An oblique approach b-1

by David Drake

  One girl was hoisted up into the howdah, helped by the black soldier who was apparently serving as the mahout. Then another, the weeping one.

  “They are all Maratha, I understand,” commented Kungas, making idle conversation.

  The general nodded. “Yes, Prince Eon’s developed quite a taste for the breed. He has a whole gaggle of the creatures.” A little laugh. “I’m not sure how many, actually. Nobody can keep track.”

  A third girl, the one who had been comforting the weeper, made ready to climb aboard. Smallish. Much darker-skinned than the average Maratha. Very lithe in her movements, too. Kungas admired the fluid grace with which the girl took the hand of the mahout, began the climb up the great elephant. Her bare foot stretched out A beautiful dancer. Such incredible grace. Lithe, fluid. And I was always struck by her feet. The prettiest feet I ever saw. Quicksilver. High-arched, slim-heeled, perfectly shaped toes.

  The girl entered the howdah. The fourth and fifth girls followed. The prince went up last, drew the curtains behind him.

  Kungas stood as rigid as a post. He could not help it. Neither that, nor his face. Like iron, his face, as always when he faced danger. Now, like carbon steel.

  At his side, he sensed the general’s alertness. Behind, he could hear the slight sound of the general’s guards moving forward.

  This may be the most dangerous moment in my entire life.

  His had been a harsh existence, filled with hard decisions. Now, Kungas made the easiest decision he had ever made. And, he thought, perhaps the best-certainly the purest-in a generally misspent life. He took some pride, too, in the fact that his own survival played not the slightest role in making the decision.

  Which doesn’t solve my immediate problem. Keeping from getting my throat slit. No point in trying to pretend-oh, no, not with this general. Not with those men behind me.

  Besides A rare grin broke out on his face. (To Kungas, a grin. No one else would have called it that. A flaw in the iron, perhaps.)

  “So many women. Well, we’ll certainly have to make sure that they’re well protected. I shall instruct my men to keep anyone from pestering the prince’s concubines. From even approaching the howdah, in fact. Or his tent, at night. He’s a prince, after all, bound to be full of royal pride. I’m sure he’d be outraged if anyone caught so much as a glimpse of his women.”

  Kungas could sense the quick thoughts in the man next to him. A moment or so later, the general spoke. Still, a trace of hesitation in his voice.

  “An excellent idea, I think. Of course, your own men-”

  Kungas waved his hand casually. “Oh, I shall give them firm instructions to keep their own distance from the howdah. I’ll do the same myself, for that matter.”

  The general’s face broke into an odd, crooked smile. If there had been a trace of hesitation, it seemed to vanish.

  “That’ll be difficult for you and your men, I imagine. That sort of self-control around women.” An apologetic cough. “Given the Kushan reputation.”

  Kungas frowned slightly. “Reputa-?”

  The general laughed. “Oh, come now! Don’t deny it, Kungas. It’s well known. You can’t trust Kushans around women, particularly young women. Especially virgins. Not” — a chuckle- “that there are any virgins left in that howdah.”

  Kungas was still frowning.

  “Such an act!” admired the general. “But there’s no point in it, Kungas, I assure you. Not in this crowd. Why, I remember swapping a few amusing anecdotes with Venandakatra himself on the subject, during our journey from Bharakuccha. Although, now I think about it-my memory’s a bit vague, I’m afraid. I was quite drunk, that evening. But-um, yes, now that I think about it, I seem to recall that I was telling all the stories. Odd, actually. It all seemed to come to the great lord as quite a revelation.”

  Anyone in the world, now, would have agreed that the expression on Kungas’ face was a grin. The smallest, faintest, thinnest grin ever seen, true. But a grin, a veritable grin, it could not be denied.

  “Alas. Our reputation is finally out. And we’ve been so careful to keep our talents hidden, all these months.” He shook his head ruefully. “Well, it can’t be helped. Everyone will know, now. Damn. Husbands will start watching their wives. Fathers their daughters.”

  “Princes their concubines.”

