There was a mixed reaction to this revelation, and many of the elders who had attended the periyanadu looked toward the Muslims with open hostility even while they gave voice to their approval of this presentation.
“Remind them that I have no living sons,” Dantinusha murmured to the herald.
“It has pleased the gods to send no long-living son to the Rajah. Surely this is the price they have exacted for their aid in dangerous times. Worthy is the Rajah who is willing to give up his sons in order to protect the country.”
This was met with all sorts of hoots, cheers and cacophony from the drums and gongs.
“Remind them that I do have a grown daughter.” Dantinusha was rubbing his lower lip, quite concerned now, for this was the greatest test he faced. The periyanadu had been minor in comparison. If the people, particularly the elders, were willing to support his heir, there would be no convenient civil war, no ruling gap that the Islamic generals might construe as an open invitation to seize power in Natha Suryarathas.
“The Rajah is fully mindful of the favors the gods have done him, and all here have seen evidence that he is much favored. Therefore he has taken great pride in as much of his family as are left to him after the predations of rebellious conflicts. He has a daughter, full in flower and of great reputed wit and beauty.” The herald had to raise his huge voice even more toward the end to be heard over the buzz of sound that swarmed through the gathering.
“Remind them that I have not given her in marriage,” the Rajah said quietly, watching the sudden movement in the various groups of people below him. It was an effort not to scowl. In other times, he thought, there would have been many sons and nephews to the Maharajahs of the kingdom, but those days had fled. Had this been such a time, he would not have hesitated to scowl, or to order Sibu, the executioner, to dispose of those who appeared to be talking disapproval.
“The Rajah, treasuring his daughter as a jewel beyond price, and knowing how fragile the chain of rule may be, has kept her near him rather than made her the wife of any of the Princes or sons of Princes in the lands bordering Natha Suryarathas. So fair and beloved is this daughter of Dantinusha that she is placed first in his heart and it is not possible for him to coerce her into taking a more subservient role than the one she has here.” Rialkot, the herald, stopped to clear his throat.
“Tell them that it is my will that she be my heir until such time as she bear a son, who will then be Rajah.” He folded his arms, wishing that the sun were not in his eyes. His head throbbed from it.
“Fully mindful of the obligations to his family and his country, it is the will of the Rajah that his daughter be recognized as his heir, to rule after him, until such time as she bring forth a son of her own to be your Rajah.” He waited while the roar from the gathered festival-keepers began to subside, saying quietly to Dantinusha, “What more should I tell them, Great Lord?”
Rajah Dantinusha hunched his shoulders. “I’m not certain. Tell them that I will shortly present my daughter to them.”
“They may not wish that,” the herald warned him.
“Yes, I realize that,” the Rajah said testily. “But I’d better do it now. There won’t be another periyanadu for three years, and by that time, the Sultan might be more militant, or we might be driven by other concerns.”
Rialkot coughed once; the forced volume was beginning to tell on him. As the gale of words began to abate, he raised his voice once more. “How blessed are all of you here! It is your excellent opportunity to see the cherished daughter of the Rajah Dantinusha before the sun sets today. Those who are here will see her, in her beauty and her skills, and will be able to tell the rest of the worid how fully capable she is, and how dedicated to the country.”
This time the drums, gongs and cymbals were joined by the clamor of bells. It was an awesome crescendo, drawing from the people an enthusiasm that neared frenzy.
Rajah Dantinusha turned away from the milling, shouting, surging crowd and descended the steps into the tent.
Tamasrajasi had been pacing the far end of the tent, her long, rolling stride like a tiger confined. She was magnificently attired in cloth-of-gold fashioned into a skirt and jacket. Earrings heavy with jewels brushed a collar of gold and polished stones. “Well?” she said as she saw her father come toward her.
“You can hear them, my child,” Dantinusha said, indicating the hysterical outpourings that made it necessary for both of them to speak fairly loudly.
“Yes, I hear them, but that tells me nothing!” she snapped, then looked contrite. “I did not mean to say something so undutiful. It is my greatest pleasure to serve you, my father.”
