Two phrases, only, did she ever remember.
The first, howled with glee: “And will you look at those fucking Kushans? God—damn!”
And the response, growling bemused wonder: “I’m glad Kungas is on our side, boys. Or we’d be so much dog food.”
So am I. Oh, dear God, so am I.
* * *
In the time which followed, as a Malwa army was ripped to pieces between Ethiopia’s shield wall and a Kushan avalanche, Irene went away. This was not her place. She had no purpose here.
She needed to find herself, again. For perhaps the first time in her life.
Herself appeared, and demanded the truth. Don’t ask why you came, woman. You know the answer. And don’t tell me lies about clever stratagems, and ruses, and battle plans. Tell others, but not me. You know why you came.
“Yes,” she choked, closing her eyes. Tears leaked through the lids. “I know.”
A sarwen, hearing the soft sobs, glanced down at her. For a moment, no more, before he looked away. A woman, her wits shattered. Nothing to puzzle over. Women were fragile by nature.
But he was quite wrong. The tears streaking Irene’s cheeks were tears of happiness, not fear. Fear there was, of course, and fear aplenty. But it was not fear of the moment. No, not at all. It was the much greater fear—the deep terror, entwined with joy—of a human being who had finally, like so many others before her, been able to give up a hostage to fortune. A woman who, finally, understood her friend Antonina and could—finally—make the same choice.
“He would have gone into the fire, anyway,” she whispered to herself. “No matter what I did.”
Herself nodded. And you could not bear the thought. Of staying behind, staring at a horse.
* * *
Then, he was there. She saw the legs of the sarwen around her ease and stretch. Saw them move aside. Heard the shouts of greeting and glee. In the distance, a muted roar. The first of the Malwa guns was being destroyed—overcharged powder blowing overcharged shot, rupturing the huge weapon like a rotten fruit.
He squatted next to her, where she knelt. “Are you all right?”
Irene nodded. Smiled. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
He had never touched her before. She reached up and caressed the hand with her own. Feeling, with her long and slender fingers, the short ones, heavy with flesh and sinew, which held her shoulder so gently.
She pressed her face into his thick chest. His hand slid down her arm, his arm became a shield, his touch an embrace. Suddenly, fiercely, she pressed open lips against his muscular neck. Kissing, nuzzling. Her breath came quick and short. She flung her arms around him and drew him half-sprawling across her. Her left leg, kicking free of the long tunic, coiled down his out-thrust right leg. Her sandal scraped the bare skin of his calf.
For a moment—pure heat, bolting out of a stable like a wild horse—Irene felt Kungas respond. His hard abdomen pressed her own, desire meeting desire. But only for a moment. Kungas chuckled. The sound carried more delight than humor. Much more. Much more. It was the choked laugh of a man who discovers, unexpectedly, that an idle dream has taken real form. Yet, despite that little cry, his strong arms and body went rigid, pinning her—not like a wrestler pins an opponent, but simply like a man restrains a child from folly. Seconds went by, while his lips nuzzled her lovely, thick, chestnut hair. Irene felt his breath; heavy, hot at first, but cooling quickly.
She chuckled herself, then, as his restraint brought her own. “I guess it’s not a good idea,” she mumbled. “The Ethiopians would probably insist on watching.”
“Worse, I’m afraid,” he responded dryly, still kissing her hair. “They’d accompany us with drums. Placing bets, all the while, on when we’d stop.”
Irene laughed outright. The sound was muffled against his chest.
“No,” whispered Kungas gently. “Not for us, and not now. Passion always comes, after death’s wings flap away. But it is cheap, and gone with the morrow. And you will wonder, afterward, whether it was you or your fear.”