Fortune's stroke

Chapter 25

It was late in the night before Irene spoke. The council had already gone on for hours.

Irene craned her neck, twisting her head back and forth. To all outward appearance, it was the gesture of someone simply stretching in order to remain alert in a long, long imperial council.

In reality, she was just trying not to smile at the image which had come to her mind.

This isn't a "council." It's a-down, smile, down! — damned auction.

Her eyes, atop a rotating head, fell on the empress. Shakuntala was sitting, stiff and straight-backed, on a cushion placed on her throne. The throne itself was wide and low. In her lotus position, hands at her side, Shakuntala reminded Irene of the statue of a goddess resting on an altar. The girl had maintained that posture, and her stern countenance, throughout the session-with no effort at all, seemingly. That self-discipline, Irene knew, was another of Raghunath Rao's many gifts to the girl.

Irene's head twisting became a little shake.

Stop thinking of her as a "girl." That is a woman, now. Not more than twenty, yes, and still a virgin. But a woman nonetheless.

In the long months-almost a year, now-since Irene had come to India, she had grown very fond of Shakuntala. In private, Shakuntala's imperious demeanor was transmuted into something quite different. A will of iron, still, and self-assuredness that would shame an elephant. But there was also humor, and quick intelligence, and banter, and a willingness to listen, and a cheerful acceptance of human foibles. And that, too, was a legacy of Raghunath Rao.

Not one of Shakuntala's many advisers doubted for a moment that the empress, should she feel it necessary, could order the execution of a thousand men without blinking an eye. And not one of those advisers-not for instant-ever hesitated to speak his mind. And that, too, was a legacy of Rao.

Irene's eyes now fell on the large group of men sitting before the empress, on their own plush cushions resting on the carpeted floor.

The bidders at the auction.

The envoys from every kingdom in India still independent of Malwa were there. Tamraparni, the great island south of India which was sometimes called Ceylon, was there. And, in the past two weeks, plenipotentiaries from every realm in the vast Hindu world had arrived also. Most of those envoys had brought soldiers with them, to prove the sincerity of their offers. The Cholan and Tamraparni units were quite sizeable. Suppara was packed like a crate, with soldiers billeted everywhere.

Whether smuggled through the blockade of the coast, or, more often, marching overland from Kerala, they had come. Kerala, ruled by Shakuntala's grandfather, was there too, despite his treacherous connivance the year before with a Malwa assassination plot against her. Shakuntala had practically forced its representative Ganapati to grovel. But, in the end, she had allowed Kerala to join the bidding.

Irene had never fully realized, until the past few weeks, the true extent of the Hindu world. She had always thought of Hinduism, and its Buddhist offspring, as religions of India. But, like Christianity, those religions had spread their message over the centuries. And, more often than not, spread their entire culture along with it.

Representatives from Champa were there, and Funan, and Langkasuka, and Taruma, and many others. The faces of those envoys bore the racial stamp of southeast Asia and its great archipelagoes but, beneath the skin, they were children of India in all that mattered. Nations sired by Indian missionaries, suckled by Indian custom, nurtured by Indian commerce, and educated in Sanskrit or one of its derivatives.

Even China was there, in the form of a Buddhist monk sent by one of the great kingdoms of that distant land. He, unlike the others, had not come to bid for Shakuntala's hand in marriage. He had come simply to observe. But men-not royal envoys, at least-do not travel across the sea in order to observe a stone. They come to study a comet.

Shakuntala's rebellion had shaken Malwa. The world's most powerful empire was still on its feet, and still roaring its fury. But it was locked in mortal combat with adversaries from the mysterious West-enemies who had proven far more formidable than the Hindu world had envisioned. And now, rising from the stony soil of the Great Country, Shakuntala's rebellion was hammering the giant's knees. If those knees ever broke-

The independent kingdoms of the Hindu world, finally, had shed their hesitation. They feared Malwa, still-were petrified by the monster, in fact-but Shakuntala had shown that the beast could be bloodied. Not beaten, perhaps. That remained to be seen. But even the vacillating, timid, fretful kingdoms of south India and southeast Asia had finally understood the truth.

