Kungas held up his hand. “Please! I am not prying, envoy from Rome. We can discuss this matter at a later time, when you think it more suitable. For the moment—”
A very faint smile came to his lips. “Let me just say that I suspect you look at the thing as I do. A monarch should marry the power which can uphold the throne. And so the thing is obvious—to any but these idiot Indians, with their absurd fetishes.”
Irene suppressed her little start of surprise. But Kungas’ eyes were knowing.
“So I thought,” he murmured. “Very smart woman.”
He turned away, heading for the door. “But that is not why I came,” he said. “A moment, please. My servant is carrying something for me.”
Irene watched while Kungas took something from the servant who appeared in the doorway. When he turned back, she got her third surprise. Kungas was carrying a stack of books.
He held them out to her. “Can you read these?”
Hesitantly, Irene took the top book and opened it. She began to scan the first page. Then stopped, frowning.
“This isn’t Greek,” she muttered. “I thought it was, but—”
“The lettering is Greek,” explained Kungas. “When we Kushans conquered Bactria, long ago, we adopted the Greek alphabet. But the language is my own.”
He fumbled with the stack of books, drawing out a slim volume buried in the middle.
“This might help,” he said. “It is a bilingual translation of some of the Buddha’s teachings. Half-Greek; half-Kushan.” His lips twitched. “Or so my friend Dadaji tells me. He can read the Greek part. I can’t read any of it. I am not literate.”
Irene set the first book down on a nearby table and took the one in Kungas’ outstretched hand. She began studying the volume. After a few seconds, without being conscious of the act, she moved over to her chair and sat down. As ever, with true bibliophiles, the act of reading had drawn her completely out of her immediate surroundings.
Two minutes later, she remembered Kungas. Looking up, she saw that the Kushan was still standing in the middle of the room, watching her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She waved her hand at a nearby chair.
Kungas shook his head. “I am quite comfortable, thank you.” He pointed to the book. “What do you think?”
Irene looked down at the volume in her lap. “I could, yes.” She looked up. “But why should I? It will be a considerable effort.”
Kungas nodded. Then, slowly, he moved over to the one window in her room and stared out at the ocean. The window was open, letting in the cooling breeze.
“It is difficult to explain,” he said, speaking as slowly as he had moved. He fell silent for a few seconds, before turning back to her rather abruptly.
“Do you believe there is such a thing as a soul?” he asked.
Somehow, the question did not surprise her. “Yes,” she replied instantly. “I do.”
Kungas fingered his wispy beard. “I am not so sure, myself.” He stared back through the window. “But I have been listening to my friend Dadaji, this past year, and he has half convinced me that it exists.”
Again, Kungas fell silent. Irene waited. She was not impatient. Not at all.
When Kungas spoke again, his voice was very low. “So I have decided to search for my soul, to see if I have one. But a man with a soul must look to the future, and not simply live in the present.”
He turned his eyes back to her. He had attractive eyes, Irene thought. Almond colored, as they were almond shaped. Such a contrast, when you actually studied them, to the dull armor of his features. The eyes were very clear, and very bright. There was life dancing in those eyes, gaily, far in the background.
“I have never done that before,” he explained. “Always, I lived simply in the present. But now—for some months, now—I have found myself thinking about the future.”
His gaze drifted around the room, settling on a chair not far from Irene’s own. He moved over and sat in it.
“I have been thinking about Peshawar,” he mused. “That was the capital of our Kushan kingdom, long ago. It is nothing but ruins, today. But I have decided that I would like to see it restored, after Malwa is broken.”