‘Don’t know. It might have something to do with the Emperor’s daughter. But then you already knew about it.’

Uh oh. ‘About what exactly?’

‘That she jumped off the palace terrace and was found impaled on the gates. You knew there would be a call from Magadh to observe a period of mourning, didn’t you?’

No point in lying. ‘I did not know Magadh would call for a truce. I…merely guessed. And I did not want to trouble you with the news till I confirmed it.’ The Emperor’s twin daughters were a sensitive subject in Mathuran politics. Old history. Forbidden history, in fact. Krishna let out an exasperated sigh. That one negligent oversight could have been handled so much better. He shook off the thought. Regret and self-pity could easily become a favoured path if one was unwary of their seduction. Yet the long sword of that memory still felt as sharp and terrible as the knives the bastards must have used when they butchered the Emperor’s grandsons.

‘I wonder, had the Emperor known how close he was to victory today, would he still have sent the recall order? We were plain lucky,’ Satyabhama finally said after an awkward moment of silence. ‘Nonetheless, I would have expected rage rather than restraint as the Emperor’s response.’

‘His new religion requires strict observance of rituals. Perhaps he thought this was just another pointless battle that would end in a stalemate.’ The last traces of sleep as well as stirrings had now vanished. ‘So, what about this parley? When is it?’

There was a sudden knock on the door, loud and insistent. ‘State your business,?’ Krishna called, wishing whoever it was would go away. He had enough on his mind.

‘My Lord…’ his personal guard called through the door, ‘it is Lord Akrur, with Lord Kritavarman.’

Akrur, former-thief-now-Senator, was a powerful noble on many counts, and a pain in Krishna’s arse. Kritavarman was little more than a boy, who led the Andhaka Tribes in Mathura. He had been recently elected to this post, after his father was slain in the Battle of Goverdhun.

‘They are here with the Magadhan emissary,’ the guard informed Krishna through the door. ‘I told them you had left orders not to be disturbed but they insisted you be woken, My Lord.’

It was Satyabhama who spoke. ‘It’s alright Jenal, I asked them to come. Let them in.’ She turned to Krishna. ‘To answer your question, the parley is right now, right here.’

‘Now? In your chamber! Satya!’ Krishna hurriedly searched for his clothes. But he had barely managed to find one boot when he heard Akrur’s voice outside. With more haste than grace, he jumped back into bed and snatched up the covers. He glared at Satyabhama, the silver speckles in his eyes glittering accusingly.

‘Well, that’s what you get for cheating in a wager. Now behave, they are here.’

Akrur walked in pompously, without any salutation to the couple, but stopped short when he saw Krishna. He cut a gluttonous figure in a robe of purple silk with a ring of cows worked upon the right breast in golden thread. It fit him badly, bulging around his paunch. His hair was neatly combed, scented with oils and brushed straight back from the deceptively soft lines of his face. The scratched caste mark on his neck fooled no one. If there was ever a quintessential image of a Drachma, Akrur fit it like clay in a mould.