Andhra had returned. Great Satavahana, the noblest dynasty in their world, was still alive. That empire, and that dynasty, had shielded south India and the Hindu lands beyond for centuries. Perhaps it could do so yet.

All of them had come, and all of them were bidding for the dynastic marriage. And the bidding had been fierce. In the weeks leading up to the council, the canny peshwa Dadaji Holkar had matched one proposal against another, scraping quibble against reservation, until nothing was left but solid offers of alliance. At the council meeting itself, in the course of the hours, Dadaji had compressed those solid offers into so many bars of iron.

Irene repressed a grin. Dadaji Holkar, low-born son of polluted Majarashtra, had outwitted and outmaneuvered and outnegotiated the Hindu world's most prestigious brahmin diplomats. Had any of them been told, now, that Dadaji himself was nothing but a low-caste vaisya-a mere sudra, in truth, in any land of India outside the Great Country-they would have been shocked from the tops of their aristocratic heads to the soles of their pure brahmin feet. Distressed also, of course, at the thought of the pollution they had suffered from their many hours of intimate contact with the man. For the most part, however, they would have simply been stunned.

It is not possible! He is one of the most learned men in India! A scholar, as well a statesman!

She could picture them gobbling their disbelief. It is not possible! He is the peshwa of Andhra! How could great Satavahana-India's purest kshatriya-have been fooled by such a man? Not possible!

Irene's fight to restrain her humor became transformed into something much grimmer. Something cold, and calculating, and-in its own way-utterly ruthless. She, too, could be an executioner.

Studying the brahmin diplomats seated before the empress, Irene's eyes began to glint. I will show you what is possible. Fools!

It was time. The envoys had presented their offers. Dadaji had summarized the situation. It only remained for the empress to make her decision.

Irene could not have explained the little movements she made, of head and hands and eyes, which drew Shakuntala's attention. Neither could the young empress herself. But the two women had spent many hours in private and public discourse. Irene knew how to signal the empress, just as surely as the empress understood how to interpret those signals.

Shakuntala's head turned to Irene. The empress' eyes seemed as bright as ever, probably, to most observers. But Irene could sense the dull resignation in that imperial gaze.

"I would like to hear from the envoy of Rome," stated Shakuntala. As always in public council, the empress' voice was a thing to marvel at. Youthful, true, in its timbre. But a fresh-forged blade is still a sword.

A faint murmur arose from the diplomats.

Shakuntala's eyes snapped back to them. "Do I hear a protest?" she demanded. "Is there one among you who cares to speak?"

The murmurs fled. Shakuntala's eyes were like iron balls. The Black-Eyed Pearl of the Satavahanas, she was often called. But black, for all its beauty, can be a terrifying color.

Black iron smote clay. "You would protest?" she hissed. "You?" The statue moved, slightly. A goddess, with a little gesture of the hand, dismissing insects. "After Malwa conquered Andhra, and flayed my father's skin for Skandagupta's trophy, what did you do?"

The statue sneered. "You trembled, and quailed, and whimpered, and tried to hide in your palaces." The goddess spoke. "Rome-only Rome-did not cower from the beast."

Shakuntala's next words were spoken through tight teeth. "Doubt me not in this, you diplomats. If Malwa is slain, the lance which brings the monster down will be held in Roman hands. Not ours. Alone-not if all of us united-could we do the deed. Our task is to shield the Deccan, and do what we can to lame the beast."

The diplomats bowed their heads. Those brahmins, for all their learning, were insular and self-absorbed to a degree which Irene, accustomed to Roman cosmopolitanism, often found amazing. But even they, by now, knew the name of Belisarius. A bizarre name, an outlandish name, but a name of legend nonetheless. Even in south India-even in southeast Asia-they had heard of Anatha. And the Nehar Malka, where Belisarius drowned Malwa's minions.

Shakuntala kept her eyes on their bowed heads, not relenting for a full minute. Black iron is as heavy as it is hard.

During that long minute, while Indian diplomats-again-quailed and hid their heads, Irene sent a mental message to a man across the sea. He would not receive it, of course, but she knew he would have enjoyed the whimsy. That man had spent hours and hours with her, in Constantinople-days, rather-counseling Irene on her great task. Explaining, to a woman of the present, the future he wanted her to help create.

