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
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.'
'You are so confident of breaking Malwa?' asked Irene. As soon as she spoke the words, she realized they were more of a question about Kungas than they were about the prospects of war.
Kungas nodded. 'Oh, yes. Quite certain.' His masklike face made that little cracking movement which did for a smile. 'I am
He studied her carefully. 'But to restore Peshawar, I would have to be a king myself. So I have decided to become one. After the fall of Malwa, Shakuntala will no longer need me. I will be free to attend to the needs of my own Kushan people.'
Irene swallowed. Her throat seemed dry. 'I think you would make a good king,' she said, a bit huskily.
Kungas nodded. 'I have come to the same conclusion.' He leaned forward, pointing to the volume in her lap. 'But a king should know how to read-certainly his own language! — and I am illiterate.'
He leaned back, still-faced. 'So now you understand.'
Again, Irene swallowed. 'You want me to learn Kushan, so that I can teach you how to read it.'
Kungas smiled. 'And some other languages. I should also, I think, know how to read Greek. And Hindi.'
Abruptly, Irene stood up and went to a table against the wall. She poured some wine from an amphora into a cup, and took a swallow.
Without words, she offered a cup to Kungas. He shook his head. Irene poured herself another drink.
After finishing that second cup, she stared at the wall in front of her.
'Most men,' she said harshly, 'do not like to learn from a woman. And learning to read is not easy, Kungas, not for a grown man. You will make many mistakes. You will be frustrated. You will resent my instructions, and my corrections. You will resent-me.'
She listened for the answer, not turning her head.
'Most men,' said Kungas softly, 'have a small soul. That, at least, is what my friend Dadaji tells me, and he is a scholar. So I have decided, since I want to be a king, that I must have a large soul. Perhaps even a great one.'
Silence. Irene's eyes were fixed on the wall. It was a blank wall, with not so much as a tapestry on it.
'I will teach you to read,' she said. 'I will need a week, to begin learning your language. After that, we can begin.'
She heard the faint sounds of a chair scraping. Kungas was getting up.
'We will have some time, then,' came his voice from behind her. 'Before I have to leave on the expedition to destroy the guns.'
Silence. Irene did not move her eyes from the wall, not even after she heard Kungas going toward the door. He did not make much sound, as quietly as he moved. Odd, really, for such a thick-looking man.
From the doorway, she heard his voice.
'I thank you, envoy from Rome.'
'My name is Irene,' she said. Harshly. Coldly.
She did not miss the softness in Kungas' voice. Or the warmth. 'Yes, I know. But I have decided it is a beautiful name, and so I did not wish to use it without your permission.'
'You have my permission.' Her voice was still harsh, and cold. The arrogant voice of a Greek noblewoman, bestowing a minor favor on an inferior. Silently, she cursed that voice.
'Thank you. . Irene.'
A few faint sounds of footsteps came. He was gone.
Irene finally managed to tear her eyes away from the wall. She started to pour herself another cup of wine, but stopped the motion midway. With a firm hand, she placed the cup back on the table and strode to the window.
Leaning on the ledge, she stared out at the ocean, breathing deeply. She remained there for some time, motionless, until the sunset.
Then, moving back to her chair, she took up the slim volume and began studying her new-found task. She spent the entire evening there, and got her final surprise of the day. For the first time in years, she was not able to concentrate on a book.
Chapter 7
