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.