Chowpatty, they knew. Bharakuccha, they knew. So the black folk who had taken Chowpatty and shattered Bharakuccha—had done more, had dragged the Vile One himself to his impalement post—were as real as the sunrise. Not a legend, but heroes walking among them.
Oh, yes—dragged him to it they had, even if no African hand had ever touched the monster. For all Marathas knew, from the mouth of their champion himself, that without Axum’s assault on Bharakuccha he could not have finally dealt the Great Country’s vengeance. In the short time since his return, Rao had said so time and again. And those who heard his words directly passed them on to others, and they to others, and they to others still. For it was now the great tale of Majarashtra, and would be for generations to come.
No wind could have swept that palace clean, except that a greater wind had smote its city. Not even the Panther could have cut his way to the Vile One through the mass of soldiery who normally protected the beast. But the soldiery had been drawn aside, all save a handful, in order to fend off the wrath of Ethiopia. Into that sudden emptiness, the Wind had slipped its way. Softly, quietly, stealthily, before it struck the mighty blow.
The deed was done by the hand of the Great Country, yes—and all Marathas swelled in the knowledge. But only because a black folk had broken Bharakuccha, half breaking themselves in the doing, and lost their king besides.
So the crowd gathered—or the gathering crowded—onto those treacherous piers. Because that was where they could see the people of Africa, and touch them, and speak to them, and bring what little gifts their village or town might have scraped together.
Antonina had been standing on the battlements of the fortress above Chowpatty since the break of day. She had come there, at first, out of some obscure need to see for herself the place where Eon had received his death wound. She had watched the sun rise over that place, gazing hollow-eyed into the fortress for perhaps an hour or so.
But then, finally, the sounds growing behind her had registered. So she had turned away from the fortress, to look down at the harbor it guarded. And, in the hours which followed, had begun to find some warmth returning to her soul. Perhaps . . .
Perhaps . . .
Ousanas’ harsh voice broke into her thoughts. “Do not presume, woman.”
Startled, Antonina jerked her head around. She had never heard Ousanas’ steps, coming up to the battlements. Not surprising, really, given his skill as a hunter.
“What?” Her mind groped for the meaning of the words. “Presume what?”
Ousanas crossed his powerful arms over his chest. Then:
“You think you are Ethiopia’s curse? The foreign woman—the Medea—who wreaked havoc upon it? Slew two kings—the father, and then the son? Spilled half a nation’s blood, and broke half its ships in the bargain?”
Antonina looked away. She tried to find words, but could not.
Ousanas snorted. “Do not presume, woman.”
“How many of them will return, Ousanas?” she whispered, almost choking. “How many?” She brought tear-filled eyes back to face him.
“This year? None,” he replied forcefully. “Except the Dakuen sarwe, which will escort Eon’s regalia home. That half of it, at least, which is still alive and not so badly injured that they can make the trip across the sea.”
Her eyes widened. Ousanas snorted again.
“For the sake of God, Antonina—think. Think, for once, instead of wallowing in this stupid misery.” He waved an arm toward the harbor. “That is a warrior nation, woman. Traders too, yes, but a nation built on the training ground of the highland regiments.”
The next snort was more in the way of a laugh. “I will grant you the beauty of Helen. But it was not because of you that Axum bled. So will you please desist from this idiot imitation of that puerile woman, standing on the walls of Troy.”
The image caused Antonina to giggle, and then laugh outright. Ousanas smiled, stepped forward, and placed an arm around her shoulders. Once Antonina had managed to stifle her laughter, he turned her to face the harbor.