It was a fearsome triumvirate, between the seated woman and the men standing on either side of her. In the end, however, whatever hesitations any of the notables still retained were dispelled by someone else. A man who, at that moment, reminded them of the ultimate nature of all power.
Ezana, standing at the rear of the chamber, slammed the iron ferrule of his spearbutt onto the stone floor. The harsh sound caused at least half of the notables to jump a bit.
"The Roman woman Antonina was appointed by Eon the Great to oversee the transition of power in Axum," he announced. His loud voice was as harsh as the spearbutt. "I was there, as he lay dying, and bear witness. Does any man challenge me?"
Again, the ringing spearbutt on the floor. "Any man?"
He allowed the silence to last for a full five minutes. Then:
"It is done. Until the queen is ready to resume her responsibilities-which will take as long as she needs-Antonina rules Axum. Do not doubt it. Any of you. Do not doubt it for an instant."
Again, the spearbutt. "My name is Ezana, and I am the commander of the Dakuen sarwe. The regiment of the negusa nagast, which will serve the baby Wahsi for his fist. Should he need it. Pray to whatever God you pray to, o ye notables, that he does not. Pray fervently."
A queen and her weddings
"And here I thought the Christian ceremony took forever," whispered Kungas. "At least they managed it in one day."
"Be quiet," hissed Irene. "You're supposed to be silent for the next hour or two. Even whispering, people can see your lips move."
"You've been whispering too," he hissed back.
"Doesn't count for me," replied Irene smugly. "I'm wearing a veil."
In actual fact, the Buddhist wedding did not take more than a day-although it did consume that one in its entirety. But the fault lay not with the religion so much as the circumstances. Irene could have easily chosen a simpler and shorter ceremony, which Kungas would have much preferred. But she told him, in no uncertain terms, not to be an idiot.
"You want to drag half your kingdom to see the glorious stupa you're having rebuilt on the ruins of the old one? Which just-so conveniently! — happens to be within eyesight of the great new fortifications you're building in the Khyber Pass? And then keep it short? Not a chance."
"You'll have to wear a veil all day," whined Kungas, grasping for any hope. "You hate wearing veils."
Irene began stroking her horse-tail. By now, she had become as accustomed to that mannerism as she had ever been to brushing back her Greek-style hair. And found even more pleasure and comfort in the deed. Her old habit had been that of a spymaster; the new one, that of a queen. The horse-tail was a daily reminder that the same insignia flew under the banners of her army.
"I said I personally detested wearing a veil, Kungas. But I have to tell you that the day men invented the silly things was the day they sealed their own downfall." The horse-tail stroking became smug, smug. "Take it from me, as a professional intriguer. Best aide to diplomacy ever invented!"
The day after the ceremony, Irene introduced Kungas to the Pathan chiefs. The meeting went quite well, she told him afterward.
"How can you tell?" he demanded, a bit crossly. "They spent most of their time glowering at you, even though you didn't say a single word after the introductions."
Then: "And take off that damned veil! We're in our own private chambers now, and I'm handicapped as it is. Besides"-much less crossly-"I love the sight of your face."
When the veil came off, Irene was grinning. "The reason they're glowering is because I made sure they found out, beforehand, that I'm planning to bring my female bodyguard with me to the pagan wedding ceremony we're having in their hills next month."
Kungas groaned. "Wonderful. Now they'll be certain I am the most effeminate ruler in the history of the Hindu Kush."
Irene's grin never wavered. "Oh, stop whining. You're just grouchy at the thought of another wedding, that's all. You know perfectly well that the reason they're unhappy is because they'd like to think that-but can't. Not standing in the shadow of that great fortress you're building in the Khyber, watching thousands of Malwa prisoners do the work for you. Those sour old chiefs would give anything to have a set of balls like yours. 'Manly'-ha! Bunch of goat-stealers."
Irene cocked her head slightly. Kungas, by now, was well accustomed to that mannerism also. Again, he groaned. "There's something else."
"Well. yes," admitted Irene. "The other reason they're irked with me is because I also made sure they found out, ahead of time, that three Pathan girls recently came into Begram and volunteered for my bodyguard unit. And were cheerfully accepted."
Her horse-tail stroking almost exuded smugness. "It seems-who would have guessed? — that the old Sarmatians have lots of descendants in the region. And who am I to defy ancient customs, even newfound ones?"
Kungas scowled. For him, the expression was almost overt. The man had found, as his power grew-based in no small part on the diplomatic skills of his wife-that he no longer needed to keep the mask in place at all times. And he was finding that old habit surprisingly easy to relinquish.
The more so under Irene's constant encouragement. She was firmly convinced that people preferred their kings to be open-hearted, open-handed, and-most of all-open-faced. Let them blame their miseries on the scheming queen and the faceless officials. No harm in it, since they won't forget that the king still has his army, and the fortresses it took for him.
"You're going to start a feud with those damned tribesmen," he warned. "They find a point of honor in the way one of their women is looked at by a stupid goat. Pathan girls in the queen's bodyguard!"
"Nonsense. I told them I wouldn't meddle. Which I'm not. I didn't recruit those girls, Kungas. They came into Begram on their own, after having-much to their surprise-discovered that they really weren't Pathan at all. Who can object if Sarmatian girls follow their ancient customs?"
Kungas tried to maintain his scowl, but found the effort too difficult. He rose from his chair and went over to the window. The "palace" they were residing in was nothing more than a partially-built portion of the great new fortress being erected in the Khyber. Atop one of the hills, not in the pass itself. Kungas had grasped the logic of modern artillery very quickly, and wanted the high ground.
He also enjoyed the view it gave him, partly for its own scenic splendor but mostly because it was a visible reminder of his own power. Let anyone think what they would, but the fact remained-Kungas, King of the Kushans, owned the Khyber Pass. And, with it, held all of the Hindu Kush in his grasp. A grasp which was open-handed, but could be easily closed into a fist should he choose to do so.
He made a fist out of his right hand and gently pounded the stone ledge of the window. "Sarmatians," he chuckled. "Well, why not? Every dynasty needs an ancient pedigree, after all."
Irene cleared her throat. Kungas, without turning around to see her face, smiled down at the Khyber Pass. "Let me guess. You've had that gaggle of Buddhist monks who follow you around every day investigate the historical records. It turns out-who would have guessed? — that Kungas, King of the Kushans, is descended from Sarmatian rulers."