Oh! If only I were so adorned.’

‘What is her name?’

Indradevi finally whispered it in his ear, carefully gauging the warmth and tenderness of his smile. She was not unpleased.

But another girl came and said, ‘Oh Prince, everyone speaks well of you, everyone says you have a good heart. I have come to warn you. Oh! There is a certain person who gives herself airs and graces. She knows you have the attention of the King, and seeks to climb your virtues like a monkey climbs a vine. She has a bad reputation that one, for a cool head and a cold heart.’ Then, in a whisper, ‘Some say it is the King’s bed not yours she seeks.’

Nia’s loyal friends, who like him were good on the field and well behaved in the royal house, clustered around him. ‘Oh! Lucky man, the Lady Jayarajadevi is so beautiful. When are you going to have the courage to present yourself? Oh, you must be quick, such a prize as that will not go unclaimed for long.’

The Oxen caught him off guard as he washed. He was nearly naked and defenceless. Yashovarman looked scornfully down at his less bullish body. ‘You are a small slip of a thing to think that you can claim the attention of high ladies. You should know, before you get into trouble. The Lady Jayarajadevi is spoken for. She is a king’s wife, not for semi-peasant like you.’

‘Prince Nia!’ one of the Oxen laughed. ‘What title will he take, do you think. Niavarman, Slave Shield?’

They all laughed. Prince Nia stayed calm. ‘Until she marries, no one is spoken for. And I think she speaks for herself.’

‘You cannot speak for her, that is certain.’

‘Neither can you. You should know, before you get me angry, that she calls you an Ox. You are unsubtle and don’t know that women do not measure a man’s worth by the thickness of his thighs.’

‘No, but the world gives to the man who takes, and to take one must be strong.’

‘And smart. And fearless. And not easily led. Oxen are strong and bear the world’s burdens, not its prizes. Unless you want a fight now, Ox, I will finish washing myself. You should try washing some time.’

Nia had just enough love of war. The strong ox Yashovarman hesitated, and in hesitation made his ground unsteady. ‘I have warned you!’ he said, but retreated.

To his friends, the Prince sighed in disgust as they played checkers. ‘Oh! I wish everyone would cease this matchmaking. You would think the marriage had been announced.’

The friends chuckled. ‘We will not let you escape. The Lady Jayarajadevi is perfect for you. Not just her beauty. It is a matter of her character.’ And they laughed at themselves, for they were imitating old village women.

‘Uh!’ groaned the young prince. ‘Just leave it, please!’

One night the Prince woke up in his hammock, to see Divakarapandita leaning over him.

‘Teacher!’ he exclaimed in fear and alarm.

‘I was seeing how you sleep,’ said the great religious leader. ‘I wanted to see the quality of your dreams.’

The Prince scrambled to make himself decent.

‘No, no, you do not insult me sleeping innocent in your bed. You appear whole and complete with no blemish. Does your penis work, does it produce seed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm. I hear that you have a copious heart and mind.’

‘I can’t judge that.’

‘I can. That is why I am here. Now that you are awake, please cover yourself, and we will walk out into the night so that we can talk.’ The other soldiers in the room lay frozen with that particular listening stillness of people who pretend to be asleep.

The Prince swung out of the hammock, twisted a garment around his middle, and joined the great Consecrator of Kings.

‘What is your view of the Gods?’ the Consecrator asked.

‘Toh! It is hardly for the likes of me to have a view on the Gods.’

‘Of the relation of the King to the Gods?’

‘Even less so.’

‘Come, come, courage, you are a favourite of the King. Let us pretend for the moment that no harm can come to you for any view you express. This interview will go better for you if you do.’

Insects buzzed about them. You couldn’t see the moon, but the high silk-cottons were silver and the light along the leaves joined up as if there were tiny creeks flowing from leaf to leaf.

Nia could not think of much to say. ‘I suppose I think that the King should pay observance to the Gods. Certainly not anger them.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps invent fewer of them. It seems unlikely to me that one’s great aunt can suddenly become one with a god under a new name.’

‘That is about the Gods and the great aunt, not the King.’

‘I sometimes wonder if it is enough to make observances.’

‘Ah! Elaborate, young prince.’

The Slave Prince looked at the old man’s ordinary face. Despite his beautiful shawl, purple and sewn with gold thread, despite his fine white beard, despite the gold parasol with its ivory handle which he used now like a walking stick, despite all of that there was nothing special about him.

His face had gone waxy like a candle, and was spotted with age. His teeth were brown and crumbled, his back bowed, his arms stiff and shrivelled, bone-thin but with hanging withered pouches of skin along the lower edge. This was an old man, whose every glance stared ahead at his own death.

The young prince felt sorrow for him, sorrow for all things that pass.