Chapter 1

Alexander’s Legacy

City of Sagala, capital of Bactria

No one ever glimpsed the king’s expression under that helmet. Save a pair of

glimmering purple eyes that burned like suns, he guarded his face jealously, encased

within an exquisite but secretive slit. Forged in the classical style for a Greek

overlord, Menander’s silver armour was a masterpiece of military art, an understated

aegis with an aura of might and majesty similar to that of his late master’s, Alexander

the Great.

It was perhaps for this very reason that the priestly classes underestimated him in

conversations. Surely a warrior monarch – a ksatriya – could not be spiritually

intelligent? Men of India’s diverse schools assumed they could win over the King of

the Realm to their religion with simplified, complacent arguments, only to be

dumbfounded and trounced by his skill in debate. Although he had been stationed in

Central Asia for some time, he had not forgotten the proud Greek heritage of

argument and logic, one that was refined by not only Socrates and Plato, but also

Aristotle, onetime tutor of Alexander. And in the name of his patron goddess, Pallas

Athena, he intended to safeguard that heritage.

His most recent victim, a Brahmin priest who was travelling west to Persia, had just

bowed out of the royal chamber, his long, deliberately uncut hair draped down his

flushed face. It was just as well – it was embarrassing to have been defeated in a

philosophical spar with a spiritually lower human. Two heavily armed guards escorted

the half-naked man out, sending a clear message that the audience was over. His

conversion attempt had failed. Once more, Menander had been disappointed. Seated

upon his stone throne with his arms planted on its armrests, the king watched calmly

and silently as the priest left. A middle-aged, beardless man, draped in blue and white

fineries of the court, stepped forward beside him.

“You wounded his pride,” observed Demetrius quietly, the royal advisor. “You used

the problem of evil to counter his claim that Brahman was perfect, and that if we

should be reunited with him, we would be bowing before a stupid, impotent, or

sadistic god, unworthy even of humans.”

“My friend, since his pride was so easily wounded, his religion cannot have been

worth much to begin with.” The Indo-Greek ruler smiled. “Is there no wise man, no

yogi in the ten directions, who can defeat me in religious debate? Is there no school of

thought I can be rationally convinced to convert to? Surely the holy men of the land

think me an ignoramus fit only for making war and love?”

“And yet you refuted them on almost everything they threw at you,” smiled

Demetrius, sharing in his king’s satisfaction. “And now you have the chance to refute

one more. She is a Jain nun, a sadvhi by the name of Bhadda.”

Menander raised an eyebrow, his expression inscrutable inside his helmet. A Jain? It

was rare for followers of Mahavira’s ancient sect to frequent these parts. He asked

Demetrius if she was appropriately attended to, and Demetrius replied with an instant

affirmation. Menander might enjoy refining his sharp intellect through philosophical

sparring, but he always retained respect for the sages he bested. Every guest to the

palace was to be given fine food and wine (if they consented to the alcohol), and no

matter what their temperament or agenda, they would not be sent away: Menander

would personally entertain them as long as they were willing to debate with him on

matters of ultimate concern, such as the meaning of life, the meaning of death, and if

there was any of the former after the latter.

A guardsman’s voice suddenly announced the arrival of the Jain. “She comes,”

whispered Demetrius quickly, and he withdrew to stand behind the throne. Menander

glanced up and saw a figure passing through the wispy curtains that shielded the royal

chamber from the gardens outside. She was flanked by two Macedonian guards, who

stepped aside as she gave a deep bow.

“My respects to Your Majesty,” she declared. “My name is Bhadda, sadvhi of

Mahavira’s Order. I was passing through Bactria and heard of your command for
every ordained person to come to Sagala for a debate with you. I heeded the summons

and am therefore here.”

The king stared at her in surprise. She was young, unusually young. Beautiful, with

hair flowing like her white robes and soft skin. Her sharp face was lovely, delicate,

and rich with freedom. And her polite smile was beautiful. Surely she could not have

been an ascetic for long. It almost hurt to think in a year or so, her shapely, natural,

feminine figure would be reduced to a veritable skeleton from fasting and self-

mortification. Why Jains permitted such desecration of the human body was

unthinkable to a Greek like Menander, who celebrated the Olympian ideal in heroes

like Theseus, Heracles, and Athena. Perhaps he would be enlightened to Mahavira’s

reasons by this lovely young woman, this Jain nun called Bhadda.

And perhaps she would be one of the few worth revealing his face to.