In the Heart of Darkness

Chapter 20

On his way through the Panther Gate, just as he had promised Lord Jivita, Rana Sanga disciplined the soldiers who had allowed Belisarius to leave the city. "Give them lashes," Jivita had demanded, specifying the plural.

Sanga's word, as always, was good.

Two lashes, each. From his own quirt, wielded by Rajputana's mightiest hand. It is conceivable that a fly might have been slain by those strokes. It is conceivable.

Once he and his cavalry unit were outside the walls of the capital, Sanga conferred with his lieutenants and his chief Pathan tracker as they rode westward. The conference was very brief, since the fundamental problem of their pursuit was obvious to anyone who even glanced at the countryside.

The Gangetic plain, after a week of heavy rainfall, was a sea of mud. Any tracks-tracks even a day old, much less eight-had been obliterated. The only portion of the plain which was reasonably dry was the road itself. A good road, the road to Mathura, but the fact brought no comfort to the Rajputs. Many fine things have been said about stone-paved roads, but none of them has ever been said by Pathan trackers.

"No horse even leave tracks this fucking idiot stone," groused the Pathan. "No man on his foot."

Sanga nodded. "I know. We will not be able to track him until we reach Rajputana. Not this time of year."

The Rajput glanced up, gauging. The sky was clear, and he hoped they had reached the end of the kharif, India's wet season. The kharif was brought by the monsoon in May, and lasted into September. It would be succeeded by the cool, dry season which Indians called rabi. In February, then, the blistering dry heat of garam season would scorch India until the monsoon.

Jaimal echoed his own thoughts:

"Rabi is almost here. Thank God."

Sanga grunted approvingly. Like most Indians, rabi was his favorite season.

"There is no point in looking for tracks," he announced. "But we have one advantage, here in the plain-there are many travelers on the road. They will probably have noticed a single Ye-tai. Anyone Belisarius encountered in his first days of travel will be long gone, by now. But we can hope, in two or three days, to start encountering people who saw him."

"The soldiers in the courier relay stations may have spotted him," commented Udai. "They have nothing else to do except watch the road."

"True," said Sanga. "We can make it to the first relay station by mid-afternoon. Udai may well be right-the soldiers may have spotted him. Let's go!"

"Are you sure it is them?" asked the crouching young warrior, peering down into the ravine.

"Oh, yes," said Rao. "Quite sure. I only met one of them, but he is not the sort of man you forget."

The Maratha chieftain rose from his hiding place behind a boulder. The armored horseman leading the small party through the trail below immediately reined in his horse. Rao was impressed by the speed with which the man unlimbered his bow.

He probably shoots well, too. Let's not find out.

"Ho-Ousanas!" he bellowed. "Do you still maintain the preposterous claim that all appearance is but the manifestation of eternal and everlasting Forms?"

The reply came instantly:

"Of course! You are the living proof yourself, Raghunath Rao, even where you stand. The very Platonic Form of a sight for sore eyes."

The young guerrillas lining the ravine where Rao had set his ambush-friendly ambush, to be sure; but Rao never lost the chance for training his young followers-were goggling.

They were provincials, almost without exception. Poor young villagers, most of whom had never seen any of the world beyond the hills and ridges of the Great Country. The Romans were odd enough, with their ugly bony faces and sick-looking pallid complexions. The Ethiopians and Kushans were even more outlandish. But the other one! A tall half-naked man, black as a cellar in night-time-arguing philosophy with Rao himself!

A maniac. Obvious.

"Oh, Christ," muttered Valentinian, replacing his bow. "Another philosopher. Maniacs, the lot of 'em."

In truth, Valentinian was finding it hard not to goggle himself. Finally, after all these months, he had met the legendary Raghunath Rao. And-

The man was the most ordinary looking fellow he had ever seen! Valentinian had been expecting an Indian version of Achilles.

He studied Rao, now standing atop the boulder some thirty feet away and ten feet up the side of the ravine.

Shortish-by Roman standards, anyway. Average size for a Maratha. Getting a little long in the tooth, too. Must be in his early forties. Well-built, true-no fat on those muscles-but he's no Hercules like Eon. I wonder-

Rao sprang off the boulder and landed lithely on the floor of the ravine ten feet below. Two more quick, bounding steps, and he was standing next to Valentinian's horse. Smiling up at him, extending a hand in welcome.

