The name Ashoka Maurya evokes powerful, contrasting images. To the world, he is the quintessential enlightened ruler, the Buddhist monarch who renounced violence after the bloody Kalinga war, preaching compassion and carving his edicts of morality onto stone pillars across the Indian subcontinent. His symbol, the four-lion capital, is the emblem of the modern Republic of India. But behind this towering image of peace lies a darker, more murky origin story: did the apostle of non-violence secure his throne by slaughtering his own brothers?
The question of Ashoka’s fratricide is one of history’s most gripping whodunits, a tale where fact is shrouded in the fog of legend, religious bias, and political propaganda. To answer it, we must become detectives, sifting through ancient texts and archaeological clues to separate the man from the myth.
The Case for the Prosecution: The Damning Literary Evidence
The most sensational account comes from Buddhist texts written centuries after Ashoka’s death, primarily the Sri Lankan chronicles Dipavamsa (The Island Chronicle, 4th century CE) and Mahavamsa (The Great Chronicle, 5th century CE). These texts are not dispassionate historical records; they are hagiographies, designed to glorify Ashoka as a great patron of Buddhism and to chart the religion’s spread.
The Mahavamsa presents a stark and dramatic narrative. It states that Ashoka was of such fierce temperament he was known as Chandashoka—Ashoka the Fierce. Upon the death of his father, Bindusara, a brutal war of succession erupted. The chronicle claims Ashoka had 99 brothers (a likely symbolic number for “many”) and that he killed all but one, Tissa, who had ordained as a Buddhist monk. The text chillingly states that he “put to death” his brothers to ensure his power, making himself the undisputed king.
This story served a specific purpose for its Buddhist authors. It created a powerful “before and after” narrative. It painted a picture of Ashoka as the ultimate sinner redeemed—a man steeped in the deepest possible sin (the murder of kin, a grave act in Indian tradition) who, through the transformative power of the Buddha’s teachings, became the greatest righteous king, Dharmashoka. The starker his former evil, the more potent his conversion and the more it glorified the faith that saved him.
Some later Sanskrit sources, like the play Ashokavadana, also allude to his violent rise, though their details differ, mentioning his killing of several ministers and a half-brother.
The Case for the Defense: The Silent Witness of Stone
If the Buddhist chronicles are the prosecution’s star witnesses, then Ashoka’s own words are the key evidence for the defense. And this evidence is compellingly silent on the matter.
Ashoka left behind a vast corpus of inscriptions—the Major and Minor Rock Edicts and Pillar Edicts—carved across his empire. These are the closest we have to a primary source, the king’s own propaganda and moral code delivered directly to his people. In them, he is remarkably candid. He expresses deep remorse for the death and suffering caused by the Kalinga war. He names his family, speaks of his reforms, and details his commitment to Dhamma (moral law).
Yet, nowhere in any of these edicts does he mention, allude to, or express any regret for the killing of his brothers. This is a deafening silence. If he was truly guilty of such a heinous act, and if his entire later philosophy was based on atonement and truth, why would he confess to the horrors of a foreign war but omit a far more personal and damning sin against his own family?
Furthermore, several of his edicts mention his siblings in a context that suggests they were very much alive and active during his reign. In his Fifth Pillar Edict, Ashoka makes a curious statement. He says he has appointed special officials to look after the welfare of his brothers and sisters and their families. He writes:
“I have made the following arrangement too:… the officials… will be occupied with the affairs of the Sangha; likewise with the Brahmans and Ajivikas;… and with my brothers and sisters and other relatives.”
This doesn’t sound like a man who had them all exterminated. It suggests they were a recognized part of his courtly structure, under his protection. This single piece of firsthand evidence severely undermines the Mahavamsa‘s extreme claim of 99 dead brothers.
The Verdict of Modern Historians: A Middle Path
Modern scholars, armed with both the literary sources and Ashoka’s own inscriptions, tend to walk a middle path, deconstructing the myth to find a probable kernel of truth.
The consensus is that the story of the 99 brothers is almost certainly a later literary exaggeration. However, most historians agree that a violent power struggle did likely occur. The Mauryan empire was vast, and successions were rarely smooth. It is highly plausible that upon Bindusara’s death, Ashoka, who was governor of Ujjain and not the presumed heir (a prince named Susima was), had to fight for his claim.
In this struggle, it is probable that several of his brothers, particularly those who sided with his rival for the throne, were killed. This was standard practice in ancient and medieval dynastic politics across the world, from Rome to Constantinople. Eliminating rival claimants was a brutal but accepted method of securing power. The number was likely a handful, not ninety-nine.
The Buddhist chronicles, written over 400 years later in a different country, then took this kernel of truth and magnified it to epic proportions to serve their theological narrative of radical redemption.
Conclusion: The Power of a Paradox
So, did Ashoka really kill his brothers for the throne? The most historically plausible answer is: probably some of them.
The myth of the 99 brothers is a powerful allegory, not a factual account. The truth is likely a more familiar, though no less brutal, tale of a dynastic civil war. Ashoka almost certainly seized power through force, and blood was spilled—including that of his kin.
This conclusion does not diminish Ashoka’s legacy; it makes it far more human and complex. It creates a profound and relatable paradox: the same man capable of ruthless ambition to secure power was also capable of genuine remorse and a revolutionary vision of ethical governance. His story is not one of a saint born perfect, but of a flawed, powerful man who looked upon the consequences of his actions and chose to change. He is a testament to the idea that one’s past need not define one’s future, and that even an emperor, drenched in the blood of battle and rivalry, could dedicate his life to preaching peace. And that, perhaps, is a more powerful and enduring story than any simple legend.