Well, Belisarius, you wanted your Peninsular War. I do believe you've got it. And if we don't have Wellington, and the Lines of Torres Vedras, we have something just as good. We have Rao, and the hillforts of the Great Country, and-

Her eyes fell on a hard, harsh, brutal face.

— and we've got my man, too. Mine.

She gathered the comfort in that possessive thought, and transformed softness into hard purpose.

"Speak, envoy of Rome," commanded Shakuntala.

Irene rose from her chair and stepped into the center of the large chamber. Dozens of eyes were fixed upon her.

She had learned that from Theodora. The Empress Regent of Rome had also counseled Irene, before she left for India. Explaining, to a spymaster accustomed to shadows, how to work in the light of day.

"Always sit, in counsel and judgement," Theodora had told her. "But always stand, when you truly want to lead."

Irene, as was her way, began with humor.

"Consider these robes, men of India." She plucked at a heavy sleeve. "Preposterous, are they not? A device for torture, almost, in this land of heat and swelter."

Many smiles appeared. Irene matched them with her own.

"I was advised, once, to exchange them for a sari." She sensed, though she did not look to see, a pair of twitching lips. "But I rejected the advice. Why? Because while the robes are preposterous, what they represent is not."

She scanned the crowd slowly. The smile faded. Her face grew stern.

"What they represent is Rome itself. Rome-and its thousand years."

Silence. Again, slowly, she scanned the room.

"A thousand years," she repeated. "What dynasty of India can claim as much?"

Silence. Scan back across the room.

"The greatest empire in the history of India, the Maurya, could claim only a century and half. The Guptas, not more than two." She nodded toward Shakuntala. "Andhra can claim more, in years if not in power, but even Andhra cannot claim more than half Rome's fortune."

Her stern face softened, just slightly. Again, she nodded to the empress. The nod was almost a bow. "Although, God willing, Andhra will be able to match Rome's accomplishment, as future centuries unfold."

Severity returned. "A thousand years. Consider that, noble men of India. And then ask yourself: how was it done?"

Again, she smiled; and, again, plucked at a heavy sleeve.

"It was done with these robes. These heavy, thick, preposterous, unsuitable robes. These robes contain the secret."

She paused, waited. She had their complete attention, now. She took the time, while she waited, to send another whimsical, mental message across the sea. Thanking a harsh, cold empress named Theodora, born in poverty on the streets of Alexandria, for training a Greek noblewoman in the true ways of majesty.

"The secret is this. These are the robes of Rome, but they are not Roman. They are Hun robes, which we took for our own."

A murmur arose. Huns? Filthy, barbarous-Huns?

"Yes. Hun robes. We took them, as we took Hun trousers, when our soldiers became cavalrymen. Just as we took, from the Aryans, the armor and the weapons and the tactics of Persia's horsemen. Just as we took from the Carthaginians-eight hundred years ago-the secrets of war at sea. Just as we took, century after century, the wisdom of Greece, and made it our own. Just as we took the message of Christ from Palestine. Just as we have taken everything we needed-and discarded anything we must-so that Rome could endure."

She pointed her finger toward the north. "The Malwa call us mongrels, and boast of their own purity. So be it. Rome shrugs off the name, as an elephant shrugs off a fly. Or, perhaps-"

She grinned. Or, perhaps, bared her teeth.

"Say better, Rome swallows the name. Just as a huge, half-savage, shaggy, mastiff cur of the street wolfs down a well-groomed, purebred house pet."

A tittering laugh went through the room. Irene allowed the humor to pass. She pointed now to Shakuntala.

"The empress said-and said rightly-that if the monster called Malwa is slain, the hand which holds the lance will be Roman. I can give that hand a name. The name is Belisarius."

She paused, letting the name echo through the chamber.

"Belisarius. A name of glory, to Rome. A name of terror, to Malwa. But, in the end, it is simply a name. Just like this"-she fingered a sleeve-"is simply cloth. So you must ask yourself-why does the name carry such weight? Where does it come from?"

