‘My dear Kalyavan, do remind me to hit myself on the foot if I ever call you my friend,’ Shalya said. But the Greek remained unperturbed.

‘Your Grace,’ Shalya turned to Bhagadatt, pulling at his scanty beard. ‘I do understand your reservations about the airavats. Treaties are honour-bound. My own hands are tied by the treaty with the Union I serve. Or do you think me so cold-hearted to continue to work for those who murdered my two grandsons, burning them alive? We all have our burdens to bear. Do correct me if I err, but you do wish to see the Usurper’s life shortened, do you not?’

‘Yes,’ Bhagadatt answered, his red pupils softening at Shalya’s candid confession.

‘Then what if I were to tell you that you could assist without joining the Yamuna Wars at all? That would take care of your moral dilemma, I suppose.’

‘What do you have in mind, Lord Shalya?’

‘Nothing but the welfare of your kingdom, Your Grace. An economic venture. What if you were to loan your war-airavats to us, you know, at a discounted rate, without interest? We could draw up an agreement, and you would just be signing another lend-lease contract. We can do as we please with the airavats. Whether we use them for ceremonies or battles would not concern you.’

Bhagadatt did not smile, but Shishupal did. Shalya was rather impressive. He had softly moulded what Kalyavan had asked and been refused, to suit Bhagadatt’s wants. Kalyavan was not meant for this game of words between men. Then again, neither was Shishupal.

The music changed. Shishupal turned towards the archway through which Princess Draupadi now emerged. So, the rumours were true. They called her the Princess of Fire for the beautiful dark colour of her skin. Shishupal had feared the alias meant she was as fierce as Lady Rasha, but all he saw was a sparrow who blushed prettily. But she is just as comely as Rukmini, Shishupal thought. He could not help but admire her lissom figure. Her hair was a rich reddish black, her eyes the colour of midnight. Her saree of gold clung to her impossibly slender form and spread out behind her, gleaming. She wore a gold band with a stone so big it seemed to weigh down her head. An air of sadness clung to her that made her at once vulnerable and appealing. She walked beside her twin, Dhrishtadyumna. A magnificent pair without doubt. They were arrayed in matching gold and white. Behind them came King Drupad’s son and heir, Prince Satrajit, looking like a commoner beside the dazzling beauty of the pair.

‘I can almost smell Her Highness,’ Kalyavan sneered, no doubt referring to the white garlands of jasmine and tuberose that bound her hair and flowed down her back.