by Eric Flint
"She's giving a speech again." He shook his head, smiling. "If she keeps this up—"
A huge roar drowned his words; then, like an undulating wave, it rolled through the crowd lining the road. In seconds, as the people near the howdah joined in, the noise became half-deafening. Most of those people could not possibly have heard any of Shakuntala's words, but it mattered not in the least. They knew what she had said.
For days, as her expedition to Deogiri moved through southern Majarashtra, the Empress of Andhra had given a single short, simple, succinct speech. By now, every Maratha within a week's horseback ride—a fast, galloping ride—knew its content.
Andhra is Majarashtra's bride.
My army is my dowry.
My husband will break Malwa's spine.
My sons will grind Malwa's bones.
It was not even a speech, any longer. Simply a chant, every one of whose words was known by heart and repeated by untold thousands—untold tens of thousands—of Marathas. By them—and by many others. The Great Country, for centuries, had served as a haven for people fleeing tyranny and oppression. The Marathas, as a people, were the mongrel product of generations past who had found a sanctuary in its hills and badlands. The new refugees who had poured in since the Malwa Empire began its conquest of India simply continued the process. Many of the voices chanting Shakuntala's phrases did so, not in Marathi, but in dozens of India's many tongues.
The roar faded. The procession lurched back into motion. Irene cocked an eye at Holkar. "You were saying, Dadaji?"
The peshwa shook his head, still smiling. "If she keeps this up, she'll be so hoarse by the time she gets to Deogiri that she won't be able to propose to Rao at all." His smile widened, became quite impish. "He still hasn't said 'yes,' you know? And he's hardly the kind of man who can be browbeaten—not even by her."
Irene grinned in return. "You don't seem greatly concerned. Good God! What if he says 'no'? Disaster!"
Holkar made no verbal response. The expression on his face was quite enough.
Irene laughed. "You should model for sculptors, Dadaji—the next time they need to carve a Buddha."
Holkar squeezed his wife close. "So I keep telling Gautami." He chuckled. "Stubborn woman! She persists in denying my sainthood."
"Of course I do," came the instant response. Irene almost gasped, seeing the woman's eyes. Still shy, still half-downcast, but—yes! Twinkling!
"What kind of a saint snores?" demanded Gautami.
My God—she told a joke!
* * *
"The girl has gone mad, Maloji," growled Rao, glaring down at the elephant leading the enormous—and utterly bizarre—"relief column" which was almost at the huge gate in Deogiri's southern wall. From his perch atop that wall, Rao could see Shakuntala clearly. The empress was riding alone on the lead elephant, standing completely erect in full imperial regalia.
"Look!" he cried, pointing an accusing finger. "She does not even have a bodyguard in her howdah!"
Serenely, Maloji examined the army of polearm-wielding Maratha peasants who flanked the howdah, just beyond the stiff ranks of Kushans who marched directly alongside the empress. His gaze moved to the ostrich-plumed black soldiers who came behind her elephant.
Then, scanning slowly, Maloji studied the various military units which trotted all over the landscape south of the walled city, alertly watching for Malwa enemies. He recognized the Cholan and Keralan troops, but could only guess at the exact identity of the others. There were perhaps three thousand of them in all, he thought. It was difficult to make a good estimate, however, because of the huge crowd of Marathas which seemed to fill the landscape.
Rao started pounding the top of the wall with his hands. "What is Kungas thinking?" he demanded.
Maloji leaned back, sighing satisfaction. "I never realized how many nations there are in this world," he murmured. Then, casting his glance sideways at the fretful man by his side, he chuckled.
"Relax, Rao!" Another chuckle. "I really don't think she's in any danger from the Vile One's army."
Now, an outright laugh. Maloji jerked his head back and to the north. "Ha! The Vile One has all his troops surrounding his camp, while he cowers in his pavilion. For all intents and purposes, he is the one besieged this day."
Rao was still slapping the wall. Maloji snorted.