She shrugged. "It is a Thracian name, first. Given to his oldest son by a minor nobleman in one of Rome's farming provinces. Not three generations from a peasant, if the truth be told."

She fixed cold eyes on the crowd. "Yet that peasant has broken armies. Armies more powerful than any of you could face. And why is that, noble men of India?"

Her chuckle was as cold as her eyes. "I will tell you why. It is because Belisarius has a soul as well as a name. And whatever may have been the flesh that made the man, or the lineage that produced the name, the soul was forged on that great anvil which history has come to call-Rome."

She spread her arms wide, trailing heavy sleeves. "Just as I, a Greek noblewoman wearing Hun robes, was forged on that same anvil."

Irene could feel Theodora flowing through her now, like hot fire through her veins. Theodora, and Antonina, and all the women who had birthed Rome, century after century, back to the she-wolf who nursed Remus and Romulus.

She turned to Shakuntala.

"You asked, Empress of Andhra, my advice concerning your marriage. I am a Roman, and can give you only Roman advice. My friend Theodora, who rules Rome today, has a favorite saying. Do not trample old friends, in your eagerness to make new ones."

She scanned the faces in the crowd, watching for any sign of understanding.

Nothing. The faces were transfixed, but blank with incomprehension. Except-Dadaji Holkar's eyes were widening.

Drive on, drive on. Strike again.

"Whom should you marry? To a Roman, the answer is obvious. You are a monarch, Shakuntala, with a duty to your people. Marry the power-that is the Roman answer. Marry the strength, and the courage, and the devotion, and the tenacity, which brought you to the throne and can keep you there. Wed the strong hand which can shield you from Malwa, and can strike powerful blows in return."

Scanned the faces. Transfixed, but-still nothing. Except Holkar. A wide-eyed face, almost pale with shock, as he began to understand.

Again, the hammerstroke. Even prejudice, in the end, will yield to iron.

"Do not wed a man, Empress. Wed a people. Marry the people-the only people-who never failed you. Marry the people who carried Andhra on their shoulders, when Andhra was bleeding and broken. Marry the men who harry Malwa in the hills, and the women who smuggle food into Deogiri. Marry the nation that sent its sons into battle, not counting the cost, while all other nations cowered in fear. Marry the boys impaled on the Vile One's stakes, and their younger brothers who step forward to take their place. Wed that folk, Shakuntala! Marry that great, half-savage, shaggy mastiff of the hills, not-"

She pointed accusing fingers at the assembled representatives of the Hindu world's aristocracy.

"Not these-these purebred lapdogs."

Accusing fingers curled into a fist. She held the fist out before her.

"Then-! Then, Shakuntala, you will hold power in your hand. True power, real power-not its illusion. Steel, not brittle wood."

She dropped her fist, flicking dismissive fingers. The gesture carried a millennium's contempt.

"Marry the Roman way, girl," she said. Gently, but with the assurance of Rome's millenium. "Wed Majarashtra. Find the best man of that rough nation, and place your hand in his. Let that man dance your wedding dance. Open the womb of India's noblest and most ancient dynasty to the raw, fresh seed of the Great Country. Let the sons born of that union carry Andhra's fortune into the future. If you do so, that fortune will be measured in centuries. If you do otherwise, it will be measured in years.

"As for the rest. ." She shrugged. "As for what people might say, or think. ." She laughed, now. There was no humor at all in the sound. It carried nothing beyond unyielding, pitiless condemnation. Salt, sown into soil.

"Let them babble, Shakuntala. Let them cluck and complain. Let them whimper of purity and pollution. Let them sneer, if they will. What do you care? While their thrones totter, yours will stand unshaken. And they will come to you soon enough-trust me-like beggars in a dusty street. Pleading that you might let the uncouth husband sitting by your side, and lying in your bed, lead their own armies into battle."

Finally-finally-everyone in the room understood. The envoys were gaping at her like so many blowfish. Dadaji's face, she could not see. The peshwa's head was bowed, as if in thought. Or, perhaps, in prayer.

