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
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