Mary, Mother of God.

"The Panther of Majarashtra," Valentinian had heard Rao called. He had dismissed the phrase, in the way veterans dismiss all such romantic clap-trap.

"Be polite, Valentinian," he heard Anastasius mutter. "Please. Be polite to that man."

The bodies had been rotting for days, with only two small windows to let air through the thick mudbrick walls. The stench was incredible.

"He's a demon," snarled Udai. "Only a soulless asura would-"

"Would what, Udai?" demanded Sanga.

The Rajput kinglet gestured to the pile of festering corpses.

"Kill enemies? You've done as much yourself."

Udai glared. "Not like this. Not-"

"Not what? Not from ambush? I can remember at least five ambushes which you laid which were every bit as savage as this one."

Udai clamped his lips shut. But he was still glaring furiously.

Sanga restrained his own temper.

"Listen to me, Udai," he grated. Then, his hard eyes sweeping the other Rajputs in the room:

"All of you. Listen. It is time you put this-this Malwa superstition-out of your minds. Or you will never understand the nature of this enemy."

He paused. When he was certain that he had their undivided attention-not easy, that; not in a charnelhouse-he continued. His voice was low and cold.

"Some of you were there, in the Emperor's pavilion, when Belisarius ordered his cataphract to execute the prisoners. Do you remember?"

Jaimal and Pratap nodded. The other four Rajputs, after a moment, nodded also. They had not seen, themselves, but they had heard.

Sanga waved at the bodies heaped in a corner of the relay station.

"This is the same man. The Malwa think-did think, at least-that he was a weakling. Full of foolish soft notions. Not ruthless, like them. Not hard."

A soft chuckle came from the Pathan tracker kneeling by the bodies. "Did really?" he asked. Then rose, his examination complete.

"Well?" demanded Sanga.

"Soldiers all kill same time." The tracker pointed to a crude table collapsed against one of the relay station's mudbrick walls. One of the table's legs was broken off cleanly; another was splintered. Stools were scattered nearby on the packed-earth floor.

"Come through door. Think at night. Quick, quick, quick. Soldiers eat. Surprise them at sitting."

He pointed to the blackened, dried bloodstains on the floor, the wall, the table, the stools. Scattered pieces of food, now moldy.

"That was battle." Indifferent shrug. "Not much. Think two soldiers draw weapon before die. Maybe three. Do no good. Sheep. Butchered."

He paced back to the pile of bodies.

"Then wait for couriers. Eat soldier food while wait. Pack away other food. Round up horses in corral. Make ready."

The Pathan bent over and seized one of the corpses. With a casual jerk, he spilled the rotting horror onto the floor. The impact, slight as it was, ruptured the stomach wall. Half-liquid intestines spilled out, writhing with maggots. The Pathan stepped back a pace, but showed no other reaction.

"First courier. Tortured."

He leaned over the putrid mess, picked up a wrist, waved the hand. The thumb fell off. The index and middle fingers were already missing.

"Two finger cut off. Want information. How many courier come after?"

He dropped the hand, straightened.

"Good method. Cut one, say: `Tell, or cut two.' Cut two, say: `tell, or cut three.' That mostly enough. Good method. Very good. Quick, quick. Have use myself."

The Pathan turned away. To those who did not know him, his callous attitude was appalling. To those who did know him, it was considerably worse.

"Wait again. Next courier." He pointed to one of the bodies in the livery of the royal courier service.

"No torture. No need. He tell, die."

He pointed to the third courier.

"Last one. No torture. No need. He tell, die."

The Pathan glanced at the far door, which led to the corral where the spare horses were kept. Had been kept.

"Then put courier horses to corral. Tired horses. No good. Take all other horses. Fed, rested. Five horses. Good horses. Leave."

Finished with his report, the tracker planted his hands on hips and surveyed the entire scene.

"Very fine man!" grunted the tracker. "Quick, quick. No stupidityness. Would adopt into own clan."

Sanga allowed his subordinates to digest the information a moment, before continuing.

"Never make that mistake again," he growled. "That Malwa mistake. He is not a cruel man, Belisarius. Of that I am quite certain. But no mahamimamsa who ever lived can match him for ruthlessness when he needs to be. The man is as quick and shrewd as a mongoose. And just as deadly. How much mercy does a mongoose give a cobra?"

