An Oblique Approach

by David Drake

  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 princess 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 be
en 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!"

  Remembering, and smiling, Shakuntala's eyes met those of the prince. A little smile came to his own face. Then, a subtle expression—a wry, apologetic twist of his lips; a little roll of his eyes; a faint shrug—combined with an equally subtle movement of his arm. His left arm, the one which was not encircling Tarabai.

  Understanding, Shakuntala eased over and nestled against his shoulder. His left arm encircled her. She turned her face into his muscular neck. A moment later, she felt Jijabai snuggling into her own left shoulder. Trembling with fear at the princess' departure. Shakuntala cradled the girl and pressed her head into her own neck. She felt Jijabai's shivering ease.

  Inwardly, she sighed. It would be tedious—even, after a time, uncomfortable—spending days and weeks in that position. But she suppressed the thought ruthlessly. They were at war, and war required many tactics. This tactic had worked before. A tried and tested tactic. Should anyone manage to look within the howdah, they would see nothing but the notorious Axumite prince, surrounded as always by his submissive women. Whose faces were rarely seen, of course, so timid had the creatures become in his brutal presence.

  Across the prince's chest, her eyes met those of Tarabai. The Maratha girl smiled shyly.

  She was still in awe, Shakuntala realized. The Maratha women had known for some time that the foreigners into whose care they had placed themselves were engaged in some strange activity. (And had sensed, even, that the activity was in some way opposed to the hated Malwa.) But they had not known the exact nature of that activity until that very morning. Just before departing for the caravan, the Maratha women had been ushered into the room, Shakuntala had been introduced to them by Eon and his men, and the plan explained.

  Hearing the name, Jijabai had looked up, begun to cry out in startlement. The cry had been choked off by Shakuntala herself, embracing her former maidservant. From that moment until they climbed into the howdah, the girl had not stopped weeping. Shakuntala had stayed by her the entire time. At first, from love and pity. Then, as well, from a realization that the pose was perfect for their purpose.

  The other three Maratha women had been too stunned to do more than walk through the exercise in a daze. Which, also, had been perfect, if unplanned.

  Tarabai was no longer stunned. Eon's close presence, Shakuntala realized, had restored the girl's courage. But she was still in awe. The girl had all the signs of a simple upbringing. Of vaisya or sudra birth, undoubtedly (insofar as Maratha measured such things—but that thought, as ever, was too painful to bear, so Shakuntala banished it). Never in her life had Tarabai imagined she would share a howdah—much less a man's chest!—with royalty.

  Shakuntala now gazed at the two Maratha women whom she did not know. They, too, were staring at her with round eyes. But there was more than simple awe in those eyes, she realized. The two women were almost shivering with terror. Then, seeing the princess' eyes upon them, the two women dropped their heads. Now, they did begin to shiver.

  This must stop, thought Shakuntala.

  "Look at me," she commanded. For all its youthful timbre, her voice was sharp. Not harsh, simply—commanding.

  Immediately, the women raised their eyes. Eon, listening, was impressed.

  "You are very frightened," stated the princess. After a moment, the women nodded their heads.

  "You fear the Malwa fury, if they discover what is happening. You fear you will be destroyed."

  Again, they nodded.

  For a moment, Shakuntala simply gazed at them. Then said:

  "Your fear is understandable. But you must conquer it. Fear will gain you nothing, and may betray us all into disaster. You must be courageous. These men—these foreigners—are good men. Brave, and resourceful. You know this to be true."

  She waited. After a moment, the two women nodded.

  "You trust these men."

  Again, waited. Again, the nods.

  "Then trust them. And me as well."

  Waited.

  "I am your princess. Your empress, now. I am the rightful heir to the throne of Andhra."

  The Maratha women nodded immediately. Majarashtra was one of the few lands of India where a woman in power was accepted without question, if she held that power legitimately. Maratha women had even led armies, in the past.

  (But thoughts of Majarashtra brought pain, so she forced her way past them.)

  "I call you to service, women of the Great Country. Andhra will rise again, and the Malwa filth be destroyed. To that end I devote my life. If you are destroyed by the Malwa, your empress will be destroyed with you. You will not be deserted."

  After a moment, the women bowed. The bow, Shakuntala acknowledged, but did not cherish in her heart. The fading fear in their eyes, and the hint of dawning courage, brought her great joy.

  (But joy brought pain, and so she banished it. There would be no joy in her life, she knew. Only courage, and duty. She had made her vow to these women, and she would keep it. Though that vow would banish joy forever.)