She turned back to Shakuntala. The empress, though she was not gaping, seemed in a pure state of shock. She sat the throne, no longer like the statue of a goddess, but simply like a young child. A schoolgirl, paralyzed by a question she had never dreamed anyone would ever ask.

The Roman teacher smiled. "Remember, Shakuntala. Only the soul matters, in the end. All else is dross. That is as true of an empire as it is of a man."

Quietly, then, but quickly, Irene took her seat. In the long silence which followed, while envoys gasped for breath and a peshwa bowed his head-and a schoolgirl groped for an answer she already knew, but could not remember-Irene simply waited. Her hands folded in her lap, breathing easily, she simply waited.

Prejudice would erupt, naturally. Soon, the room would be filled with outrage and protest. She did not care. Not in the least.

She had done her job. Quite well, she thought. Holding the tongs in firm hands, she had positioned the blade to be forged. Prejudice would sputter up, of course, just as hot iron spatters. But the hammer, held in barbarous thick hands, would strike surely. And quench the protest of purity in the greater purity of tempering oil.

Kungas did not wait for the protest to emerge. Kushans were a folk of the steppes, and swift horses.

"Finally!"

He was standing in the center of the room, before anyone saw him rise.

"Finally."

He let the word settle, ringing, as that word does. Then, crossing muscle-thick arms over barrel chest, he turned his head to the empress.

"Do as she says, girl. It is obvious. Obvious."

The first mutters began to arise from the crowd of notables. Kungas swung his head toward them, like a swiveling cannon.

"Be silent." The command, though spoken softly, brought instant obedience. The mask was pitiless, now. As pitiless, and as uncaring, as steppe winter.

"I do not wish to hear from you." The mask twisted, just slightly. But Satan, with his goat lips, would have been awed by that sneer.

"You? You would dare?" The snort which followed matched the sneer. Pure, unalloyed contempt.

Kungas swiveled his head back to Shakuntala. "I will tell you something, girl. Listen to me, and listen well. I was your captor, once, before I was your guardian. I knew the truth, then, just as surely as I know it now. The thing is obvious-obvious-to any but fools blinded by custom."

Again, he snorted. Contempt remained, augmented by cold humor.

"All those months in the Vile One's palace, while I held you captive. Do you remember? Do you remember how carefully I set the guards? How strictly I maintained discipline? You had eyes to see, girl, and a mind which was trained for combat. Did you see?"

He stared at the empress. After a moment, Shakuntala nodded. Nodded, not imperiously, but like a schoolgirl nods, when she is beginning to follow the lesson.

Kungas jerked his head at the notables.

"Against whom was I setting that iron guard, girl? Them?"

He barked a laugh so savage it was almost frightening.

"Them? Those purebred pets?"

The laugh came again, baying like a wolf.

"I did not fear them, girl. I did not watch so carefully because I was worried about Chola. Or Tamraparni, or Kerala, or-"

He broke off, waving a thick hand.

"I was your enemy then, Shakuntala. And as good an enemy, as I have been a friend since. I knew the truth. I always knew. I knew who would come for you. I knew, and I feared the coming."

For a moment, his eyes moved to Dadaji. The peshwa's face was still hidden. Kungas made a little nod toward that bowed head, as if acknowledging defeat in an old argument. "My soul knew he was there. I could sense his own, lurking in the woods beyond the palace. I never spotted him, not once, but I knew. That is why I set the guards, and held the discipline, and never wavered for a second in alertness. I never feared anything, except the coming of the panther. One thing only, I knew, could threaten my purpose. The Wind of the Great Country-that, and that alone, could sweep you out of Malwa's grasp."

His eyes returned to the empress. Clear, bright almond eyes, in a face like bronze. "And that Wind alone, girl, is what can keep you from the asura's claws."

He uncrossed his arms, and dropped his hands to the side. "Do as the Roman woman tells you, Shakuntala. Do that and no other. Hers is the advice of an empire which, for a thousand years, has never lost sight of the truth. While these-"

Again, the stiff, contemptuous fingers. "These are nothing but envoys from kingdoms long lost to illusion."

And now he too took his seat. And silence reigned again. The envoys did not even murmur. The lapdogs had been cowed.

