The rage blew inward, centered on Malwa itself. The fate of Lord Venandakatra hung in the balance.
“I always told you he was a fool,” snarled Nanda Lal. “He’s smart enough, I admit. But no man’s intelligence is worth a toad’s croak if he cannot restrain his lusts and vanities.”
“You can no longer protect him, Skandagupta,” stated Sati. “You have coddled him enough. He—not the underlings he blames—is responsible for Belisarius. For Shakuntala. Recall him. Discipline him harshly.”
Link, then, was all that saved Venandakatra from disgrace. Or worse.
“NO. YOU MISS THE GREAT FRAMEWORK. VENANDAKATRA WAS JUST APPOINTED GOPTRI OF THE DECCAN. TO RECALL HIM IN DISGRACE WOULD HEARTEN THE MARATHA. SHAKUNTALA IS IMPORTANT, BUT SHE IS NOT AS IMPORTANT AS HER PEOPLE. BREAK THAT PEOPLE, YOU BREAK HER.”
The Malwa bowed to their overlord.
“BREAK MAJARASHTRA. TERRORIZE THE MARATHA MONGRELS, TILL THEIR BASTARDS WHISPER FEAR FOR A MILLENIUM. PULVERIZE THAT POLLUTED FOLK.”
“FOR THAT, VENANDAKATRA WILL DO. PERFECTLY.”
A Husband and His Thoughts.
The day before his departure to join Lord Damodara’s army, Rana Sanga spent entirely with his wife. Late that night, exhausted from love-making, he stroked his wife’s hair.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, smiling. “All of a sudden, you’ve got this serious look on your face.”
“Hard to explain,” he grunted.
His wife reared up in the bed, the coverings falling away from her plump figure.
“Talk,” she commanded, wriggling her fingers threateningly. “Or I tickle!”
Sanga laughed. “Not that! Please! I’d rather face Belisarius himself, with an army at his back.”
His wife’s amusement died away. “That’s what you were thinking about? Him?”
Her face tightened. The Persian campaign was about to begin. She knew Sanga would, soon enough, be facing that—terrible Roman—on the battlefield. And that, for all her husband’s incredible prowess at war, this enemy was one he truly respected. Even, she thought, feared.
Sanga shook his head. “Actually, no. Not directly, at least.”
He reached up his hand and gently caressed her face. Plain it was, that face, very plain. Round, like her body.
He had not married her for her beauty. He had never even seen her face, before she lifted the veil in his sleeping chamber, after their wedding. Theirs, in the way of Rajput royalty, had been a marriage of state. Dictated by the stern necessities of dynasty, class, and caste. Of maintaining the true Rajput lineage; protecting purity from pollution.
He had said nothing, on the night he first saw his wife’s face, and then her body, to indicate his disappointment. She had been very fearful, she told him years later, of what he would say, or do—or not do—when he saw how plain she was. But he had been pleasant, even kind; had gone about his duty. And, by the end of the night, had found a surprising pleasure in that eager, round body; excitement, in those quick and clever fingers; gaiety and warmth, lurking behind the shyness in her eyes. And, in the morning, had seen the happiness in a still-sleeping, round face. Happiness which he had put there, he knew, from kindness far more than manhood.
Young, then, filled with the vainglory of a Rajput prince already famous for his martial prowess, he had made an unexpected discovery. Pride could be found in kindness, too. Deep pride, in the sight of a wife’s face glowing with the morning. Even a plain face. Perhaps especially a plain face.
The day had come, years later, when he came upon his wife in the kitchen. She was often to be found there. Despite their many cooks and servants, his wife enjoyed preparing food. Hearing him come, recognizing his footsteps, she had turned from the table where she was cutting onions. Turned, smiled—laughed, wiping the tears from her eyes—brushed the hair (all grey, now—no black left at all) away from her face, knife still in her hand, laughing at her preposterous appearance. Laughing with her mouth, laughing with her eyes.
Twice only, in his life, had the greatest of Rajputana’s kings been stunned. Struck down, off his feet, by sudden shock.
Once, sprawling on a famous field of battle, when Raghunath Rao split his helmet with a dervish blow of his sword.