An oblique approach b-1

by David Drake

  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, Shakuntala 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.

  A hard and stony people, the Marathas. Not unworthy-no honest man said that. Not even the haughtiest high-caste Rajput; not, at least, after testing Maratha mettle in battle. But not noble. Not fit for true kshatriya blood. And quite unthinkable for the purest blood of imperial Andhra.

  Still, she had dreamed. Her father would die, someday, and one of his sons succeed him. Andhra would demand of her some royal marriage, to further Andhra aims. But she would refuse. She was not Andhra’s ruler, after all, bound by its destiny. She would refuse, and win the heart of the man she loved, and flee with him into the reaches of the Great Country where none could find them. Not that man, for a certainty, did he choose to remain unfound.

  But Andhra was her destiny, now. She alone survived of the ancient Satavahana dynasty. She would rule, and rule well. And choose her husband well, guided only by the needs of Andhra. The need to forge alliance against the asura who ravaged her people. That consideration, and that alone, would guide her now.

  Perhaps this prince, she thought, feeling his heart beat where her head lay resting on his massive chest. The thought pleased her, slightly, for a moment. She would never love him, of course, not truly. But he seemed a fine man, a good prince. Everything a prince should be, in truth. Courageous, bold, skilled in battle, quick-witted, even warm and loving. Perhaps even wise-in later years, at least, if not now.

  Perhaps. If Andhra’s needs lead to an alliance with his people. And if not-

  I will marry the foulest creature on earth, and bear his children, so long as the doing of it will make Malwa howl. Oh, yes. I will make Malwa howl.

  Her heart had long been lost, to another, but her soul remained. Her soul, like everyone’s, belonged to her alone. Was the one thing inseparable from her, the one thing which could not be given away.

  And so, in a foreign tent in an enemy land, the empress Shakuntala seized her soul and dedicated it to her people. Dedicated it to howling Malwa. And bade farewell to her soul’s treasure.

  It seemed bitterest of all, to her, in that bitterest of all nights, that she had finally come to understand the one lesson he had despaired of ever teaching her.

  Only the soul matters, in the end.

  A slave and a master

  That same night, in another tent, a slave also seized his soul and dedicated it to a purpose. The decision to do so had been long in the making, and did not come easily. There is nothing so difficult, for a soul which has resigned itself to hopelessness, than to reopen the wound of life.

  His master’s purpose was now clear to the slave. Some part of that purpose, at least-the slave suspected there was more to come. Much more. From experience, the slave had learned that his master’s mind was a devilish thing.

  The slave would dedicate himself to that deviltry.

  Though it was late, the lantern was still lit. Rolling over on his pallet, the slave observed that his master was still awake. Sitting on his own pallet, cross-legged, his powerful hands draped over his knees, staring at nothingness. As if listening to some inner voice, which spoke to him alone.

  Which, the slave knew, was true. The slave even thought he could name that voice.

  As always, despite his preoccupation, the slave’s master missed nothing in his surroundings. The slight motion of the slave rolling over drew the master’s attention. He turned his head and gazed at his slave. Cocked his eye quizzically.

  “My name is Dadaji Holkar,” said the slave softly. He rolled back and closed his eyes. Sleep came, then, much more quickly than he would have thought possible.

  A general and an aide

  For a moment, Belisarius stared at the back of his slave’s head. Then, half-stunned, looked away.

  The slave’s unexpected announcement had not caused that reaction. It had simply jolted the general into a recognition of his own blindness.

  His thoughts raced back to the breach in the barrier. This time he made no effort to clear away more rubble. Simply called across:

  What is your name?

  The facets flashed and shivered. What? — More meaningless-it was impossible! The mind was too aim brought the facets into order, harried them into discipline.

  It was not impossible! The mind was not The struggle broke loose meaning. At last-at last! — some part of the message sent back by the Great Ones came into focus. The very end of the message, which was still obscure due to the absent body, but no longer incomprehensible. The facets glittered crystalline victory. aim transmuted triumph into language:

  Then:

  Find the general who is not a warrior.

  Give all into his keeping;

  Give aim to his purpose and assistance to his aim.

  He will discover you in the purpose,

  You will find us in the aim,

  Find yourself in the seeking,

  And see a promise kept

  In that place where promise dwells;

  That place where gods go not,

  Because it is far beyond their reach.

  The thought which came to Belisarius then was a burst of sweet pride. Like the smile of a child, taking its first step:

  Call me Aide.

  A lady and a rogue

  “Ready?” asked Maurice.

  Antonina and John of Rhodes nodded. The hecatontarch knocked out the pole bolt with his mallet.

  The arm of the onager whipped forward, driven by the torsion of the twisted cords which held its base. The arm slammed into the cushion of hair-cloth stuffed with fine chaff resting on the crossbeam. The clay jar which had been held in the sling at the tip of the arm flew through the air.

  The three people standing to the side of the artillery piece followed the trajectory of the jar. Within two seconds, the jar slammed into a stone wall some distance away and erupted into a ball of flame.

  “Yes! Yes!” howled John, prancing with glee. “It works! Look at that, Anto
nina-spontaneous eruption!”

  She herself was grinning from ear to ear. The grin didn’t vanish even after she caught sight of Maurice’s frown.

  “Oh, come on, you damned Cassandra!” she laughed. “I swear, you are the most morose man who ever lived.”

  Maurice smiled faintly. “I’m not morose. I’m a pessimist.”

  John of Rhodes scowled. “And what are you pessimistic about this time?” The retired naval officer pointing to the wall, which was still burning hotly.

  “Look at it! And if you still don’t believe, go and try to put it out! Go ahead! I promise you that fire will last-even on stone-until the fuel burns itself up. The only way you’ll put it out is to bury it under dirt. You think an enemy is going to march into battle carrying shovels?”

  Maurice shook his head.

  “I’m not contesting your claims. But-look, John, you’re a naval officer. No big thing for you, on a nice fat ship, to haul around a pile of heavy clay pots. Carefully nestled in cloths to keep them from breaking and bursting into flame. Try doing that with a mule train, sometime, and you’ll understand why I’m not jumping for joy.”

  John’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing in reply. Antonina sighed.

  “You’re being unfair, Maurice.”

  The hecatontarch’s scowl made John’s look like a smile.

  “ Unfair? ” he demanded. “What’s that got to do with anything? War is unfair, Antonina! It’s the nature of the damned beast.”

  His scowl faded. The hecatontarch marched over and placed his hand on John’s shoulder.

  “I’m not criticizing you, John. There’s no doubt in my mind you just revolutionized naval warfare. And siege warfare, for that matter. I’m speaking the plain, blunt truth, that’s all. This stuff’s just too hard to handle for an army in the field.”

  The naval officer’s own scowl faded. He looked down and blew out his lips. “Yes, I know. That’s why I made sure we were all standing back and to the side. I wasn’t sure the impact of hitting the crossbeam wouldn’t shatter the pot right here.”