Fortune's stroke b-4 Page 28

  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 en
d. 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 yo
u 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-"