The fact remained, he was nothing more than a semibarbarian warlord. Not even literate, by all accounts.
Irene was not looking forward to the upcoming session. She would have to steer a delicate course between offending the empress and—
Paying no attention to anything but her thoughts, Irene swept into a junction with another corridor and crashed into an unseen obstacle.
For a moment, she almost lost her footing. Only a desperate hand, reaching out to clutch the object into which she had hurtled, kept her from an undignified landing on her backside.
Startled, she looked up and found herself gazing into the statue of a steppe warrior. Into the face of the statue, more precisely. A bronze and rigid mask, apparently part of a single casting. Stiff, still, unmoving. Extremely well done, she noted, all the way down to the lifelike armor and horsehair topknot.
But the artistry of the piece did not leave her mollified.
“What idiot left a statue in the middle of a corridor?” she hissed angrily. Then, after a brief second scrutiny: “Ugly damned thing, too.”
The statue moved. Its lips, at least. Irene was so startled she actually jumped.
“Horses think I’m pretty,” said the statue, in heavily accented but understandable Greek. “Why else do they give me such playful nips?”
Irene gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. She stepped back a pace or two. “You’re real!”
The statue gazed down at its body. “So I am told by my scholarly friend Dadaji,” the thing rasped. “But I am not a student of philosophy, myself, so I can’t vouch for it.”
For all that she was startled, Irene’s quick mind had not deserted her. “You must be Kungas,” she stated. “You fit Belisarius’ description.”
At first, Irene thought she was several inches taller than he. But closer examination revealed that Kungas was not more than an inch below her own height. It was just that the man was so stocky, in a thick-chested and muscular fashion, that he looked shorter than he actually was. Beyond that, his whole body—especially his face—looked as if it were made of metal, or polished wood, rather than flesh. She did not think she had ever seen a human being in her life who seemed so utterly—hard.
His features were typically Kushan. Asiatic, steppe features: yellowish complexion, flat nose, eyes which seemed slanted due to the fold in the corners, a tight-lipped mouth. His beard was a wispy goatee, and the mustache adorning his upper lip was no more than a thin line of hair. Most of his scalp was shaved, except for a clot of coarse black hair gathered into a topknot.
Kungas returned Irene’s scrutiny with one of his own. His next words startled her almost as much as the collision.
“You have beautiful eyes,” he announced. “Very intelligent. And so I am puzzled.”
Irene frowned. “Puzzled by what?”
“Why are you wearing such a stupid costume?” he asked, gesturing to the heavy Roman robes. “In this climate?”
Kungas’ lips seemed to twitch. Irene thought that might be a smile. She wasn’t sure.
“I grant you,” he continued, “many of the Indian customs are ridiculous. But the women are quite sensible when it comes to their clothing. You would do much better to wear a sari, and leave your midriff bare.”
Irene grinned. “I’m a diplomat,” she explained. “Got to maintain my ambassadorial dignity. Especially since I’m a woman. Everybody looks at these absurd robes instead of me. So all they see is the Roman Empire, rather than the foreign female.”
“Ah.” Kungas nodded. “Good thinking.”
“You must be on your way to the audience chamber yourself,” said Irene. She cocked her head to the side. “The empress will be delighted to see you. She has missed you, I think. Although she says nothing.”
Now, finally, Kungas did smile. “She never does. Lest people see the uncertain girl, instead of the ruler of Andhra.”
He made a slight bow. “Envoy from Rome, I must give my report to the empress. May I escort you to the audience chamber?”
Irene bowed in return, and nodded graciously. Side by side, she and Kungas headed toward the great double doors at the end of the corridor.