“She’s giving a speech again.” He shook his head, smiling. “If she keeps this up—”
A huge roar drowned his words; then, like an undulating wave, it rolled through the crowd lining the road. In seconds, as the people near the howdah joined in, the noise became half-deafening. Most of those people could not possibly have heard any of Shakuntala’s words, but it mattered not in the least. They knew what she had said.
For days, as her expedition to Deogiri moved through southern Majarashtra, the Empress of Andhra had given a single short, simple, succinct speech. By now, every Maratha within a week’s horseback ride—a fast, galloping ride—knew its content.
Andhra is Majarashtra’s bride.
My army is my dowry.
My husband will break Malwa’s spine.
My sons will grind Malwa’s bones.
It was not even a speech, any longer. Simply a chant, every one of whose words was known by heart and repeated by untold thousands—untold tens of thousands—of Marathas. By them—and by many others. The Great Country, for centuries, had served as a haven for people fleeing tyranny and oppression. The Marathas, as a people, were the mongrel product of generations past who had found a sanctuary in its hills and badlands. The new refugees who had poured in since the Malwa Empire began its conquest of India simply continued the process. Many of the voices chanting Shakuntala’s phrases did so, not in Marathi, but in dozens of India’s many tongues.
The roar faded. The procession lurched back into motion. Irene cocked an eye at Holkar. “You were saying, Dadaji?”
The peshwa shook his head, still smiling. “If she keeps this up, she’ll be so hoarse by the time she gets to Deogiri that she won’t be able to propose to Rao at all.” His smile widened, became quite impish. “He still hasn’t said ‘yes,’ you know? And he’s hardly the kind of man who can be browbeaten—not even by her.”
Irene grinned in return. “You don’t seem greatly concerned. Good God! What if he says ‘no’? Disaster!”
Holkar made no verbal response. The expression on his face was quite enough.
Irene laughed. “You should model for sculptors, Dadaji—the next time they need to carve a Buddha.”
Holkar squeezed his wife close. “So I keep telling Gautami.” He chuckled. “Stubborn woman! She persists in denying my sainthood.”
“Of course I do,” came the instant response. Irene almost gasped, seeing the woman’s eyes. Still shy, still half-downcast, but—yes! Twinkling!
“What kind of a saint snores?” demanded Gautami.
My God—she told a joke!
* * *
“The girl has gone mad, Maloji,” growled Rao, glaring down at the elephant leading the enormous—and utterly bizarre—”relief column” which was almost at the huge gate in Deogiri’s southern wall. From his perch atop that wall, Rao could see Shakuntala clearly. The empress was riding alone on the lead elephant, standing completely erect in full imperial regalia.
“Look!” he cried, pointing an accusing finger. “She does not even have a bodyguard in her howdah!”
Serenely, Maloji examined the army of polearm-wielding Maratha peasants who flanked the howdah, just beyond the stiff ranks of Kushans who marched directly alongside the empress. His gaze moved to the ostrich-plumed black soldiers who came behind her elephant.
Then, scanning slowly, Maloji studied the various military units which trotted all over the landscape south of the walled city, alertly watching for Malwa enemies. He recognized the Cholan and Keralan troops, but could only guess at the exact identity of the others. There were perhaps three thousand of them in all, he thought. It was difficult to make a good estimate, however, because of the huge crowd of Marathas which seemed to fill the landscape.
Rao started pounding the top of the wall with his hands. “What is Kungas thinking?” he demanded.
Maloji leaned back, sighing satisfaction. “I never realized how many nations there are in this world,” he murmured. Then, casting his glance sideways at the fretful man by his side, he chuckled.
“Relax, Rao!” Another chuckle. “I really don’t think she’s in any danger from the Vile One’s army.”
Now, an outright laugh. Maloji jerked his head back and to the north. “Ha! The Vile One has all his troops surrounding his camp, while he cowers in his pavilion. For all intents and purposes, he is the one besieged this day.”