by Eric Flint
"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!"
Chapter 26
THE ARABIAN COAST
Autumn, 532 a.d.
"How could I have been so stupid?" demanded Antonina, glaring over the stern rail of her flagship. She rubbed her face angrily, as if she might squeeze out frustration by sheer force. "I should have known they'd follow us, the greedy bastards. And we were bound to be spotted, once we came within sight of land. There's only one obvious reason a fleet of Ethiopian warships would be cruising along the southern coast of Arabia—we're going to pillage the Malwa somewhere. Damned carrion-eaters!"
Wahsi, standing next to her, was matching her glare with
one of his own. Even Ousanas, on her other side, had not a trace of humor in his face.
"None of us thought of it, Antonina." Ousanas twisted his head, as if searching the deck of the Ethiopian warship for a missing person. Which, in a way, he was.
"I wish Garmat were here," he grumbled. "If there's anyone who knows how a bandit thinks, it's him." Ousanas gestured at the Arab dhows which were trailing in the wake of Antonina's fleet. "He might figure out how to talk them into going away."
"I doubt it," said Antonina, wearily. She stopped rubbing her face and stared at the small armada. The dhows reminded her of buzzards following a pack of wolves. "The problem is, Ousanas, they're not really pirates. Just dirt-poor fishermen and bedouin, smelling the chance for loot."
"They'll ruin all our plans!" snarled Wahsi. "There'll be no way to keep this expedition a secret, with that gaggle of geese following us. Assuming they don't just sell the information to the Malwa outright."
Antonina was back to rubbing her face. With only one hand, this time, slowly stroking her jaw. Without realizing it, she was half-imitating her husband's favorite mannerism when he was deep in thought.
"Maybe not," she mused. "Maybe—"
She glanced up, gauging the time of day. "It'll be sundown, soon." She pointed to a small bay just off the port bow. "Can we shelter the fleet there, tonight?" she asked Wahsi.
The Dakuen commander examined the bay briefly. "Sure. But what for? You said you wanted us to stay out of sight of land once we got halfway down the Hadrawmat. We're there. We should be putting further out to sea. Make sure we're over the horizon during daylight, until we reach the Strait of Hormuz."
Antonina shrugged. "That was for the sake of secrecy. With them following us"—she pointed to the fleet of dhows—"there's no point. We have to keep them out of sight, too. No way to do that without talking to them. That's why I want to anchor in the bay. The dhows will follow, and I think I can set up a parley."
"A parley?" choked Wahsi.
Antonina smiled. "Why not?"
Wahsi was glaring at her, now. "Are you insane? Do you really think you can reason with those—those—"
