Fortune's stroke

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 end. 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.