Jaimal grunted. Sanga drove on:

"There's another lesson. He is not a devil, but he has a devil's way of thinking. Consider how bold and cunning this move was. After his men created a diversion and led all of us on a wild goose chase, Belisarius marched out of Kausambi-openly-disguised as a Ye-tai." He cast a cold eye sideways. "Three guesses how he got the Ye-tai's uniform, Udai?"

His lieutenant winced, looked away. Sanga grated on:

"Then he came as fast as possible to the first relay station. He was out-thinking us every step of the way. He had two problems: first, no horses; second, he knew couriers would be sent to alert the garrisons on the coast. He solved both problems at one stroke."

"Killed the soldiers, ambushed the couriers, stole their horses," muttered Jaimal. "The best horses in India."

"Five of them," added Pratap. "He has remounts, as many as he needs. He can drive the horses for as long as he can stay in the saddle. Switch whenever his mount gets tired."

"How could he be sure the bodies wouldn't be found soon?" complained Udai. "Then the hunt would be up."

Sanga frowned. "I don't know. The man's intelligence is uncanny-in the military sense of the term, as well. He seems to know everything about us. Outside of the Ganges plain, this trick wouldn't have worked. Because of banditry, all relay stations in the western provinces are manned by full platoons and checked by patrol. But here-"

"These aren't even regular army troops," snorted Pratap. "Provincial soldiers. Unmarried men. They're stationed here for two year stretches. Even grow their own food."

The Rajput stared down at the hideous mound.

"Poor bastards," he said softly. "I stopped at one of these relay stations, once. The men-boys-were so ecstatic to see a new face they kept me talking all night." He glanced at the Pathan. "Like he says, sheep to the slaughter." Then, hissing fury: "Roman butcher."

Sanga said nothing. He felt that rage himself. But, unlike Pratap, did not let the rage blind his memory. He had seen other men lying in such heaps. Men just like these-young, lonely, inattentive. Soldiers in name only. They, too, had been like sheep at the hands of a butcher.

A butcher named Rana Sanga. Against whose experienced cunning and lightning sword they had stood no chance at all.

"We'll never catch him now," groaned Udai.

"We will try," stated Sanga. His tone was like steel.

Then, with a bit of softness:

"It is not impossible, comrades. Not for Rajputs. He is still only one man, with well over a thousand miles to travel. He will need to rest, to eat-to find food to eat."

"One man alone," added Jaimal, "disguised as a Ye-tai, possibly. Leading several horses. People will notice him."

"Yes. He will be able to travel faster than we can, on any single day. And he begins with many days headstart. But he cannot keep it up, day after day, the way an entire cavalry troop can do. We can requisition food and shelter. He cannot. He must scrounge it up. That takes time, every day. And there are many days ahead of him. Many days, before he reaches the coast. He may become injured, or sick. With no comrades to care for him. If nothing else, he will become very weary."

"Where is he headed, do you think?" asked Pratap.

Sanga shrugged.

"Too soon to tell. He will probably head for Ajmer. In case he does not, we will split off smaller units to search for him in other towns. But I believe he will go to Ajmer, first. He needs to get out of the Ganges plain quickly, where there are a multitude of people watching. Into Rajputana, where there are not."

"Ajmer," mused Jaimal, stroking his beard. "Ajmer. From there, he can go south or west. South, along the foot of the Aravallis, toward the Gulf of Khambat. Maybe even Bharakuccha, where he could hope to rejoin his men."

"Or west," added Udai, "to Barbaricum."

"We will know soon enough," stated Sanga. He began striding toward the door. "Once he is out of the plains, he will start leaving tracks. We will find his tracks before Ajmer."

Less than a minute later, five hundred Rajputs set their horses into motion. Not a frenzied gallop; just the determined canter of expert horsemen, with a thousand and a half miles ahead of them.

He had never been a handsome man, true. But now, for the first time in his life, he was an object of ridicule.

Children's ridicule. Palace children.

Flat-face, they called him, behind his back. Or thought they did, not realizing how impossible it was to talk behind his back. The Frog, they snickered, or The Fish, or, most often, The Nose. Always, of course, in secret whispers. Not understanding, not in the least. The man noted the children, noted their names. Someday their powerful fathers would be dead.

