Nothing. The faces were transfixed, but blank with incomprehension. Except—Dadaji Holkar’s eyes were widening.
Drive on, drive on. Strike again.
“Whom should you marry? To a Roman, the answer is obvious. You are a monarch, Shakuntala, with a duty to your people. Marry the power—that is the Roman answer. Marry the strength, and the courage, and the devotion, and the tenacity, which brought you to the throne and can keep you there. Wed the strong hand which can shield you from Malwa, and can strike powerful blows in return.”
Scanned the faces. Transfixed, but—still nothing. Except Holkar. A wide-eyed face, almost pale with shock, as he began to understand.
Again, the hammerstroke. Even prejudice, in the end, will yield to iron.
“Do not wed a man, Empress. Wed a people. Marry the people—the only people—who never failed you. Marry the people who carried Andhra on their shoulders, when Andhra was bleeding and broken. Marry the men who harry Malwa in the hills, and the women who smuggle food into Deogiri. Marry the nation that sent its sons into battle, not counting the cost, while all other nations cowered in fear. Marry the boys impaled on the Vile One’s stakes, and their younger brothers who step forward to take their place. Wed that folk, Shakuntala! Marry that great, half-savage, shaggy mastiff of the hills, not—”
She pointed accusing fingers at the assembled representatives of the Hindu world’s aristocracy.
“Not these—these purebred lapdogs.”
Accusing fingers curled into a fist. She held the fist out before her.
“Then—! Then, Shakuntala, you will hold power in your hand. True power, real power—not its illusion. Steel, not brittle wood.”
She dropped her fist, flicking dismissive fingers. The gesture carried a millennium’s contempt.
“Marry the Roman way, girl,” she said. Gently, but with the assurance of Rome’s millenium. “Wed Majarashtra. Find the best man of that rough nation, and place your hand in his. Let that man dance your wedding dance. Open the womb of India’s noblest and most ancient dynasty to the raw, fresh seed of the Great Country. Let the sons born of that union carry Andhra’s fortune into the future. If you do so, that fortune will be measured in centuries. If you do otherwise, it will be measured in years.
“As for the rest . . .” She shrugged. “As for what people might say, or think . . .” She laughed, now. There was no humor at all in the sound. It carried nothing beyond unyielding, pitiless condemnation. Salt, sown into soil.
“Let them babble, Shakuntala. Let them cluck and complain. Let them whimper of purity and pollution. Let them sneer, if they will. What do you care? While their thrones totter, yours will stand unshaken. And they will come to you soon enough—trust me—like beggars in a dusty street. Pleading that you might let the uncouth husband sitting by your side, and lying in your bed, lead their own armies into battle.”
Finally—finally—everyone in the room understood. The envoys were gaping at her like so many blowfish. Dadaji’s face, she could not see. The peshwa’s head was bowed, as if in thought. Or, perhaps, in prayer.
She turned back to Shakuntala. The empress, though she was not gaping, seemed in a pure state of shock. She sat the throne, no longer like the statue of a goddess, but simply like a young child. A schoolgirl, paralyzed by a question she had never dreamed anyone would ever ask.
The Roman teacher smiled. “Remember, Shakuntala. Only the soul matters, in the end. All else is dross. That is as true of an empire as it is of a man.”
* * *
Quietly, then, but quickly, Irene took her seat. In the long silence which followed, while envoys gasped for breath and a peshwa bowed his head—and a schoolgirl groped for an answer she already knew, but could not remember—Irene simply waited. Her hands folded in her lap, breathing easily, she simply waited.
Prejudice would erupt, naturally. Soon, the room would be filled with outrage and protest. She did not care. Not in the least.
She had done her job. Quite well, she thought. Holding the tongs in firm hands, she had positioned the blade to be forged. Prejudice would sputter up, of course, just as hot iron spatters. But the hammer, held in barbarous thick hands, would strike surely. And quench the protest of purity in the greater purity of tempering oil.