‘Before we begin, I must ask,’ Akrur said, the fingers of his right hand tapping his left knuckles, ‘You know, out of curiosity after today’s events at the Third Sister. What is the Yaksha’s real name? We have often wondered about the name of our…worthy adversary. We were hoping you could tell us.’

Krishna found himself leaning in despite the lack of tact on Akrur’s part. The identity of the Yaksha was Magadh’s best kept secret. Even Krishna’s spies had returned with naught. If Akrur thought he could beguile this naive boy into revealing the secret, well Krishna hoped Akrur was shifty enough to succeed.

‘Birth names are but contrivances by enthusiastic breeders to proclaim to the world their ownership over the fate of their progeny, my dear Lord Akrur,’ Eklavvya answered. ‘The name preferred, Eklavvya thinks, should be the name that enemies bestow upon one. It is only fair, no, when they have striven so hard to deserve such a distinction. The name by which My Lord has addressed the Yaksha is sweet, short enough, and is the name by which the Yaksha, Eklavvya is sure, would like to be addressed for future correspondence,’ Eklavvya explained with a beatific smile as he sat down at the edge of the bed.

While Krishna found himself at his wit’s end merely trying to decipher his meaning, Satyabhama nodded. ‘Well said.’

Akrur rubbed his temples in confusion. ‘In that case, say your piece, Emissary.’

Eklavvya handed a scroll to Lord Akrur and turned his attention to the tankard of ale and dish of half-eaten strawberries at his elbow. ‘Such wondrous hospitality, Krishna of Gokul,’ the Valka sighed as he took a bite of the fruit and poured the ale into the glass beside the tankard. ‘Eklavvya’s insides groan with orgasmic pleasure. And this ale, so deliciously warm, such a relief from the vagaries of the weather. But Eklavvya wonders why the glass feels so slippery.’

Krishna draped the sheet around himself to veil his midriff, that gleamed with yoghurt residue, and went to stand behind Akrur, reading the contents of the scroll over the Senator’s shoulder.

‘What does it say?’ Kritavarman asked impatiently.

‘Daeva take me!’ Akrur cursed. ‘Princess Prapti has… left us. The Emperor has declared a mourning period of a year. A period when there shall be no war. A period of peace, it says,’ Lord Akrur announced suspiciously. ‘An Armistice.’ Krishna exchanged a glance with Satyabhama as Akrur continued, ‘It also stipulates that the conquered Mathuran territories will remain theirs. If they are not provoked, they will not attack. The unconquered regions remain ours, and the taxes and levies on them as well.’

‘Sounds suspiciously fair,’ Satyabhama remarked, still eyeing the Valka boy, who was busy emptying the tankard.

‘But…’ Akrur raised a finger. ‘Magadh will establish a blockade in the East to stop Pragjyotishan tribute from coming into Mathura.’

‘Ah...’ Krishna turned away, the sheet trailing behind him as he went to stand by the window, half bathed in dawnlight.