“I know.” He smiled with pride. How many fathers, he asked himself, could regard their daughters with the same delight that they would a son? Since his male children had not lived, he was surely protected by the gods, who loved Tamasrajasi.
At that moment, Sudra Guristar came into the tent. He was resplendent in his most impressive ceremonial clothing. Hardly an inch of his silken garments was not embroidered elaborately. Beside him, the Rajah seemed almost plain, though he was dressed in cream-colored silk sewn with jewels. “Great Lord,” he said at once, then turned and acknowledged Tamasrajasi.
“Is there trouble?” Dantinusha demanded, thinking suddenly how unprotected they were in this silken tent.
“No, no, no trouble.” He nodded toward the guards who stood at the two entrances to the tent. “This is a most joyous occasion. And it is a pity that the men are not allowed to participate in the festival. There are other soldiers who are willing to take up their posts if you will give them permission to leave.”
Rajah Dantinusha looked slightly shocked. “Were they supposed to stand here from midday until sunset? That’s stupid, Guristar, and you of all men should know it. Keep a guard at such a duty and he will fail you. By all means bring your other soldiers and let these men celebrate.” There was a time when the loss of a guard or two would have seemed minor, and a good example to the other men, but that was a profligacy that Rajah Dantinusha could not afford. He dismissed the irritation he felt as senseless.
Tamasrajasi glared at her father. “That’s a mistake, my father. Let the soldiers know that they may be allowed liberties and you will find they have deserted you in your hour of need. Strap one of them to an elephant’s foot and let the others watch what happens. Then they will stand guard over you night and day with loyalty, knowing that the elephant’s foot waits for those who are lax.” She turned toward Guristar. “Would you agree, Commander?”
“It is a wise precaution,” he said, inwardly cursing the child for showing her claws so plainly. Her father might decide to chastise her, or provide her a husband before the change of power occurred. He reprimanded her. “At times such as these, it is best to be circumspect. There are enemies all around us.”
“So there are,” Tamasrajasi agreed, her eyes widening. “You are correct, Commander. It is a thing too easily forgotten.”
Guristar smiled knowingly. “It is well that you, who must one day rule, should remember that.” He enjoyed the respect she gave him, thinking that later in the night she would give him much more than that. He made obeisance to the Rajah. “There are dancers arrived from the temple in Phutra. They are ready to begin once the field is cleared.”
“Good, good. How many of them are there?” Dantinusha asked, glad to have some other matter in his thoughts,
“There are over twenty. They sent most of the sacred troupe. They are in the smaller pavilion now, and their musicians have already joined the drummers on their platform. If you will signal the beginning of the dancing, they are ready to perform.” Guristar dared to look once at Tamasrajasi while he spoke to her father. He was aware that the dancing would last for some time, and could not deny that he would want to spend that time in lubricious dalliance with Tamasrajasi. It was not possible, and he accepted this. Perhaps later, when the festival was at its height and couples writhed together, then he might find the opportu
nity to embrace the Rajah’s daughter again. He did not know what exhilarated him more—the prospect of plundering her flesh for pleasure, or asserting his control over her that would lead to his future power.
“If they are ready, it is as well that we begin now. At the end of their performance, Tamasrajasi will be presented to them, and they will see her as my heir.” He was rubbing at his lower lip. “It might be well,” he added after a moment of hesitation, “to tell Eidan to attend the presentation. It would look well if he could be seen here. Dispel some of the doubts that have been voiced at the periyanadu about the attitude of Islamic Delhi to our integrity.”
The noise outside had degenerated to a kind of howl, though it rose from more than a thousand throats, and was composed of cheers, cries, shouts, and attempts at ordinary conversation.
“I will tell the dancers it is time,” Guristar said, bowing deeply and leaving the enormous striped tent.
“Why do you defer to Eidan?” Tamasrajasi demanded as soon as the commander of the guard had left. “You are not a puppy to have to wag your tail to a master.”
