Taking a deep breath, clearing his throat, brushing a sleeve over the helmet he held, he knocked. He thought he heard something or someone howling at the back of the house. The door finally opened. An olive-skinned apparition loomed over him. Over legs draped in gladiator strips, the apparition wore a knee-length red-rimmed white skirt that doubled as a drape over one shoulder leaving the other bare. The entire mess was held fast by a red cloak.

‘Ah, a member of the Crimson Cloaks, no else!’ Shishupal found himself grabbed by the arm and pulled inside. ‘My good man,’ said the foreigner in a thick accent, ‘you come opportunely. Now tell me, do you know anything about mating?’

II

‘It’s about Surajmukhi Rahami, you know,’ said the foreigner, as if that explained all. ‘Despite what Lady Rasha says, I don’t think Surajmukhi is capable of it.’ The man dropped a sly wink. ‘Maybe we could hold her so you can do your bit, which is obviously the trickier part. I’ll keep her legs wide apart.’

Shishupal did not want to image what this odd man was talking about, or indeed what the ‘tricky part’ was. Nor did he know any Surajmukhi. Perhaps the man in the saree was part of a cult of sex-crazed sodomites. Shishupal knew the rich had a different way of doing things, but this was taking things too far really.

‘Sir…Madame…’ he stammered, not wishing to offend.

‘Sir, your ignorance does you no credit. This is a toga. Malaka! You Vedans are imbeciles when it comes to fashion.’

A Greek! Light forbid. A Mlecchá. It was said that Mlecchás were unclean; something about not using water to wash the arse. Shishupal was sure it was pure fiction, jingoism. Surely the Greeks bathed regularly and had large containers of water in the privy? ‘Be that as it may Sir, I am an Officer of the Empire and I must warn you that rape breaks the most severe laws of the land.’ And probably all the rules of mankind, he thought. ‘I must advise you to release Lady Surajmukhi immediately.’

‘What are you talking about man?’ The Greek was clearly nonplussed.

‘What indeed are you talking about, Claw?’ The icy voice made Shishupal tremble. Lady Rasha strode forward. ‘Surajmukhi is my bloody griffin.’

III

Though she barely reached Shishupal’s shoulder, Lady Rasha was a towering figure in her own right. Perhaps because of her differently-coloured eyes, one a grassy green, the other oceanic blue, and the way her voice sounded like the cracking of ice in spring, or maybe because she cradled a half-lion-half-eagle, Lady Rasha was rather difficult to ignore. Her heart-shaped face with its aquiline nose sat elegantly with the blood marks on her cheekbones. Many called her beautiful. Some called her abandoned. Everyone called her dangerous.

It took some time to clear the confusion. Shishupal felt like an idiot, but in his defence, he had never heard of a ‘griffin breeder’. Normal people did not think of mating an eagle with a lioness. But he could sympathise with the obsession. Ever since they had seen Krishna ride into the air on a griffin, the Magadhans had been obsessed with obtaining griffins of their own. It was obviously unfair. The Magadhans had a goddamned Lion as their sigil. The Mathurans had a cow. If Krishna had flown on a cow with wings, Shishupal was sure no one would have given it a second thought. But a half-lion, now that was difficult to swallow for any proud Magadhan. Adventurers and opportunists had scanned the known world for griffins, but come back empty-handed. They did find a few eggs, but these did not hatch. And thank the Light for that! As if a cat’s hump and a tail on an eagle made it somehow a fine idea to climb on its back!