"Stop this, old friend!" He reached over and pinned Rao's hands to the stones. "You are being foolish, and you know it. Another report came in from Bharakuccha just this morning. More Malwa troops are stumbling into the city, seeking a haven. Entire garrisons, as often as not, from some of the smaller towns. The whole land is seething rebellion. The Great Country is coming to a boil. There is no chance in the world that Malwa will strike at the empress. Not today, for a certainty."
Rao stared at him. For a moment, he tried to pry his hands from under Maloji's. But there was no great conviction in that effort.
"She is still insane," he muttered stubbornly. "This whole scheme of hers is insane. It . . . it . . ." He took a breath. "She is endangering her purity—her sacred lineage—for the sake of mere statecraft."
For a moment, Rao's usual wit returned. "A masterstroke, I admit, from the standpoint of gaining Maratha allegiance." Wit vanished with the wind; the deep scowl returned. "But it is still—"
"Stop it!" commanded Maloji. Suddenly, almost angrily, he seized Rao's wrists and jerked the man away from the wall.
Startled, Rao's eyes went to his. Maloji shook his head.
"You do not believe any of this, Rao. You are simply afraid, that is all. Afraid that what you say is true. Afraid that the girl who comes to you today is not the girl you longed for, but simply an empress waging war."
After a moment, Rao's eyes dropped. He said nothing. There was no need for words.
Maloji smiled. "So I thought." He released Rao's wrists, but only to seize the man's shoulders and turn him toward the stairs leading down to the city below. Already, they could hear the sound of the great gates opening.
"Go, go! It's long past time the two of you spoke." He began pushing Rao ahead of him. Majarashtra's greatest dancer seemed to be dragging his feet.
"And let me make a suggestion." Maloji chortled. "I think you'd better stop thinking of her as a 'girl.' "
* * *
They were alone, now. Even Kungas had left the room, secure in the knowledge that his empress was in the care of a man who was, among many other things, one of India's greatest assassins.
Rao stared at Shakuntala. It had been three years since he saw her last. And then only for two hours.
"You have changed," he said. "Greatly."
Shakuntala's eyes began to shy away, but came back firmly.
"How so?" she asked, straightening her back. Shakuntala's normal posture was so erect that she always looked taller than she was. Now, she was standing like an empress. Her black eyes held the same imperial aura.
Rao shook his head. It was the slow gesture of a man in a daze, trying to match reality to vision.
"You seem—much older. Much—" He waved his hand. The gesture, like the headshake, was vague and hesitant. He took a breath. "You were a beautiful girl. You are so much more beautiful, now that you are a woman. I do not understand how that is possible."
There was perhaps a hint of moisture in Shakuntala's eyes. But her only expression was a sly smile.
"You have not changed much, Rao. Except there is some gray in your beard."
Rao stood as erect as the empress. Harshly: "That is only one of the reasons—"
"Be quiet."
Rao's mouth snapped shut. For a moment, his jaw almost sagged. He had never heard Shakuntala speak that way. The Panther of Majarashtra was as stunned as any of the pampered brahmin envoys who had also been silenced by that ancient voice of great Satavahana.
When Shakuntala continued, her tone was cold and imperious. "I do not wish to hear anything about your age. What of it? It has never mattered to me. It did not matter to me when I was a gi
rl, held captive by Malwa. It does not matter to me now, when I am the Empress of Andhra."
She snorted. "Even less! No untested young husband would survive Malwa, so I would still be a widow soon enough."
Rao began to speak again.
"Be quiet." Again, Rao's mouth snapped shut.
"I will hear no argument, Rao. I will listen to no words which speak of age, or blood and purity, or propriety and custom. I have made my decision, and I will not be swayed."
Imperial hauteur seemed to crack. Perhaps. Just a bit. Shakuntala looked away.
"I will not force you into this, Rao. You have only to say—no. Refuse me if you wish, and I will bow to that refusal. But I will hear no argument."
"If I wish?" he cried. Shakuntala's gaze came back to him, racing like the wind. In that instant, she knew the truth.
There was no hint of moisture in her eyes, now. The tears flowed like rain. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. Her shoulders began to shake.