Her father did not answer her directly. “In the time of my grandfather, he made it a point never to answer a question that was put to him in less than ten days. If the matter still required his attention, then he would give his answer, and if not, he would abandon the issue. He had a Captain killed because he insisted on an answer in four days, which was not to be thought of. Those days have gone as the Wheel turns, and now I am flattered that they bother to ask me. I do not want it said of me that I provided the Sultan an excuse to ravage this country.” He started toward the narrow stairs that led to the throne above them. “You think I am being foolish, my child, but there is wisdom in what I do. Where are the thousands of elephants, the millions of horses my great-grandfather took into battle? Where are the men-at-arms, the weapons, the slaves?”
“If you truly required them, the gods would give them to you,” she said, her head raised commandingly.
“You did not see the executions after the uprising. It may be that you should have. I’ve lost my desire for slaughter, Tamasrajasi. There is more karma in battle than there is in finding peace.”
She wanted to lash out at him as she would at a recalcitrant slave. “You are Rajah here. It is your right to demand the lives of those you rule. To do otherwise insults the gods and makes you less than the ant in the road to them. Yes!” Her eyes became brighter. “If your people cannot die in battle for you, you condemn them to the ignominious fate of losing their country and their gods, and offer them instead the sword of Islam to cut away their manhood and pride.”
“Tell me that when you have seen battle, my daughter, and I will listen to you with respect. Until then, you must abide by my word. I want to hear no more of this from you. It’s dangerous, for you create desires, expectations and discontent in others.” He looked up toward the back of his throne. “They will be disappointed, those who hope for war. I’ve heard some talk, during the periyanadu that distressed me, my daughter.”
“You mean it frightened you,” Tamasrajasi countered, turning away from her father. “You say that to keep what little we have, we must placate the Sultan in Delhi. That’s all any of your men ever hear from you, and it diminishes them.”
“War would diminish them more.” He spoke wearily, his face looking suddenly aged. “I used to wonder why my older sister was satisfied to live away from the court, but now I share her longing.”
“That is the voice of your honor, which is filled with shame at what you have done.” She came up to her father. “You will see how the men approve me. They will hail me with joy because I am not afraid of the forces of Islam, I will not bow to the Sultan, I will show them a stern face. The men will praise this.” She paced away with that long, rolling, tiger’s stride that caused many to follow her with hungry eyes.
“You will be presented and you will behave in a manner appropriate to your station, the occasion and your sex. Anything else, and I will instruct Guristar to return you to the palace under guard.” Plainly he had reached the limits of his endurance. He was scowling fiercely as he trod up the steps to the throne from which he would watch the temple dancers perform their ancient, intricate movements. His fine garments felt heavy now and he had to blink rapidly to keep tears from his eyes. How could he make Tamasrajasi see that the course she found so exciting would bring destruction to what little was left of the great kingdom his great-great-grandfather had ruled?
The dancers had taken their place on the field and most of the crowd had withdrawn to the edge of the ceremonial ground. The air was fairly still now—an anticipatory hush welcomed the dancers as they stood in their gaudy, archaic costumes in the traditional postures.
Rajah Dantinusha sat down and tried to turn his attention to the music that began its sinuous tale. He had seen this dance a dozen times and usually was uplifted by the legend, which told of how Rama came to Shiva and planted the love of Parvati within him, so that he was torn from his ascetic life. It told of the union of Parvati and Shiva in their benevolent forms, then enacted the other faces of these two deities—as Shiva the Destroyer and Kali, Goddess of Destruction. From destruction came renewal, and the dance ended with the expression of fecundity as Shiva and Parvati embraced to renew the world.
This afternoon, Dantinusha could not keep his mind on the dance, or on the truth it taught. The steady beat of the drums, reminding the people that Shiva’s dance on the Burning Ground was marked by the inexorable tempo of time, contributed to the ache that had been building up behind Rajah’s eyes. As the dancers moved and postured below him, he wished he could leave the throne and return to his palace. It was not possible, of course, and should he do anything so foolish the restlessness that had been apparent at the periyanandu would burst into the open. He looked once for the Islamic party and saw Ab-she-lam Eidan deep in conversation with his aide, Jalal-im-al Zakatim, the youngest member of the Delhi mission. The young man was reputed to be a scholar, Dantinusha remembered, and had received various reports from noted Muslim teachers. The Rajah decided to send his poet Jaminya to visit this supposed scholar and discover if the man was what he had claimed to be.