Thinking of those distant days, the man smiled. Then, thinking of a day nearer still, the smile deepened.

It was a new smile, for that man. In days gone by, his smile-his grin-had been hearty and cheerful-seeming. The weeks of painful recovery had distorted the smile, almost as much as they had distorted his face.

A cold, savage smile. A snarl, really.

The new smile fitted the man much better than the old one ever had, in all truth. It looked like what it was, now. The smile of a spymaster, after ensuring his revenge.

Couriers had been dispatched, again. Not royal couriers, riding royal roads. No, these couriers were a different breed altogether. Almost as fine horsemen, and far more lethal men.

The best agents in Malwa's superb espionage service. Three of them, all of whom were familiar with the road to Rome. The northern route, this, the land road-not the slow, roundabout, southern sea-going route taken by most. These men would ride their horses, all with remounts, through the Hindu Kush. Through central Asia. Across Persia, using the network of Malwa spies already in place. Into Anatolia, with the aid of a similar-if smaller-network. And finally, to Constantinople.

In Constantinople, they would pass their message to the Malwa agent in charge of the Roman mission. Balban would not be pleased at that message. It would result in much work being cast aside.

But he would obey. Wondering, perhaps, if the orders stemmed from sagacity or malice. But he would obey.

In point of fact, sagacity and malice were both at work. For all his fury, the spymaster was still a rational man. A professional at his trade.

He knew, even if Balban still fooled himself, that the Roman general's duplicity had a partner. He realized, even if they did not, that the Malwa agents in Constantinople had been fooled as badly as he himself had been in India.

No longer. Sagacity demanded the orders anyway. The fact that the same orders would be an exquisite revenge was almost incidental.

Almost, but not quite.

The spymaster smiled again. He was a realist. He knew that Belisarius might manage his escape from India. But the spymaster would have the satisfaction of robbing all pleasure from that escape.

If Belisarius made his way home, he would find the place empty. The orders would reach Rome before he did.

She is deceiving you, as he deceived us.

Kill the whore.

Chapter 21

A hundred miles east of Ajmer, once they reached the dry country, the Pathan finally picked up Belisarius' tracks.

By the time they reached the city, he was a thoroughly disillusioned man.

"Not adopt this one never," he grumbled. "Very stupid beast. See no thing."

The tracker leaned from his horse, scanned the road, snorted, spat noisily.

"Probably he fuck goat. Think it wife."

Spat noisily.

"Pay no attention to no thing."

Spat noisily.

"Idiot blind man."

Riding beside him, Sanga smiled wrily. Like most men with a narrow field of vision, the Pathan tended to judge people by very limited criteria.

True, Belisarius had finally made a mistake. But it was a small mistake, by any reasonable standard. So small, in fact, that only an expert tracker would have spotted it.

Somewhere along the way-hardly surprising, in weeks of travel-one of the Roman general's horses had cut its hoof. Nothing serious, in itself. Barely more than a nick, caused by a sharp stone. The horse itself would have hardly noticed, even at the time, and the "wound" in no way discomfited it.

But it was just enough to leave a distinctive track. No one else had spotted it, but the Pathan had seen it immediately. Several of the Rajputs, after the tracker pointed it out, had expressed their delight.

Henceforth, Belisarius would be easy to find!

The Pathan had derided their enthusiasm. Such a very good quickquick man, he assured them, would soon enough spot the mark himself. He would then remove it by carving away more of the tissue, leaving a hoof whose print would be indistinguishable from most others. If worse came to worst, and the mark could not be removed, the Roman would simply abandon the horse. He had four others, after all.

But, as the days went on, the mark remained. Day after day, the tracker followed the trail, with the ease of a man following a lantern at night. Day after day, his estimate of Belisarius plummeted.

By now, so far as the Pathan was concerned, Belisarius ranked very low in the natural order of things. Above a sheep, perhaps. Beneath a bullfrog, for a certainty.

The robbery of the merchant simply confirmed his viewpoint. Sealed his opinion like lead seals a jar.

Three days before Ajmer, the Rajputs had overtaken a merchant trudging alongside the road. The merchant was accompanied by two servants, each of whom was staggering under a weight of bundled trade goods.

All three men were stark naked.

