She stepped—say better, pranced—down the stairs to greet her visitors.
For all the pomp and splendor, the dignity of the occasion was threadbare. Genuine joy has a way of undermining formality.
Among the Ethiopians who stood before the palace were four Kushans—the squad, led by Kujulo, who had assisted Prince Eon in his escape from India the year before. As soon as Shakuntala’s bodyguard spotted their long-lost brethren, their discipline frayed considerably. They did not break formation, of course. But the grins on their faces went poorly with the solemnity of the occasion.
It hardly mattered, since their own Empress was grinning just as widely. Partly, at the sight of Kujulo and his men. Mostly, at the familiar faces of the three Ethiopians at the front.
Garmat, Ezana and Wahsi. Three of that small band of men who had rescued her from Malwa captivity.
Seeing an absent face, her grin faded.
Garmat shook his head.
“No, Shakuntala, he did not come with us. The negusa nagast sent Eon on a different mission. But the Prince asked me to convey his greetings and his best wishes.”
Shakuntala nodded. “We will speak of it later. For the moment, let me thank you for returning my Kushan bodyguards.”
Smiling, she turned and beckoned one of her ladies-in-waiting forward.
“And I have no doubt you will want to take Tarabai back with you. As I promised Eon.”
The Maratha woman stepped forward. Although she was trying to maintain her composure, Tarabai’s expression was a jumbled combination of happiness and anxiety. Happiness, at the prospect of being reunited with her Prince. Anxiety, that he might have lost interest in her after their long separation. During the course of Prince Eon’s adventures in India the year before, he and Tarabai had become almost inseparable. Before they went their separate ways in escaping the Malwa, Eon had asked her to become his concubine, and she had accepted. But—that was then, and princes are notoriously fickle and short of memory.
Garmat immediately allayed her anxiety.
“Eon may not be in Axum upon your arrival, Tarabai. He is occupied elsewhere, at the moment. But he hopes you have not changed your mind.”
The old half-Arab smiled.
“Actually, he does more than hope. He is already adding a wing to his palace. Your quarters, when you arrive—as well as those of your children, when they arrive. As I’m sure they will, soon enough.”
Tarabai blushed. Beamed.
That business done, Garmat’s gaze returned to the Empress. His smile faded. “So much is pleasure, Your Majesty. Now, for the rest—”
He straightened. Then, in a loud voice:
“I bring you an official offer of alliance from the negusa nagast of Axum. A full alliance against the Malwa.”
A buzz of whispered conversation filled the air at this announcement.
“We heard, upon our arrival, that you plan to transport your people to the island of Ceylon. Let me make clear that, if you desire, you and your people may seek refuge in Ethiopia instead.”
Shakuntala would have sworn that her expression never changed. But she had forgotten Garmat’s uncanny shrewdness.
“Ah,” he murmured. His voice was soft, and pitched low. So low that only she and Dadaji could now hear him. “I had wondered. Exile to a distant land did not really seem in your nature. So. I have five ships, Your Majesty. On board those ships came half of the Dakuen sarwe—four hundred soldiers, under the command of Ezana and Wahsi. One of those ships must convey Tarabai and myself back to Ethiopia. The rest—including all of the sarwen—are at your disposal.”
Shakuntala nodded. She, too, spoke softly. “Warships, I believe?”
Garmat’s smile returned. “Axumite warships, Empress.” He coughed modestly. “Rather superior, don’t you know, to those Malwa tubs? And I dare say our sarwen could handle three times their number of Malwa’s so-called marines.”
“Yes, I know,” she replied. “As it happens, I can use them. The ships and the sarwen both. Have you heard the news of Deogiri?”
Garmat nodded. His smile widened.
She leaned forward.
“As it happens—”
Three days later, in a pouring rain, the fleet left Muziris. The Matisachiva Ganapati and the city’s viceroy stood watching from the docks. All day they remained there, sheltered from the downpour under a small pavilion, until they were certain that every single one of the cursed “Empress-in-exile’s” followers had quit Keralan soil.