apart, each on cushions, each in the lotus position. He eyed her suspiciously.
"Yes. That. One other."
Shakuntala nodded vigorously, pressing the advantage.
"You can serve that purpose better as my imperial adviser than you can as his slave," she stated. "Much better."
Holkar stroked his beard. The gesture, in its own way, illustrated his quandary.
As a slave, he had been forced to shave his respectable beard. That beard, and the middle-aged dignity which went with it, had been restored by Belisarius. It was a symbol of all that he owed the general.
Yet, at the same time—it was a badge of his dignity. Full, now; rich with the gray hairs of experience and wisdom. Foolish, really, to waste the beard and all it signified on the life of a slave. A slave who, as Shakuntala rightly said, was no longer of great use to his master.
Stroke. Stroke.
"How do you know I could serve you properly?" he demanded.
Shakuntala felt the tension ease from her shoulders. Get the argument off the ground of abstract honor and onto to the ground of concrete duty, and she was bound to win.
"You are as shrewd as any man I ever met," she stated forcefully. "Look how you managed this escape—and all the preparations which went into it. Belisarius always relied on you for anything of that nature. He trusted you completely—and he is immensely shrewd himself, in that way as well as others. I need men I can trust. Rely on. Desperately."
Stroking his beard. "What you need, girl, is prestige and authority. An imperial adviser should be noble-born. Brahmin. I am merely vaisya. Low-caste vaisya." He smiled. "And Maratha, to boot. In most other lands, my caste would be ranked among the sudra, lowest of the twice-born."
"So?" she demanded. "You are as literate and educated as any brahmin. More than most! You know that to be true."
Holkar spread his hands. "What does that matter? The rulers and dignitaries of other lands will
"Yes. That. One other."
Shakuntala nodded vigorously, pressing the advantage.
"You can serve that purpose better as my imperial adviser than you can as his slave," she stated. "Much better."
Holkar stroked his beard. The gesture, in its own way, illustrated his quandary.
As a slave, he had been forced to shave his respectable beard. That beard, and the middle-aged dignity which went with it, had been restored by Belisarius. It was a symbol of all that he owed the general.
Yet, at the same time—it was a badge of his dignity. Full, now; rich with the gray hairs of experience and wisdom. Foolish, really, to waste the beard and all it signified on the life of a slave. A slave who, as Shakuntala rightly said, was no longer of great use to his master.
Stroke. Stroke.
"How do you know I could serve you properly?" he demanded.
Shakuntala felt the tension ease from her shoulders. Get the argument off the ground of abstract honor and onto to the ground of concrete duty, and she was bound to win.
"You are as shrewd as any man I ever met," she stated forcefully. "Look how you managed this escape—and all the preparations which went into it. Belisarius always relied on you for anything of that nature. He trusted you completely—and he is immensely shrewd himself, in that way as well as others. I need men I can trust. Rely on. Desperately."
Stroking his beard. "What you need, girl, is prestige and authority. An imperial adviser should be noble-born. Brahmin. I am merely vaisya. Low-caste vaisya." He smiled. "And Maratha, to boot. In most other lands, my caste would be ranked among the sudra, lowest of the twice-born."
"So?" she demanded. "You are as literate and educated as any brahmin. More than most! You know that to be true."
Holkar spread his hands. "What does that matter? The rulers and dignitaries of other lands will