Severity returned. "A thousand years.Considerthat, noble men of India. And then ask yourself: how was it done?"
Again, she smiled; and, again, plucked at a heavy sleeve.
"It was done with these robes. These heavy, thick, preposterous, unsuitable robes. These robes contain the secret."
She paused, waited. She had their complete attention, now. She took the time, while she waited, to send another whimsical, mental message across the sea. Thanking a harsh, cold empress named Theodora, born in poverty on the streets of Alexandria, for training a Greek noblewoman in the true ways of majesty.
"The secret is this. These are the robesof Rome, but they are not Roman. They are Hun robes, which we took for our own."
A murmur arose.Huns? Filthy, barbarous-Huns?
"Yes. Hun robes. We took them, as we took Hun trousers, when our soldiers became cavalrymen. Just as we took, from the Aryans, the armor and the weapons and the tactics of Persia's horsemen. Just as we took from the Carthaginians-eight hundred years ago-the secrets of war at sea. Just as we took, century after century, the wisdom of Greece, and made it our own. Just as we took the message of Christ from Palestine. Just as we have taken everything we needed-and discarded anything we must-so that Rome could endure."
She pointed her finger toward the north. "The Malwa call us mongrels, and boast of their own purity. So be it. Rome shrugs off the name, as an elephant shrugs off a fly. Or, perhaps-"
She grinned. Or, perhaps, bared her teeth.
"Say better, Romeswallows the name. Just as a huge, half-savage, shaggy, mastiff cur of the street wolfs down a well-groomed, purebred house pet."
A tittering laugh went through the room. Irene allowed the humor to pass. She pointed now to Shakuntala.
"The empress said-and said rightly-that if the monster called Malwa is slain, the hand which holds the lance will be Roman. I can give that hand a name. The name is Belisarius."
She paused, letting the name echo through the chamber.
"Belisarius.A name of glory, to Rome. A name of terror, to Malwa. But, in the end, it is simply a name. Just like this"-she fingered a sleeve-"is simply cloth. So you must ask yourself-why does the name carry such weight? Where does it come from?"
She shrugged. "It is a Thracian name, first. Given to his oldest son by a minor nobleman in one of Rome's farming provinces. Not three generations from a peasant, if the truth be told."
She fixed cold eyes on the crowd. "Yet thatpeasant has broken armies. Armies more powerful than any of you could face. And why isthat, noble men of India?"
Her chuckle was as cold as her eyes. "I will tell you why. It is because Belisarius has a soul as well as a name. And whatever may have been the flesh that made the man, or the lineage that produced the name, thesoul was forged on that great anvil which history has come to call-Rome."
She spread her arms wide, trailing heavy sleeves. "Just as I, a Greek noblewoman wearing Hun robes, was forged on that same anvil."
Irene could feel Theodora flowing through her now, like hot fire through her veins. Theodora, and Antonina, and all the women who had birthed Rome, century after century, back to the she-wolf who nursed Remus and Romulus.
She turned to Shakuntala.
"You asked, Empress of Andhra, my advice concerning your marriage. I am a Roman, and can give you only Roman advice. My friend Theodora, who rules Rome today, has a favorite saying.Do not trample old friends, in your eagerness to make new ones. "
She scanned the faces in the crowd, watching for any sign of understanding.
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-theonly 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. Wedthat 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.
