He glanced around, gauging the area. He was in one of the many slums of the city.
Decision came instantly. He hoisted the body over his head and sent it sprawling across the wall. A split second after he heard the body's wet thump in the yard on the other side, he sent his own Roman uniform after it. Then he began striding down the alley, marching with the open, arrogant bearing of a Ye-tai.
He was taking a gamble, but he thought the odds favored him. He was quite sure that the residents of that humble little house—shack, say better—had heard the commotion. By the time he reached the end of the alley, they would probably already be examining the grisly—and most unwelcome—addition to their garden.
What would they do? Alert the authorities?
Possibly. In a rich neighborhood, they would certainly do so.
But in this neighborhood, he thought not. Poor people in most lands—certainly in Malwa India—knew quite well that the authorities were given to quick solutions to unwelcome problems.
Found a dead man in your own back yard? Why'd you kill him, you stinking swine? Robbed him, didn't you? You deny it? Ha! We'll beat the truth out of you.
No, Belisarius thought that by sunrise the Ye-tai's body would have disappeared, along with the Roman uniform. The uniform, cut up, could serve a poor household in any number of ways. The body? Fertilizer for the garden.
He wished that unknown family a good crop, and went on his way.
The three cataphracts thundered down the road leading due south from Kausambi. Valentinian was in the lead, followed by Anastasius, with Menander bringing up the rear.
The young cataphract was more terrified than he'd ever been in his life.
"Slow down, Valentinian! Damn you—slow down!"
It was no use. The driving rain hammered his shouts into the mud.
At least the mud might keep us from breaking our necks, after we spill the horses, thought Menander sourly.
Valentinian was setting an insane pace. He was driving his horse at a full gallop, down an unknown road, in pitch dark, into a rain coming down so heavily it was impossible even to keep one's eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time.
Oh, yes—and without stirrups.
Yet, somehow, they survived. Without spilling the horses or falling off their saddles.
They were past the guardhouse before they even saw it. By the time they managed to rein in the horses, and turn them around, the Ethiopians were already there.
"Are you mad?" demanded Garmat.
Valentinian shrugged. "We were short of time." He pointed with his face toward the guardhouse.
"Are they taken care of?"
"Be serious," growled Wahsi. "We got here half an hour ago."
Eon, Ezana and Kadphises brought up the extra horses.
"We'd better switch mounts," said Anastasius. "We've pretty well winded these."
"Winded me, too," grumbled Menander. "Valentinian, you are fucking crazy."
The veteran's grin was as sharp and narrow as a weasel's. "You survived, didn't you? We're cataphracts, boy. Cavalrymen."
As the cataphracts switched to new horses, Wahsi stated very forcefully: "We are not cavalrymen. So let us maintain a rational pace."
"Won't matter," said Kadphises. "We're cutting into the forest a half mile down. We'll have to walk our horses through that trail. If you can call it a trail."
"You do know where we're going, I hope?" said Valentinian.
The Kushan's grin was every bit as feral as Valentinian's. "I will not tell you how to ride a horse. Do not tell me how to find a trail."
He was as good as his word. Five minutes later, the party of eight men and twenty horses turned off the road and entered into the forest. At first, Menander was relieved. As Kadphises had said, it was impossible to move down that trail at any pace faster than a horse could walk.
Walk, slowly. Menander had thought it was too dark to see, before. Now, he was essentially blind. The thick, overhanging branches, combined with the overcast night sky, turned the forest into a good imitation of a leafy underground mine. Without lanterns.
The only good thing, as far as he could tell, was that the tree canopy was so dense that it sheltered them—more or less—from the downpour.
Menander was not worried about falling off his horse. They were moving at the pace of an elderly woman. Nor, after a time, was he concerned that the horse might trip. The trail, though narrow, did not seem to be littered with obstacles.
He was simply worried that they would get lost. And, in addition, that they were making such poor time that their Malwa pursuers would catch up with them—even with the tremendous head start that Valentinian's insane ride had given them.