No expression at all could be read on his face. It was a pure mask. But Irene, now long experienced in what she jokingly called “Kungas interpretation,” could tell that her husband was not happy with the situation.
On a purely personal level, she found that knowledge warming. More than warming, really—she felt a little spike of passion race through her body. But she suppressed that spike even more firmly than the warmth. Not so much from the old habits of a spymaster but from the new habits of a woman who had come to think like a queen. Thoughts which were, in truth, even more cold-blooded.
Although she did feel a moment’s regret that there would be no time to satisfy her passion. Time was of the essence, now.
“Stop this, Kungas,” she said firmly. “You know as well as I do—more than I do, for you are a general and I am not—that you must march on the Khyber pass immediately. Now. Today!”
Kungas did not look at her. The only sign that he had heard her words was that his fingers began tapping the ledge on which his hands were planted.
“Move fast,” he mused. “Yes, I should. All signs point to a Malwa empire in panic. Their troops are racing out of the Hindu Kush, not making an orderly withdrawal.” He snorted wryly. “They certainly aren’t doing so in fear of my small army. They are not being forced out of the mountains—they are being sucked out. As if, somewhere in the Indus valley, a great whirlpool has erupted into existence. A greater monster than Charybdis has arrived. Belisarius, at his work.”
Sensing the shift in Kungas’ mood, Irene pressed home the advantage. “If you move now—instantly—you can catch them at the Khyber before they have time to stabilize a defensive position. It will still be hard fighting, though—which is why you need to take the entire army—but if you move fast we can end this campaign with us in control of the Khyber. Which would mean that the gateway to our new kingdom is in our hands, not Malwa’s.”
He said nothing. The fact that his finger-tapping had become a little drumbeat was, again, the only sign that he was paying attention to her.
“You are only hesitating because of me!” Irene protested. Then, chuckling: “If I weren’t a bedraggled bag of bones—almost dead from exhaustion—you’d probably insist on hauling me along.”
Finally, the mask cracked. Kungas’ trace of a smile emerged. “Hardly that,” he said cheerfully. “At least, you didn’t seem to be dying from exhaustion last night. Nor do I recall that you felt like a bag of bones. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
He turned his eyes and gave Irene’s figure a quick and warm appraisal. “The trek has been good for you, I’d say, for all the aches and pains.”
Irene grinned. As it happened, she agreed with Kungas’ assessment. Her figure was still as slim as ever, but the somewhat flaccid flesh of a Greek noblewoman was now long gone. The change, of course, would not have met with approval from high society in Constantinople. Pale skin and soft flesh was the female ideal in that aristocratic society. But her bronzed skin and firm muscle tone fit her new kingdom far better.
“Exhausted,” she insisted. “On the edge of the grave.”
Then, more seriously: “Kungas, I couldn’t possibly keep up with the march you must now undertake, and we both know it. I may not be a whimpering Greek noblewoman any longer, but I’m hardly in the same condition as your soldiers. In truth, I doubt if even the camp followers will be able to keep up.”
He stopped the little finger-drumming and slapped the ledge firmly. “Won’t even try! I’m leaving them all behind.”
The decision finally made, Kungas, as was his way, cast all hesitation aside. “This will be a march out of legend. My whole army will put the memory of that pitiful Athenian runner from Marathon into the shade. Twenty-six miles, pah. A trifle. And then—drop dead at the end? Not likely. Not Kushans.”
He began pacing slowly along the ledge, running his hand across the smooth surface as if he were caressing the stone. Remembering the feel of that hand on her body the night before, Irene felt a moment’s regret that Kungas was accepting her advice. But if she rued the coming absence of fleshly pleasure, she took a greater pleasure in Kungas’ words. Not because of his decision, but because of the classical allusions. It had been she who told Kungas of Charybdis, and Marathon. And, as always, her husband had forgotten nothing of what she said to him.