David Drake - An oblique approach

Kungas waved his hand casually. “Oh, I shall give them firm instructions to keep their own distance from the howdah. I’ll do the same myself, for that matter.”

The general’s face broke into an odd, crooked smile. If there had been a trace of hesitation, it seemed to vanish.

“That’ll be difficult for you and your men, I imagine. That sort of self-control around women.” An apologetic cough. “Given the Kushan reputation.”

Kungas frowned slightly. “Reputa-?”

The general laughed. “Oh, come now! Don’t deny it, Kungas. It’s well known. You can’t trust Kushans around women, particularly young women. Especially virgins. Not” — a chuckle- “that there are any virgins left in that howdah.”

Kungas was still frowning.

“Such an act!” admired the general. “But there’s no point in it, Kungas, I assure you. Not in this crowd. Why, I remember swapping a few amusing anecdotes with Venandakatra himself on the subject, during our journey from Bharakuccha. Although, now I think about it-my memory’s a bit vague, I’m afraid. I was quite drunk, that evening. But-um, yes, now that I think about it, I seem to recall that I was telling all the stories. Odd, actually. It all seemed to come to the great lord as quite a revelation.”

Anyone in the world, now, would have agreed that the expression on Kungas’ face was a grin. The smallest, faintest, thinnest grin ever seen, true. But a grin, a veritable grin, it could not be denied.

“Alas. Our reputation is finally out. And we’ve been so careful to keep our talents hidden, all these months.” He shook his head ruefully. “Well, it can’t be helped. Everyone will know, now. Damn. Husbands will start watching their wives. Fathers their daughters.”

“Princes their concubines.”

Kungas glanced at the general’s guards. “Soldiers, their camp women.”

The general scratched his chin. “I foresee a scandal, I’m afraid. The talk of the caravan. Even Lord Venandakatra himself will probably hear of it. I can see the scene now. Kushan soldiers-ruffians, the lot of ’em, filled with unbridled lust-constantly surrounding the foreigners’ howdahs and tents, filled with so many lovely girls. Flies drawn to honey. Dealing brutally, of course, with any other men who should happen to sniff around.”

“We have a short way with competitors,” agreed Kungas, “when it comes to women.” Casually, his hand gripped the hilt of his sword, drew the blade an inch or so out of the scabbard, clashed it back loudly.

“Yes, yes,” mused the general. “Pity the poor Malwa chap who should just happen to wander by, idly curious about the women.”

Kungas shuddered. “I shudder to think of the poor fellow’s treatment.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the general’s guards grinning. The one who looked like a mongoose. The most evil-looking grin he had ever seen, for a certainty.

“Then, of course,” continued Kungas, “should any enterprising Malwa manage to slip through the Kushan escort and make his way to-”

“Oh, terrible!” exclaimed the general. His eyes squinted. His large hand gripped his own sword hilt. “He’d be butchered. By keen-eyed cataphracts or sarwen always on guard to fend off the endless, relentless, persistent hounding of their women by those horrible, lust-filled, lascivious Kushans. Ah, such a tragic case of mistaken identity.”

The general spread his hands.

“But, the Lord Venandakatra could hardly complain. He assigned you to escort us, after all. Probably-” here came the general’s grin, which no one in the world would have mistaken for anything else “-with that very purpose in mind. Making us miserable, I mean.”

Kungas nodded sagely. “The great lord does seem to be quite irritated with you. I can’t imagine why.”

The sounds of a caravan setting into motion began filtering down the line. Kungas looked toward the front-which, of course, was far out of sight.

“Well, I’d best be off. Round up my men and explain our duties to them. Very carefully. Making sure they understand what they need to understand, and not what they don’t. We don’t want any-ah, how shall I put it? Walking a tightrope can be done, so long as you maintain the proper balance.”

“Well said,” commented the general. “A man after my own heart. You don’t anticipate-”

“From my men? No, none. If I tell them to paint their faces blue and keep their left eyes closed all the way to Ranapur, well then- they’ll damn well paint their faces blue and keep their left eyes closed all the way to Ranapur. And be right fucking quick about it, and keep their fucking mouths fucking shut. Orders are orders. Obey. Just do it.” The iron face was back. “I’m not the man to brook insolence.”

“I can well imagine,” said the general.

Quite attractive, thought Kungas, that odd little crooked smile. He gave his own smile, such as it was, and departed.

When the Kushan was out of sight, around a bend of the road, Valentinian whispered to Belisarius: “That was a close call.”

Belisarius shook his head.

“No, Valentinian, it wasn’t close at all. I cannot imagine a world, anywhere, anytime, in any turn of the wheel, where that man would not make that same decision.”

The general turned away, headed toward his horse.

As he left, he muttered something under his breath.

“Did you catch that, Anastasius?”

The giant grinned. “Of course. So would you, if your ears were attuned to philosophical thoughts like they should be. Instead of-”

Valentinian snarled. “Just answer the fucking question!”

“He said: Only the soul matters, in the end.”

A prince and a princess

The prince relaxed. His fingers let the curtain fall back into place. The fabric moved but a quarter of an inch. He had opened it only the merest crack.

“He’s gone,” he said softly. The prince leaned back against the silk-covered cushions which lined the interior of the howdah. He blew out his cheeks with relief.

The four Maratha women in the howdah reacted in various ways to the news. The fifth woman, who was not Maratha, watched their reactions carefully. She had been taught that the ways in which people relaxed from stress told you much about them. Taught by a man who was an expert in stressful situations and their aftermath.

The one Maratha woman she knew-had known for years-clutched her yet more tightly. But, for the first time since they had met again, under the most unexpected circumstances, stopped weeping. Her name was Jijabai, and her mind was lost in horror. But perhaps, Shakuntala thought-hoped-the horror would begin to recede and sanity return. Horror had begun for that woman when she had been taken from her princess. Now that her princess had returned, perhaps Jijabai could return also.

But there was nothing more that Shakuntala could do for Jijabai at the moment, beyond hold her. So she gazed elsewhere.

The Maratha woman seated immediately to the prince’s right blew out her own cheeks, smiled broadly, and leaned into the prince’s shoulder. The prince’s arm enfolded her gently. She closed her eyes and nuzzled the prince’s neck.

Shakuntala knew a bit about this one, from her conversations with the prince the day before. Her name was Tarabai, and she was the prince’s favorite. Prince Eon had asked her to return with him to his homeland and become one of his concubines. Tarabai had readily agreed.

The prince had obviously been delighted by that answer. Almost surprised, like a boy whose idle daydream had come true.

Shakuntala had found his delight quite informative. She had been trained to observe people by the most observant man she had ever known. A man whose sense of humor was as keen as his perception-and that, too, that wry and tolerant way of perceiving people, Shakuntala had learned from him.