In reality, the hunted young girl had been given that treasure by Belisarius himself, on the eve of her escape. The vast treasure with which Emperor Skandagupta had tried to bribe Belisarius into treason, the Roman general had turned over to Shakuntala in order to finance a rebellion in Malwa’s rear.
“Would that man have forgotten you?” asked Garmat quietly. “Would that man not have continued to develop his plans?”
Shakuntala’s eyes widened, slightly.
“You’re right,” she whispered. “He is sending someone to us. Belisarius has thought of it already.”
Her shoulders slumped, just a bit. From relief, it was obvious. It suddenly dawned on everyone how hard a decision it had been for her, to send Kungas away.
“You will stay, Kungas,” she announced. “You will stay here, with me.”
The Kushan commander nodded. Then, with a sly little smile, murmured, “How quickly fortune passes.”
Shakuntala frowned, fiercely.
“Nonsense! I did not remove your titles—except that of ambassador to Rome. You are still Maha-dandanayaka. Still, my Bhatasvapati.”
Her eyes softened, gazing on the man who had once been her captor, and always her protector.
“As you have been since Amaravati,” she whispered. “When you saved me from the Ye-tai beasts.”
Later, as they filed out of the cabin, the Maratha commander Shahji remarked to Garmat:
“I wonder who the Romans are sending to us? A general of renown, no doubt.”
Fighting down a smile, Garmat made no reply. He glanced at Ezana and Wahsi, and saw that his two Ethiopian compatriots were fighting the same battle.
Shahji moved on.
“Poor fellow,” murmured Wahsi.
“What a shock, when he discovers,” agreed Ezana.
Now, Garmat found himself fighting down an outright laugh. Ezana and Wahsi had accompanied him, three years earlier, in his mission to Rome. They knew the realities of the Roman court. They knew the Empress Theodora’s foibles.
But he said nothing. Not until after the three Ethiopians had clambered into their small skiff and begun the trip back to their own ship. Only then did he burst into laughter. Ezana and Wahsi joined him in that gaiety.
“It’s bound to be a woman!” choked out Ezana.
“Theodora wouldn’t trust anyone else,” gasped Wahsi. “Shahji’ll die of horror!”
Garmat shook his head. “That’s not fair, actually. He’s Maratha, don’t forget. They recognize the legitimacy of female rulers. They even have a tradition of women leading armies. Still—”
He fell silent. He was not sure, of course—it was pure speculation. But he thought he could guess who Theodora and Belisarius would send.
Not Antonina. Garmat was quite sure that Belisarius had bigger plans for her. Of the Empress Theodora’s inner circle of advisers—female advisers—that left only—
Ezana completed the thought aloud.
“They may have those traditions, Garmat,” he chuckled. “But not even the Maratha have a tradition of sarcastic, quick-tongued, rapier-witted women who’ve read more books than they even knew existed.”
“Poor Shahji,” concluded Wahsi. “He’s such a stiff and proper sort. I foresee chagrin in his future. Great discomfiture.”
Chapter 22
THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN
Summer, 531 a.d.
“Be careful!” hissed Antonina.
“I am being careful,” growled Irene. “It’s the stupid boat that’s being careless!”
Hesitantly, gingerly, the spymaster stuck out her foot again, groping for the rail of the little skiff bobbing alongside Antonina’s flagship. The sea was not particularly rough, but Irene’s experience with climbing down a large ship into a smaller one was exactly nil.
Her foot touched the rail, pressed down, skidded aside. Frantically, she clutched the rope ladder. A stream of vulgar curses ensued. Coarse phrases; unrefined terms. Aimed at the world in general and boats in particular.
Above, Ousanas grinned down.
“Witness, everyone! A miracle! There is a book which Irene has never read, after all! I refer, of course, to On the Transfer of Personnel From Craft to Craft At Sea, by the famous author Profanites of Dispepsia.”
A stream of really vulgar curses ensued. Utterly obscene phrases; incredibly gross terms. Aimed exclusively at one particular African.
The African in question grinned even wider.
“May I lend you a hand?” he asked pleasantly.
Irene glared up at him furiously. “Yes!” she snarled. “Get me into this stupid fucking boat!”
“No problem, noble Greek lady,” said Ousanas cheerfully. The dawazz leapt onto the rail of Anton-ina’s flagship, gauged the matter for perhaps a micro-second, and sprang directly down into the boat below. He landed lightly on his feet, easily finding his balance. Then, turned to face Irene. The spymaster was swinging against the hull of the larger ship above him. Her face was pale; the knuckles of her hands, clutching the rope ladder, were white as snow.