Victory City(70)

“Thanks to you,” Zerelda Li replied, “I feel for the first time in my life that there is solid ground for me to stand on, and I feel my roots growing down out of my feet into that earth. So you have also given me myself, and for that I will never fail to love you.”

“All true love is self-love,” Krishnadevaraya said. “In love the other is united with the self, and becomes the equal of the self, and therefore to love the other is also to love the other in the self, for they are equals, and the same.”

Zerelda Li sat up in bed and ate a pistachio sweetmeat from a dish on the nightstand.

“When does she arrive?” she asked. “The hag? And her mother as well?”

“Tomorrow,” said the king.

“Then you and I cannot be equals after today,” she said. “It’s just impossible.”

“It is possible for a thing to be impossible and possible at the same time,” Krishnadevaraya said. “This is one of those things.”

“We’ll see,” Zerelda Li said, pulling him down toward her, her confidence growing. “The proof will be in how you behave.”



* * *



—

Princess Tirumala of Srirangapatna—not a hag at all, but a strikingly handsome woman with, it must be said, a haughty, even cruel, but undeniably impressive nose, a nose that had inspired at least one great poem—arrived at the gates of Bisnaga seated on a golden throne in a golden chariot drawn by a dozen horses the color of gold, covered in golden carapaces, dazzling in the sunlight. Behind Tirumala stood her father, King Veera, and her mother Queen Nagala, wearing high golden headdresses, wide golden neckpieces, and belts of gold studded with precious stones. Everyone had heard of the wealth of the emperor of Bisnaga, and the royal family of Srirangapatna was making sure they didn’t look like the poor relations from the south.

Krishnadevaraya awaited them at the ceremonial doorway of his palace, and the manner of his dress astonished, one might even say shocked, the newcomers. Instead of the traditional bare-chested style familiar to southerners, Krishnadevaraya wore a long brocaded tunic in the Arab fashion, called a kabayi, and a high, conical Persian-Turkic cap, also brocaded, known as a kulldyi, or a kuldh; and his only jewel was the signet ring of kingship on his finger. King Veera, unable to restrain himself, replied to Krishnadevaraya’s elaborate formal greeting with a discourteous jabbing forefinger accompanied by the equally discourteous, brusque words, “What’s this?”

Krishnadevaraya was angered. “Down there in the provinces Our news may not have reached you,” he replied, magnificently entering the plural, “but We are pleased to style Ourselves as the sultan among Hindu kings. Your daughter will not only be a queen, but a sultana as well, and by the end of Our reign all the five Deccan sultanates will be Ours. Two of the five, Bijapur and Bidar, are already Our vassals. This is why—for example—you will see everywhere in Our palace the exceptional bidri handicrafts of Bidar—the boxes and hookahs and vases and closets made of blackened copper and zinc and inlaid with the most delicate silver traceries and designs…”

“Yes, yes, all right,” King Veera interrupted impatiently. “Assimilation of Muslim handicrafts is okay, why not. But why dress like them?”

“I like the clothes,” Krishnadevaraya said, “and much else about their way of life as well. Now, if you permit, I will welcome your daughter, my wife-to-be.”

Princess Tirumala at the door of her new home put her celebrated nose in the air. “If I am to enter here,” she said, “I wish to be accorded the rank of Tirumala Devi. If you are a Deva, then it is fitting that you should have a goddess at your side. And my mother, staying with me, will be Nagala Devi while she is in residence. And our garments will not be those of any northern sultanas. There will be no Arabic-Persian-Turkic blasphemies for us.”

Great Minister Timmarasu saw the rage rising in Krishnadevaraya’s eyes and intervened. “Agreed,” he said quickly. “And now, let the festivities begin.”

The bride’s entourage—there were many lesser chariots following in the wake of the royal golden car—swept into the palace. There were some cheers from the watching crowds, but not too many. The match didn’t appear to be popular in the city. And later that night, Krishnadevaraya’s spies in the crowd reported to him that as the wedding party passed through the throng, many people murmured the words Shrimati Visha. Krishnadevaraya frowned. “That’s bad,” he said.

Zerelda Li was with him in his bedchamber, even though it was his nuptial night, and he should have been elsewhere, in another bed, on which flower petals had been scattered to prepare for the deflowering, and next to which incense burned, while handmaids dressed the bride in her nocturnal finery and braided her long hair, oiling it with coconut oil, and musicians played softly in a distant corner; or else he should have received his bride in this place.

“I’m sorry,” Zerelda Li said. “I’m still learning the language. Shrimati I know of course, that’s ‘Madam.’ But Visha?”

“In her own language, Telugu, it would be Visham,” the king explained. “Visha, Visham, doesn’t matter. Means the same thing. ‘Venom.’ So, Shrimati Visha, Madam Poison.”

“Who are they talking about?” Zerelda Li asked. “The mother or the daughter?”