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.
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.