  Kungas glanced at the general’s guards. “Soldiers, their camp women.”

  The general scratched his chin. “I foresee a scandal, I’m afraid. The talk of the caravan. Even Lord Venandakatra himself will probably hear of it. I can see the scene now. Kushan soldiers-ruffians, the lot of ’em, filled with unbridled lust-constantly surrounding the foreigners’ howdahs and tents, filled with so many lovely girls. Flies drawn to honey. Dealing brutally, of course, with any other men who should happen to sniff around.”

  “We have a short way with competitors,” agreed Kungas, “when it comes to women.” Casually, his hand gripped the hilt of his sword, drew the blade an inch or so out of the scabbard, clashed it back loudly.

  “Yes, yes,” mused the general. “Pity the poor Malwa chap who should just happen to wander by, idly curious about the women.”

  Kungas shuddered. “I shudder to think of the poor fellow’s treatment.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the general’s guards grinning. The one who looked like a mongoose. The most evil-looking grin he had ever seen, for a certainty.

  “Then, of course,” continued Kungas, “should any enterprising Malwa manage to slip through the Kushan escort and make his way to-”

  “Oh, terrible!” exclaimed the general. His eyes squinted. His large hand gripped his own sword hilt. “He’d be butchered. By keen-eyed cataphracts or sarwen always on guard to fend off the endless, relentless, persistent hounding of their women by those horrible, lust-filled, lascivious Kushans. Ah, such a tragic case of mistaken identity.”

  The general spread his hands.

  “But, the Lord Venandakatra could hardly complain. He assigned you to escort us, after all. Probably-” here came the general’s grin, which no one in the world would have mistaken for anything else “-with that very purpose in mind. Making us miserable, I mean.”

  Kungas nodded sagely. “The great lord does seem to be quite irritated with you. I can’t imagine why.”

  The sounds of a caravan setting into motion began filtering down the line. Kungas looked toward the front-which, of course, was far out of sight.

  “Well, I’d best be off. Round up my men and explain our duties to them. Very carefully. Making sure they understand what they need to understand, and not what they don’t. We don’t want any-ah, how shall I put it? Walking a tightrope can be done, so long as you maintain the proper balance.”

  “Well said,” commented the general. “A man after my own heart. You don’t anticipate-”

  “From my men? No, none. If I tell them to paint their faces blue and keep their left eyes closed all the way to Ranapur, well then- they’ll damn well paint their faces blue and keep their left eyes closed all the way to Ranapur. And be right fucking quick about it, and keep their fucking mouths fucking shut. Orders are orders. Obey. Just do it.” The iron face was back. “I’m not the man to brook insolence.”

  “I can well imagine,” said the general.

  Quite attractive, thought Kungas, that odd little crooked smile. He gave his own smile, such as it was, and departed.

  When the Kushan was out of sight, around a bend of the road, Valentinian whispered to Belisarius: “That was a close call.”

  Belisarius shook his head.

  “No, Valentinian, it wasn’t close at all. I cannot imagine a world, anywhere, anytime, in any turn of the wheel, where that man would not make that same decision.”

  The general turned away, headed toward his horse.

  As he left, he muttered something under his breath.

  “Did you catch that, Anastasius?”

  The giant grinned. “Of course. So would you, if your ears were attuned to philosophic
al thoughts like they should be. Instead of-”

  Valentinian snarled. “Just answer the fucking question!”

  “He said: Only the soul matters, in the end.”

  A prince and a princess

  The prince relaxed. His fingers let the curtain fall back into place. The fabric moved but a quarter of an inch. He had opened it only the merest crack.

  “He’s gone,” he said softly. The prince leaned back against the silk-covered cushions which lined the interior of the howdah. He blew out his cheeks with relief.

  The four Maratha women in the howdah reacted in various ways to the news. The fifth woman, who was not Maratha, watched their reactions carefully. She had been taught that the ways in which people relaxed from stress told you much about them. Taught by a man who was an expert in stressful situations and their aftermath.