Irene held her breath. One voice, alone, remained to be heard. One voice, alone in that room, which could still sway the empress to folly. She dreaded that voice, and found herself praying that the man she had come to love had read another man's soul correctly. For perhaps the first time in her life, Irene prayed she was in error.

Shakuntala's face was as stiff as a statue's. But the exterior rigidity could not disguise-not from Irene; not from anyone in the room-the turmoil roiling beneath.

Irene was swept with pity. The girl's mind-and the empress was a girl, now-was locked tight. Sheer, utter paralysis. Shakuntala's deepest, most hidden wish was at war with her iron sense of duty-and now, a foreign woman had turned duty against desire. Cutting loose one with the other, true. But still leaving behind, to a girl who had never once seen their connection, nothing but a tangled web of doubt and confusion.

Shakuntala did what she could only do, then. She turned to the man who, more than any other, she had come to rely on to find the threads which guided her life.

"Dadaji?" she said softly, pleadingly. "Dadaji? You must tell me. What should I do?"

Irene's jaws tightened; her lips were pursed. That question had not been asked of an adviser, by an empress. That had been the question a daughter asks her father. A loving daughter, turning to a trusted father-seeking, not advice, but direction.

It was Holkar's decision, now. Irene knew that for a certainty. In her current state of paralysis and confusion, Shakuntala would obey the peshwa as surely as a daughter will obey her father.

Irene saw Dadaji's shoulders rise and fall, taking a deep breath. He lifted his head. For the first time since Irene had read understanding in his eyes, she saw Dadaji's face.

The relief was almost explosive. She had to fight to let her breath escape in silence.

Before Holkar said his first word, Irene knew the answer. That was the face of a father, not a peshwa. A loving father who, like millions before him, could chide and train and discipline his daughter. But who could not, when the time finally came, deny her what she truly wished.

Dadaji Holkar began to speak. Irene, listening, knew that Kungas had read the man's soul correctly, and she had not. When all was said and done, and the trappings and learning were stripped away, Dadaji Holkar remained what he had always been. A simple, modest, kindly man from a small town in Majarashtra, trying to raise a family as best he could. Malwa had savaged his family, and torn his own daughters away. He would not, could not, do the same to the girl he had taken in their place.

Holkar's face had brought relief. Relief so great, that Irene barely listened to his first words. But after a few seconds, she did. And then, less than a minute later, was struggling not to laugh.

The soul of Dadaji Holkar was that of a father, true. But the mind still belonged to the imperial adviser. Once again, great Satavahana's lowborn peshwa would outmaneuver brahmins.

"It is difficult for you, Empress, I realize." Dadaji raised his hand, as if to ward off the peril which threatened his monarch. As best he could, that is-which, judging from the feebleness of the gesture, was precious little. "Your own purity-" He broke off, sighed, plowed forward. "But you must put the needs of your people first. As difficult as the choice may be, for one of your sacred lineage."

The peshwa, twisting sideways on his cushion, turned toward Irene and bowed.

"I listened carefully to the Roman envoy's words. As carefully as I could, even though my heart was beating rebellion. But my mind could not deny the words. It is true, what she says." Again, he sighed, as a man does when he cedes preference to duty. "If you place your obligation to your people above all else, thrusting aside your personal concerns, then you must indeed do as the Roman says. If you would marry power, Empress, then marry the man from the Great Country."

A faint murmur of protest began to rise from the envoys seated nearby. The barbarous Kushan had intimidated them, with his savage derision. The scholarly peshwa-a brahmin like themselves; or so, at least, they thought-could perhaps be reasoned with.

Dadaji thrust out his hand, palm down. The gesture, in its own way, was as contemptuous as Kungas' sneer. A sage, stilling the ignorant babble of village halfwits.

"Be silent." Holkar fixed cold eyes on the gathered envoys. "What do you know of power?"

The peshwa was well into middle age, but he was still an active man. Dadaji rose from the cushion, as easily as a youth. He stared down at the envoys for a moment, before he began pacing back and forth. Hands clasped behind him, head tilted forward-the master, lecturing schoolboys. "You know nothing. The true ways of power are as mysterious to you as the planets."

