Often we camped among shepherds with the tinkling bells of their sheep lulling us to sleep. Once we reached the Royal Road, we spent most nights in caravansaries, old weather-worn inns along the main road leading into the interior of the land. Most of them looked as if they had been there for centuries.
In some places, though, the caravansaries were gutted, burned out, abandoned.
“This is not good,” Ketu would mutter over and again. “This is not good. The power of the Great King must be weakening.”
More than once we were forced to sleep alone in the dark wilderness with nothing but our guttering fire and the distant howling of wolves. But whether we slept in comfortable caravansaries or under the glittering stars, each night I gleaned more from Ketu.
” ‘This is the noble truth of sorrow,’ ” he recited. ” ‘Birth is sorrow, age is sorrow, disease is sorrow, death is sorrow. All the components of individuality are sorrow. And this is the noble truth of the arising of sorrow. It arises from craving, which leads to rebirth, which brings delight and passion.’ ”
“But aren’t delight and passion good things?” I asked.
“No, no, no!” Ketu exclaimed. “The noble truth of the stopping of sorrow is the complete stopping of craving, being emancipated from delight and passion. That is the noble truth of the Way which leads to the stopping of sorrow. That is the Eightfold Path.”
Very, very difficult indeed, I thought.
By day our little band rode through the hilly wastes of Phrygia, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanying long mule trains loaded with timber and hides and grain from the rich farmlands along the fringe of the Black Sea. We passed other caravans coming from the east, stately camels and sturdy oxen carrying ivory from Africa, silks from far Cathay and spices from Hindustan. More than once such caravans were attacked by bandits and we helped to fight them off. Strangely, when we rode by ourselves, just the twenty-six of us with our horses and spare mounts and pack mules, no bandits bothered us.
“They can see that you are armed soldiers,” Ketu told me. “They know that there is very little in your packs worth stealing. The caravans are much more tempting to them. Or a few travelers straggling along the road who can be slain easily and despoiled. But soldiers—no, I do not think they will try to molest us.”
Yet, more than once I spied lean, ragged men on horseback eyeing our little group from a distant hilltop as we rode along the Royal Road. Each time I heard Ketu chanting to himself:
“I go for refuge to the Buddha. I go for refuge to the Doctrine. I go for refuge to the Order.”
His prayers must have worked. We were not attacked.
As we inched toward the Zagros Mountains that bordered the Iranian plateau we saw the Great King’s soldiers here and there along the road, usually near the wells or caravansaries. Their task was to protect travelers, but the roads were too long and the soldiers too few for such protection to be more than a token. Besides, they always demanded “tax” money in return for the little protection they gave.
“They’re worse than the bandits,” said one of my men as we rode past a checkpoint on the outskirts of a small town. I had just paid the captain of the local soldiers a few coins’ “tax.”
“Paying them is easier than fighting them,” I said. “Besides, they are satisfied with very little.”
Ketu bobbed his head as he rode on my other side. “Accept what cannot be avoided,” he said. “That is part of the Eightfold Path.”
Yes, I thought. But still, it rankles.
Ketu seemed more worried than angry. “Only a year ago I passed this way, heading for Athens. There were almost no bandits and all the inns were flourishing. The king’s soldiers were plentiful. But now—the new Great King is not being obeyed. His power has diminished very quickly, very quickly indeed.”
I wondered if his empire’s internal problems would lead the Great King to agree to Philip’s terms, so that he would not have to fight the Greeks with his diminished army. Or would he, like Philip, use a foreign foe to weld his people together in newfound unity?