There was a movement beside him, and Dantinusha turned to see his daughter on the high platform. Her eyes were downcast and the small crown she wore seemed suddenly inappropriate. “My father,” she said in an undervoice, “I am grieved to have offended you. It is only my love of Natha Suryarathas that led me to speak in such an inappropriate manner. I know that I am too young to have found wisdom, but I offer sacrifice to the gods so that their wisdom will keep me from the follies of youth.”
It was a pretty speech, Dantinusha thought, and obviously rehearsed. He wondered how long she had sat in the tent by herself putting those apologetic phrases together. He smiled at her. “You are son and daughter to me, my child. You are the one who will be left with the burden of this country in your hands when I have gone from the world. Your dedication is most praiseworthy, and I know that in time you will learn judgment. Your sacrifices will bring your desired ends,” he assured her as an afterthought. “Come. Take the cushion beside me and watch the dancers. It is rare that we are privileged to see them, and there is great truth in their art.” He leaned back in his throne, attempting to let the presence of his daughter put an end to the doubts that jumbled his thoughts.
On the far side of the field, Ab-she-lam Eidan pointed to the second figure on the dais. “That’s the one you will have to deal with, and I thank Allah’s compassion that you, and not I, will be here when she reins.”
Jalal-im-al Zakatim stared at the girl. “A beautiful creature,” he said quietly.
“Beautiful, and if one is to believe the tales about her, she is as dangerous as the cobra. They say that she worships the demon Kali and is encouraging the men of her country to rebel against the Sultan, whom Allah protect.” He turned away from the dais, adding in a whisper, “There are slaves around her who cannot be bought, so terrified
are they of her wrath.”
“Are they afraid, or merely devoted? A girl so lovely—it would be a pleasure to make a woman of her,” Jalal-im-al said wistfully.
“There are tales the slaves tell of slaves whipped to death in offering to the goddess Tamasrajasi adores.” There was a note of skepticism in his voice now. “I will make allowances for jealousy and intrigue, since it is certain that her father would not allow her to practice such excesses. He is drawn more than ever to the contemplative life, which is to our advantage. We must do what we can to foster it.”
Jalal-im-al did not quite laugh, as that would be poor manners, but he did grin fleetingly. He was, though he did not know it, slightly tipsy. The honeyed fruit juice he had been drinking from a gourd most of the afternoon was slightly fermented and had gone to his head in a subtle, exhilarating way. “Surely the Sultan can find a teacher who would make himself useful, say, by instructing the Rajah in the virtues of submission.”
Ab-she-lam Eidan frowned at Jalal-im-al. “This is nothing to play with, young man. If our mission is handled skillfully, this principality will be under the rule of the Sultan before Tamasrajasi’s first son is circumcised.”
“Why not offer her one of the Sultan’s—whom Allah grant many blessings—sons? It seems the simplest way.” He looked again at the girl on the dais, and for an instant he was chilled. As a true Muslim, he told himself sternly, he had put away all superstition and placed his trust in the Will of Allah. But at that moment, whether it was the alcohol fumes in his head or something more, he trembled inwardly on this warm, bronze afternoon.
“That is too obvious. An infant, an idiot, would see through such a ploy. There is no way that the Sultan could more quickly alienate all the favor of the Rajah. It must be done otherwise. There are sons of Princes who lean toward Delhi for guidance now. Let one of them make Tamasrajasi his first wife and then you will see how things will change.” Ab-she-lam Eidan directed his attention to the dancers on the field, who were reenacting the coupling of Parvati and Shiva when they caused mountains to move with the violence of their lovemaking. “Wanton people,” he muttered.
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