When the Rajputs pulled alongside, the merchant immediately erupted into a frenzy of recrimination, denunciation, accusation, and reproach.

Outrage that such a thing could come to pass!

Where had been the authorities?

Robbed on a royal road! By a royal Ye-tai bodyguard!

Oh, yes! There was no mistake! The merchant was a well-traveled man! A sophisticated man! He had been to Kausambi itself! Many times!

A royal bodyguard!

Outrage! Outrage!

Where had been the authorities?

He demanded justice! Retribution!

Most of all-restitution!

Robbed by a royal bodyguard!

Restitution was owed by the authorities!

In the event, once the merchant calmed down enough to tell the entire tale, restitution proved simplicity itself. The only thing which the Ye-tai bandit seemed to have actually stolen was the clothing worn by the merchant and his servants.

Nothing else, oddly enough. Not the merchant's money, not his trade goods-which were spices, too; quite valuable-not even the gold chain around the merchant's neck or the rings adorning his fingers.

The Pathan was livid.

"What kind midget-brain bandit this man?" he demanded hotly. "Cretin idiot!"

The tracker glared at the merchant.

"I rob you, fat boy, you be lucky have skin left. Gold chain, cut off head. Rings, chop fingers. Quick, quick."

The Pathan leaned over his horse's neck, squinting fiercely at the servants. The two men edged back, trembling.

"Old one I kill. Other one I take. Sell him to Uighurs." He straightened up. Leaned over. Spat noisily. "Roman most idiot beast alive," he concluded. He had not budged from that conclusion since.

Sanga, on the other hand, thought the robbery was very shrewd. He had been wondering how Belisarius planned to make his way through Rajputana, especially in a city like Ajmer, disguised as a Ye-tai. In the Gangetic plain, a single Ye-tai leading a small train of horses would not particularly be remarked.

In Rajputana, however, his situation would be different. Rajputs had no love for Ye-tai, to put it mildly. A single Ye-tai in Rajput country would encounter any number of difficulties very quickly, especially in a populous place like Ajmer. Those difficulties would range from bands of belligerent youngsters to keen-eyed authorities who were not in the least intimidated by a Ye-tai's red-and-gold uniform. Not in Rajputana, where the Malwa writ ran very light.

By stealing the merchant's clothes, and that of the servants, Belisarius had provided himself with a perfect disguise. Itinerant merchants, traders, tinkers-traveling alone or in a small party-were commonplace throughout the arid stretches of western India. Sanga suspected that Belisarius would combine part of the merchant's relatively fine apparel with pieces of the servants' more humble clothing. The resulting pastiche would give him the semblance of a hardscrabble trader, barely a cut above a peddler.

It was shrewd, too, for the Roman to have ignored the merchant's coins, jewelry and trade goods. Bandits and thieves were as common as merchants, in that part of India, and everyone kept an eye out for them. If Belisarius tried to sell the merchant's jewelry or goods, or use the coin, he would run the real risk of drawing suspicion upon himself.

Sanga had noted, during the weeks of their pursuit, that Belisarius seemed to have always foraged for his food, rather than buying it. Buying food would have been much quicker. The main reason the Rajputs had been able to shorten the Roman's lead-the Pathan estimated he was only five days ahead of them, now-was because of the time which Belisarius had spent every day searching for food. For the most part, the Roman had hunted his food, with the bow and arrows he had taken from the relay station's soldiers. Occasionally, he had stolen from a local granary or orchard. But never, so far as the Rajputs or their Pathan trackers had been able to determine, had he bought food.

Sanga was certain that was by choice, not necessity. Belisarius could not, of course, be carrying the immense treasure which the Malwa had bestowed upon him. But the Rajput was quite sure that Belisarius had kept a small amount of that treasure with him at all times. Just in case. That sort of elementary precaution would be second nature to such a man.

Yet he had never used it. Partly, Sanga thought, that was because Belisarius feared the suspicion which the use of royal coin and jewelry would bring down. But mostly, he suspected, it was because Belisarius was saving his money for the coast. To hire a ship-to buy a ship, for that matter, if he had kept with him any one of a number of the gems in those chests.

So Sanga felt the Pathan was being quite unreasonable. But he did not remonstrate with the man. It would be as pointless as arguing with a stone.

