Krishna gasped as he took a hard blow across his shield, stumbling back, his shield almost dropping from his arm. Before the Red Cloak could skewer him, a Mathuran rammed bodily into the Greek. They fell to the ground, grappling in the mud in murderous fury. Krishna was stunned and, on his knees, blood trickling into his eyes and over his face. The rim of his own shield had cracked against his forehead. The battle fever in him began to ebb now. His head hurt. His armour felt heavy. The idea of a charge suddenly seemed ludicrous. What had possessed him? He was a General, not a foolish calf. He should have been on the roof of a house, giving instructions, commanding, not fighting in the thick of things, putting his own life on the line.

He rose, picking up his sword slowly. He remembered Kans saying: Never try taming a bull by its horns when you can tame it with its tail. It was good counsel, even from an enemy. Krishna lazily stabbed the Greek still struggling with the Mathuran on the ground, through the back, uncaring about things like honour and code. He pulled up the Mathuran. ‘My gratitude, soldier. Now run to Satyabhama and tell her —’

‘Die!’

A man buried his axe into the skull of the soldier Krishna had been talking to, then slammed Krishna with his shield so hard that Krishna’s head rang. Not the head again. Krishna turned from the blow like a temple dancer, arm circling, his sword accidentally slicing through the Greek’s neck, laying it bare to the bone. ‘You die!’ Krishna managed to say before he fell to the ground, bleeding from the two injuries to his head, blackness closing in on him.

A waft of cold wind softly caressed his cheek. Krishna turned his fading attention towards the Iron Curfew. The last thing he saw was Kalyavan stroll through the hole, long hair tied back with a string, a sword across his shoulders like a milkmaid’s yoke, arms slung casually over the blade. Over the screams of dying men and the cries of the wounded, his voice rose: ‘I am here, my friends!’ Red Cloaks circled him, their shields interlocking to intercept any stray arrow. From their throats rose the chilling war cry: Hauuu!

SHISHUPAL felt his skin tingle when the Greek war cries floated out over the bailey, echoing through the buildings like ghostly voices. He finally saw the boy who had betrayed the Emperor, who had decided to take on Mathura on his own. And who, rather than wait for his army to decimate the Mathurans, had entered the battlefield. Like every hero, he had quite a sense of theatre. Kalyavan does not lack guts, that’s for sure. Or skill apparently.