"I never knew," she whispered. Then, sobbing: "Oh, Rao—I never knew. All those years—"
Rao's own voice was choked, his own eyes wet. "How could I—?" His legs buckled. On the floor, kneeling, head down: "How could I? I only—only—"
She was kneeling in front of him. Cradling him in her arms, whispering his name, kissing his eyes, weeping softly into his hair.
* * *
Eventually, humor returned, bringing its own long-shared treasure.
"You must be off," murmured Rao. "This is most unseemly, for a virgin to be alone with a man for so long."
Shakuntala gurgled laughter. "I'm serious!" insisted Rao. "People will say I married a slut. My reputation will be ruined."
She threw her arms around his neck, kissing him fiercely, sprawling them both to the floor.
"Gods above," gasped Rao. "I am marrying a slut!"
Shakuntala gurgled and gurgled. "Oh, Rao—I've missed you so much. No one ever made me laugh so!"
She kissed him again, and again, and again, before pulling her face away. Her liquid eyes were full of promise.
"We will be wed tomorrow," she decreed. "You will dance the greatest dance anyone ever saw."
He smiled ruefully. "I will not argue the point. I don't dare."
"You'd better not," she hissed. "I'm the empress. Can't even keep track, any longer, of my executioners. But there must be hundreds of the handy fellows."
Rao laughed, and hugged her tight. "No one ever made me laugh so," he whispered.
Seconds later, they were on their feet. Holding hands, they began moving toward the door beyond which Kungas and an empire's fortune lay waiting.
At the door, Rao paused. A strange look came upon him. Shakuntala had never seen that expression on Rao's face before. Hesitation, uncertainty, embarrassment, anxiety—for all the world, he seemed younger than she.
Shakuntala understood at once. "You are worried," she said, gently but firmly, "about our wedding night. All those years of self-discipline."
He nodded, mute. After a moment, softly: "I never—I never—"
"Never?" she asked archly. Cocking her head, squinting: "Even that time—I was fourteen, I remember—when I—"
"Enough!" he barked. Then, flushing a bit, Rao shrugged. "Almost," he muttered. "I tried—so hard. I fasted and meditated. But—perhaps not always. Perhaps."
He was still hesitant, uncertain, anxious. Shakuntala took his head between her hands and forced him to look at her squarely.
"Do not concern yourself, Rao. Tomorrow night you will be my husband, and you will perform your duty to perfection. Trust me."
He stared at her, as a disciple stares at a prophet.
"Trust me." Her voice was as liquid as her eyes. "I will see to it."
* * *
"I thought I might try this one," said Shakuntala, pointing to the illustration.
Irene's eyes widened. Almost bulged, in truth. "Are you mad? I wouldn't—"
She broke off, chuckling. "Of course, you're a dancer and an acrobat, trained by an assassin. I'm a broken-down old woman. Greek nobility, at that. I creak just rising from my reading chair."
Shakuntala smiled. "Not so old as all that, Irene. And not, I think, broken down at all."
Irene made a face. "Maybe so. But I'd still never try that one."
A moment later, Shakuntala was embracing her. "Thank you for loaning me the book, Irene. I'm sorry I took so long to return it. But I wanted to know it by heart."
Irene grinned. She didn't doubt the claim. The young empress' mind had been trained by the same man who shaped her body. Shakuntala probably had memorized every page.
"And thank you for everything else," the empress whispered. "I am forever in your debt."
* * *
As Irene ushered Shakuntala to the door, the empress snickered.
"What's so funny?"
"You will be," predicted the empress. "Very soon."
They were at the door. Irene cocked her head quizzically.
Shakuntala's smile was very sweet. Like honey, used for bait.
"You know Kungas," she murmured. "Such a stubborn and dedicated man. But I convinced him I really wouldn't need a bodyguard tonight. I certainly won't need one after tomorrow, with Rao sharing my bed."
Irene was gaping when the empress slipped out the door. She was still gaping when Kungas slipped in.
* * *
He spotted the scented oils right away, resting on a shelf against the wall. "Don't think we'll need those," he mused. "Not tonight, for sure."
