Shakuntala’s head turned to Irene. The empress’ eyes seemed as bright as ever, probably, to most observers. But Irene could sense the dull resignation in that imperial gaze.
“I would like to hear from the envoy of Rome,” stated Shakuntala. As always in public council, the empress’ voice was a thing to marvel at. Youthful, true, in its timbre. But a fresh-forged blade is still a sword.
A faint murmur arose from the diplomats.
Shakuntala’s eyes snapped back to them. “Do I hear a protest?” she demanded. “Is there one among you who cares to speak?”
The murmurs fled. Shakuntala’s eyes were like iron balls. The Black-Eyed Pearl of the Satavahanas, she was often called. But black, for all its beauty, can be a terrifying color.
Black iron smote clay. “You would protest?” she hissed. “You?” The statue moved, slightly. A goddess, with a little gesture of the hand, dismissing insects. “After Malwa conquered Andhra, and flayed my father’s skin for Skandagupta’s trophy, what did you do?”
The statue sneered. “You trembled, and quailed, and whimpered, and tried to hide in your palaces.” The goddess spoke. “Rome—only Rome—did not cower from the beast.”
Shakuntala’s next words were spoken through tight teeth. “Doubt me not in this, you diplomats. If Malwa is slain, the lance which brings the monster down will be held in Roman hands. Not ours. Alone—not if all of us united—could we do the deed. Our task is to shield the Deccan, and do what we can to lame the beast.”
The diplomats bowed their heads. Those brahmins, for all their learning, were insular and self-absorbed to a degree which Irene, accustomed to Roman cosmopolitanism, often found amazing. But even they, by now, knew the name of Belisarius. A bizarre name, an outlandish name, but a name of legend nonetheless. Even in south India—even in southeast Asia—they had heard of Anatha. And the Nehar Malka, where Belisarius drowned Malwa’s minions.
Shakuntala kept her eyes on their bowed heads, not relenting for a full minute. Black iron is as heavy as it is hard.
During that long minute, while Indian diplomats—again—quailed and hid their heads, Irene sent a mental message to a man across the sea. He would not receive it, of course, but she knew he would have enjoyed the whimsy. That man had spent hours and hours with her, in Constantinople—days, rather—counseling Irene on her great task. Explaining, to a woman of the present, the future he wanted her to help create.
Well, Belisarius, you wanted your Peninsular War. I do believe you’ve got it. And if we don’t have Wellington, and the Lines of Torres Vedras, we have something just as good. We have Rao, and the hillforts of the Great Country, and—
Her eyes fell on a hard, harsh, brutal face.
—and we’ve got my man, too. Mine.
She gathered the comfort in that possessive thought, and transformed softness into hard purpose.
“Speak, envoy of Rome,” commanded Shakuntala.
Irene rose from her chair and stepped into the center of the large chamber. Dozens of eyes were fixed upon her.
She had learned that from Theodora. The Empress Regent of Rome had also counseled Irene, before she left for India. Explaining, to a spymaster accustomed to shadows, how to work in the light of day.
“Always sit, in counsel and judgement,” Theodora had told her. “But always stand, when you truly want to lead.”
Irene, as was her way, began with humor.
“Consider these robes, men of India.” She plucked at a heavy sleeve. “Preposterous, are they not? A device for torture, almost, in this land of heat and swelter.”
Many smiles appeared. Irene matched them with her own.
“I was advised, once, to exchange them for a sari.” She sensed, though she did not look to see, a pair of twitching lips. “But I rejected the advice. Why? Because while the robes are preposterous, what they represent is not.”
She scanned the crowd slowly. The smile faded. Her face grew stern.
“What they represent is Rome itself. Rome—and its thousand years.”
Silence. Again, slowly, she scanned the room.
“A thousand years,” she repeated. “What dynasty of India can claim as much?”
Silence. Scan back across the room.