The City of Four Million Pagodas
A Tale of the Kingdom of Bagan
A Tale of the Kingdom of Bagan
1150 AD
In the thirty-seventh year of the reign of Alaungsithu, King of Bagan, a servant ran through the palace with a message for Prince Narathu: the King summoned his sons to his side.
He searched frantically through the many rooms of the royal palace, but could not find the prince anywhere. With increasing panic, he began asking the other servants where the prince had gone; eventually a cook, shaking her head in disapproval, told the servant that the prince had taken one of the servant girls into a little-used storeroom.
The messenger grew pale at the news. Narathu would not like being disturbed. He would also not like it if the servant delayed giving him the summons. The messenger weighed the two evils, and decided that obeying the king's orders would get him in the least trouble. Accordingly, he went to the storeroom, which had a guard posted outside.
"I have a summons from the King for Prince Narathu," he told the guard, allowing a note of resignation to creep into his voice.
The guard looked at the messenger with pity. "He's not going to be happy about this," he said, but stood aside from the door. "Good luck," he added.
"Is he ever happy?" the messenger asked, and opened the door.
Servants in the royal palace tended to be worldly and not prone to surprise. The unlucky messenger was therefore not surprised by what he saw when the door swung open. And he was experienced enough not to allow his disgust to show on his face. Nonetheless, he allowed himself to feel pity for the poor servant girl who lay on a crate inside the storeroom.
Narathu turned to the door with a look of fury. As he hastily straightened his garments, he bellowed, "I left orders not to be disturbed!"
The messenger gulped, and said meekly, "The king commands your presence, my lord Prince." He bowed to the floor, for good measure.
"What?" the prince screamed. "How dare you delay giving me such an important message! You are conspiring against me!" He gave the messenger a vicious kick to the head, yelling, "Out of my way, wretch! If I am late to my father's side, you will pay with your life!" Then he stormed out of the storeroom, commanding the guard to escort him.
The messenger rose to his feet slowly, rubbing his temple. The prince's foot had merely clipped the side of his head. He would have a nasty headache and a bruise, but no worse. The prince's threat to his life did not bother him; Narathu wouldn't know him from the other servants, and likely had forgotten all about him already. It could have gone much worse for him.
The poor girl, who was sobbing quietly atop the crate, was a different story. Her face was a mass of bruises, and blood flowed from her nose and mouth. The rest of her body was in little better condition. The messenger shook his head sadly; she had been a pretty girl, and with luck, would be a pretty girl again after her face healed. He gathered the torn remnants of her dress around her and gently picked her up in his arms, carrying her back to the servants' wing.
When the cook saw the messenger carrying the servant girl, her face momentarily clouded with anger before assuming an aspect of compassion. "Poor girl," she murmured, motioning the messenger to carry her to her bedroom. "Poor, poor girl. What did you do in your last life to deserve such pain?"
The messenger snorted. "I know what Prince Narathu will be in his next life," he said. "A worm. And I hope I come back as the bird who eats him."
The cook shook her head as she began tearing up cloths for bandages. "No, it will be much worse for him", she countered. "He'll come back as a woman. A poor helpless girl who has to suffer at the hands of someone powerful and evil."
The messenger could only nod at the justice of such a fate.
The City of Bagan
When Narathu arrived in the King's audience hall, his elder half-brother Narana was already there. Of course, brother, Narathu thought to himself. Always first to lick the old man's feet. But if you think your groveling and honey-coated words will win you the throne, think again.
"Ah, Narathu," Alaungsithu said. "So nice of you to join us. Sit down; we have diplomatic business to discuss."
"Of couse, Father," Narathu said. I'll bide my time, old man, he thought to himself. You can't live forever. But then he wondered; Alaungsithu was already eighty-four years old, and was still as healthy as an ox. Narathu himself was forty-seven, and still no more than a prince. He could easily be fifty, or even older, before his father finally gave up the throne. Well, I won't wait forever, at least.
"We have received word that the revolts in the Khmer kingdom are growing worse," the old king said. "And Champa has descended into civil war. We are vulnerable on our eastern borders; I fear the rebels may cross our borders and create problems in our own lands."
Narathu merely nodded, and kept his thoughts to himself. A fine time to become concerned about this, old man. You spent your time and treasury building forty-odd pagodas instead of building an army and fortresses to defend us.
"What shall we do about it, Father?" Narana asked.
"I'm sending you, Narana, as an ambassador to Arakan. We need allies. Secure an alliance with King Gauliya, and then travel to Assam and sign a treaty with them. With our western borders secure, we'll be able to concentrate our forces on the east."
"We don't have enough men to secure the entire eastern border, Father," Narathu objected. Twice as many wouldn't be enough, he thought silently.
"That is why I am placing you in charge of expanding our armies," Alaungsithu said. "Recruit enough to garrison the border forts, and train them. We can hope not to need them, but I fear what will happen without them."
"As you command, Father," Narathu said, bowing submissively. Yes, I'll do as you command. I'll raise and train a force that will be loyal to me and not to you. Then we'll see who really rules this kingdom.
Thatbinnyut Temple
As evening drew near, Alaungsithu called his guards to follow him, and made his way through the city to the great Thatbyinnyut Temple. It was the tallest in the city, which was impressive in itself. The Siamese called Bagan "the City of Four Million Pagodas", and while that was typical Siamese hyperbole - the true count was closer to four thousand - Bagan nonetheless contained the most magnificent temples in the world. The Ananda Temple, which Alaungsithu's grandfather King Jyanzittha had built, was the city's most famous; but Alaungsithu himself had built the Thatbyinnyut, and it was tallest.
But as he approached it, he wondered if it had truly been worth it. He knew now that he had built it for his own vanity rather than for the glory of the Buddha. But he had been younger then, only in his seventies, and young men are prone to vanity. Why else would a king build forty-three pagodas in a city that already had thousands, and another forty in Shan province? Why else would a king build the tallest temple in the known world?
The massive constructions had drained resources away from other projects, however. Alaungsithu knew that his son Narathu felt that the kingdom would have been better served if he had built fewer pagodas and more fortifications. But Narathu saw the world only in terms of strength and weakness. He had no place in his heart for beauty, and saw no value in glorifying the Buddha.
Perhaps that would make him a better general, Alaungsithu mused. Narathu was certainly not cut out to rule, and fate had been kind to everyone by making Narana the elder brother and Narathu the younger. Narana would rule the kingdom wisely after Alaungsithu had passed from this life, and Narathu would keep it safe.
As for Alaungsithu himself, perhaps he still had time to atone for his youthful vanity and find release from the cycle of reincarnation. He sometimes cherished a fantasy of retiring to a monastery and leaving the kingdom to his sons. Perhaps when he reached the age of ninety he would do it.
Or perhaps not. "I have a few good years left in me," he murmured to himself.
"Your majesty?" one of his guards asked.
"Pay me no mind, son," Alaungsithu said. "I was just talking to myself. Old men do that, you know."
"Your majesty," the guard said, not knowing whether it would be wiser to agree or disagree.
Alaungsithu smiled. No, he was not yet ready to retire. He still had too much left to do.
Bagan in 1150
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