Then, catching sight of the book resting on the table, he ambled over and examined the open page.
"Not a chance," he pronounced. "Maybe you, Irene, slim as you are. But me?" He pointed to the illustration. "You think you could get a thick barbarian like me to—"
But Irene had reached him, by then, and he spoke no further words. Not for quite some time.
* * *
Irene liked surprises, but she got none that night. She had long known Kungas would be the best lover she ever had.
"By far," she whispered, hours later. Her leg slid over him, treasuring the moisture.
"I told you we wouldn't need oils," he whispered in reply.
They laughed, sharing that great joy also. But Irene, lifting her head and gazing down at Kungas, knew a greater one yet.
The mask was gone, without a trace. The open face that smiled up at her was simply that of a man in love. Her man.
Chapter 36
CHARAX
Autumn, 532 a.d.
"I don't understand what that monster is doing," snarled Coutzes. He ducked below the broken wall as another volley of arrows came sailing from the Malwa troops dug into a shattered row of buildings across the street. The arrows clattered harmlessly into another room of what had once been an artisan's shop. A leather worker, judging by the few tools and scraps of raw material which were still lying about.
Belisarius, his back comfortably propped against the same wall, raised a questioning eyebrow.
Coutzes jabbed his finger at the wall, pointing to the unseen enemy beyond. "What's the point of this, General? That thing is just throwing soldiers away. You watch. They'll fire one or two more volleys of arrows—none of which'll hit anything, except by blind luck—lob some grenades, and then charge across the street. We'll butcher 'em, they'll withdraw, and then they'll do it again. By the time we finally have to retreat to the next row, they'll be moving forward across hundreds of bodies as well as rubble."
The Thracian officer rubbed his face, smearing sweat and grime. "It's been like this for two weeks now. Our own casualties haven't really been that heavy. At this rate, it'll take them another month—at least!—to fight their way to the docks. And they'll have lost half their army—at least!—in the doing."
The scowl was back in full force. "I've heard of crude tactics, but this—?" For a moment, his youthful face was simply aggrieved. "I thought that thing was supposed to be superintelligent."
Belisarius smiled. T
he smile was crooked, but there was more of contempt in it than irony. "Link is superintelligent, Coutzes. But intelligence is always guided by the soul. Which Link has, whether it realizes it or not. Or, at least, it is the faithful servant of the new gods, and their souls."
Belisarius craned his head, staring up at the broken stones above him. "Those—" He blew out a sharp breath, like a dry spit. "Those divine pigs don't view people as human. Their soldiers are just tools. So many paving blocks on the road to human perfection. They look on a human life the same way you or I look on a blade. File the worn metal away, in order to get a sharp edge. And if the scrapings shriek with pain, who cares?"
Again, he blew out a breath; and, again, it was a spit. "As for the tactics, they make perfect sense—if you look at it Link's way. The truth is, the Malwa have already lost this army, and Link knows it. The monster knows we must have already destroyed all the supplies in Charax—or have them ready for destruction, at least."
"Which we have!" barked Coutzes.
Belisarius nodded. "So why bother with clever tactics? And they can't use the Ye-tai they have left as spearhead troops. Not any longer. After the casualties they've taken, they need those Ye-tai to maintain control of the regulars. If those poor bastards hadn't already been so beaten down—" Belisarius shook his head. "Most armies, by now, after what they've suffered, would have already mutinied."
He rubbed his hand against the rough wall behind his back. The gesture was accompanied by another shake of the head, as if Belisarius was contemplating the absurdity of trying to wear down stone with flesh.
"The truth is, Coutzes," he said softly, "what you're seeing is kind of a compliment. If I were an egotistical man, I'd be preening like a rooster."
Coutzes frowned. Belisarius' smile grew very crooked. "The one thing Link is bound and determined to do—the one thing it wants to salvage out of this catastrophe—is to obliterate me. Me, and the whole damned army that's caused Malwa more grief than all their other opponents put together."
Coutzes grinned from ear to ear. "You really think we've become that much of a pain in the ass to it?"