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  We do not know whether this would have convinced Arjuna, because he is suddenly blasted by a terrifying epiphany. Krishna reveals that he is really an incarnation of the god Vishnu, who descends to earth whenever the cosmic order is in jeopardy. As Lord of the World, Vishnu is ipso facto involved in the violence that is an inescapable part of human life, but he is not damaged by it, “since I remain detached in all my actions, Arjuna, as if I stood apart from them.”118 As he gazes at Krishna, Arjuna sees that everything—gods, humans, and the natural order—is somehow present in Krishna’s body, and although the battle has not even begun, he sees that the Pandava and Kaurava warriors are already hurtling into the god’s blazing mouth. Krishna/Vishnu has therefore already annihilated both armies, and it makes no difference whether Arjuna fights or not. “Even without you,” Krishna tells him, “all these warriors … will cease to exist.”119 Many politicians and generals have similarly argued that they are only instruments of destiny when they commit atrocities—though few have emptied themselves of egotism and become “free from attachment, hostile to no creature.”120

  The Bhagavad-Gita has probably been more influential than any other Indian scripture. Yet both the Gita and the Mahabharata remind us that there are no easy answers to the problems of war and peace. True, Indian mythology and ritual often glorified greed and warfare but it also helped people to confront tragedy and even devised ways of extirpating aggression from the psyche, pioneering ways for people to live together without any violence at all. We are flawed creatures with violent hearts that long for peace. At the same time as the Gita was being composed, the people of China were coming to a similar conclusion.

  a Asura is the Sanskrit version of the Avestan ahura (“lord”).

  b Nibbana is the equivalent of the Sanskrit nirvana in the Pali dialect that may have been spoken by the Buddha. Its literal meaning is “blowing out.”

  3

  China: Warriors and Gentlemen

  The Chinese believed that at the beginning of time, human beings had been indistinguishable from animals. Creatures that would eventually become human had “snake bodies with human faces or the heads of oxen with tiger noses,” while future animals could speak and had human skills. These creatures lived together in caves, naked or clad in skins, eating raw meat and wild plants. Humans did not develop differently because of their biological makeup but because they were taken in hand by five great kings, who had discerned the order of the universe and taught men and women to live in harmony with it. These sage kings drove the other beasts away and forced humans to live separately. They developed the tools and technology essential to organized society and instructed their people in a code of values that aligned them with the cosmic forces. Thus for the Chinese, humanity was not a given; nor did it evolve naturally—it was shaped and crafted by the rulers of states. Those who did not live in civilized Chinese society therefore were not really human; and if the Chinese succumbed to social disorder, they too could lapse into bestial savagery.1

  Some two thousand years after the dawn of their civilization, however, the Chinese were wrestling with some profound social and political dilemmas. For guidance, they turned to their history—or what they imagined it to be in the absence of the scientific and linguistic techniques we employ today. The myths about the sage kings were formed during the turbulent Warring States period (c. 485–221 BCE), when the Chinese were making a traumatic transformation from a multistate system to a united empire, but they may have originated from the mythology of the shamans of hunter-gatherer times. These tales also reflected the Chinese view of themselves in the intervening millennia.

  This mythology makes it clear that civilization could not survive without violence. The first sage king, Shen Nung, the “Divine Farmer,” was the inventor of agriculture on which progress and culture depended. He could summon rain at will and conjure grain from the sky; he created the plow, taught his people how to plant and till the soil, and liberated them from the need to hunt and kill their fellow creatures. A man of peace, he refused to punish disobedience and outlawed violence in his kingdom. Instead of creating a ruling class, he decreed that everyone should grow his own food, so Shen Nung would become the hero of those who repudiated the exploitation of the agrarian state. But no state could abjure violence. Because the Divine Farmer’s successors had had no military training, they were unable to deal adequately with the natural aggression of their subjects, which, unchecked, grew to such monstrous proportions that humans seemed about to slide back into animality.2 Fortunately, however, a second sage king appeared. He was called Huang Di, the “Yellow Emperor,” because he recognized the potential of China’s ochre-colored soil.

