“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.