The tide of victory

recruit those girls, Kungas. They came into Begram on their own, after having-much to their surprise-discovered that they really weren't Pathan at all. Who can object if Sarmatian girls follow their ancient customs?'

Kungas tried to maintain his scowl, but found the effort too difficult. He rose from his chair and went over to the window. The 'palace' they were residing in was nothing more than a partially-built portion of the great new fortress being erected in the Khyber. Atop one of the hills, not in the pass itself. Kungas had grasped the logic of modern artillery very quickly, and wanted the high ground.

He also enjoyed the view it gave him, partly for its own scenic splendor but mostly because it was a visible reminder of his own power. Let anyone think what they would, but the fact remained-Kungas, King of the Kushans, owned the Khyber Pass. And, with it, held all of the Hindu Kush in his grasp. A grasp which was open-handed, but could be easily closed into a fist should he choose to do so.

He made a fist out of his right hand and gently pounded the stone ledge of the window. 'Sarmatians,' he chuckled. 'Well, why not? Every dynasty needs an ancient pedigree, after all.'

Irene cleared her throat. Kungas, without turning around to see her face, smiled down at the Khyber Pass. 'Let me guess. You've had that gaggle of Buddhist monks who follow you around every day investigate the historical records. It turns out-who would have guessed? — that Kungas, King of the Kushans, is descended from Sarmatian rulers.'

'On your mother's side,' Irene specified. 'In your paternal ancestry-'

Again, she cleared her throat. Rather more noisily. Kungas' eyes widened. 'Don't tell me!'

'What can I say? It's true, according to the historical records. Well, that's what my monks claim, anyway, and since they're the only ones who can decipher those ancient fragments who's going to argue with them?'

Kungas burst into laughter.

'It's true!' insisted Irene. 'It seems that when Alexander the Great passed through the area. '

A peshwa and his family

In her own palace, except for public occasions, Shakuntala was not given to formality. So, even though some of her courtiers thought the practice was a bit scandalous, she was in the habit of visiting her peshwa in his own quarters rather than summoning him to hers. And, as often as not, bringing Rao along with her.

There were a variety of reasons that she chose to do so. Mainly, two.

First, she was energetic by nature. Remaining in her own quarters at all times would have driven her half- insane. Not so much because of physical inactivity-since she and Rao had married, Shakuntala had resumed training in the martial arts under his rigorous regimen-but simply because of pure boredom.

The second reason was less ethereal. Downright mundane, in fact.

'Ha!' exclaimed Rao, as they neared the entrance to Dadaji Holkar's quarters. He turned his head and cast a skeptical eye upon the baby being borne behind them by his nurse. 'You dote on that child, true enough. But you haven't the patience for proper mothering.'

Shakuntala swept through the wide entrance leading to her peshwa's portion of the palace. 'That's what grandmothers are for,' she pronounced, as imperiously as she made all her pronouncements.

And, indeed, Gautami was ready and willing to take care of Namadev. The more so since the baby was not that much younger than her own actual grandchild.

As he watched his wife and the two infants, the peshwa Dadaji Holkar-as was his habit-fell into philosophical musing.

'It's odd, really, the way these things work. I am more and more convinced, by the day, that God intends us to understand that all things of the flesh are ultimately an illusion.' He pointed to the two children. 'Consider, first, my grandson.'

Shakuntala and Rao studied the infant in question, the older of the two boys being played with by Gautami. The boy, along with his mother, had been turned over to a unit of Rao's Maratha guerrillas by a detachment sent by Lord Damodara after his men had overrun the rebel forces led by Dadaji's son.

'That the child's lineage is mine, as a matter of flesh, cannot be doubted. At his age, my son looked just the same. But as for the spirit-it remains to be seen.'

Rao frowned. 'You are worried about the mother's influence? Dadaji, given the circumstances, the fact that the poor woman's wits are still a bit addled is hardly surprising. The boy seems cheerful enough.'

'That's not what I meant,' replied Holkar, shaking his head. 'Are we really so tightly bound to the flesh at all?'

He fell silent, for a moment. Then, gave Rao a keen glance. 'I'm sure you heard the report of your men. The Ye-tai officer who brought my son's wife and child told them, quite bluntly, that he had killed my son himself. Yet, with Damodara's permission, was turning the family over to our safekeeping. An odd thing to do, for a Malwa.'

Rao shrugged. 'Damodara is a subtle man. No doubt he thinks-'

'Not Damodara,' interrupted Holkar. 'It's the Ye-tai who interests me. It must have been him-not Damodara-who spared the mother and child after slaying my son. Why did he do so?'

'Men are not always beasts. Not even Ye-tai.'

'Indeed so. But why did God choose that vessel to remind us, Rao? As well send a tiger into a burning hut to bring out a child to safety.'

There was no answer. After a moment, Holkar spoke again. 'When the war is over, certainly if my daughters are returned to me safely, I will no longer be able to function as your peshwa. I have been thinking about it a great deal, lately, and have decided I no longer accept the basic premises of our Hindu system. Not as it stands, at any rate. There is a possibility-some glimpses which I got in conversations with Belisarius, and, through him, with what the Christians call the Talisman of God but I think-'

'He is Kalkin, the tenth avatar who was promised,' stated Rao firmly. 'Belisarius himself said as much, in a letter he once sent me.'

Holkar nodded. 'So I believe also. In any event, there will be-would have been-a version of our faith called Vedanta. I intend to explore it, after the war, but the effort will make it impossible-'

'Oh, nonsense!' snapped Shakuntala. 'My peshwa you are, my peshwa you will remain. Philosophize at your leisure. You'll have plenty of it, after the war. But I will hear of nothing else.'

Dadaji hesitated. 'My daughters-after all that has happened, they will be unsuitable for a peshwa.' His kindly face hardened. 'And I will not set them aside. Under no circumstances. Therefore-'

'Nonsense, I said!' The imperial voice, as always, rang with certainty. So might the Himalayas speak, if they had a tongue. 'Do not concern yourself with such trifles as your daughter's status. That is merely a problem. Problems can be solved.'

Still, Holkar hesitated. 'There will be much talk, Empress. Vicious talk.'

'And there won't be, if you become some kind of silly monk?' demanded the empress. 'Talk is talk, no more than that.' She waved her hand, as if brushing aside an insect. 'Problems can be solved, certainly the problem of gossip. If nothing else, by my executioners.'

An emperor and his executioners

'If it happens again, I will have that man executed,' declared Photius firmly. He sat upright at the head of the enormous imperial bed, doing his best to look imperial while in his nightclothes. 'I told him Irene was to have the very first copy.'

Tahmina, lying prone on the bed with her head propped up on her hands, giggled in a manner which did not bode well for the emperor's dignity. 'You're just angry because you had a bad day with the tutors. Take it out on them, instead of some poor book dealer. Besides, Irene won't really care if she gets the second copy.'

Photius' face was as stiff as any boy's can be, at his age. 'Still!' he insisted.

'Oh, stop it. Do something useful. Give me a back rub.'

Some time later, Tahmina sighed happily. 'You're getting awfully good at this.'

Photius, astraddle his wife, leaned over and kissed the back of her head. The motion was easy, relaxed. 'I