And, sure enough, tracking the horses proved as easy as tracking the distinctive hoofprint. The memory trail was only five days old, and it led directly to the southern gate of the city. By mid-afternoon of the same day they arrived, Sanga was already interviewing the guards.
“Oh, yes!” one of them exclaimed. “As fine as any horses you’ve ever seen! As fine as royal courier steeds!”
Another guard pointed to the road leading south. “They went that way. Five days ago.”
“The man,” said Sanga. “What did he look like?”
The guards looked at each other, puzzled.
“Don’t remember,” said one. “Trader, maybe peddler.”
“I think he was tall,” said another, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I think. I’m not sure. I was watching the horses.”
Two miles south of 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 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.