The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [19]
Morgan could never resist such an intellectual challenge. Leaning out over the abyss, he once again tried to attune his engineer’s mind to that of a colleague two thousand years dead.
8
Malgara
Not even his closest comrades could read the expression on Prince Malgara’s face when, for the last time, he gazed upon the brother who had shared his boyhood. The battlefield was quiet; even the cries of the injured had been silenced by healing herb or yet more potent sword.
After a long while, the Prince turned to the yellow-robed figure standing by his side.
“You crowned him, Venerable Bodhidharma. Now you can do him one more service. See that he receives the honors of a king.”
For a moment, the High Priest did not reply. Then he answered softly:
“He destroyed our temples and scattered the priests. If he worshipped any god, it was Siva.”
Malgara bared his teeth in the fierce smile that the Mahanayake Thero was to know all too well in the years that were left to him.
“Revered sire,” said the Prince, in a voice that dripped venom, “he was the first-born of Paravana the Great, he sat on the throne of Taprobane, and the evil that he did dies with him. When the body is burned, you will see that the relics are properly entombed before you dare set foot upon Sri Kanda again.”
The Mahanayake Thero bowed, ever so slightly.
“It shall be done—according to your wishes.”
“And there is another thing,” said Malgara, speaking now to his aides. “The fame of Kalidasa’s fountains reached us even in Hindustan. We would see them once, before we march on Ranapura. . . .”
* * *
From the heart of the pleasure gardens, which had given him such delight, the smoke of Kalidasa’s funeral pyre rose into the cloudless sky, disturbing the birds of prey that had gathered from far and wide. Grimly content, though sometimes haunted by sudden memories, Malgara watched the symbol of his triumph spiraling upward, announcing to all the land that the new reign had begun.
As if in continuation of their ancient rivalry, the water of the fountains challenged the fire, leaping skyward before it fell back to shatter the surface of the reflecting pool. But presently, long before the flames had finished their work, the reservoirs began to fail, and the jets collapsed in liquid ruin. Before they rose again in the gardens of Kalidasa, Imperial Rome would have passed away, the armies of Islam would have marched across Africa, Copernicus would have dethroned the earth from the center of the universe, the American Declaration of Independence would have been signed, and men would have walked upon the moon. . . .
Malgara waited until the pyre had disintegrated in a final brief flurry of sparks. As the last smoke drifted against the towering face of Yakkagala, he raised his eyes toward the palace on its summit, and stared for a long time in silent appraisal.
“No man should challenge the gods,” he said at last. “Let it be destroyed.”
9
Filament
“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” said Rajasinghe accusingly, as he poured the morning coffee. “At first, I thought you had some antigravity device—but even I know that’s impossible. How did you do it?”
“My apologies,” Morgan answered with a smile. “If I’d known you were watching, I’d have warned you—though the whole exercise was entirely unplanned. I’d merely intended to take a scramble over the Rock, but then I got intrigued by that stone bench. I wondered why it was on the very edge of the cliff, and started to explore.”
“There’s no mystery about it. At one time, there was a floor, probably wood, extending outward, and a flight of steps leading down to the frescoes from the summit. You can still see the grooves where it was keyed into the rock face.”
“So I discovered,” said Morgan a little ruefully. “I might have guessed that someone would have found that out already.”
Two hundred and fifty years ago, thought Rajasinghe. That crazy and energetic