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, Antonina-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.”