  The one Maratha woman she knew-had known for years-clutched her yet more tightly. But, for the first time since they had met again, under the most unexpected circumstances, stopped weeping. Her name was Jijabai, and her mind was lost in horror. But perhaps, Shakuntala thought-hoped-the horror would begin to recede and sanity return. Horror had begun for that woman when she had been taken from her princess. Now that her princess had returned, perhaps Jijabai could return also.

  But there was nothing more that Shakuntala could do for Jijabai at the moment, beyond hold her. So she gazed elsewhere.

  The Maratha woman seated immediately to the prince’s right blew out her own cheeks, smiled broadly, and leaned into the prince’s shoulder. The prince’s arm enfolded her gently. She closed her eyes and nuzzled the prince’s neck.

  Shakuntala knew a bit about this one, from her conversations with the prince the day before. Her name was Tarabai, and she was the prince’s favorite. Prince Eon had asked her to return with him to his homeland and become one of his concubines. Tarabai had readily agreed.

  The prince had obviously been delighted by that answer. Almost surprised, like a boy whose idle daydream had come true.

  Shakuntala had found his delight quite informative. She had been trained to observe people by the most observant man she had ever known. A man whose sense of humor was as keen as his perception-and that, too, that wry and tolerant way of perceiving people, Shakuntala had learned from him.

  So, on the one hand, she was amused by the prince’s delight. What woman in Tarabai’s position-a Maratha captive cast into a hellhole of a slave brothel-would not have jumped at the chance to become a royal concubine? (A true concubine, in the honored and traditional sense-not one of the abject creatures which the Malwa called by the name. A woman with a recognized and respected status in the royal household. Whose children would not be in line for the succession, but would be assured positions of power and prestige.)

  But there had been nothing supercilious in Shakuntala’s amusement. Quite the contrary. She had respected the prince for his bemused delight. She had been taught to respect that kind of unpresumptuous modesty. Not by teaching, but by example. By the example of a man who never boasted, though he had more to boast about that any man produced by India since the days chronicled in the Mahabharata and the Ramayana.

  (But that thought brought pain, so she pushed it aside.)

  Tarabai’s actions, and the prince’s response, told Shakuntala much else. Her own father, the Emperor of Andhra, had possessed many concubines. Shakuntala had often observed them in her father’s presence. Her father had never mistreated his concubines. But not one of them would have dared initiate such casual and intimate contact in the presence of others. Her own mother, the Empress, would not have done so. (Not even, Shakuntala suspected, in the privacy of the Emperor’s bedchamber.)

  A cold, harsh, aloof man, her father had been. Every inch the Emperor. He had brooked familiarity from no one, man or woman. Nor, so far as the princess knew, had he ever expressed the slightest tenderness to anyone himself. Certainly not to her.

  There was no grievance in that thought, however. Her father had been preoccupied, his entire life, with the threat of Malwa. Years ago, Shakuntala had come to realize that, in his own hard way, her father had truly loved her. He had placed her in the care of a Maratha chieftain-in defiance of all custom and tradition-for no other reason than that he treasured the girl and would give her the greatest gift within his power. To that gift, the princess owed her very life.

  (That thought, however, brought pain again. The princess forced her thoughts back to the moment.)

  So, a gentle and tender prince as well as a modest one. A warm-hearted prince.

  And a resourceful one!

  Shakuntala repressed a giggle. Childish! Stop.

  It was difficult. The princess had an excellent sense of humor, when her temper was not aroused. And, for all its tension, the episode had been rather comical.

  The prince had found her in the cupboard where Raghunath Rao had hidden her. Just as planned. On a shelf barely big enough to fit a girl, a jug of water, a bit of food, and-her nose wrinkled slightly, remembering-a bedpan. With a stack of linens piled on top of her.

  As soon as he had taken possession of the guest suite in a corner of the palace, Prince Eon had sped to open the cupboard and retrieve Shakuntala. In passable Marathi, the prince had begun to explain the details of the scheme. Shakuntala had kept her eyes averted, for the most part. The prince had been in a hurry to wash the blood and gore off his body. (The princess, hearing the sounds of the battle raging in the palace grounds, had been hard-pressed not to climb out of the cupboard and watch.)

