But if he died today, he would at least die with the satisfaction of having lost to an extremely well-played manoeuvre. Students would study this battle for ages to come. And they would remember him. No one forgot Ravan because he lost. History is not a plate reserved for victors alone. Krishna sighed at the futility of his hopes, at his own narcissism. If only he could get Kalyavan to agree to a trial by battle, Balram could take care of him. He should have proposed it earlier, but had not imagined it would come to this.

The squad with Krishna in their midst soon charged into the broiling mess of Red Cloaks and Blue Robes. The ground was slippery and sodden with mud and blood. Krishna stumbled over a corpse, but somehow managed to retain his balance. Instinctively, he raised his shield, and a spear thudded into it, numbing his arm with its force. As if sudden rage filled Krishna’s mind. A ravenous rage. As if how did a Mleccha dare to attack him. He snarled. The battle shrank to the size of the eye-slits in his helm. ‘For Mathura!’ he growled, spit flying from between his bared teeth. His squad bellowed, ‘For Krishna!’

Swords screamed, spears jabbed, flesh burst apart; Krishna’s circle of guards was doing a good job as they marched through the press like a spiked ball. Men roared. Krishna roared with them. His squad did not let many Greeks breach their circle, but the unlucky ones who did, Krishna took care of with zest. All the training Balram had put him through the last two decades kicked in. Krishna opened a swordsman from shoulder to armpit, caught the shoulder of another and rammed the rim of his shield through the man’s throat so hard that he choked to death on the spot.

For a while Krishna thought of nothing. Not Mathura. Not Kalyavan. Not Garud. Nothing. All thought had fled his mind, along with fear. He no longer felt the ache in his back or the weight of his armour. Death danced around him, but time blurred, and even stopped, as his body went into a frenzy of pure instinct. There was only the fight, the enemy, the next man who wanted him dead. So, the only thing to do was kill him before he killed you. Satyabhama had called it blood song. Balram called it battle fever. Whatever its name, Krishna was now sick with it.

Krishna forced himself on. There was no politics here. No mind games. No waiting. ‘Satya!’ he shouted. Feral and barbaric, he grunted and pushed, kneed and heaved, chopping and slashing. Men and women were fighting everywhere, shouting, swinging blades and shooting arrows. He heard Balram’s voice over the madness: ‘Push them out of the hole! Beyond the hole!’