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.