‘Second, the citizens of the Republic will be permitted to live according to their own customs and laws. Third, the Usurper, shall be delivered to the Greeks, bound in chains, that he may be conveyed to Rajgrih, for judgment by Emperor Jarasandh.’ The man rolled up the scroll and looked up. ‘Those are our terms. Refuse them and the Archon has decreed that Mathura be treated as any other conquered province. Many will be enslaved, many killed. Greek Governors will be installed, and your Senate House turned into a Pantheon for our Gods.’

Before Krishna could spit at the General, Balram spoke, ‘Your terms are unequivocally rejected. Mathurans are not in the habit of surrendering their own simply when asked. Particularly not to a flock of sheep in skirts. You might have razed one of our Walls with your trickery, but if you remember we have two more. You are just a little boy playing a man’s game, Archon. Betraying your own Emperor! Your arrogance is worse than your absurd plumed helms. You disgusting little dirty-bottomed airavat fuckers!’

Kalyavan frowned and conferred quickly with the General, having lost the finer points of Balram’s diatribe in translation. When he finally understood, Kalyavan laughed. ‘I was hoping you would say that. But what to do? Heroes have to pretend at peace before they get down to battle. Farewell, friends.’ He turned to Satyabhama and approached her. ‘And you, My Lady, just come over to me. We will rule together, you as my first wife. Surely you can see Mathura stands no chance of winning? We have you surrounded and flanked.’

‘Good. Now we can shoot at you from every direction,’ Satyabhama smiled back at him. ‘Motherfucker,’ she added pleasantly.

Kalyavan stepped uncomfortably close to Satyabhama to respond, no doubt to say something cocky. There was a loud snap. The Greeks drew their swords, but Kalyavan bade them be still, smiling through his bruised lips. Satyabhama cracked her knuckles while Balram smiled, and Krishna sighed. Everyone has got something cocky to say till they get elbowed in the face.

I

The Iron Curfew was crawling with people, some running barefoot, carrying sacks, and anything else they could salvage, children in tow. Every wagon that would move was stacked high with boxes, chests and mattresses, as well as all kinds of useless junk that would no doubt be the first to burn. Trying to save anything other than your own life was simply bad investment during a siege. Shishupal and Eklavvya passed many such hapless souls huddled under blankets, on doorsteps of abandoned mills and houses, cramming the shadowy alleys that led to empty markets.