  To farm successfully, people must organize their lives around the seasons; they are dependent on the sun, winds, and storms located in Heaven (Tian),a the transcendent realm of the sky. So the Yellow Emperor established human society in the “Way” (Dao) of Heaven by processing annually across the world, visiting each of the four compass points in turn—a ritual that maintained the regular cycle of the seasons and would be imitated by all future Chinese kings.3 Associated with storm and rain, the Yellow Emperor, like other storm gods, was a great warrior. When he came to power, the arable land was desolate, rebels were fighting one another, and there was drought and famine. He also had two external enemies: the animal-warrior Chi You, who was harassing his subjects, and the Fiery Emperor, who was scorching the cultivated land. The Yellow Emperor, therefore, drew on his great spiritual “potency” (de) and trained an army of animals—bears, wolves, and tigers—that managed to defeat the Fiery Emperor but could make no headway against the brutality of Chi You and his eighty brothers: “They had the bodies of beasts, the speech of men, bronze heads, and iron brows. They ate sand and stones, and created weapons such as staves, knives, lances, and bows. They terrorized all under Heaven and slaughtered barbarically; they loved nothing and nurtured nothing.”4

  The Yellow Emperor tried to help his suffering people, but because “he practiced love and virtuous potency [de],” he could not overpower Chi You with force. So he cast up his eyes to Heaven in silent appeal, and a celestial woman descended bearing a sacred text that revealed the secret art of warfare. The Yellow Emperor could now instruct his animal soldiers in the proper use of weaponry and military conduct, and as a result they defeated Chi You and conquered the entire world. While Chi You’s savage violence turned men into beasts, the Yellow Emperor transformed his army of bears, wolves, and tigers into human beings by teaching them to fight according to the rhythms of Heaven.5 A civilization founded on the twin pillars of agriculture and the organized violence of warfare could now begin.

  By the twenty-third century BCE, two other sage kings, Yao and Shun, had established a golden age in the Yellow River Plain, which was known forever after as “the Great Peace.” But during Shun’s reign, the land was devastated by floods, so the king commissioned Yu, his chief of public works, to build canals, drain the marshes, and lead the rivers safely to the sea. Because of Yu’s heroic labors, the people could grow rice and millet. Shun was so grateful that he arranged for Yu to succeed him, and he became the founder of the Xia dynasty.6 Chinese history records three successive ruling dynasties before the establishment of the empire in 221 BCE: Xia, Shang, and Zhou. It seems, however, that the three coexisted throughout antiquity and although the dominant ruling clan of the kingdom changed, the other lineages remained in charge of their own domains.7 We have no documentary or archaeological evidence for the Xia period (c. 2200–1600 BCE), but it is likely that there was an agrarian kingdom in the great plain by the end of the third millennium.8

  The Shang, a nomadic hunting people from northern Iran, seized control of the great plain from the Huai Valley to modern Shantung in about 1600 BCE.9 The first Shang cities may have been founded by the masters of the guilds that pioneered the manufacture of the bronze weapons, war chariots, and the magnificent vessels that the Shang used in their sacrifices. The Shang were men of war. They developed
a typical agrarian system, but their economy was still heavily subsidized by hunting and plunder, and they did not establish a centralized state. Their kingdom consisted of a series of small towns, each governed by a representative of the royal family and surrounded by massive ramparts of packed earth to guard against flooding and attack. Each town was designed as a replica of the cosmos, its four walls oriented to the compass directions. The local lord and his warrior aristocracy lived in the royal palace, served by retainers—craftsmen, chariot builders, makers of bows and arrows, blacksmiths, metalworkers, potters, and scribes—who dwelled in the south of the city. This was a rigorously segmented society. The king was at the apex of the social pyramid; next in rank were the princes who ruled the cities, and the barons who lived on revenues from the rural territories; the shi, the ordinary warriors, were the lowest-ranking members of the nobility.

