Fortune's stroke

tendons.'

He turned his back to them. Scornfully, over his shoulder: 'While you, consulting your soothsayers and magicians, try to placate the beast in the hope it will dine elsewhere.'

His hands were still clasped behind his back. For a moment, they tightened, and his back stiffened.

'Do not forget, noble men of India, that I am also Maratha. I know my people, and you do not. You scorn them, for their loose ways and their polluted nature. But you are blind men, for all your learning. As the Kushan says, lost in illusion.'

He took a deep breath, and continued. 'Today, Majarashtra trembles on the brink. Maratha sympathies are all with Shakuntala, and many of its best sons have come to her side. But most Maratha are still waiting. They will smuggle food, perhaps, or spy; or hide a refugee. But no more. Not yet. The heel of Malwa is upon their neck. The Vile One's executioners have draped their towns with the bodies of rebels.'

Another deep breath; almost a great sigh. 'It is not fear which holds them back, however, if you plunge into their hearts. It is simply doubt. They remember Andhra, true, and are loyal to that memory. But Andhra failed them once before. Who is to say it will not again?'

He turned his head to the northeast, peering intently at the walls of the chamber, as if he could see the Great Country beyond. 'What they need,' he said softly, 'is a pledge. A pledge that the dynasty they have supported will never abandon them. And what pledge could be greater-than for the Empress of Andhra to make the dynasty their own? No Maratha has ever sat upon a throne. A year from now, the child of Majarashtra's greatest champion will be the dynasty.'

His own face-soft, gentle, scholarly-was now as hard a mask as that of the Kushan.

'It will be done,' he pronounced. 'The empress, I am sure, will find her way to her duty. As will Rao.' Then, spinning around, he confronted the envoys again. 'But it will be done properly.'

His smile, when it came, was as savage as Kungas'. 'The empress will wed Rao in Deogiri, not here. She will dance her wedding dance in the Vile One's face, in the midst of a siege. Hurling defiance before Malwa, for all to see. And you, noble men of India-you of Chola and Kerala and Tamraparni-will attend that wedding. And will provide the troops to escort her through the Vile One's lines.'

The envoys erupted in protest. Outraged babble piled upon gasping indignation.

Holkar ignored them serenely. He turned back to his empress. Shakuntala was staring at him-blank-faced, to all appearances. But Holkar could sense her loosening self-control.

From the side of the chamber, Irene sent him an urgent thought. End it, Dadaji. Give her space and time, before she breaks. The rest can be negotiated tomorrow.

Apparently, telepathy worked. Or perhaps it was simply that two people thought alike.

'Marry Rao, Empress,' decreed Dadaji Holkar. Then, in words so soft that only she could hear: 'It is your simple duty, girl, and nothing else. Your dharma. Let your mind be at ease.'

Those father's words removed all doubt. Shakuntala was fighting desperately, now, to maintain her imperial image. Beneath the egg-thin royal shell, the girl-no, the woman-was beginning to emerge.

Dadaji turned, but Kungas was already on his feet, clapping his hands.

'Enough! Enough!' the Kushan bellowed. 'It is late. The empress is very weary. Clear the chamber!'

No envoy, outraged or no, wanted to argue with that voice. The rush for the door started at once. Within a minute, the chamber was empty except for Irene, Kungas, and Dadaji. And the empress, still sitting on her throne, but already beginning to curl. As soon as the heavy door closed, she was hugging her knees tightly to her chest.

Years of discipline and sorrow erupted like a volcano. Shakuntala wept, and wept, and wept; laughing all the while. Not the laughs of gaiety, these, or even happiness. They were the deep, belly-emptying, heaving laughs of a girl finally able-after all the years she had swallowed duty, never complaining once of its bitter taste-to wallow in the simple joys and desires of any woman.

Kungas stepped to her side and embraced her. A moment later, squirming like an eel, Shakuntala forced him onto the throne and herself onto his lap. There she remained, cradled in the arms of the man who had sheltered her-as he had again that day-from all the world's worst perils. Since the day her father died, and Malwa made her an orphan, Kungas had never failed her. The child found comfort in his lap, the girl in his arms, the empress in his mind. But the woman, finally out of her cage, only in his soul. Choked words of love and gratitude, whispered between sobs, she gave him in return. And even Kungas, as he stroked her hair, could not maintain the mask. His face, too, was now nothing but a father's.

Dadaji began to move toward the empress, ready to share in that embrace. But Irene restrained him with a hand.

'Not now, Dadaji. Not tonight.'

Holkar looked back, startled. 'She will want-need me-'

Irene shook her head, smiling. 'Her wants and needs can wait, Dadaji. They are well-enough satisfied, and Kungas is there for her tonight. He will shelter her through her joy, just as he guarded her through despair. Tonight, Dadaji, you must give to yourself.'

He frowned, puzzled. Irene began pulling him toward the door. 'There is someone you must see. Someone you have been seeking, since the day she was lost. She should already be in your chambers.'

By the time she opened the door, Dadaji understood. By the time she closed the door, he was already gone. She could only hear his footsteps, pounding down a corridor. It was odd, really. They sounded like the steps of a young man, running with the wind.

* * *

The lamps were lit, when Irene entered her own chambers. Her servants, knowing her odd tastes from months of experience, had prepared her reading chair. Tea was ready, steeping in a copper kettle. It was lukewarm, by now, but Irene preferred it so.

As always, her servants had taken several books from the chest and placed them on the table next to the lamp. The books had been chosen at random, by women who could not read the titles. Irene preferred it so. It was always pleasant, to see her choices for the night. Irene enjoyed surprises.

She sat and took a sip of tea. Then, for a few minutes, she weighed Plato against Homer, Horace against Lucretius.

None, in the end, fit her mood. Her eyes went to the door of her bedroom. A flush of passion warmed her. But that, too, she pushed aside. Kungas would not come, that night. Not for many nights still, she knew.

There was regret in that knowledge, and frustration, but neither anger nor anxiety. Irene knew her man, now. She did not understand him, not entirely. Perhaps she never would. But she did know him; and knew, as well, that she could accept what she did not understand. The same stubborn determination that had kept an illiterate to his books, week after week after week, would keep him away from her bed, for a time. Not until an empress was wed to a champion, and he gave away his girl to the man she had chosen, would Kungas be satisfied that he had done his duty.

So the man was. So he would always be. Irene, comparing him to other men she had known, was well content in her choice.

She arose and moved to the window. Felt the breeze, enjoyed the sound of surf. She was happy, she realized. As happy as she had ever been. That understanding brought with it an understanding of her mood. And frustration anew.

She laughed. 'Oh, damn! Where are you, Antonina? I want to get blind, stinking drunk!'

Chapter 26

The Arabian coast

Autumn, 532 A.D.

'How could I have been so stupid?' demanded Antonina, glaring over the stern rail of her flagship. She rubbed her face angrily, as if she might squeeze out frustration by sheer force. 'I should have known they'd follow us, the greedy bastards. And we were bound to be spotted, once we came within sight of land.