The Rajput kinglet's chief tracker had been in his service for years, now. Ever since Sanga had captured him, after a ferocious single combat, during one of the many punitive campaigns against the mountain barbarians. The Pathan had been deeply impressed by his victor's skill and courage. So deeply, in fact, that he had begged Sanga to make him his own slave, rather than sell him to some unworthy fool.

Sanga had granted the request, and had never regretted doing so. The Pathan had served him faithfully for years, even after Sanga manumitted him. Served him extremely well, in fact. But Sanga knew the limits of that man's horizon, and had long since given up any hope of changing them.

Two days later, as the walls of Ajmer rose above the horizon, the Pathan was still grousing.

"Fucking idiot beast," Sanga heard him mutter. "I rob merchant, I do merchant good. Him no complain. Him no tongue."

At Ajmer, of course, they lost the tracks. Even a hoofprint far more distinctive than the one left by that little nick would have been obliterated by the traffic through the city. But Sanga was not concerned.

He sent half of his men, and all the Pathan trackers, circling around Ajmer. Keeping far enough away from the city to avoid routine traffic, those men would eventually find the direction Belisarius had taken. The distinctive track, by now, was as unmistakeable to the Rajputs as to the Pathans. In the meantime, Sanga and his remaining soldiers began a systematic search of the city itself.

They were looking for horses. For the memory of horses, to be precise.

Rajputana was a land of horsemen. A ragged merchant, by himself, might pass through Ajmer unremarked. But Sanga knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that his countrymen would have certainly noticed the horses. Those marvelous, splendid, imperial steeds.

And, sure enough, tracking the horses proved as easy as tracking the distinctive hoofprint. The memory trail was only five days old, and it led directly to the southern gate of the city. By mid-afternoon of the same day they arrived, Sanga was already interviewing the guards.

"Oh, yes!" one of them exclaimed. "As fine as any horses you've ever seen! As fine as royal courier steeds!"

Another guard pointed to the road leading south. "They went that way. Five days ago."

"The man," said Sanga. "What did he look like?"

The guards looked at each other, puzzled.

"Don't remember," said one. "Trader, maybe peddler."

"I think he was tall," said another, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "I think. I'm not sure. I was watching the horses."

Two miles south of Ajmer, they encountered the rest of Sanga's horsemen and the Pathan trackers. Coming north with the news:

The tracks had been spotted. Five miles out, on the road to the Gulf of Khambat.

"Probably Bharakuccha," stated Jaimal, as they cantered south. Sanga's lieutenant gazed ahead and to their right. The sun was beginning to set behind the peaks of the Aravallis.

"But maybe not," he mused. "Once he gets south of the Aravallis, he could cut west across the Rann of Kutch and follow the coast back up to Barbaricum. Be roundabout, but-"

"He'd play hell trying to drive horses through that stinking mess," disputed Pratap. "And why bother?"

The argument raged until they made camp that night. Sanga took no part in it. Trying to outguess Belisarius in the absence of hard information was pure foolishness, in his opinion. They would know soon enough. The tracks would tell the tale.

His last thoughts, that night, before falling asleep, were a meditation on irony. So strange-so sad-that such a great man could be brought down, in the end, by something as petty as a stone in the road.

Two days later, the Pathan was almost beside himself with outrage. What shred of respect he retained for Belisarius was now discarded completely.

He leaned over the saddle. Spat noisily.

"Great idiot beast! Knew him stupid like sheep. Now him lazy like sheep too!"

He pointed an accusing finger at the tracks.

"Look him horse pace. My grandmother faster. And she carcass. Many years dead now."

Spat noisily.

Apparently satisfied that he had shaken off any pursuit, the Roman had slowed his pace considerably since leaving Ajmer. Sanga, again, thought the Pathan was being unreasonable. True, Belisarius was being careless. But, at the same time, allowances had to be made. He was only human, after all. The Roman had set himself a brutal pace for weeks. It was not surprising that he would finally take a bit of rest.

Not surprising, no, and hardly something for which a man could be condemned. But it was still a mistake, and, under the circumstances, quite fatal.

In less than two days, they brought Belisarius to bay.

By late afternoon of the following day, the lead tracker spotted him. Not five miles ahead, already making camp for the night.

The Rajput officers held a hurried conference. Sanga's lieutenants argued for surrounding the Roman's camp and attacking that very night.

Sanga would have none of it.

