‘Not true,’ Eklavvya said as he slowed his jog. Shishupal followed his gaze to one of Kalyavan’s lot, who was crawling away, dragging his bloody legs behind him. Eklavvya smashed the Greek’s skull in passing, with the back of his borrowed axe. He turned to Shishupal. ‘Can Shishupal hasten his feet? The tunes of combat tug at Eklavvya’s heart like a lost lover.’

More like opium to an addict. But Shishupal did not chastise him. He had no clue whether the Greeks were now the Empire’s enemies or not. Only time will tell, I suppose. For now, he had to stay alive. Why had he not escaped through the tunnel when he had the chance? Or better, why the hell had he even entered Mathura? He shook his head like the answer might drop out of his ears. Just made his headache worse.

The grass beneath his feet soon levelled off, then began to slope down, giving way to cobbled streets. Between the shoulders of the soldiers ahead, he caught glimpses of the fighting. The colony through which he was running had escaped the wrath of the airavats. Here and there, evidence of the last stand that a faction of the Mathuran Army had made, was visible. The dead lay carelessly strewn about. As Balram had said, not one cobblestone had gone uncontested. However, Shishupal knew the Red Cloaks would be assembling their own lines by now, mean, crude faces all, and they would face the onslaught of Mathura with their own fury.

PRAXIS spurred his highbred horse between the tents set up in an open park in the Second District, sending idling soldiers scattering. He slid from the saddle, nearly fell, then stormed into the tent of his incompetent superior, but not before twitching his scarlet cloak into place. He had no idea how this wretched man had been promoted to Matarchis above him. Oh but I do... The Archon and this fool were both half-bloods.

‘Sir! The Mathurans have attacked! I have a message from the Marshal of the reserve force.’

The Matarchis did not even raise his head to look at him. ‘Do not enter till I say you may, Pox,’ he said.

By Gaia, he hated the name! He had been only seven when Praxis had scratched his blisters. He had been cured but the illness had left a constellation of marks behind. Not that anyone sympathised with him. This was the army. A nickname was like a scar, to be carried till your last breath, or till you were promoted.

‘What attack? We won.’

‘They have used their remaining forces to launch an all-out attack.’ Praxis thrust the scroll at him as if he were thrusting a spear in the Matarchis’ face. ‘The men we left at the Curfew have been decimated. Even now they are hacking through our sentry points in three lines! I cannot find the Archon. I must insist that we hurry, else we will be routed.’