Pace, pace, back and forth. "No country in India-not all of us put together-can field an army which could defeat Malwa in the field. That task is for the Romans, led by Belisarius. But he, too, cannot do it alone. Belisarius can lance the asura, but only if the demon is hamstrung. And that, we can do. But the doing will be difficult, and bloody, and costly. It will require courage and tenacity, above all other things."

He stopped, gazing down on Chola's envoy. "When Shakuntala's father, years ago, asked you for your help against Malwa, what did you do?" He waited for the answer. None came, beyond a head turned aside.

He looked upon Ganapati. "What did Kerala do?" he demanded. Ganapati, also, looked away.

Holkar's bitter eyes scanned the envoys. Most looked aside; some bowed their heads; a few-those from distant southeast Asia-simply shrugged. Their help had not been asked by Shakuntala's father.

But Holkar did not allow them that easy escape and, after a time, they looked away also. They knew the truth as well as he. Had Andhra asked, the answer would have been the same. No.

He flared his nostrils. "Power!" he snorted. "What you understand, diplomats, is how to manipulate power. You have no idea how to create it. Tonight, I will tell you. Or, rather-"

Again, he bowed to Irene. "I will simply repeat her words. Power comes from below, noble men of India. From that humble place, and no other. An empire, no matter how great-no matter how large its armies or well-equipped its arsenals-has no more power than the people upon whom it rests give to it. For it is they-not you-who must be willing to step forward and die, when the time comes. It is that low folk-not you-who have the courage to crawl upon a demon's haunch and sever its tendons."

He turned his back to them. Scornfully, over his shoulder: "While you, consulting your soothsayers and magicians, try to placate the beast in the hope it will dine elsewhere."

His hands were still clasped behind his back. For a moment, they tightened, and his back stiffened.

"Do not forget, noble men of India, that I am also Maratha. I know my people, and you do not. You scorn them, for their loose ways and their polluted nature. But you are blind men, for all your learning. As the Kushan says, lost in illusion."

He took a deep breath, and continued. "Today, Majarashtra trembles on the brink. Maratha sympathies are all with Shakuntala, and many of its best sons have come to her side. But most Maratha are still waiting. They will smuggle food, perhaps, or spy; or hide a refugee. But no more. Not yet. The heel of Malwa is upon their neck. The Vile One's executioners have draped their towns with the bodies of rebels."

Another deep breath; almost a great sigh. "It is not fear which holds them back, however, if you plunge into their hearts. It is simply doubt. They remember Andhra, true, and are loyal to that memory. But Andhra failed them once before. Who is to say it will not again?"

He turned his head to the northeast, peering intently at the walls of the chamber, as if he could see the Great Country beyond. "What they need," he said softly, "is a pledge. A pledge that the dynasty they have supported will never abandon them. And what pledge could be greater-than for the Empress of Andhra to make the dynasty their own? No Maratha has ever sat upon a throne. A year from now, the child of Majarashtra's greatest champion will be the dynasty."

His own face-soft, gentle, scholarly-was now as hard a mask as that of the Kushan.

"It will be done," he pronounced. "The empress, I am sure, will find her way to her duty. As will Rao." Then, spinning around, he confronted the envoys again. "But it will be done properly."

His smile, when it came, was as savage as Kungas'. "The empress will wed Rao in Deogiri, not here. She will dance her wedding dance in the Vile One's face, in the midst of a siege. Hurling defiance before Malwa, for all to see. And you, noble men of India-you of Chola and Kerala and Tamraparni-will attend that wedding. And will provide the troops to escort her through the Vile One's lines."

The envoys erupted in protest. Outraged babble piled upon gasping indignation.

Holkar ignored them serenely. He turned back to his empress. Shakuntala was staring at him-blank-faced, to all appearances. But Holkar could sense her loosening self-control.

From the side of the chamber, Irene sent him an urgent thought. End it, Dadaji. Give her space and time, before she breaks. The rest can be negotiated tomorrow.

Apparently, telepathy worked. Or perhaps it was simply that two people thought alike.