  Religion pervaded Shang political life and endorsed its oppressive system. Because they were not part of their culture, the aristocrats regarded their peasants as an inferior species that was scarcely human. The sage kings had created civilization by driving the animals away from human habitations; the peasants therefore never set foot in the Shang towns and lived quite separately from the nobility in subterranean dwelling pits in the countryside. Meriting no more regard than the Yellow Emperor had shown toward Chi You’s horde, they led brutally miserable lives. In the spring the men moved out of the village and took up permanent residence in huts in the fields. During this season of work, they had no contact with their wives and daughters, except when the women brought out their meals. After the harvest, the men moved back home, sealed up their dwellings, and stayed indoors for the whole of the winter. This was their period of rest, but now the women began their season of labor—weaving, spinning, and wine making. The peasants had their own religious rites and festivals, traces of which have been preserved in the Confucian classic The Book of Songs. 10 They could be conscripted in the military campaigns of the aristocracy and are described lamenting so loudly when they were dragged away from their fields that they were gagged during the march. They did not take part in the actual fighting—that was the privilege of the aristocracy—but acted as valets, servants, and carriers and looked after the horses; still, they were strictly segregated from the nobility, marching and camping separately.11

  The Shang aristocracy appropriated the surplus produce from the peasants but otherwise took only a ceremonial interest in agriculture. They offered sacrifices to the earth and to the spirits of the mountains, rivers, and winds to obtain a good harvest, and one of the king’s tasks was to perform rituals to maintain the agricultural cycle on which the economy depended.12 But apart from these liturgical rites, the aristocracy left agriculture entirely to the min, the “common people.” At this date, however, very little of the region was given over to cultivation. Most of the Yellow River Valley was still covered by dense woods and marshes. Elephants, rhinoceroses, buffaloes, panthers, and leopards roamed through the forests, together with deer, tigers, wild oxen, bears, monkeys, and game. The Shang state continued to depend on the surplus produced by the peasants, but like all agrarian aristocracies, the nobility regarded productive work as a mark of inferiority.

  Only the Shang king was permitted to approach Di Shang Di, the sky god, who was so exalted that he had no dealings with other human beings. This placed the king in a position similar to Di’s, a state of exception that consigned the rest of the nobility to a subordinate place.13 It invested one man with such absolute privilege that he had no rivals and no need to compete with others. In his presence, a nobleman was as vulnerable as a peasant; the king was above all factions or conflicts of interest and was therefore free to embrace the concerns of the entire social body.14 He alone could impose peace by offering sacrifice to Di, consulting him about the advisability of a military expedition or the founding of a new settlement. The aristocracy supported him by devoting themselves to three sacred activities that all involved the taking of life: sacrifice, warfare, and hunting.15 The min took no part in any of these pursuits, so violence was the raison d’être and distinguishing characteristic of the nobility.

  These three duties were intricately interconnected in a way that shows how impossible it was to separate religion from other spheres of life in agrarian society. Sacrifice to the ancestors was deemed essential to the kingdom, because the fate of the dynasty depended on the goodwill of their deceased kings who could intercede with Di on its behalf. So the Shang held lavish “hosting” (bin) ceremonies at which vast quantities of animals and game were slaughtered—sometimes as many as a hundred beasts in a single ritual—and gods, ancestors, and humans shared a feast.16 Meat eating was another privilege strictly reserved for the nobility. The sacrificial meat was cooked in exquisite bronze vessels that, like the bronze weapons that had subjugated the min, could be used only by the nobility and symbolized their exalted position.17 The meat for the bin ceremony was supplied by the hunting expeditions, which, as in other cultures, were virtually indistinguishable from military campaigns.18 Wild animals could endanger the crops, and the Shang killed them with reckless abandon. Their hunt was not simply a sport but a ritual that imitated the sage kings, who, by driving the animals away, had created the first civilization.

