Even Burned Matron suppressed a coy smile as she returned to her books. ‘Karna…divinations of him are more like fantasies,’ she giggled like a young girl. ‘He is so handsome… but absolutely fucked.’

‘Accursed, she means,’ said Maimed Matron, biting back a smile. ‘Yet, he is single-handedly the most dangerous man alive in the realm. There is, of course, Mati, the Pirate Princess of Kalinga, and even Shakuni, the poor crippled torturer. They are all fascinating. They have talked to Gods, loved like animals, and written songs that would make Sister Mercy cry. Though we will never leave these hallowed walls to see them in person, yet through their tales, we will be their companions. You can look through any of our journals; access is not denied to any Matron. You are one of us now. Treat them with care, for it is your gift, child. Your welcome to the Ballad of the Fallen.’

ADHYAYA I

WINTER OF DISCORD

There is nothing more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep house as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends.
― Homer, Odyssey

I

On the terrace of the Mathuran Keep, a man rose from his divan and walked to the sideboard. Picking up the decanter, he poured for himself, then returned to his scented cushions and scrolls, subsiding into their soft embrace. He gazed at the golden wine, flecked with tints of the setting sun, then sipped, eyes closed. He raised his fingers delicately. His attendant, graceful and swift, appeared by his side with a fruit basket and softly placed an orange in the man’s outstretched hand. It was easy to tell the man enjoying a good time was Krishna. Partly by the peacock feather in his crownlet, but mainly because of the cool indifference with which he peeled an orange while his City burned.

It was not as if it was Krishna’s fault. He was a man of peace, yet his enemies loved to bring him war. If only they could do it in silence, he thought morosely. The racket of catapults in the distance made it difficult to tell the sound of drums from the pounding of rocks against the city walls. It was an act of desperation on part of the Magadhan Empire. Huge as the catapults were, they did not have the range to throw their burdens over the Third Sister into the City. Not without coming into range of Mathura’s own catapults. So, the rocks just slammed off the barbicans and defensive towers without doing any damage. And since the rocks couldn’t breach the walls of the Third Sister and let the soldiers in, all the Magadhans achieved was to make the life of Mathurans miserable with migraine.

Smashing rocks against the impregnable walls of Mathura was all very well but those musty catapults took a long time to wind up and swing. In the meantime, the Mathurans responded by slipping behind the picket lines to give the Magadhans a taste of their own medicine by burning their food tents and stealing their Imperial standards.