"Marry Rao, Empress," decreed Dadaji Holkar. Then, in words so soft that only she could hear: "It is your simple duty, girl, and nothing else. Your dharma. Let your mind be at ease."

Those father's words removed all doubt. Shakuntala was fighting desperately, now, to maintain her imperial image. Beneath the egg-thin royal shell, the girl-no, the woman-was beginning to emerge.

Dadaji turned, but Kungas was already on his feet, clapping his hands.

"Enough! Enough!" the Kushan bellowed. "It is late. The empress is very weary. Clear the chamber!"

No envoy, outraged or no, wanted to argue with that voice. The rush for the door started at once. Within a minute, the chamber was empty except for Irene, Kungas, and Dadaji. And the empress, still sitting on her throne, but already beginning to curl. As soon as the heavy door closed, she was hugging her knees tightly to her chest.

Years of discipline and sorrow erupted like a volcano. Shakuntala wept, and wept, and wept; laughing all the while. Not the laughs of gaiety, these, or even happiness. They were the deep, belly-emptying, heaving laughs of a girl finally able-after all the years she had swallowed duty, never complaining once of its bitter taste-to wallow in the simple joys and desires of any woman.

Kungas stepped to her side and embraced her. A moment later, squirming like an eel, Shakuntala forced him onto the throne and herself onto his lap. There she remained, cradled in the arms of the man who had sheltered her-as he had again that day-from all the world's worst perils. Since the day her father died, and Malwa made her an orphan, Kungas had never failed her. The child found comfort in his lap, the girl in his arms, the empress in his mind. But the woman, finally out of her cage, only in his soul. Choked words of love and gratitude, whispered between sobs, she gave him in return. And even Kungas, as he stroked her hair, could not maintain the mask. His face, too, was now nothing but a father's.

Dadaji began to move toward the empress, ready to share in that embrace. But Irene restrained him with a hand.

"Not now, Dadaji. Not tonight."

Holkar looked back, startled. "She will want-need me-"

Irene shook her head, smiling. "Her wants and needs can wait, Dadaji. They are well-enough satisfied, and Kungas is there for her tonight. He will shelter her through her joy, just as he guarded her through despair. Tonight, Dadaji, you must give to yourself."

He frowned, puzzled. Irene began pulling him toward the door. "There is someone you must see. Someone you have been seeking, since the day she was lost. She should already be in your chambers."

By the time she opened the door, Dadaji understood. By the time she closed the door, he was already gone. She could only hear his footsteps, pounding down a corridor. It was odd, really. They sounded like the steps of a young man, running with the wind.

* * *

The lamps were lit, when Irene entered her own chambers. Her servants, knowing her odd tastes from months of experience, had prepared her reading chair. Tea was ready, steeping in a copper kettle. It was lukewarm, by now, but Irene preferred it so.

As always, her servants had taken several books from the chest and placed them on the table next to the lamp. The books had been chosen at random, by women who could not read the titles. Irene preferred it so. It was always pleasant, to see her choices for the night. Irene enjoyed surprises.

She sat and took a sip of tea. Then, for a few minutes, she weighed Plato against Homer, Horace against Lucretius.

None, in the end, fit her mood. Her eyes went to the door of her bedroom. A flush of passion warmed her. But that, too, she pushed aside. Kungas would not come, that night. Not for many nights still, she knew.

There was regret in that knowledge, and frustration, but neither anger nor anxiety. Irene knew her man, now. She did not understand him, not entirely. Perhaps she never would. But she did know him; and knew, as well, that she could accept what she did not understand. The same stubborn determination that had kept an illiterate to his books, week after week after week, would keep him away from her bed, for a time. Not until an empress was wed to a champion, and he gave away his girl to the man she had chosen, would Kungas be satisfied that he had done his duty.

So the man was. So he would always be. Irene, comparing him to other men she had known, was well content in her choice.

She arose and moved to the window. Felt the breeze, enjoyed the sound of surf. She was happy, she realized. As happy as she had ever been. That understanding brought with it an understanding of her mood. And frustration anew.

She laughed. "Oh, damn! Where are you, Antonina? I want to get blind, stinking drunk!"