Irene was swept with pity. The girl’s mind—and the empress was a girl, now—was locked tight. Sheer, utter paralysis. Shakuntala’s deepest, most hidden wish was at war with her iron sense of duty—and now, a foreign woman had turned duty against desire. Cutting loose one with the other, true. But still leaving behind, to a girl who had never once seen their connection, nothing but a tangled web of doubt and confusion.
Shakuntala did what she could only do, then. She turned to the man who, more than any other, she had come to rely on to find the threads which guided her life.
“Dadaji?” she said softly, pleadingly. “Dadaji? You must tell me. What should I do?”
Irene’s jaws tightened; her lips were pursed. That question had not been asked of an adviser, by an empress. That had been the question a daughter asks her father. A loving daughter, turning to a trusted father—seeking, not advice, but direction.
It was Holkar’s decision, now. Irene knew that for a certainty. In her current state of paralysis and confusion, Shakuntala would obey the peshwa as surely as a daughter will obey her father.
Irene saw Dadaji’s shoulders rise and fall, taking a deep breath. He lifted his head. For the first time since Irene had read understanding in his eyes, she saw Dadaji’s face.
The relief was almost explosive. She had to fight to let her breath escape in silence.
Before Holkar said his first word, Irene knew the answer. That was the face of a father, not a peshwa. A loving father who, like millions before him, could chide and train and discipline his daughter. But who could not, when the time finally came, deny her what she truly wished.
Dadaji Holkar began to speak. Irene, listening, knew that Kungas had read the man’s soul correctly, and she had not. When all was said and done, and the trappings and learning were stripped away, Dadaji Holkar remained what he had always been. A simple, modest, kindly man from a small town in Majarashtra, trying to raise a family as best he could. Malwa had savaged his family, and torn his own daughters away. He would not, could not, do the same to the girl he had taken in their place.
Holkar’s face had brought relief. Relief so great, that Irene barely listened to his first words. But after a few seconds, she did. And then, less than a minute later, was struggling not to laugh.
The soul of Dadaji Holkar was that of a father, true. But the mind still belonged to the imperial adviser. Once again, great Satavahana’s lowborn peshwa would outmaneuver brahmins.
* * *
“It is difficult for you, Empress, I realize.” Dadaji raised his hand, as if to ward off the peril which threatened his monarch. As best he could, that is—which, judging from the feebleness of the gesture, was precious little. “Your own purity—” He broke off, sighed, plowed forward. “But you must put the needs of your people first. As difficult as the choice may be, for one of your sacred lineage.”
The peshwa, twisting sideways on his cushion, turned toward Irene and bowed.
“I listened carefully to the Roman envoy’s words. As carefully as I could, even though my heart was beating rebellion. But my mind could not deny the words. It is true, what she says.” Again, he sighed, as a man does when he cedes preference to duty. “If you place your obligation to your people above all else, thrusting aside your personal concerns, then you must indeed do as the Roman says. If you would marry power, Empress, then marry the man from the Great Country.”
A faint murmur of protest began to rise from the envoys seated nearby. The barbarous Kushan had intimidated them, with his savage derision. The scholarly peshwa—a brahmin like themselves; or so, at least, they thought—could perhaps be reasoned with.
Dadaji thrust out his hand, palm down. The gesture, in its own way, was as contemptuous as Kungas’ sneer. A sage, stilling the ignorant babble of village halfwits.
“Be silent.” Holkar fixed cold eyes on the gathered envoys. “What do you know of power?”
The peshwa was well into middle age, but he was still an active man. Dadaji rose from the cushion, as easily as a youth. He stared down at the envoys for a moment, before he began pacing back and forth. Hands clasped behind him, head tilted forward—the master, lecturing schoolboys. “You know nothing. The true ways of power are as mysterious to you as the planets.”