‘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.

Pragjyotisha was not a vassal of Mathura, but when Krishna had formed the Republic, he had got the world’s attention by marching into, and defeating the Rakshasa King of the eastern kingdom of Pragjyotisha. It had not been by means that could be termed by the book. But as victors, they could re-write that book or toss it into the fire for all Krishna cared. The Mathurans were obviously unable to hold the region and had been more than happy to receive the annual bounty of gold agreed upon by a Vachan between the two powers.

The tension in the room was palpable, the situation threatening to go south at the flash of a sword. Akrur wore an expressionless mask but his flexing belly revealed he was seething. Justifiably so, for Pragjyotishan tribute was the one thing standing between Mathura and total annihilation.

‘Eklavvya,’ Akrur raised his hands in protest. ‘Armistice does not mean cutting off an arm. The tribute itself—’

‘Why does Mathura need tribute, Lord Akrur? Lord Krishna could always use the magical Syamantaka, which his worshippers rave about,’ Eklavvya mumbled, his mouth full, but they got the gist.

Syamantaka was Krishna’s infamous magical jewel that bards sang about across the realm. It was said to produce copious amount of gold when rubbed against one’s chest. It was how the world believed Mathura had survived against Magadh. Whenever men found it hard to justify success, they inevitably fell back on luck as the reason. And if the success was completely unimaginable to their feeble minds, they called it magic.

Except that in this case it was true.

‘Surely Eklavvya, you don’t believe in such hogwash,’ Lord Kritavarman snorted derisively.

‘Eklavvya doesn’t know what to believe, you know. All he sees is a tiny cow being crushed by the jaws of a lion for over a decade, yet somehow, Eklavvya sees men and women dress in silks here, deal in diamonds, and erect the finest looking wine stalls. Even their chambers,’ Eklavvya sniffed the air around him, ‘smell of berries and yoghurt. Strange, don’t you think, for Mathura to find such an inexhaustible resource of coin, its industrious workers notwithstanding?’

‘Be that as it may,’ Lord Akrur said, flapping his hands as if to shoo off a fly, ‘it is too harsh. The East is where most of our trade comes from.’