  She heard the prince mutter something. A phrase in his own language.

  "What did you say?" she asked, glancing up at him.

  His dark eyes were staring at her, very seriously. After a moment, the prince said softly:

  "What I said was: `And so, once again, Belisarius was right.' "

  Shakuntala frowned, puzzled. She knew who Belisarius was, of course. Raghunath Rao had explained (as much as he knew himself, which was little). But she had not met him yet, only seen him out of the corner of her eye.

  "I do not understand."

  A quirky smile came to his lips.

  "I asked him, once, why we were doing all this. I was not opposed, you understand. It seemed a worthy project in its own right, rescuing a lovely princess from such a creature as Venandakatra. But—I am a prince, after all. In direct line of succession to the throne of Axum. My older brother Wa'zeb is quite healthy, so I don't expect I'll ever be the negusa nagast. Which is fine with me. But you learn early to think like a monarch, as I'm sure you know."

  Shakuntala nodded.

  "So I asked Belisarius, once—as the cold-blooded heir of a ruler rather than a hot-blooded romantic prince—why were we taking these risks?"

  He began to make some sort of apologetic aside, but Shakuntala cut him off.

  "There's no need, Eon. It's a perfectly good question. Why did you do it?" A smile. "Not that I'm ungrateful, you understand."

  Eon acknowledged the smile with one of his own. Then, when the smile faded:

  "We are doing it, he said, for three reasons. First, it is worth doing in its own right. A pure and good deed, in a world which offers few such. Second, we are doing it to free the soul of India's greatest warrior, so he can turn that soul's full fury onto the enemy. And finally, and most importantly, we are doing it because we cannot defeat India alone. India itself must be our ally. The true India, not this bastard sired by a demon. And for that, we need to free India's greatest ruler from her captivity."

  "I am not a ruler," she whispered. "Much less India's greatest."

  Again, the quirky smile. "That's exactly what I said."

  The smile disappeared. " `She will be,' replied Belisarius. `She will be. And she will make Malwa howl.' "

  When night fell, and the caravan halted, Prince Eon and his women moved from the howdah into his royal tent, unseen by any, in the darkness. Throughout, Shakuntala never left his side. After he fell asleep, she lay against him, just as she had in the howdah, nestled in his arm. So that if any should intrude, she could once again be shielded from their sight.

  But the princess—the empress, now—did not sleep. Not for hours. No, once she was certain that all the others in the tent were asleep, Shakunta
la finally let the tears flow. Allowed the pain of her loss to sweep through her, like a knife cutting away her heart.

  It would be the last time she would allow herself that liberty. But she could not bear to let the treasure of her soul depart without farewell.

  She had loved one man only, her entire life, and would never love another. Not truly. (Although, even then, in her pain, she could remember the smile on the face of the man she loved. "A good heart has lots of room," he was fond of saying. And smile herself, remembering, until the memory renewed the pain.)

  She had loved that man as long as she could remember. A hopeless love, perhaps, she had often thought. He never seemed to return it; not that way, at least. But—she would age, and she would be beautiful. (She had always known she would be. When the truth had matched the knowing, finally, she had been pleased but not surprised. She always achieved her goals, once she set her mind to them.) And, she thought, the day would come when she would dance at his wedding. As his bride. Her quicksilver feet flashing in the wine of his heart, dancing the dances which he had taught her, as he had taught her everything worth knowing.

  Her father, of course, would have disapproved of her intentions. Would have been furious, in fact. And so she had hidden her feelings, letting no sign of them show. Lest her father take her away from the man into whose care he had given her, and to whom she had lost her heart.

  For the princess of Andhra, that man was completely unsuitable. Oh, a fine man, to be sure. A great man, even. But his blood was not acceptable.

  True, the man was kshatriya, as Maratha counted such things. But no other people of India recognized Maratha blood claims. Few Maratha families could trace their ancestry back beyond two or three generations. (Quite unlike Rajput, or Guptan, or Andhran, or Keralan brahmin and kshatriya, who could trace their genealogies endlessly.) A hard and stony land, Majarashtra. The Great Country, to those who lived there. But they were outcasts, refugees, unknown ones, in their origin. People who moved there from elsewhere, seeking refuge in its hillforts, and small farms, and stony ridges; refuge from the grandees and landlords who ruled elsewhere. A fractious folk, who took blood lightly and pollution more lightly still. A fierce folk, too, who measured nobility by their own standards. Hard and stony standards, which gave little respect to tradition and breeding.