"Not him," he stated firmly. "Not that man, at night. First, he might make his escape in the darkness."

He held up his hand, forestalling Udai's protest.

"That's unlikely, I admit. What I'm more worried about is that we'd be forced to kill him. I want him alive. It may not be possible, but if there's any chance at all it will be by daylight. In a night attack, with its confusion, there'd be no chance at all."

He glanced up at the sky. The eastern horizon was already purple.

"And there's no need. He's making camp, so he's not going anywhere. We'll use the night to surround him, quietly."

A hard eye on his lieutenants. "Quietly." They nodded.

Sanga stared south.

"At dawn, we bring him down."

The Pathan himself brought Belisarius down. The tracker didn't even bother to stun him. He simply pounced on the Roman general, still wrapped up in his roll-half an hour after daybreak, lazy sheep! — by the embers of a small campfire-a campfire on the run, idiot beast! — jerked him up by the hair. Then, with his knife, sliced the Roman's cheek. A gash, no more, just enough to mark his man.

Quickquick, and the Pathan stepped away.

The Roman general staggered to his feet, shrieking. He clutched his cheek with both hands. Blood from the wound spurt through the fingers. He took two steps, stumbled, fell on his belly across the campfire. Then thrashed aside, shrieking more loudly still. Lurched to his feet, beating away the embers with his bloody hands.

The Pathan had had enough.

He strode forward and sent the Roman back on his belly with a vicious, stamping kick. Then he sprang upon him, jerked his head up by the hair, and manhandled him to his knees.

"Here you great general, Sanga King," he said contemptuously. He cuffed the Roman, silencing a squawl.

Rana Sanga stared down at Belisarius. Stared up at the Pathan holding him by the hair. The tracker was grinning savagely.

Stared down at Belisarius. The general was gasping like a fish, eyes glazed.

Stared back at the Pathan. Down at Belisarius.

"Who in the hell is that?" snarled Jaimal.

Stared down at that. Up at the Pathan.

"I've never seen this man before in my life," he told the tracker quietly.

It was almost worth it, then, for Rana Sanga. After all those years, finally, to see the Pathan gape. Like an idiot beast.

"I'm just a poor peddler," whined the man, for the hundredth time. He moaned, pressing the bandage against his cheek. Moaned:

"My name is-"

"Shut up!" snarled Udai. "We know your name! What we want to know is where did you get the horses?"

The peddler stared up at the Rajput. Finally, something beyond squawling terror and babbling self-pity entered his mind.

Avarice.

"They're my horses!" he squealed. "You can't-"

"Shut up!" bellowed Udai. "Just shut up!"

Rana Sanga put a restraining hand on Udai's shoulder. His lieutenant's fury was just frightening the man senseless.

The Rajput king squatted, bringing his eyes level with those of the bloody-faced man sprawled in the dirt.

"Listen to me, peddler," he said quietly. Quietly, but very firmly. The peddler fell silent.

"My name is Rana Sanga."

The peddler's eyes widened. He was not Rajput, but he traded in Rajputana. He knew the name. Knew it well.

"We will take your horses." Quiet, iron words.

The peddler opened his mouth, began to squawl.

"Those horses were stolen from the royal courier service. To possess them is to be condemned to death. Impaled."

The peddler's mouth clamped shut. His eyes bulged.

Sanga raised his hand reassuringly.

"Have no fear. We have no interest in your execution. If you serve us well, we may even repay you for the loss of the horses."

Partly, he thought, watching the avarice leap back into the peddler's eyes. Whatever you paid for them. Which, I am quite certain, is much less than what they are worth. I think I am beginning to understand what that-that-fiend-

He took a deep breath.

No. What that fiendish mind has done here.

He glanced to the side. Thirty feet away, his Pathan tracker was holding up one of the horse's legs, examining the hoof. Very carefully.

Sanga turned back to the peddler.

"But now, man, you must tell me-very quickly, very simply, very clearly-how you got the horses."