  A considerable part of the year was devoted to military campaigning. The Shang had no great territorial ambitions but made war simply to enforce their authority: extorting tribute from peasants, fighting invaders from the mountains, and punishing rebellious cities by carrying off crops, cattle, slaves, and craftsmen. Sometimes they fought the “barbarians,” the peoples who surrounded the Shang settlements and had not yet assimilated to Chinese civilization.19 These militant circuits around the kingdom were a ritualized imitation of the sage kings’ annual processions to maintain cosmic and political order.

  The Shang attributed their victories to Di, the war god. Yet there also seems to have been considerable anxiety, because it was impossible to rely on him.20 As we can see from the surviving oracle bones and turtle shells on which the royal diviners inscribed questions for Di, he often sent drought, flooding, and disaster and was an undependable military ally. Indeed, he could “confer assistance” on the Shang but just as easily support their enemies. “The Fang are harming or attacking us,” mourned one oracle. “It is Di who orders them to make disaster for us.”21 These scattered pieces of evidence suggest a regime constantly poised for attack, surviving only by ceaseless martial vigilance. There are also references to human sacrifice: prisoners of war and rebels were routinely executed and, although the evidence is not conclusive, may have been offered up to the gods.22 Later generations certainly associated the Shang with ritual murder. The philosopher Mozi (c. 480–390 BCE) was clearly revolted by the elaborate funerals of a Shang aristocrat: “As for the men who are sacrificed in order to follow him, if he should be a [king], they will be counted in hundreds or tens. If he is a great officer or a baron, they will be counted in tens or units.”23 Shang rituals were violent because martial aggression was essential to the state. And even though the kings implored Di for help in their wars, in reality they owed their success to their military skills and bronze weapons.

  In 1045 BCE the Shang were defeated by the Zhou, a less sophisticated clan from the Wei Valley in the west of the great plain. The Zhou established a feudal system: the king ruled from his western capital but also maintained a presence in a new royal city in the east; the other cities were parceled out to Zhou princes and allies who ruled as his vassals and bequeathed these fiefs to their descendants; and the Shang retained a domain in Song. Continuity was always important in premodern civilization, so the Zhou were anxious to continue the Shang ancestral cult to uphold their regime. But how could they plausibly do so when they had executed the last Shang king? The Duke of Zhou, regent for his nephew, the young King Cheng, found a solution that he announced at the consecration of the new eastern capital. Di, whom the Zhou called “Heaven” (Tian), had made the Zhou his instrument to punish t
he Shang, whose last kings had been cruel and corrupt. Filled with pity for the suffering people, Heaven had revoked the Shang’s mandate to rule and appointed the Zhou to succeed them, making King Cheng the new Son of Heaven. This was also a warning for Cheng, who must learn to be “reverently careful” of “the little people,” because Heaven would take its mandate away from any ruler who oppressed his subjects. Heaven had chosen the Zhou because of their deep commitment to justice, so King Cheng must not inflict harsh punishments on the min.24 Even though this did little to reduce the systemic violence of the Chinese state in practice, the mandate of Heaven was an important religious and political development, because, if only in theory, it made the ruler morally accountable to his people and instructed him to feel responsible for them. This would remain an important ideal in China.

  Heaven was obviously a very different kind of deity from Di of the Shang, who had had no interest in human behavior. Heaven would never issue commandments or intervene directly in human affairs, however, for Heaven was not supernatural but inseparable from the forces of nature and active also in the royal potency (de) of the king and princes who ruled as Heaven’s Sons. Heaven was also not omnipotent, because it could not exist without Earth, its divine counterpart. Unlike the Shang, the Zhou exploited the agricultural potential of the great plain on a grand scale, and because Heaven’s influence could be implemented on Earth only through the work of human beings, farming, forest clearance, and road building became sacred tasks that completed the creation Heaven had begun. The Chinese were clearly more interested in sanctifying the world they lived in than finding a transcendent holiness beyond.