By the time she and Kungas reached the chamber where the quarrel was raging, Macrembolitissa the spymaster had vanished. Queen Irene of the Kushans was the woman who made her entrance.
“Silence,” she decreed. Then, gratefully easing herself into a chair immediately presented by one of the Kushan officers, she nodded at Baresmanas and the three Persian officers standing by him.
“I agree with you, Baresmanas, and will see it done. Now please leave. We Kushans must discuss this matter in private.”
Baresmanas bowed and complied immediately. Within seconds, he and the other Persians had left the room. Immediately, the stunned silence into which Irene’s pronouncement had cast the half dozen Kushans in the room—not Kungas; he was silent but not stunned in the least—began to erupt in a quickly-growing murmur of protest.
“Silence!” she decreed again. Then, after sweeping them with a cold gaze, she snorted sarcastically. “Boys! Stupid boys! Quarreling over toys and trinkets because you cannot see an adult horizon.”
She leaned forward in the chair—not allowing any trace of the spike of pain that movement caused to show in her face—and pointed an imperious finger to the narrow window which looked to the northeast. “In that direction lies our destiny, not this miserable region of dust and heat.”
Kungas smiled, very faintly. Knowing Irene’s purpose, and supporting it, he still felt it necessary to maintain his own dignity. He was the king, after all, not she. He was what Romans would have called the man of the house, after all, not she.
“It is one of the most fertile oases in central Asia, wife. A fertility only made possible by our own irrigation works. Which we—not Persians nor Ye-tai nor Malwa—constructed long ago.”
Irene shrugged. “True. And so what? The center of Kushan strength will lie, as it always did, in our control of the great mountains to the east. The Hindu Kush—that must be the heart of our new realm. That, and the Pamirs.”
The last sentence brought a stillness to the room. The Pamirs were even harsher mountains than the Hindu Kush. No one had ever really tried to rule them, in anything but name.
Irene smiled. The expression was serene, self-confident; erasing all traces of her former sarcasm and derision.
“You are thinking too small,” she said quietly. “Much too small. Thinking only of the immediate task of reconquering our ancient homeland, and holding it from the Malwa. But what of our future? What of the centuries which will come thereafter?”
Vasudeva, who had become the military commander of Kungas’ army, began tugging gently at the point of his goatee. Now that his initial outrage was fading, the canny general was remembering the fundamental reason that all of the Kushans had greeted Kungas’ marriage with enthusiasm.
The damned Greek woman was smart.
“Explain.” Then, remembering protocol: “If you would be so kind, Your Majesty.”
Irene grinned, and with that cheerful expression came a sudden relaxation spreading through the room. The hard-bitten Kushan soldiers, for all that Irene’s ways often puzzled and bemused them, had also come to feel a genuine fondness for the woman as well as respect for her intelligence. Irene, grinning, was a thing they both liked and trusted. They too, when all was said and done, had a sense of humor.
“We are too small to hold Marv, Vasudeva. That is the simple truth. Today, yes—with the Persians forced into an alliance with us. If we drive the issue, Baresmanas will accede. But what of the time after Malwa has fallen, when the Persians will seek to lick their wounds by new triumphs, new additions to their realm?”
The Kushans stared at her. Then, slowly, one by one, they pulled up chairs and took their seats. It did not occur to any of them, at the time, to ask permission of their king and queen to do so. And, remembering the omission later, they would be pleased at the fact that neither of their monarchs—for this was a dual monarchy, in all but name—took the least umbrage at their casual informality.
It did not even occur to Irene to do so, actually. She was at heart a thinker, and had always enjoyed thoughtful conversation. Seated on a proper chair—not a damned saddle.