  So his man-dawazz was his title-had poured the bath for him right there in the bedchamber, while Eon stripped himself naked. Shakuntala had peeked, once, not so much out of girlish curiosity as imperial assessment. A very impressive body, the prince had. But she had been far more impressed by the casual, unthinking way in which he cleaned the grisly residue of mayhem from it.

  So. A courageous prince. Skilled and experienced in battle, for all his youth. As princes must be, in the new world created by the Malwa. She had approved. Greatly.

  The sound of voices-Rajputs quarreling with foreigners-had come through the door. The prince’s man immediately seized a huge spear. But the prince hissed quick instructions in their own language. Suddenly, the dawazz leaned the spear against a wall and began ambling toward the door, wearing such a grin as Shakuntala had never seen in her life.

  The prince instantly raced to the cupboard and removed the traces of Shakuntala’s habitation. There was very little to hide-simply an empty water jug and a bedpan half filled with urine. The prince placed both items in plain view, after emptying the bedpan in the bloody water of his bath.

  Then, before she quite realized what was happening, Eon had seized her and flung her onto the bed. A moment later, the prince-still naked-was lying completely on top of her. He swept the bed linens over them, and immediately began heaving his buttocks vigorously. Shakuntala herself had been completely hidden-partly by the linens, but mostly by the prince himself. He was not that much taller than she, but twice as broad. She had felt like a kitten lying under a tiger. She could see absolutely nothing except the prince’s bare chest.

  A moment later, the voices had entered the room, still quarreling. She could understand the Rajput, now. Belatedly, Lord Venandakatra had ordered a search of the entire palace and its grounds. The Rajput officer in charge of the squad was apologetic. Without quite saying so, he made clear that he thought the entire exercise was idiotic. A great lord in a childish snit, squawling at the world indiscriminately. The criminals had obviously fled the palace entirely. Hadn’t the three Ye-tai dogs guarding the front gate been found butchered, the morning after the massacre? Almost two full days had passed since. It was absurd to think-but-orders were orders.

  Prince Eon had raised his head, then, a bit. Roaring royal outrage. But his buttocks never ceased plunging up and down, his groin thrusting at her own. Her body, of course, was still clothed. But the Rajputs had no way of seeing that. The only visible part of the princ
ess was her hair. Long, black hair, in no way different from that of most Indian women. And then, a moment later, a little hand which reached up and clutched the prince’s neck with apparent passion. Quite apparent passion, judging from the unknown girl’s soft moaning. (Shakuntala hadn’t been quite sure she was making the right noise. But, like all bright girls in a large and crowded palace, she had done her share of eavesdropping, in days past at Amavarati.)

  Keeping their eyes averted from the prince at his sport, the Rajputs conducted a very hasty search of the suite. Then, uttering many apologies, scurried out.

  As soon as they were gone, Eon had immediately climbed off Shakuntala. Had made fulsome apologies, stressing the dire necessity which had precipitated his actions. Emphasized the depth of his respect for the imperial personage and dignity of the princess. Reiterated the perilous Shakuntala had waved off his apologies. Had responded with a most dignified-indeed, regal-acknowledgment of the sincerity of his regrets. Had uttered the most royal-indeed, imperial-phrases assuring the prince that she recognized both the necessity of his actions and appreciated the quickness of his wits. Had added further assurances that she had no doubt of his own regal propriety, good breeding, and monarchical majesty.

  But then-unable to resist-had added demurely:

  “Yet I fear, prince, that one of your provinces is in revolt.”

  It had been hard to tell. The prince’s skin was even darker than a Dravidian’s. But she thought he had definitely blushed.

  Especially after the dawazz added, with that amazing grin:

  “Indeed so! Most insolent uprising! Prince do well to beat rebel down!” Then, with a flourish: “Here! Use my spear!”