Krishna had attempted a poem himself not so long ago. He had described Satyabhama as being as full of life as a nun in a field of cucumbers, as bright as a whore in a temple, as colourful as a rack of poisons, as stern as a guard in a prison of paedophiles, as loud as a curse in the House of Saptarishis, and as complicated as Eklavvya’s vocabulary. So, when a person of such high calibre sat smoking alone on a high wall, Krishna knew it was something serious. He sat down beside her, still dressed in his travel-stained cloak and mail hauberk. His boots were dusty and spattered with dried mud. He kissed her on the forehead and then wiped the sweat from his lips. ‘Lady Satyabhama, is it wise to sit out in the sun in this way? You are sweating like a buffalo.’

‘Husband,’ Satyabhama muttered, ‘don’t you know that men sweat, women just…shine?’

‘Ah, allow me to correct myself then,’ Krishna beamed. ‘Well, Satyabhama, you are shining like a buffalo.’

She gave a short, sad laugh. Krishna was about to open his mouth when she said, without looking at him, ‘Don’t!’

‘I assure you I will not comfort you,’ he promised.

‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘But you will try, will you not?’

Krishna laughed. ‘You know me. I fiddle with everything. But fine…’ he tried changing the topic. ‘I wonder why Balram is tiring out the soldiers with drills? There is an Armistice on. Even if the Emperor breaches the peace, which he won’t, the Walls will hold. And the weapons Jambavan has given us—’

Satyabhama interrupted him. ‘The Sisters are strong and high, but we don’t have the men to man them. Half the Army is escorting our people to Dvarka. And yes, Jambavan gave us catapults, and those carpets that can stave off blazebane, but the City Guard and the Silver Wolves are too few and too green, and there are no others. A bowl of blazebane with a swift strike, and this great city will fall.’

‘But we will be long gone before that, trust me. Since you didn’t ask, the Syamantaka trip was a success. Storm took it well. Satyaki fainted.’

‘Why do you think I sent Storm?’ Satyabhama shrugged. ‘The girl shows promise.’

Krishna laughed. ‘All set for Panchal? We head out in a few hours.’

The pipe fumed, emitting an aroma fit to raise the dead. ‘About that,’ she said, ‘I’m not coming.’

That is certainly good news. ‘But why not?’ Krishna tried to sound sincere.

‘You know.’

Ah, this is it. Krishna said quizzically, ‘I don’t.’

‘Well…I won’t fit in. Those high-born women with their hand fans and face paint, they’ll look at me like I was filth, ignore any attempt at conversation, and treat me as a pariah.’