"He was a Ye-tai," gasped out the peddler. Then, in a sudden rush of words:

"A deserter from the imperial bodyguard, I think. I'm not sure-I didn't ask! — not a Ye-tai-but. I think. I saw part of a uniform. Gold and red. He was on the run, I think. Had nothing but those fine horses, and seemed desperate to get out of Ajmer. So he-he-"

Suddenly, amazingly, the peddler burst into laughter. "Idiot Ye-tai! Stupid barbarian! He had no idea what those horses we're worth-none, I tell you! In the end-it only took me two hours of haggling-I traded them for three camels, some blankets, and a tent. Food. Maybe fifty pounds of water. Two big tureens full. And five bottles of wine. Cheap wine." Howling, howling. "Fucking idiot! Fucking savage!"

Sanga slapped the man's ear. "Silence."

The peddler's hysterical laughter stopped instantly. His faced turned pale.

"And what else?" grated Sanga. "There would have been something else."

The peddler's expression was a weird conglomeration of astonishment, fear, greed. Fear.

"How did you know?" he whispered.

"I know that-Ye-tai," replied Sanga quietly. "He would not have simply sent you on your way. He would have made sure you came this way. How?"

Fear. Greed. Fear.

"Show me."

It was one of the Emperor's emeralds.

A small emerald, very small, by imperial standards. Probably the least of the jewels which Belisarius had with him. But it had been a fortune to the peddler. Enough to send him off to Bharakuccha, with the promise of a matching emerald if he delivered the message to the proper party.

Who?

A Greek merchant. A ship captain.

His name? The name of the ship?

Jason. The Argo.

Show me the message.

Rana Sanga could read Greek, but only poorly. It did not matter. Most of the message was mathematics, and that he understood quite well. (India was the home of mathematics. Centuries later, Europeans would abandon Roman numerals and adopt a new, cunning arithmetic. They would call them "Arabic numerals," because they got them from the Arabs. But they had been invented in India.)

So he was able to understand the message, well enough.

Finally, in the end, a king of Rajputana could not restrain himself. He began laughing like a madman.

"What is it?" asked Jaimal, when Sanga's howling humor abated.

"It's a theorem," he said, weakly. "By some Greek named Pythagoras. It explains how to calculate angles."

The Pathan rose from his examination of the horse's hoof and stalked over.

"Not cut by stone on road. Knife cut. Done by meant-to purpose."

Sanga had already deduced as much.

"Exactly." He smiled, stroking his beard. "He knew we would spot the mark. And that, after weeks of following it, would stop thinking about anything else. So he switched in Ajmer, sent us charging off south while he drives straight across the Thar on camelback."

He glanced at the peddler, still ashen-faced.

"Three camels," he mused. "Enough to carry him-and his food and water-across the desert without stopping."

He rose to his feet. It was a sure, decisive movement.

"We'll never catch him now. By the time we got back to Ajmer and set off in pursuit he'd have at least eight days lead on us. With three camels and full supplies he'll move faster than we possibly could across that wasteland."

His lieutenants glared, but did not argue. They knew he was right. Five hundred expert cavalrymen can eventually outrun a single horseman, even with remounts. But not across the Thar.

That was camel country. There probably weren't five hundred camels available in Ajmer, to begin with. And even if there were-

Rajputs were not expert camel drivers.

"Stinking camels," grumbled Udai.

"Can't stand the fucking things," agreed Pratap.

"Good meat," stated the Pathan. The Rajputs glowered at him. The tracker was oblivious. His mind was elsewhere.

"So we give up, then?" asked Jaimal.

Sanga shook his head.

"No, we don't. But we'll not try chasing after the Roman again. Instead-"

He held up the message.

"We'll take his advice. Angles. Maybe-just maybe-we can make better time by taking two sides of the triangle while he takes one. We'll head for Bharakuccha-as fast as our horses can carry us. At Bharakuccha we'll requisition a ship-several ships-and sail north to Barbaricum. That's where he's headed, I'm sure of it."

He strode for his horse.

"We might be able to meet him there. Let's go!"

That night, by the campfire, the Pathan finally broke the silence he had maintained for hours.

"After adopt, make him clan chief. No. Make him king. First Pathan king ever." He grinned at the Rajputs over the flickering flames. "Then Pathan conquer world entire whole." A gracious nod to Sanga. "You was good master. When you my slave, I be good master too."

Three days later, as the Aravallis rolled by on their right, Jaimal leaned over his saddle and snarled to Sanga:

"If that Pathan keeps telling that same joke, I swear I'm going to kill him."

"Jaimal," the Rajput king replied, coldly. "He is not joking."