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.